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He had gray hair and kind eyes the first time he held her, and that’s how he will always look to her. The white coat came later. The hours bouncing on his knee while he would tinker or think or write in spirals that ran across the page. Later still: The little secret notes, decoded in the mirror like a pair of super-spies.
The lab was colorless and cold and sterile. The door closed behind you with a pneumatic wisssh-click and there was no way in, no way out. But Dr. Waddlemeyer’s office was different. The desk and walls were dark-stained wood; the chair where he spent hours working was an armchair, soft and deep.
There was always a jar of jellybeans. The blue ones were his favorite.
How long had things been like that?
Gosalyn should know. But just like her mother’s face, the memory is faded.
Dr. Waddlemeyer hums as he works, a song only the two of them know.
A lullaby. Maybe I could just rest—
There’s a knock at the door. She knows who it is before she hears the voice, and so does he.
He lifts her, gently, and sets her down on the floor.
“Thad,” says That Voice. “We need to talk.”
Granddad and granddaughter share a look. She is too young yet to know so much, but she can tell—just as he can—it’s been one of those days. Weeks, even, perhaps, when Dr. Bulba had not slept. There is a photo of them, all of them together, sitting on that old desk. It feels like another life to a child who’s had too many.
From a time when Thad thought Terry was just like him, and had only wanted to help.
“Stay right here, Gosalyn,” Dr. Waddlemeyer says, bracing her shoulders as he kneels to her level.
It will be okay is there behind the words. Behind every scraped knee and every tear she’s cried—
Bulba knocks again, louder. But Thaddeus Waddlemeyer is unafraid. His shoulders are straight and square, his round body wafting with the peculiar grace of old age, as if connected by an invisible string to a balloon that keeps him afloat. An optimist: That was one of the first words he taught her.
When you’re full of spirit, sometimes everyone else looks empty.
He’d said that of her, once, when she’d gotten in trouble—
Only now, looking at him, does she start to understand it.
Gosalyn hears the wood groan on the last knock, right before her grandpa opens the door.
“Coming, Taurus!”
It’s not Terry at a time like this. But it’s not Dr. Bulba, either—not even now. Her grandpa never lets Gosalyn see the other man at his worst. To the contrary: He slides out into the hall, knowing just how to do it without incurring Bulba’s ire. He’s still smiling a little when he reaches back to close the door behind him.
Wisssh-click.
It shouldn’t sound like that in here. What—?
Gosalyn races across the room, the floorboards thumping beneath her, but she knows before she grasps the handle that the door is stuck fast. In the hall, she can hear Bulba’s raised voice, frantic. Grandpa answers him just as loudly, and the sound reverberates with the first crack of thunder outside.
She’s never heard her Grandpa angry before—
She can feel the storm, but not see it. There are no windows. No escape—
The argument recedes down the hall, and Gosalyn’s heart tightens.
Scanning the room, her eyes stop on a hint of movement: The mirror in the corner, all but forgotten since Project Ramrod made their games together so rare. But now there’s someone else there, a half-formed shape in the shadows, more presence than person: A quiver hangs from her back, a crossbow at her side.
“If only I had been someone else,” Gosalyn whispers to her reflection.
Someone better.
Brave. Strong. A hero …
As she draws closer, she can see the Other Gosalyn more clearly—
A me who’s everything I should be. One who could’ve saved Grandpa.
Slowly, the Other Gosalyn lifts her head and the two lock eyes.
And behind that face, its familiar lines distorted by the dark, is a terrible glow: A thousand-thousand worlds, all different, all uncharted, so many that they could never be searched in a hundred lifetimes. More people in need than could ever be saved, even if it was all she ever did. Even if it was all anyone ever did.
The thunder rolls—
The void expands.
She feels herself fall.
***
Gosalyn woke up gasping.
Every inch of her wanted to scream. But you didn’t scream in a homeless shelter, not if you knew what was good for you. There wasn’t enough space, and too many people who were going through even worse things than you were. Her breath burned as she held it back, imagined thunder still rumbling in her ears.
