The next few weeks had been nothing short of a veritable roller coaster for Dusty. In the days following Ripslinger's attack in the woods, he had been even more distant and cold to him than before. Not that Dusty was all too concerned. They had both rather avoided each other as much as they could, let alone so much as speak of the incident. One small mercy was that his friends were leaving him alone well enough. It took a lot of him running interference, but eventually they did back off, reluctantly. 
	For all the awkwardness in the aftermath, no amount of that could keep Dusty away for long, and eventually as things settled back down and tensions eased up he was back to trying to encourage Ripslinger to behave less like a robot, which was easier said than done. Most of his time was spent in some form of dozing; he just could not seem to get enough sleep, although Dusty couldn't quite tell if this was another one of the P-51's “quirks” or if it was because he hardly ever slept properly at night. He would constantly shift restlessly in his sleep. Only when the sun started to come up, its soft, early morning light slowly filtering into the hangar, would he finally settle down and sleep more soundly. 
	And all the times the little orange and white plane had ever tried to comfort or snuggle up next to him, at best he'd been treated to one of Ripslinger's infamous hiss-snarls and told off. The worst he'd gotten was when he'd tried to wake him up during an apparently bad dream. The smaller plane didn't really remember much from the incident other than the feeling the immense crush of Ripslinger's jaws closing over his nose before he could get out of the way, teeth sinking right down into his engine compartment before he had come to and quickly let him go. He could just barely recall the disoriented shock on the P-51's face upon becoming fully awake, and the odd way that his voice sounded as he radioed for Dottie.
	And so Dusty added that to his Rules For Interacting With Ripslinger, right along side “Wait until at least ten-thirty in the morning before pestering him to get out of bed”. Although he thought maybe he should put an asterisk on that one. One day, bored, he'd gone back to his hangar to see if the green and black Mustang was at least in the beginnings of getting up and around, only to find him still fast asleep. He eyed the larger plane, and then, seeming to forget who he was dealing with, hopped into bed right up next to him. 
	“How do you sleep so much?” he had asked, pushing at the larger plane. “Wake up, you lazy thing; you don't need it.”
	He heaved himself up with his landing gear over Ripslinger's back and shook him, but then went scrambling off, hunkering back down behind him in wide-eyed caution when the checker-marked racer let out a long-suffering sigh. 
	“What do you want, Dusty?”
	“Nothing.”
	“If that were the case, you'd still be out playing with the Corsair and that human, now what is it?”
	“Nothing,” Dusty repeated, hopping back up, the P-51 trying to shrug him off. “I just want you to wake up now.”
	He squirmed down against him in mischievous glee, failing to notice how Ripslinger's frame had been tensing up in irritation. Then suddenly he flew up from his position on the sleeping mat, knocking Dusty off of him before swiftly coming back around and pinning him down, his weight crushing him into the padding. A low, rumbling growl and a corrosive hissing emanated from his engine right next to the little window behind Dusty's left eye, and he recoiled underneath the larger plane. 
	This must be how they feel... he thought, thinking about Ned and Zed and wondering how many times they have ever gone through this being in such close, constant quarters with the likes of the Grand Champion racer. I don't know how they stand it.
	Dusty trembled, the close contact and pressure on top of him bringing back memories that were still fresh, but then he felt it ease up just slightly, the growling and hissing starting to die down.
	“Not today, Dusty...”
	The young plane subsided, visibly shaken as Ripslinger let him back up. Dusty was about to get up off the sleeping mat when the checker-marked plane lifted his bulk up and went stalking out of the hangar, leaving the orange and white racer blinking in his wake. 
	It was truly astounding as it was confusing. The speed of which Ripslinger could go from almost seeming to give a damn to suddenly turning aggressive and cold was enough to make one's head spin. Of course now Dusty would have welcomed that sort of treatment in place of how things were to turn out between them. It had started out slow to the point where it was hardly even noticeable, and seemed to grow in intensity correlated to how much weight Ripslinger had been gaining. They were small little things, odd little moments that would come and go before Dusty even knew what had hit him. Once Dottie had deemed his system strong enough, he was allowed back onto a regular diet, and as predicted his weight had increased rapidly, nearly gaining half of what he'd lost so far. And the more weight he gained back and the better he began to feel again, the more inappropriate his behavior started to get, and the more the pressure began to grow between the two planes. 
	Every time they were close enough to each other, Dusty would feel that familiar prickle go over his plating and an odd squirming feeling would quicken in the heart of him. But then again, other times he would feel an odd pull in response to the intrusions. Ripslinger gave no indication whatsoever whether or not he was feeling the same conflicting sensations within himself, until one night everything seemed to have reached a precipice. 
