Downed

The halls of the psych ward were dim, forever in need of refurbished lights and clean floors. But everyone, whether they were employees or visitors, were always too scared to enter this part of the building, for it held the facility's most deranged and hopeless patients.

There were some exceptions when it came to brave visitors, however, and a few from a small town in the country would prove that fact. There were three visitors, two forklifts and a fuel truck, and they had mixed feelings about this visit. On one hand, the patient they were visiting was someone they had been close to and known for many years. But on the other, they knew that what he did in the past is irreversible and unforgivable.

The large white truck that stood guard at the restricted area's entrance stared down at the three visitors blankly, waiting for them to state their business.

"We're here to see patient double zero-seven," the larger of the two forklifts informed with sorrow.

"Right this way," the truck stated flatly, as he used a keycard to unlock the door and lead them to their designation.

As they followed the guard, all three visitors couldn't help but look around at some of the empty and occupied rooms on either side of them. Each of them had giant, bullet-proof glass panes with holes in them, allowing them to see into the patients' rooms. The flawless white walls, single bed and toilet within each room made them look even emptier, even if they already had a patient staying in them.

The rooms that did have patients in them were currently dark, all in an attempt to get them to fall asleep. But most of them were still awake, as they watched the visitors and guard pass by with unblinking eyes while struggling within the tightness of their straight jackets.

The visitors tried their best to ignore the crazed looks, but still felt shivers run down their backs when thinking about the desperation in their eyes. Eventually, they arrived at the room containing the patient they were looking for, but it was difficult to see inside since it was just as dark as all of the other rooms.

"You've got twenty minutes," the guard informed while turning to leave, stationing himself a few yards down the hall to keep an eye on them in case of an emergency.

The visitors exchanged nervous glances, telepathically trying to figure out how to go about this. The person on the other side of this glass pane had been their friend for as long as they could remember, but was now considered a murderer. Reluctantly, the larger forklift took a deep breath in and drove up to the glass.

"Hey there, Dusty. I-It's Dottie—do you remember me?" she spoke softly while squinting into the darkness.

They all waited for a few moments, but it felt like an eternity before a pair of blue eyes emerged from the shadowy corners of the room. The eyes that were once filled with enough life and determination to fill the hearts of others, were now as pale and lifeless as the walls around them.

"D…Dottie…?" a hoarse voice spoke from the shadows, as the eyes blinked to try and recognize the three figures before him.

"That's it, Duster," Chug added reassuringly, "Remember me? It's Chug, your best friend."

"And Sparky. I'm here, too," Sparky quickly stated.

Dusty seemed to slowly but surely recognize them, urging him to slip from the shadows and into the light. But his friends immediately wished he hadn't. Dusty's bright orange paint was pale, chipped and scratched, and his chassis was dented and twisted in multiple places; all of these injuries were obvious signs of self-harm. But the most fatal injury of them all was the one no one could miss, that of which was the left wing he was completely missing, and the nub that remained was decorated with jagged and twisted edges.

Dusty's friends couldn't believe what they were seeing. They wouldn't, in fact. They only came here to try and get some answers from Dusty because they were certain that the reason he was put into this psych ward had to be a lie; missing important pieces to the whole story, at the very least.

"Yes, Dusty, it's us—your friends," Dottie began while placing a fork on the glass, "Which means we trust you. You know that, right?"

Dusty slowly nodded.

"That's good—because we want you to tell us a story."

"A…story?" Dusty muttered.

"Yes, Dusty. If it's alright with you, we want you to tell us what happened that day."

"What…what day?"

"The day…when you were supposed to finish the Wings Around the Globe Rally," Chug reluctantly clarified.

Just the mere mention of the name of the national race was enough to make Dusty's blood run cold, and his pupils shrank down to the size of pinpricks when he started to recall the events of the race's final league.

"That day…" Dusty began, his breath hitching, "I'll tell you…what happened that day…"

Dottie, Chug and Sparky leaned in closely to hear better, and Dusty's eyes darted between their gaze and the floor.

Finally, the crop duster blinked and inhaled, "On that day…I became a murderer…"

Seven months earlier...

This was it. The finale leg of the Wings Around the Globe Rally, which ended with the finish line in New York. The four contestants that were in the lead were three-time champion Ripslinger, his twin cronies Ned and Zed, and underdog Dusty Crophopper.

But despite having more wins and fans than Dusty, Ripslinger knew he was a threat to his fame. He wasn't going to let some lowlife farmer with naïve dreams be his downfall, so he would go to any lengths to stop him.