As the thudding of her heart began to calm, she stretched out—
And realized there was more bed than she was used to.
She was in her bedroom.
In her own bed, in her new home in a tidy little suburb of St. Canard. The paper birds she’d folded and tied to the ceiling fan were dancing lazily over her head. As she rolled onto her elbow, there stood Drake’s contribution: A life-sized cardboard standee of Darkwing Duck. If she squinted, it almost looked like him.
She flopped over to peer at the alarm clock, but the thunder was real, and it was flashing 12:00.
Gosalyn drew herself up, changed into day clothes while padding to the bathroom. Splashed water on her face, half-afraid to look up at herself. But when she did, her reflection was no being of looming darkness and cold precision. It was Gosalyn Waddlemeyer, and she looked tired.
Despite everything, it’s still you.
Something was rustling in the kitchen.
Gosalyn grabbed her bat and went to check it out.
Out in the living room, Launchpad was lounging on the couch, long arms thrown over both sides. Drake stood behind him, whisking eggs in a bowl while he stared, transfixed, at the black and white movie on TV. She could see his beak moving along with the words:
I am the terror that flaps in the night. I am the itch you cannot scratch. I am—
“—Oh, Gosalyn! I didn’t hear you get up. I hope we didn’t wake you!”
Gosalyn shouldered the bat—casually as one could—and smiled.
“I haven’t seen this one before. Is it new?”
Drake went from that frozen look—getting caught breaking some of those little unspoken social rules no one ever explained—to a grin, his eyes alight. “New? This is as vintage as it gets! It’s the 2007 Darkwing Duck reboot movie starring Owl Kilmer, complete with director commentary. This is one of the only surviving copies!”
“2007 wasn’t that long ago. If it’s that good, why are there so few copies?”
“Heh-heh, well, you see, Gos, CGI was pretty new back then and they might have gone a little overboard.”
“The beak-and-feather work alone cost the studio $17 million,” Launchpad piped up.
Drake peered down at the eggs, taking a little extra frustration out on them.
“It was so expensive to produce, the studio decided to save money on promotion by going straight to VHS.” Glancing up, he caught Gosalyn’s look. “They’re like square DVDs. Then, to make it into a real collector’s item, they dumped most of the copies out in the middle of the Duckyzona desert.” There was a pause and the ting-ting-ting of Drake serving up the eggs. “It wasn’t easy to find, let me tell you.”
Realization slowly dawned on Gosalyn.
“You stole a copy out of a hole in the desert?” She did some quick math. ”As a college student?”
“Heroes aren’t born, Gos, they’re made,” said Drake, a little bit primly. “It was a different time.”
“It was a lot more like a vault than a hole,” Launchpad volunteered.
“You went there, too?” Drake asked.
“Sure!” said Launchpad. “What better way to spend Spring Break?”
There was a faraway look in Drake’s eye as he passed a plate over to Gosalyn. She dropped into the chair across from Launchpad, claiming her own space. Drake’s breakfasts were some of the best she’d ever had, but he was usually in bed by the time she got up. She wouldn’t pass up a chance to enjoy his cooking fresh.
Scrambled eggs, toast, Canadian bacon. Was Drake Canadian? She’d have to ask someday—
She didn’t notice the smile between Drake and Launchpad, or the way Drake waited to see that everything was okay before he started on his own meal. She couldn’t have imagined what he was thinking: She still eats so fast, like someone is going to take it all away any minute.
“Fresh OJ is in the kitchen,” he said—
“I’ll get it,” both men said at once; but they weren’t even moving before Gosalyn slid past, her plate already empty. She knew full well that it was okay to go for seconds, that Drake always made enough for a small army when Launchpad was around, that there’d probably be steaming hot hash browns—
It wasn’t until she got to the kitchen that she slowed down.