	He was on his side of the hanger with a desk light next to his sleeping mat, flipping through the latest crop of sporting magazines to come in the mail while Ripslinger was on his side of the hangar, already asleep for the night. Or at least Dusty thought he was sleeping until he was nearly scared right out of his paint when he felt a heavy weight hunker down into him accompanied by a rumbling, gurgling growl. No matter how used to it Dusty would eventually get, it never ceased to amaze and unnerve him just how quick and stealthy Ripslinger could move on the ground for a plane his size. 
	“Ah, Chrysler, Rip! What are you-” 
	He was stifled down into stillness, swallowing his words in a soft gasp as another steamy growl went rumbling and blowing over the smaller plane's plating and a bite, although quite light, gripped him in his back right behind his canopy. What the hell was this? Ripslinger never initiated this amount contact with anybody, and the few times he had ever let Dusty sit close with him, for some reason he only could tolerate it for so long before growing agitated and antsy, as if a bad tetter were roving over him. Was he doing this in his sleep? But just then Dusty felt something hard lightly poke him in the side as the green and black plane ground down on him, and he immediately felt a shiver crawl over his plating as a look of horror crossed over his face. No no no no no...
	“Whoa, whoa, Rip! Rip wake up!” he shouted shakily as he rustled and wiggled underneath the larger plane. 
	“I am awake.” came the response that chilled Dusty all the way down to his core. 
	And as, one after the other, a pair of jet black landing gear placed themselves in front of his wings, the dim light from the lamp gleaming orange off the lacquer, panic began to set in. He was trapped. 
	“No... Rip!”
	“Be still... I wanna see about something.” Ripslinger said, tightening down on the little plane beneath him. 
	He tilted Dusty, causing his tail to raise up as he probed around with his hard and eager phallus in an attempt to wedge it in between the plates of his ventral access panel. The orange and white racer squirmed as Ripslinger began to succeed in painfully making his way through, and he started up struggling a bit as he pushed the tip in, his engine making a distressed, pained sort of squeaking noise.  
	“Shh... Just let me do this... Please...”
	There was that odd tone in his voice again. Maybe it was the “please” that caught Dusty off guard. Whatever the reason, he relented then, his ventral access panel opening and sliding back, giving Ripslinger full access to him. The former crop duster tried to relax as he entered him the rest of the way, failing somewhat as he breathed hard through his intake, biting his lip with his eyes shut tight, and once fully sheathed the Mustang was still as he was mounted atop him. The crackling static that had been ever present and steadily growing between the two planes ever since Ripslinger had come up and startled him had suddenly strengthened into a solid line, which seemed to be what the P-51 was waiting for. He sighed audibly, his frame slumping against Dusty's as he felt the link open, the ceaseless frantic, desperate fluttering and racing in his core quelling down into near stillness, and both planes were suddenly inundated with the same feelings and sensations as before during that painful, confusing, and yet curiously alluring time in the woods. 
	Dusty could feel a pressure growing in the center of his self, a weight settling in, as if something was leaning tiredly against it, seeking comfort. And he relaxed somewhat as he felt the sensation become a part of him, letting out a small, exhaling cry more of discomfort that of any real pleasure as Ripslinger began to finally move above him. 
	It wasn't quite as terrible as the last time, but he did end up getting just as chewed up. As Ripslinger neared his peak, his growling had abruptly taken on an almost frustrated tone and he began gnawing awfully over Dusty's frame. The smaller plane had been unable to find release himself, the pain being far too great as he gasped and cried out in protest despite how nicely the Mustang was thrusting into him. The episode had earned him another trip to Dottie's garage. By some miracle his friends were still staying out of it, although Skipper had been rather overbearing as Dusty was in getting patched up. Thank Chrysler for Thortrazepam. 
	This indecent, however, was just the beginning as Ripslinger had apparently put two and two together now after his little “experiment”. In the following days, he had struck randomly, and once Dusty's body had adapted as much as it probably ever would to the P-51's attentions, it would practically happen on a daily basis. Dusty tolerated it so much as it honestly did seem to be having more or less positive effects otherwise. He appeared much calmer, and more toned down and stabilized personality-wise, which the orange and white racer was gratefully relieved for especially given Ripslinger's increasingly worrying behavior toward Clarice, and his seizure-like episodes were fewer and far less intense than they had been. It was encouraging enough to withstand the lack of foreplay or pillow talk for just being dragged over onto Ripslinger's sleeping mat and getting straight to business. It had almost become routine; he may as well have been dating the bastard. 