Ripslinger waited until he and his minions were out of camera range, as they flew over the desolate Deadstick Desert. If they were going to do this, they were going to go all out; the chances of anyone finding out what was about to happen next were slim to none, anyway. As Ned and Zed closed in on Dusty, Ripslinger closed in from above, preventing any and all escape.

"Hey, Farmer," Zed greeted with a chuckle.

"Time ta plow the fields," Ned taunted.

"Looks like you've run out of airspace, Crophopper," Ripslinger hissed while lowering his landing gear, pushing a wheel down on Dusty's head to shove him closer and closer to the ground. Dusty groaned and clenched his eyes in pain, as cactuses started hitting him in the face and propellers.

Dusty waited for another inevitable crash to come, and braced for the same agony he felt when he landed in the icy waters of the ocean in one of the previous legs of the race. Even after being repaired, he doubted his internal organs could take such damage again.

But as Dusty inched closer to the ground, rescue descended from the clear skies and flew head-first into the three planes, dispersing them and allowing Dusty to escape. And when the crop duster looked up to see who his savior was, he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Skipper?!" Dusty exclaimed in pure shock.

"Dusty, pull up!" Skipper shouted, to which Dusty noticed the tall rock pillar he was about to fly into. Luckily, Dusty pulled up just in time.

"Skipper, you're flying!" Dusty called joyfully.

"Oh, you noticed," Skipper chuckled sarcastically, "Listen, I got Rip. You take care of the other two."

"Got it."

With that, Skipper and Dusty went their separate ways, each of them dealing with the three not-so-noble racers. Dusty eventually tricked Ned and Zed into flying between tight canyon walls, causing them to get lodged between the ridges with their cabs pressed against each other. Meanwhile, Skipper led Ripslinger away by throwing him off with tight turns and loops.

But the more he was being led astray, the more impatient Ripslinger became. He was not only being upstaged by a farmer, but also outsmarted by an old man. If Ripslinger's fury wasn't raging before, it was certainly an inferno now. He had no problem with eliminating Dusty for good, so what would an old plane matter to him?

Skipper didn't matter to Ripslinger at all, so the latter decided he would worry about Dusty later. Ripslinger sped up and carefully slid underneath Skipper, trying to get close enough to slice his underbelly with his razor sharp propellers. Slicing and dicing ungrateful racers who stood in his way was the whole reason Ripslinger invented the Sky Slycers, and made sure each and every one of them were equipped with razors.

But as Skipper kept himself busy with keeping Ripslinger distracted, and the latter trying to cut him open, neither of them noticed Dusty circling around in front of them. Dusty instantly figured out what Ripslinger was trying to do, and he wasn't going to let him hurt his mentor. So, without hesitation, Dusty flew towards Ripslinger, as he planned to give him a taste of his own medicine.

But like Dusty, Ripslinger was quick to decipher his opponent's next move, and grinned maniacally when he figured out how to kill two birds with one stone. Ripslinger kept trying to get closer to Skipper's underbelly, urging him to rise higher and higher to avoid his propellers. As he pushed Skipper farther up, Dusty grew closer while leaning to the side.

Ripslinger waited for the exact right moment, as he pressed himself as close to Skipper as he could. When Dusty was just a few feet away from them, Ripslinger flashed him a maniacal look before barrel rolling out of the way at the last second. Neither Skipper nor Dusty had time to react, as Ripslinger's barrel roll caused him to lean to the side, baring his underbelly to the tip of Dusty's wing.

In the blink of an eye, Dusty's wingtip sliced through Skipper's chassis, creating a deep gash from his throat to his tail section. A waterfall of blood and oil spilled from the old warplane, as the shock of the pain caused him to careen towards the unforgiving ground below.

"NOOO!" Dusty screamed at the top of his lungs, finally realizing what he had done.

The crop duster watched as his beloved mentor continued to plummet, and landed with a loud thud and impact strong enough to tear off his left wing. Dusty didn't care about the race, or how many fans he would let down. He needed to be by Skipper's side, so he hastily landed on the dry desert ground.

Skipper miraculously landed right side-up, as he was leaning on his left side and sitting in a growing pool of his own vital fluids. The old plane was shaking, his breathing hitching and meek.

"N-No…Skipper, please no! I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen!" Dusty mumbled frantically, as tears effortlessly welled up in his eyes.

"Don't…fret about it…Dusty…it wasn't…your fault…" Skipper tried to reassure his pupil, but the blood leaking from his mouth and life draining from his eyes made any reassurance impossible.

"Just hold on, Skipper!"

"Dusty…"

"I'll go get help!"

"Dusty…"

"You'll be fine, Skipper! I know you will!"

"Dusty!"