A half-dozen different maps of St. Canard were splayed out on the dining room table. Not that they ever used it: Eating around the TV together always seemed more natural. But it was obvious that serious work was being done here. Multicolored pushpins sprouted from the map, surrounded by reams of notes.
“What’s all this?”
Drake was a few steps behind her.
“I’ve been trying to figure out where those supervillains will strike next. Liquidator flushed himself out of jail within a week! And then Bushroot was declared a protected nature preserve. It’s a matter of time before one of them hatches a nefarious scheme! Who knows what dastardly deeds are even now percolating through the fine mesh of the urban coffee filter that is St. Canard?”
Drake let out a sigh, stretching back as Launchpad rested reassuring hands on his shoulders.
“The only problem,” Launchpad supplied, “is there’s no sign of them anywhere.”
“That’s … not really a problem,” Gosalyn said, quirking an eyebrow.
“I suppose not,” Drake grunted. He took the chance to head over to the juicer, pausing to yawn.
“You really didn’t get much sleep, did you?” Gosalyn asked.
Drake was pouring … and pouring … and pouring the juice. Launchpad bustled behind him, grabbing a mop to sop up the ever-expanding puddle. “Huh?” Drake’s eyes snapped open. “I could ask you the same, Gos.”
Now it was Gosalyn’s turn to grunt as she looked over the maps.
“Was it those nightmares again?” Drake asked gently.
Gosalyn gave him a wordless smile, holding it a second before looking back to the pile of “research.” There, half-buried, she noticed a flier and plucked it free. Leafing through it, she asked: “Drake, did you read this?”
“Huh? Oh, that — that’s just a flier for Calisota Con. It’s a comics convention, but, uhhh …” He glanced to Launchpad. “I guess we’re not going to make it this year, what with the actual superhero thing going on.”
“No,” Gosalyn said seriously. “You’ve got to go.”
“I mean, I’d really like to, but …”
“You don’t get it,” she said, sitting across the table from him. “The reason you can’t figure out where those guys will show up next? It’s because it won’t be anywhere in St. Canard.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
“They all want to get Darkwing, right?” Drake nodded. “So why not go to the one place Darkwing Duck is sure to show up? A convention with all his fans in one place? Plus, it says Mayor Owlson will be there. So, they attack, lock the place down, and wait—”
“—and little do they realize I’ll already be there to stop them! Gos, you’re a genius!”
“I do have my moments,” said Gosalyn. “It’ll be like a secret mission!”
“A secret mission,” Drake repeated, as if his brain had just gone to some hyper-real Darkwing Duck squared universe, one as satisfying as a classic reboot that actually worked. “Calisota Con starts in Duckurg tomorrow ay-em. There’s just enough time to get some rest and for you to come up with a costume.”
“I’ve already got one in mind,” Gosalyn said.
And she looked over Drake’s shoulder to where Launchpad was mopping and winked.
Gosalyn thought that wink meant: There, now we can get Drake to relax a little bit for a few days, have fun with other nerds and come back refreshed and ready to do his thing when there’s a real threat to St. Canard.
But Launchpad—
Launchpad thought the wink meant: This is a very important secret mission and we should recruit the most clever and resourceful super-secret secret agents we know to help make sure it goes off without a hitch.
And he knew exactly what to do.
***
“Okay, emergency meeting,” Dewey’s voice crackled. “We need to figure out who killed Huey.”
“It wasn’t me!” Webby chirped. “I’ve been trying to restart the generator this whole time.”
“Is that true?” Dewey demanded.
“Pink’s been with me,” Lena confirmed.
“What about you, Bluey?” Louie asked. “I haven’t seen you in like, half an hour. Pretty sus.”
“Well, that’s because—” There was a long, staticky pause. “Wait. Louie, where are you?”
“I … I got lost, okay?”
“CAPTAIN LOST! CAPTAIN LOST!”
“Hey!” went Louie. “No chanting for you, you’re dead.”
“Oh, right,” said Huey. “Sorry.”