	If one could say this kind of situation could get better, it had, at least a little bit. The larger plane had started showing sympathy of a sort; so long as Dusty didn't fight him, Ripslinger wouldn't hurt him. At least not on purpose as much as he could help it. A simple agreement, albeit an unspoken one. No matter how much Dusty had adapted however, there were always sore spots and even small wounds from Ripslinger's teeth here and there the next day, and he had gotten annoyed early on that the smaller plane wasn't recovering as fast as he apparently thought he would. Dusty had retorted that it was because he was never given any time to recover, but in reality it wasn't so much that he wasn't healing as quickly as much as it was whatever endurance and tolerance he was able to gain as the days went by, Ripslinger would then take him for everything he was worth by night again, his own sexual stamina apparently being boundless. 
	For all the improvements it appeared to bring about, the phenomenon that spurred the whole thing off didn't happen with every coupling, in fact it rarely ever happened more than twice in a row, but each time Dusty could feel some intangible grasping and clawing at some baser part of him. Sometimes this essence would resist stubbornly, and the former crop duster would then be subject to a horrible, corroding pain all up and down his left side as he bit into the cushioning of Ripslinger's sleeping mat to muffle his screams. Other times it would relent, allowing the intruding presence in, scolding all the while as the green and black plane fucked him, the biting and chewing inevitably starting up upon nearing release. They were odd these feelings. They were almost like the sensations he felt when he and Skipper would sit close or nap together or sometimes when they were sparring, but decidedly not right. Unhealthy. Broken from Ripslinger's end. 
	Dusty would get a reprieve from that part at least, however, as the boys had arrived back from L.A. for a visit, care of Kurtis Kyker, Ripslinger's personal touring plane, as if the flashy, attention-grabbing livery were any indication. Green on top of course, sporting a canary yellow belly with blue violet checker marking covering his entire underside that continued up to wrap around the end of his tail. Strictly speaking though, the 747's size alone was usually enough to get garner anyone's attention as he sauntered off Propwash junction's main runway with the usual mellow, unimpressed air of your typical airliner. 
	The very instant Ned and Zed saw Ripslinger, they both rushed him, jumping all over their leader and licking and nuzzling him like they hadn't seen him in years. And although he didn't really return any of their affections, the Mustang honestly did seem happy to see them, but only tolerated it for so long before that switch of his suddenly flipped and he snarled them off. They immediately dispersed, cowering into their landing gear in apology, looking thoroughly scolded as everyonen physically and metaphorically scratched their heads at witnessing such perplexing behavior. Later, they all milled about curiously as the twins unloaded a few requested items from Kurtis' cargo hold. 
	“My music!” Ripslinger cried in dramatic salvation, upon Zed presenting him with his MP3 player. “The radio is such slag around here, you have no idea what it's like!”
	Dusty rolled his eyes, but then they widened at the sight of something quite unexpected that Ned was rolling down the ramp from the cargo hold.
	“Where do you want these?” he grunted.
	“Just roll those over to Dusty's hangar, will you?”
	“Tractor tires?” Skipper commented with a touch less incredulity that was currently showing on everyone else's face, “What the hell do you use 'em for?”
	“My tractor,” Ripslinger answered curtly, the smart-assery very palpable. 
	The boys were going to be staying for a little while, and Dusty breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that he would finally get a break with Ripslinger being otherwise occupied with his cohorts. Instead, the next morning found him full of cramp and exhaustion recovering from the night before, feeling worn out and very used up. Ripslinger had woken up rather early this time around and had already headed out. Despite their activities together, Dusty still felt miles away from him. All this and the larger plane still could barely handle just simply sitting together, let alone even let him sleep with him when they were done. One night, not knowing what he was thinking had actually tried to voice his displeasure and overall opinion on the situation after once again being unceremoniously shooed away.
	“You know, it really hurts when you just...” 
	Ripslinger looked over at him as he laid down to sleep then, his gaze not exactly receptive but waiting for him to continue. But then Dusty sighed, saying,“Nevermind...” as he miserably crawled up onto his own sleeping mat and attempted to get some sleep himself. His body and mind were just so overwhelmed. The little racer was no virgin, but had never been on the receiving end of such an activity, and his yet to be fully mature frame was utterly unprepared or even ready for such an extreme amount of sexual pressure and stimulation. Not that he was really getting all that much from it, especially contributed by the fact that Ripslinger just never made the right noises. Any engine noise he made during sex were harsh, fierce, and almost threatening. The farthest thing from anything even remotely related to what they were doing and it only added confusion to his frustration to the point where he would fail to reach orgasm about half the time, and those were fleeting, if not nearly painful due to the over-stimulation such treatment caused. 
	He wanted to cry out in frustration, to scream at him, to turn around and bite him, to fly away from his hometown and go somewhere far away and never come back. And all the while, at each coupling where that link, and the feelings of settlement and stabilization brought with it that Ripslinger had fast become addicted to, sexual gratification aside, was able to happen Dusty would be vaguely aware of that odd communication that always took place. Feelings of protest, of sympathy, of admonishment being met with feelings of desperation, of careless euphoria and contentment, of guilt, all jumbled out of order and impossible to tell exactly where which sentiments were coming from where. Ripslinger for his part, as always, gave no indication of whether or not he felt anything, almost seeming to forget Dusty altogether at times. 