The said crop duster turned racer froze when Skipper snapped at him, and the latter coughed up blood and breathed deeply after using so much energy to shout.

"Dusty…I won't make it," Skipper reluctantly admitted.

"No…no, that's not true!" Dusty argued.

"It's true…a-and you know it. My time was…coming soon, anyway…I-I might as well accept it now…"

Dusty felt his throat tighten, "B-But, Skip…you can't…"

"Believe me…I don't want to…but there's…nothing you can do…"

"What am I gonna do? I-I…I can't go back…they'll know I did this to you."

"It was…an accident…"

"I'm a murderer, Skipper!"

Dusty's voice echoed around them, as they went silent at the inevitable fact. Dusty closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, and Skipper watched helplessly as tears finally spilled from his student's eyes.

"Dusty…look at me…" Skipper weakly demanded.

Dusty sniffled and did as he was told, staring deeply into Skipper's energy-drained eyes.

"This was a-all…Ripslinger's fault…not yours…and e-even if it was…I would s-still forgive you, Dusty…"

"I will never forgive myself for this," Dusty whispered shakily.

"You…have to…I-I don't want you…to grief a-about this…for the rest…of your life…"

"Then what should I do?"

"Remember…the good times, Dusty…remember…the good…times…"

With that, Skipper drew his final breath, and his eyes rolled back into his head. Dusty was paralyzed with fear and guilt. If he dared to go to anyone for help, they would know that he killed Skipper. Even if it was by complete accident, it was still manslaughter. No matter what he would do, he couldn't win. And all of this happened because he wanted to win a race. A race that Skipper told him to avoid competing in. If only he had listened to him, then he would still be alive.

"No, Skipper…it's all my fault either way. I should've listened to you…I should've stayed home," Dusty sobbed uncontrollably, as he pressed his head against Skipper's lifeless body.

Dusty stayed by Skipper's body, unable to determine how long he had been there. Not that he cared. All he wanted was to cherish what little time he had left with his mentor before the authorities would surely take him and lock him away.

He knew many hours must have past at the very least, for night was now blanketing the whole sky. The air was cool and quiet, but it did nothing to calm Dusty's nerves and troubled thoughts. In fact, Dusty was so deep in thought, and on the verge of falling asleep, that he failed to notice the sound of an engine approaching.

It was Ripslinger, and he had just left the huge party that was thrown in honor of his fourth win in a row. Even after getting everything he desired once again, there was still one last matter he had to tend to.

"Hello, Crophopper," Ripslinger greeted with a low growl, which startled Dusty. The said orange plane turned towards him in surprise, his bloodshot eyes evident of hours of relentless crying.

"W-What do you want, now? You've won again, a-and pushed me out of the way, just like you wanted," Dusty stated angrily, but his voice was meek and hoarse.

Ripslinger chuckled while approaching Dusty, "I just wanna fill you in on a few things. After I won, most people were ecstatic for my inevitable fourth winning, but there were some who wondered what happened to you. I told them that you gave up, and do you know what happened next? They believed me."

The wheels in Dusty's head began to turn, as he slowly and begrudgingly realized what Ripslinger was implying. And when Dusty's eyes drifted down to the ground in realization, Ripslinger's mouth stretched into a confident grin.

"You putting two and two together? When I told them that you gave up, they weren't surprised at all. They never believed in you, and they never will. What're you gonna do when they find out what you did to the old man? Nothing. You're gonna lose your freedom just as easily as you lost the race, Crop Duster."

Ripslinger was right. Dusty didn't want to believe a word he was saying, but he was right. There was absolutely nothing he could do to prove that he was innocent, for he himself couldn't believe it. If anything, Ripslinger was merely putting him in his place.

"Don't feel too bad, though," Ripslinger broke the silence, as his propellers suddenly started spinning, "I'll make sure you turn out just like your teacher."

Without warning, Ripslinger stomped a wheel down on Dusty's left wing, rendering him immobile as his Sky Slycer began cutting through his wing. Dusty cried out in pain, as he wriggled beneath Ripslinger's vice grip. Try as he might, he couldn't escape as his wing was slowly but surely cut off.

When Ripslinger finished cutting the wing, the limb fell flat onto the ground with a clank. Dusty was frozen with pain and shock, as his breathing heaved and his eyes stared into nothingness.

"Try ta get some sleep. You'll need all the rest you can get before the police come get you in the morning," Ripslinger informed mockingly after backing off, and revved his engine to fly away.

Dusty was left alone once again, and he didn't even have the energy to turn and look back at Skipper. What difference would it make, though? Skipper was gone, and he would be blamed for his death. Perhaps this was the price that must be paid when those with small lives pursue big and uncomprehensible dreams.