“Can we please get on with it?” Lena asked. “I hate having to be the Impostor.”
“Wait, you’re the Impostor?” asked Dewey.
“That sounds like something someone trying to protect the Impostor would say,” Louie accused.
“She really is the Impostor, but I think she can be reformed!” Webby replied.
“Webby, you’re not supposed to tell us that,” said Dewey. “Unless—”
“Y’know, I’m pretty tired of this game,” said Louie. “Everyone vote for Dewey!”
“Noooooooo!”
“But you’ve always wanted people to vote for you!”
From her bed, Webby gave Lena a wink. Pink was the Impostor, of course—Lena really didn’t like playing that role, and they would trade laptops whenever it happened. The idea of a gaming party had been Louie’s, eager as he was for a day without adventure. The walkie-talkies had been a last-minute addition to make the experience more authentic, even though it was morning and the “spaceship” was McDuck Manor.
“Ooooohh, I guess it wasn’t Dewey,” Louie said, voice dripping with faux-apologetic mockery. “My bad.”
“Okay, come on, guys, no talking until the next emergency meeting,” said Huey.
Webby wasn’t expecting it when Dewey knocked on the door.
“You can’t use doors, you’re dead,” Lena said in sing-song.
Leaving her laptop on the bed, Webby opened the door.
“Hey,” said Dewey. “This is kind of weird, but I’ve got a phone call for you.”
Webby took his phone, turning it in her hands once or twice before checking the screen.
“It’s Launchpad. Hi, Launchpad!”
“Webby!” said Launchpad. “Thank goodness. I’ve got to tell you about a very important secret mission!”
“That sounds like an adventure, and we are not doing adventures today,” said Louie from the walkie-talkie.
“Hang on, Launchpad,” Webby said, looking to Lena. Getting the point, the teen switched off her walkie-talkie and reached over to the do the same for Webby’s—she couldn’t help rolling her eyes while she did it. “Okay, go ahead. This sounds like it could be big!”
***
That’s how Webby, Lena, and Violet ended up standing outside the Quackmore Convention Center in downtown Duckburg with Launchpad in the lead—huge, yet gentle, carving a path through the crowds wherever he went like a very polite bowling ball. And clearly looking for someone.
“I can’t believe it!” said Webby. “My first con!”
“Webby, you didn’t even know this was a thing a few hours ago,” Lena pointed out.
“I know!” said Webby, her eyes sparkling. “Isn’t that cool?”
Lena hid her own grin by looking back over her shoulder.
“You doing okay over there, Vi?”
“The crowds are a bit … intense. But this seems like an interesting social experiment.”
“Just let me know if you need a break,” Lena said easily.
“Don’t forget, we’re here for the educational opportunity,” said Violet.
“Yeah, yeah. If Big Guy sees the mayor, he’ll shout. Right, Big Guy?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, of course,” said Launchpad, scanning the crowd.
In truth, what Launchpad had told Webby hadn’t made that much sense, and Webby’s attempt to relay it all back to Lena and Violet right afterwards made even less sense. But Lena saw her chance and went for it, looking up the Calisota Con website. Mayor Owlson of St. Canard is gonna be there, she pointed out. It’ll be kind of like Take Your Daughter to Work Day. Beakley would like that, right?
There was no way her Granny would let Launchpad fly her over the Bay alone.
But right downtown? A few blocks away?
“What’s the harm?” Webby had said.
With only hours to prepare, the three of them had gone separate ways. Webby agonized over whether she could get her Scottish accent right in time for her first-choice costume, then had a burst of inspiration and spent the rest of the time making a Della Duck get-up complete with a hat borrowed from her own closet.
Violet spent the time completing the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator to present to Mayor Owlson with her application for an internship—the latter already completed weeks ago in case an opportunity like this ever came up. The test told her she was an INTJ, the same as it always did.
And Lena …
“I can’t believe you pulled together an outfit so incredible that fast,” Webby breathed.