	Seeking comfort, Dusty practically crawled to Skipper one day and cuddled up underneath him, prompting the old Corsair to lie down when he was prevented from otherwise going anywhere. Dusty let out a short puff of a weary sigh as he finally settled in after snuggling into his mentor as if he couldn't get close enough. At the contact, Skipper was immediately struck with concern, disturbed at what he felt from Dusty's state of self, the stress, the feelings of upset. But Dusty wasn't talking, and it was all he could do to be able to just offer what support he could as the little airplane drifted off to sleep, enveloped in the safety of his Bonded Companion's warmth and stalwart strength. And then he began to dream.
	It was pretty and bright. The lawns were gorgeous and lush. There were well-matured flowers in carefully-tended beds and smells everywhere. It was nice here. Dusty had never been to this place before, but he thought he knew where he was, having known about it and seen pictures, only the large statue of a certain P-51 Mustang was missing from the middle of one of the more grandiose gardens. 
	As he further took in the environment around him, a small plane approached him. It was a Mustang. A very young Mustang from its size, just slightly bigger than himself, and the four little buds of propeller blades just starting to poke through. He couldn't have been more than eight years old. A thin off-white stripe separated his blue paint job from its red underbelly, which had darker red checker marks covering it as opposed to the pale-blue crescent shaped saddle markings all down his back. The young P-51 smiled at him as if he knew him, and it was funny, but Dusty also thought that this plane seemed very familiar. The friendly stranger then beckoned to him, dipping his nose and jerking it back up. 
	Dusty looked at the young plane, hesitant and confused. Normally he wouldn't be so unsure, but his weariness and torment had followed him into this dream that he didn't yet know was a dream, and held him where he was. The Mustang tried again, bowing down slightly on his landing gear, his body language saying, “Come play with me!”. And so then Dusty set aside his inhibitions and obliged the other plane. They chased each other over the plush grass, sparred a bit, rearing up slightly, faking each other out before the chase would begin again. It was rather fun playing with a plane closer to his own size, but his thoughts inevitably floated back to his troubling situation as they always did, and their play was stalled. 
	He sagged downtrodden in his landing gear, and the young Mustang turned, concern coming over his features. He stopped in front of Dusty, nuzzling his cheek and giving it a lick before pulling away, a hopeful, sympathetic smile meeting the orange and white plane's slightly dulled blue eyes. He woke up shortly after, the dream causing him to feel very strange for the rest of the day. What was that? He could have sworn he had met that plane somewhere before. 
	He was still pondering it the next morning, unable to get it out of his head as he lay in bed. He looked up when he heard Ripslinger give a cough, but went back to his thoughts when he saw that the green and black plane was still sleeping. Then he began to cough a little more. Then he woke up as coughing soon turned into choking and gasping, and he struggled to sit up as his expression quickly became panicked. Dusty immediately jumped to go to his aid, bracing him up, and as he leaned over the smaller plane, gagging, inky black fluid began to pour and drip from his mouth like a faucet. 
	Dusty cried out in surprise and slight disgust as the tarry fluid, which felt oddly freezing cold, spilled and splattered down onto him and the floor. He slowly began to get weighed down more and more as waves of tremors began to go through Ripslinger's body, his landing gear buckling. It was over quickly enough, Dusty gently helping him lower back down onto his sleeping mat as the last of the  quakes left him, the checker-marked racer breathing measured and steady through the burning pain in his frame. As Dusty slowly backed away, he spoke at length. 
	“Why do you continue to help me?” he asked. “All I ever do is torment you and cause you pain.”
	“Because I made a promise that I would,” Dusty answered softly, not specifying who he'd made that promise to, but knowing that Ripslinger probably already knew based on his response.
	“Shouldn't have don't that, should you?” he mocked, although his expression was severe as he stared him down.
	“Well I'm not going to take it back now,” Dusty retorted, staring him straight back dead in the eyes, and the P-51 seemed somewhat taken aback as his expression darkened down somewhat in thought. 
	Dusty had been sporting a mostly non-teeth-marked frame for a while now, having found out what the pair of large tractor tires that were a current fixture of his hangar were for, odd as it was. He had gone into his hangar to find Ripslinger going to town on one of them. Dusty froze. Now it wasn't an uncommon or unusual thing for aircraft or sometimes other vehicles to chew things, especially if they were stressed. Hell, Dusty had a few chews that really came in handy during racing season to take some of the pressure off of his teeth when he was prone to grinding them, but it was the familiar way in which Ripslinger grasped and gnawed on the tire that disturbed him and sent phantom pains popping up over various spots over his frame. 