Lena smiled.
“What can I say? I’m magic.”
Lena, of course, was the Sorcerer Supreme of Earth.
“There she is! Okay, everyone act natural.” Launchpad was an aviator. And at that very moment he was cutting across the crowd of early-morning con-goers with all the enthusiasm of a puppy who had just seen its favorite person and was about to bring them the most amazing ball. “Gos! I brought help!”
As it turned out, the reason he hadn’t spotted Gosalyn sooner was because she was far overhead, perched with her legs dangling at the top of a huge display of Funko Pop Duckburg Billionaire figures. When she heard his voice, she slid down the rope that was holding it all together, landing in front of the group.
Webby’s mind sprung into action—
Crossbow? Check.
Quiver? Check.
Plumed cap? Check.
Threat Level: High
Analysis: Second Best Friend Potential?
“Launchpad,” Gosalyn said evenly. “Who are all these people?”
“You’re on a secret mission!” Launchpad said. “This is the best secret team in Duckburg!”
“What? We don’t ne—”
Lena saw what was going to happen and reached for Webby’s hand. Alas, a second too late.
“Hi I’m Webby do you like crossbows? I like crossbows too did you know there are Venetian crossbows from the 1300s that can launch a bolt all the way through a stone wall up to a foot thick it really depends on how long and heavy the bolts are the big ones are clad in lead are any of yours clad in lead we should be friends!”
“I …” Gosalyn’s mouth twisted wordlessly for a second. “I’m Quiverwing Quack, and I work alone.”
“Aww!”
“Except for you, Launchpad,” she corrected.
“And Darkwing Duck!” he supplied helpfully.
“Yes, there are many Darkwing Ducks here, as you can see.” She sidled up to him, lowering her voice. “He’s around, under cover. Feathers, Launchpad! If something happens, these three could get hurt. Besides,” she added, eyes ticking to the side as she thought. “I would’ve expected you to bring along that Dewbert kid.”
“Dewey? Aww, no way! Everybody knows Dewey! He’d stick out like a sore thumb to those supervillains!”
“There are SUPERVILLAINS?” Webby shrieked.
“Shhhhh!” Gosalyn sighed. “Okay …” Walking around Launchpad, she addressed the girls. “Look, there’s been some kind of weird mix-up here, but just in case there were actual supervillains hiding out at this con, do you three have any experience with that kind of thing? Like, at all.”
Lena looked to Webby to answer—
She was vibrating with excitement.
So the teen spoke up instead:
“Well, Webby is a freakishly strong wildcard, I’m sort of a wizard, and my sister Vi is the Senior Woodchuck.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Violet while swiping through her phone.
“Small talk game on point, Vi,” said Lena.
Gosalyn turned to Webby, the only one who hadn’t spoken.
“Um. Is all that true?”
“YES-ohh-my-gosh yes would you like to spar we can fight and I’ll prove it it’ll be so much fun!”
“Um. No, thanks. But I get it … you all sound pretty cool, so you can help.”
She turned her back, thinking about what to do next.
“And … thanks, Launchpad.”
Launchpad grinned. He had done good.
***
Gosalyn had laid out the story to them like this:
There are supervillains, but only four, brought to the real St. Canard from the Darkwing Duck TV show universe in a freak accident. They are dangerous, but not very perceptive—they only seem interested in Darkwing, and they probably can’t tell the real Darkwing from anyone who looks sort of like him.
Gosalyn passed out glossy photos of the Fearsome Four, all signed by their original actors.
“Any of them could be here, planning an attack on the con. So, we need to stay sharp—”
“OH MY GOSH! LOOK!” shouted Webby.
“What?” Gosalyn raised her crossbow, gaze snapping to Webby’s pointing finger—
“That little kid is dressed like a JUICE BOX! He looks adorable! Hey, Juice Box Kid! I like your costume!”
Juice Box Kid was holding hands with an older gentleman. He waved happily back to Webby.
“He waved at me!”
“Focus, Webbigail,” went Violet. “Gosalyn, dozens of people at this convention are sure to be dressed like these supervillains. What’s the plan for locating the real ones before they have the chance to start trouble?”
“First, we need to find the mayor. They’ll try to capture her first to get leverage over Darkwing.”
“Is that really how supervillains work?” Webby asked.
Violet and Webby both looked to Lena.
“What are you looking at me for—?” She paused, realization hitting her. “Yeah, it’s what Aunt Magica would do, awright. But I don’t think that makes me any kind of expert on supervillains. I don’t even read comics.”
“Who needs to read them when you can live them?” Webby asked.
***
The girls gravitated toward the biggest crowd, a line of people wrapping around the corner.
“Excuse me!” Webby tugged on the cape of a vampire-duck ahead of her. “Mr. Duckula?”
“H-h-h-hey! COUNT Duckula!”
“Mr. Count Duckula, is this the line to see Mayor Owlson?”
“No, this is the line to meet Deedee Magpie-Hall. I think that’s the mayor over there.”
Webby’s eyes focused on a distant table with a bored-looking woman and a few people milling around it.
“Oh! Thank you!”
“Okay, team, form a perimeter,” said Gosalyn, gesturing for them all to approach the table from different angles. Webby broke ahead of the others, carefully zig-zagging through the throng, keeping the mayor in her sight as much as she could. A tall, gangly man was leaning on the table, facing Owlson.
Prongs—
Giant battery pack—
“MEGAVOLT!” Webby shrieked, bowling the intruder over with a flying tackle. He barely had time to yelp in surprise before he was carried to the ground, the duckling hog-tying him with a length of extension cord pulled from his tool-belt. Owlson looked on in surprise as the deed was done, a matter of seconds.
“Your scheme is at an end, bad guy!” Webby shouted.
The other girls were gathering around them, and Webby looked up to find Mayor Owlson extending a hand to help her up. “That was quite the impressive maneuver, young lady, but … all he did was ask me out to dinner.” She paused, considering that fact. “Still, good job.”
“You mean he’s not a real supervillain?” Webby asked.
Gosalyn bent down for a closer look before unknotting the cables.
“No,” she declared. “He has a really good costume, though.”
She gave the dizzy co-goer a reassuring pat on the arm.
“Thanks, I think,” he wheezed. “Uuuuuuuuugh.”
The four watched him go before turning to Owlson.
“Madam Mayor, have you seen anything suspicious today?” Gosalyn asked.
“Suspicious? No,” Owlson answered, tapping her beak thoughtfully. “I’ve barely seen anyone all day. Practically the only people to visit this table mistook me for Deedee Magpie-Hall.” She sighed. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to connect with today’s youth if none of them are interested in important issues.”
“Madam Mayor, you really should get somewhere safer. There might be real supervillains at this con.”
Owlson let out a bark of laughter, then quickly composed herself. “Oh. Oh, you’re serious. Well, I guess I could go sit upstairs in the security booth. It probably smells a lot nicer up there than it does down here.”
“Someone should go with her,” said Gosalyn.
“I volunteer,” said Lena. “Vi, you should come … too.”
Violet already had her briefcase full of internship materials in her hand.
“You look like the sensible one,” Owlson told her. “What are the odds there are real supervillains here?”
“There’s no way to know for sure, but I estimate them at about 4,785 to one.”
“That’s impressive,” said Owlson.
“I endeavor to be precise.”
Gosalyn was already moving, and Webby ran to catch up.
***
For the next hour, Webby peppered her with questions while Gosalyn barely said anything.
They checked everywhere: The karaoke room, the Q&A panel where some teens were teaching Deedee Magpie-Hall what the word “YEET” means, even the ball pit. There were no more incidents—and though there were plenty of would-be Darkwing Ducks, Gosalyn didn’t catch sight of the one she was looking for.