	It only got weirder when, seemingly unable to temper himself to lighter bites during one of their nightly romps, he had actually leaned over where one of the tires was kept close by and started chewing with a vengeance. Dusty had even caught him once or twice doing it in his sleep. The little orange and white plane just didn't quite know what to make of it. He had thought nothing could be as strange as that, until he woke up two nights later to Ripslinger resting his front on the edge of his sleeping mat.
	“I couldn't sleep,” he said, “I needed to ask you something.”
	“What time is it?” Dusty mumbled, looking blearily around for the alarm clock.
	“You saved my life once. You had to have cared about me, didn't you?” the larger plane implored. 
	What?
	“Rip?”
	“Have you ever talked to the boys? Ned and Zed?”
	“No, not really. But it's not hard to tell that they absolutely adore you, although I'll never understand why. They'd probably follow you to the ends of the earth.”
	“Like lemons off a cliff...”
	“What?”
	“I don't understand why you left me like that,” he continued, not looking at him. 
	Dusty was getting more and more confused now. It was as if Ripslinger were having two conversations with two different people at the same time, even though they were the only ones in the hangar as far as he could see and hear in the darkness. 
	“I know I'm not a very gentle plane,” Ripslinger went on, “Not friendly. I understand I'm always going to be the one left behind.”
	“Ripslinger, what are you talking about?”
	“Do you remember what life was like before I started racing?”
	At that point, Dusty started consciously trying to wake himself up as it seemed as whatever dementia the Mustang might be experiencing, it sounded like he was about to reveal something important. Something that Dusty could use, to try to make sense of why Ripslinger was the way he was, but then the conversation flipped again. 
	“Have you told Skipper about our little arrangement?”
	“No, he doesn't need to know, none of them do.”
	“It would never make sense to them anyway,” conceded the green and black plane. “It doesn't even make sense to me. As soon as this thing is over, you'll just up and disappear again, so why should a believe a damn thing you say?” his tone changed now to one of accusatory anger. “Did you ever care if I was around? Did you ever worry about me when I was off on my own?”
	“What?” Dusty, even though he was unsure of who he might be directing this to, kept engaging him anyway. “Rip, no, I wasn't around then, I didn't even know you. How can I remember something I never experienced?”
	“I knew I shouldn't have asked,” the checker-marked racer said, getting up briskly and rolling back over to his side of the hangar, collapsing onto his own sleeping mat with a rough sigh. 
	Dusty stared, quite unsettled and baffled by the experience. But it did give him an idea. Talk to the twins. He found them on the grass, both vying for Clarice's attention. 
	“Hey!” he greeted as he approached the group, “Clarice, can I talk to the boys real quick?”
	“Sure, see you later guys.”
	“Aw, do you have to?” Zed whined.
	“Don'tcha wanna see how alike we are?” Ned asked imploringly but with a suggestive smile.
	“No,” the human girl admonished with a wry smile. “You guys don't think I've sussed you out already?”
	“Damn!” Ned hissed, trying to feign disappointment but failing to cover up a jesting smile. 
	“Maybe later,” Clarice laughed as she continued to play along, giving each a scratch under the chin before taking her leave. “Try to get along guys.”
	“Don't worry, we will!” Zed called after her.
	“Boy, are you guys whipped.” Dusty remarked as he settled down in the grass with them. 
	“Whipped nothin', she's really, really nice,” Ned shot back unabashedly.
	“Yeah, and she's soft and warm and pets us!” Zed joined in. 
	Dusty let out a soft, humored flutter from his engine, although he wasn't going to argue with them there. It was rather endearing how smitten they were with her. In fact Dusty wouldn't be surprised at all if they grew protective of her even against their own boss if he tried anything while they were here, although he had mostly been leaving her alone lately.
	It was amazing how civil they could be, really, when not under Ripslinger's orders, but it was still a bit awkward for him to speak to them, though not for the reason one might think. Interacting with the brothers could be a very strange and overwhelming experience for anyone, even for those who know them best. Their movements, their way of speaking, so fluid and coordinated at times that it was as if the two planes were being controlled by one consciousness, with the twins being utilized almost like you would use your right and left hands. 
	“So uh...” Dusty began. Gosh, where to begin? “You guys have known Rip for a while now, huh?”
	“Uh yeah,” Ned answered.
	“We've been all been working together for five years now!” Zed added proudly before giving his green-fronted brother a sour look when he muttered “Six.”
	“What all do you know about him? I mean like before he got into racing.” Dusty asked. 
	The twin Zivko's seemed to think on it for a few minutes before Zed made a shrugging gesture as he looked to Ned, who shook his front.
	“Not a whole lot, actually,” the green-fronted plane said.
	“Stuff like that just never came up, you know?” Zed admitted. 
	“Huh.”
	“Heck, we didn't even know who he was before we got into racing. In fact we never thought about racing or anything like that until we all met,” Ned went on. 
	“Really?” This was news to Dusty, “What were you guys into before?”
	“Stealing,” Zed answered simply in a rather chipper, but guileless tone. 
	“Beg your pardon?” Dusty managed after a second or to of silence.
	“You heard right,” Ned confirmed, “We were both thieves in a gang.”
	“The best ones they had!” Zed added.
	“Seriously?” Dusty asked again, still not quite believing what he was hearing. 
	“Yeah, seriously! We spent most of our younger years scoring anything and everything we could use or else sell,” Ned went on. 
	“Gee, uh... I had no idea,” Dusty stammered, as if things couldn't get any more awkward, “Must have been pretty tough. I mean being so young and all and being criminals already.”
	“Ah, don't feel too bad,” said Zed.
	“It was a pretty good living, at least until we stole from someone who could out-fly us.”
	Dusty was incredulous, but there was no need to ask who that someone was. There were few planes indeed that could have out-flown them.
	“Best mistake we ever made!” Zed concluded.
	“And so then they just hired you? Just like that? After you stole from Ripslinger himself?”
	“I don't know, he seemed to actually kind of like us. Maybe he was impressed,” Ned thought on it, “Anyway, I guess he'd had so much fun chasing and catching us that they hired us on as a sort of entourage. You know, keep him company, give him some good exercise here and there, that sort of deal.”
	“But pretty soon they were so impressed with our flyin' that they signed us as actual team mates and trained us to fly races,” continued Zed, “So long as we promised we wouldn't steal anything anymore.”
	“Not that we'd ever need to; they take real good care of us. They take twenty off the top, of course, but we're still making crazy money and getting more pussy than we ever did when we were part of that gang.”
	“Totally worth twenty percent,” Zed added. 
	“Things get pretty crazy then, huh?” Dusty reckoned. 
	“Oh yeah, between the after parties and all the invitations we get to come to clubs to draw crowds, you never knew there were so many smokin' ten out of ten chicks and just how much stuff can happen to a person even in just the span of forty-eight hours.”
	“Sounds pretty exhausting,” Dusty commented with a wry, hooded stare.
	“Yeah, especially when you're competing with somebody like Ripslinger,” Ned went on. “We gotta work extra hard to find our own tail when we go out. Ain't no leftovers by the time he's done with them.”	
	“Ah, it just ain't the boss' style to leave a lady wanting more to where she'll fuck with the side-kicks,” Zed conceded. 
	Dusty's eyes widened by a fraction before he slunk down into his landing gear with a grimace, sighing in abashed realization. So it wasn't just him, it was just how he was, although he couldn't decide whether or not he felt relieved or put out by this particular bit of information, and the notion that he would even be confused over such a thing bothered him somewhat.
	“Yeah, that's sounds... that sounds really tough alright.”
	“Yeah, but he doesn't really stay out with us all that long,” said Ned, “He'll hang out just long enough to snag himself some sweet little cutie pie to take back to the nest.”
	“Or two,” Zed chimed in.
	“Or three,” Ned went on as the two brothers grinned at each other lecherously. 
	How in the world did he have the energy? Or the concentration for that matter? Dusty his wide-eyed, troubled face awash in a sort of hollow, foreboding disturbance, muttered, “I feel I'm going to be sick.” in a level, almost inflectionless tone. After a “What?” and a “Huh?” from Ned and Zed, respectively, he shook himself out of it.
	“Oh... Nothing,” Dusty said, having heard about as much as he could stand, wanting to just hurry up now and go in for the kill, but absolutely dreading asking the question lest it bring up any suspicions. “So uh... Has he ever... You know... Tried anything on you guys?”
	The twins seemed to start every so slightly at the question, glancing inquisitively at one another before answering.
	“The guy never even lets us sleep with him for the simple sake of company and comfort,” Ned started, “So, no. Not really.”
	“But you know,” Zed joined in, his face taking on a wistful expression as his eyes slid over to the side thoughtfully, “I've always sort of hoped.”
	“You're so pathetic!” Ned broke in abruptly, snapping Zed out of his day-dreaming, where he quickly went on the offensive.
	“You're one to talk, you rust-ridden, street-corner, cunt-jumper-”
	Ned, a growl slowly rumbling up from his engine at the onslaught of insults, suddenly jumped him and the two engaged in a flurry of biting and snapping as they rolled over the ground. Dusty rolled his eyes and sighed. That escalated quickly. It was times like this that he needed to remind himself that, yes, he and the twins were the same age. 