Which made it hurt more when Webby asked her: “Is Darkwing your dad?”
Gosalyn stopped short, turning on heel to face her. “What?”
Webby felt the heat and eased back, raising her hands in a placating gesture.
“I heard Launchpad say he’s here,” Webby explained. “He’s not as good at whispering as he thinks.”
“It’s none of your—” Gosalyn stopped herself. “He’s not my dad. He’s just … a friend. Dad’s gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
Gosalyn turned her back again, looking over her shoulder at the girl—
Webby’s hands were folded in front of her. She looked small.
“It’s not important,” said Gosalyn.
“It is, though. It must be tough sometimes being friends with a superhero.”
Gosalyn found her way to a bench and sat wearily.
“What do you know about it?”
Webby scratched the back of her head, unsure.
“Well, practically my whole family is adventurers. There’s Uncle Scrooge, and, well …” She plucked at the brim of her hat. “This costume? Della Duck, one of the greatest adventurers of all time. And we all love to go exploring and take risks and everything, but sometimes … sometimes you just want everyone back safe.”
Gosalyn blinked heavily, but her tone stayed steady:
“He’s not my dad. I’m not adopted or anything. But …”
“But …?”
“Maybe when he and Launchpad figure themselves out …”
“Launchpad?” Webby interjected, then grinned radiantly.
“Yeah,” Gosalyn huffed. “They really care about each other.” She paused. “And about me.”
“It’s okay, you know.”
“What is?”
“To love them. It doesn’t mean you love the family who raised you any less. I lost my mom and dad, too.”
“You’re weird, you know that?” Gosalyn said with a little laugh, blinking tears from her eyes.
“I know,” Webby said matter-of-factly. “But you’re not alone. At least, you don’t have to be.”
Webby patted Gosalyn on the hand. After a moment, Gosalyn took her hand and gave it a little squeeze.
“You know,” Gosalyn started, “I didn’t really think there would be bad guys here, not at first. But when Launchpad brought you three, it made me worry. What if they really were here? What if more people got hurt? I hope DW is having a good time. I just wanted to get him here so he could have some fun.”
There was a pause.
“I bet he’d be having even more fun if you were with him,” Webby said.
Gosalyn stared off into the distance a long while before smiling.
“Yeah. I guess you’re right. I am pretty fun.”
She stood up, wiping her eyes.
“I’m gonna go find him.”
***
Gosalyn didn’t have to go far to spot Drake.
At first, she had expected to find him mingling among the flocks of Darkwing Ducks. But he had said he’d be under cover, and—she really should have known, shouldn’t she?—that meant as B-list actor Drake Mallard.
He’d worn a new, pressed shirt. He had pens for signing autographs.
So why did he look so miserable?
He was sitting on a bench, folded forward, with Launchpad next to him. But they weren’t even talking: She recognized the way Launchpad would stand guard over him when he was tired or overwhelmed or just not feeling like himself. Watching from afar, she put two and two together.
No villains and no fans either.
Drake didn’t see Gosalyn break away and double back around the convention floor.
He didn’t see Gosalyn talking or pointing his way—
He didn’t see a small child’s face light up with joy.
He only looked up when a dapper older fellow stepped over, casting a shadow.
“Excuse me, young man.”
“Mmh?” asked Drake, glancing up.
“My grandson says you’re famous,” said the man, hooking a thumb to where said grandson stood nervously a few paces back, the straw of his juice box costume bobbing, wordless excitement in his eyes. “Would you mind terribly signing an autograph?”
“Oh, certainly! Anything for a fan.”
The man handed him a copy of the con program and Drake signed it on the back with a flourish.
After the man thanked him and left, Launchpad put a companionable arm around Drake’s shoulders.
“See, DW? I told you that it would all work out.”
“Maybe so, b—”
“Ah, young man?”
Drake glanced over. The old fellow was back.
“Yes?”
“Sorry, but. He says you did it wrong. He says your name is Darkwing Duck.”