	Well, as disturbing as the information that he got was, especially since it wasn't originally what he came to them for, it wasn't a complete waste of time. While he may not trust the two Zivkos with his wallet, he believed them when they said that they knew nothing of Ripslinger before they had all met. And it confirmed one more thing. 
	“I'm not gonna survive this.” He wined. 
	Ripslinger meanwhile, was laying down in Dusty's hangar with the doors open, his eyes casually watching Clarice as she sat cross-legged on the tail-gate of Hugh's classic Chevy pick-up. The sun was setting behind her, almost making her form like a silhouette. Then Dusty rolled into view, his frame slumping and defeated. 
	 The P-51 watched as he came up and behind Clarice and gently poked her with his nose cone. She abruptly turned around, seeming startled as she began to bring her hands up, Ripslinger supposing that she probably thought it was him, but once catching sight of Dusty and his expression however, she reached out, placing her hands on his nose, stroking a bit with her right as she spoke a few words, a concerned, questioning look on her face. He shook his front as he nuzzled further into her chest. Clarice spoke to him again, asking him something and giving the side of his nose a few pats. He shook his front once more, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch. Ripslinger watched as she kissed him on his nose cone, sighing something that sounded like “Oh, Dusty...” but saying no more as she scooted up closer to him, embracing the front of him as she laid her head down on his hood and continued to stroke him soothingly. Ripslinger sighed softly as he stared at the small plane and even tinier human, his brow pinching slightly for a moment before his eyes slipped closed.

XXxx

	Ripslinger stared around at his surroundings. Cartier butterflies fluttered and danced around the carefully planted and cultivated flowers. The grounds were just as bright and immaculate as he remembered them. He felt a shiver go through his frame as bad memories and feelings clawed at his insides. What was he doing back here? 
	The hotel had been remodeled from the looks of things. It wasn't too different from the way it looked before, but it seemed so much bigger the first time he'd seen it all those years ago. He watched the same crowds as back then milling about, waiting for the big show to start, and that's when he spotted her. It was her. Older now, bigger and more mature, but there was no mistaking it. It was her. She was here, back where it all began of all places. 
	He called out to her, his entire frame simply dripping with anxiousness and yet hope. She looked around at the sound of his voice and finally caught sight of him. She looked confused, as Ripslinger expected and thought she would; her paint scheme was exactly as he remembered it, but his had changed, and he was also a much different person, but that bridge would be crossed when the time came. He called her name again, and then recognition blossomed in her face. She smiled in disbelief, and began to make her way toward him.
	Ripslinger exhaled in feverish anticipation, already aware of how insane he sometimes looked when he was happy. But she wasn't fazed. In fact she only seemed to become even more elated, her smile growing as she let out an all familiar, feminine giggle. And then Ripslinger almost lost it right then and there, taking everything he had to hold himself together. He moved to meet her, but as they neared each other, he was checked as her eyes suddenly flashed into a morbid shade of red. 
	“What?”
	Suddenly her form began to change and grow, her paint scheme darkening down from the margins of her body toward her fuselage into a bleak and lusterless shade of black.
	“No!”
	Her frame continued to lengthen, growing exponentially bigger as it twisted, breaking and snapping out of itself until finally, it's engines roaring and bursting with hellfire, the black creature that seemed to forever plague him, always watching with its dispassionate presence as his nightmares and mania consumed him, stood before him. And Ripslinger, almost rearing up off his landing gear from shock and horror, felt all the happiness and hope from earlier drain right out of him, almost seeming to be sucked away by the shadowy monster as it began to advance upon him.
	“No such thing... No such thing...” the beast spoke in its cold, echoing voice. “You're not paying attention...”
	Ripslinger weakly shook his front, tears of joy that he had been holding back suddenly coming up in full force as tears of incredulousness and despair. 
	“No... No, you can't do that, I was so close!” he tearfully shouted as everything around them was set ablaze, the flames consuming the very fabric of the horrific nightmare he'd been thrown into. 
	“Always... the same... mistake...” the shadow echoed as its red eyes bored into him, the Mustang's tail to the fire now.
	Meanwhile, Dusty had been woken up to the sound of restless shuffling and mumbling from Ripslinger's side of the hangar. He sleepily got up from his sleeping mat and crept toward the fretful P-51, mindful not to disturb him further, as the last time he woke Ripslinger up from a nightmare he had nearly killed him.
	“You can't do that again...” the green and black plane muttered, tears beginning to stream down his fuselage before sobbing louder, “You can't!”