“What? Ah—”
Drake glanced around, as if checking to see if anyone else had heard, then stood up. He shared a look with the old man, wordlessly asking permission, then knelt down to address the boy. “Ah, Juice Box Kid,” he said in his very best Darkwing voice, leaning conspiratorially close. “I’ve been expecting you.”
The child let out a squeak of pure delight, and Drake understood perfectly.
“You see,” Drake explained quietly, “I have to sign my name Drake Mallard because anyone here could be working for Megavolt. Anyone, that is, except you and your grandpa.” And with that, he handed back the program. “You keep this secret between us, okay? The safety of St. Canard depends on it!”
Juice Box Kid nod-nodded his understanding, his gap-toothed smile as pure and clear as a spring morning.
Drake waved goodbye to the kid, and he and Launchpad watched the two go—
That was when he saw Gosalyn walking up.
***
“Hey, Drake. I guess the con is safe, huh?”
“It seems so. Did you see anythi—Gosalyn, have you been crying?”
“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” said Gosalyn. “Look, Drake—I—I don’t think anything’s going to happen here.” Drake looked lost, but Gosalyn plowed on. “You’ve been working really hard, and I just wanted you to have the chance to relax, and I thought maybe we could hang out, but of course super-crime would be way more important than that, and I should’ve known, and — well, I’m sorry.”
Drake glanced to Launchpad, then swept over to scoop Gosalyn into a hug.
“Oh, Gosalyn … you don’t ever need a special reason to spend time with me. And I really like your new get-up, but you don’t have to be a crusading crime-fighter, either. You don’t have to be anyone else but you. I love you just the way you are. Okay?”
“Okay,” Gosalyn sniffled.
“Uhhh … I have a confession, too,” said Launchpad, raising his hand. He looked away shyly. “I really wanted Gos to meet some other cool girls. Not that they WOULDN’T be good for fighting supervillains, or aliens, or even mole monsters.” He finally looked up to Gosalyn. “But I just thought you might be lonely.”
“I … I guess so,” said Gosalyn. “Thank you, Launchpad.”
“Don’t mention it!” said the pilot.
“And you …” Gosalyn hadn’t really let Drake out of the hug, but now she shifted to look up into his eyes. “You don’t have to be Darkwing all the time, you know. Sometimes you can just be Dadwing if you want.”
Drake’s expression froze into a half-grin as he processed the words, then he hugged Gosalyn tight. A heartbeat later, Launchpad joined them, wrapping them both up in his big arms.
“Okay, everyone,” Drake declared, voice a little shaky but still full of resolve. “No more secrets. From now on, everybody is honest with each other, okay? That’s what being a family is all about.”
“Deal,” said Gosalyn.
“You got it!” said Launchpad.
Drake was about to go on when one of the big monitors overhead suddenly flashed to life.
“Hi, everyone! Uhm. Can you hear me? Mayor Owlson here. My new interns taught me all about this streaming thing and I think I’m ready to give it a try right now. Violet, why does it say IMPOSTOR at the top of my screen? Oh, am I not supposed to tell them that—alright, everyone, we’ll Bee Are Bee!”
“At least she’s trying,” said Gosalyn.
“So, uhh … what should we do for the rest of the day?” asked Launchpad.
“Well, I brought this.” Gosalyn fished a DVD out of her quiver: Owl Kilmer DW Movie was written on the front in Sharpie. “I know how you feel about film piracy, but these are really important to you and I don’t want you to lose them, so I backed up your whole collection.”
“Gosalyn, that’s—” The hint of chiding tone vanished as realization hit Drake. “Very thoughtful of you.”
“Owlson probably won’t last very long on her game, so why don’t we go up there and see if she’d be willing to help us share some classic cinema with the rest of the con? And while we’re there, you can meet all the great new friends that Launchpad introduced me to.”
“I’d be delighted to,” said Drake.
And off they went—to the rest of the con and the rest of their lives together.