	Dusty felt sorrow and pity begin to creep into his previously sleepily concerned expression. He hated this. He knew he shouldn't wake him; he could still feel the way the checker-marked plane's teeth had sunk through the his hood, but Dusty was never able to stand seeing anyone in such distress, especially coming from someone that you normally wouldn't expect it from. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't just leave him obviously suffering, and as he could stand no more he very quietly and gently leaned down and began to lick the tears away, ready to jump away the instant he stirred with more vigor. That was all, at least until he's awake and can see that he's safe in Dusty's hangar and away from whatever was tormenting him. He'd eventually calm down and snarl at him like he usually did and they would just go back to sleep on their respective sides of the room, but Ripslinger cringed away from his touch, whimpering and crying out. 
	Dusty was about to stop his ministrations, becoming aware that they might only be making things worse, when Ripslinger gave one last frightened, desperate shout and finally sprang awake. Dusty went scrambling away as the Mustang jumped to his landing gear, but turned back to face him when he otherwise didn't move from the spot. He stood there, sitting back in his tail gear as he frantically looked around, breathing hard and looking disoriented. 
	“Dusty...” 
	Ripslinger's call to him when his eyes finally fell up on him was thin and drawn as his throat was closed on tears, although the little orange and white plane couldn't quite place the tone in his voice. Could it have been relief? Could there have even been a touch of pleading? Whatever it was, he tried to push it down and replace it with a snarl and a glare, but gave up on it just as quickly as he broke back down into tears, sinking down onto his sleeping mat.
	Dusty simply watched for a few moments, his face an look of soft consideration before moving forward, toward the sobbing P-51. He leaned down a bit, until they were nearly nose to nose, and after a moment's hesitation, moved up to give the side of Ripslinger's a quick, gentle nuzzle. Ripslinger made to try and push him away, but Dusty held fast, pressing back as he refused to be moved. 
	Dusty had a particular expression that would come over his features, a certain stare, that whether or not he meant it to, always made those captivated by it pay special attention. To listen. And when Ripslinger finally opened his eyes, he found himself caught in its innocuousness. Both planes were still for a time. Dusty could feel and hear Ripslinger trying to steady his breathing. Could feel puffs of breaths from the exhausts along his nose brush across and tickle his plating. But now that he seemed to have his attention, Dusty didn't quite know what to do or to say. So then he simply did the fist thing that popped into his head, and without thinking twice started to whistle, soothingly, the melody to “When You Wish Upon a Star”.
	Ripslinger had looked mildly taken aback, his brow quirked in confusion for a few moments, but then Dusty watched as in the same instant that surprise and an odd sort of recollection dawned on him, a kind of vibrancy flashed across his dull eyes that hadn't been there before. A flicker of life that faded almost before the orange and white plane had noticed it. Suddenly Ripslinger felt a sharp pain clutching at the heart of him, and cried out softly, but Dusty determinedly stayed right with him, keeping contact and continuing his whistling even as he felt the same squeeze inside of himself. 
	The Mustang could feel himself start to tremble, the ache starting to intensify and spread, the taste of the black, inky sludge making its way up his throat. He focused on his breathing. Dusty's breathing. He concentrated on his warmth, his scent, and the calming sound of his whistling, and slowly, the bad feelings began to subside, and were gone by the time that the younger plane was finished. 
	Dusty pulled back from him, but Ripslinger's olive-colored eyes remained locked on the little racer's, still mesmerized from before. He had never really noticed before just how blue they were. As if from the first moment he ever looked up at the skies above, his eyes had captured and kept the color in them. Dusty gently spoke from in front of him for the first time since he had been awoken to his frightened, despairing cries. 
	“Are you okay?”
	Ripslinger didn't answer. Just continued to stare bemusedly, breaths still coming in a little shaky before grimacing, sinking down into the sleeping mat underneath him and releasing one last pained cough, some remnants of black fluid coming up.
	“Would you like me to sleep over here with you for the rest of the night?” Dusty asked, his brow pulled in slightly in sympathetic concern, before continuing assuringly, “I really think it would help.”
	The larger plane said nothing, looking apprehensive at Dusty's proposal, but then, slowly, he leaned up and gave the orange and white plane's nosecone a small lick. And Dusty smiled warmly at the first gesture of affection that Ripslinger had ever given him, possibly had ever given to anyone. He came around behind the checker-marked Mustang and sidled up along his left side, snuggling right in as Ripslinger awkwardly adjusted to where most of their bodies were touching. 
	Whereas Dusty had fallen asleep after a while, Ripslinger remained awake still, knowing full  well that he would never be able to fall back to sleep after such a cruel dream. He was afraid, but gradually, he was loosing his battle. The warmth from before had chilled him, fleetingly, as he felt it enter again, and he felt a sort of squeeze at the center of his self. Only this time was different. Instead of the crushing pain from earlier that nearly took his breath away at its sharpness, it was soft and gentle, almost like a hug. This feeling of  compression was surprisingly soothing and reassuring, and allowed his mind to finally shut down long enough for him to forget his fear and drift off to sleep himself.