Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Billy Bluebottle hadn’t returned his overdue library book. 

In his free time, Drake had methodically gone through the library’s records, double checked the card catalogue, and cross referenced the inventory. (He was nothing if not meticulous. Some might say “obsessive” but some would be wrong. “Detail-oriented” was the phrase he used on his resume. … Or would. If he had a resume.) And there was no doubt about it. Billy Bluebottle, valedictorian for their Class of ‘77, had not returned Moby Dick after submitting his English essay. 

The streetlights of suburbia flickered on, banishing the darkness that had been slinking in, as Drake watched Billy hug an elderly couple. Presumably his grandparents; there was a faint familiarity in the rounded shoulders between Billy and the old fowl. 

Drake clutched the straps of his backpack as he stared through his front window. ‘Where’s the book now, Billy?’ he wondered. ‘Forgotten in some bottomless pile of dirty laundry in your bedroom? Lying askance on your desk, open to one section, damaging the spine of the book for future generations? Perhaps it’s even trapped in your locker (which was supposed to have been cleaned out this past Monday, but with your careless track record, Billy, I really don’t like your chances.).’ 

Not that Drake had any particular interest in Moby Dick. (And he did see the irony in his single-minded quest to find the book, thank you very much.) 

But rules were rules. And Billy Bluebottle, student body president, had not followed them. 

Mrs. Sage-Grouse, the school librarian, had merely shrugged when Drake had slapped his (somewhat cramped and rambling) notes on her desk, declaring without a shadow of a doubt that Billy Bluebottle, captain of the football team, had not returned Moby Dick on time. 

“It happens sometimes, ‘specially with the seniors.” She’d reached across the desk and patted Drake on the cheek. “Best leave it alone, doll.” 

That was exactly what Drake could not do. 

It started with library books. 

Then it became overdue bills. 

Then Billy Bluebottle, former golden child, would be taking out money from a loanshark. The debts and favors would pile up and up and up against him until it toppled and fell over, crushing his picturesque house with the white picket fence, suffocating the formerly happy family within. His widow would sob to the police officer who brought her the news of her husband’s (imminent) criminal death. “He was such a good kind man,” she’d say through tears, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief (all widows had to have a handkerchief; he was sure that was in the Constitution). “We had no idea he was in so much trouble.” 

And it all could be avoided if Billy Bluebottle had been held accountable for one overdue Moby Dick. 

Leave it alone? 

Ha! 

Darkwing Duck wouldn’t leave any crime alone, no matter how small! 

The bright ruby of Billy’s graduation gown — the very same that Drake had worn just that morning — flashed in the headlights of the Ford Thunderbird as it backed out into the street and drove away. 

‘Don’t you worry, Billy boy,’ Drake thought, eyes trained on his classmate as he walked back into his house, an exact mirror image of Drake’s own house across the street. ‘Darkwing Duck will help you see the error of your ways. He’ll set the record straight. He’ll save your life.’  

All that remained was for Darkwing Duck to show up. 

Drake verified his childhood street was thoroughly empty of all graduation well-wishers — and it was — before turning from the window and digging through his pockets for his house key. He didn’t look around the house as he walked to the front door, didn’t relive the memories that lingered like the funk of old laundry. If the door slammed a little too loudly when he yanked it closed behind him, it was only because he was trying to trap those memories inside. He didn’t have room to carry them. 

It all felt so familiar. Locking the door, stuffing the key back in his pocket, shuffling down the empty driveway. It was the all-important last time any of this would happen, but the path was so well trodden, the motions so familiar, that the significance of the last time was nearly lost. 

Drake didn’t need the streetlights to see by, he was able to navigate his way out of suburbia effortlessly. 

You have to live in suburbia to know its glossy veneer hides a fractured reality. No matter how cohesive everything looks, no matter how manicured the lawns, polished the cars, and freshly painted the cookie cutter houses, the people inside were breaking. Fracturing. Mourning the loss of dreams, or of themselves, everyone trapped inside realizing that life was not supposed to be this way. 

Drake swore that he would not fall into that trap; that he would never look around at his life and wonder how he had gotten here when he was supposed to have been there. He would pursue what he wanted, achieve his dreams and goals, or he would die trying. (While he may be a touch dramatic sometimes [only sometimes!], this was not one of those times. He was extremely serious when he said he would rather death than become one of those mindless adults who were just putting through life.) 

To see the quietly sinister suburbia disappearing over his shoulder made him feel lighter. 

The city of St. Canard was sprawled before him, its gridded streets and soaring skyscrapers overcrowded with possibilities. No matter what you wanted, or what time of day you wanted it, you could find it within a few square blocks. Day in and day out, there were hundreds of thousands of people milling around the streets, but there was an understanding that you minded your own business. Community without connection, which was what Drake lived for. 

Sucking in a deep breath, lungs filling with the nighttime cityscape, he grinned. Relaxed the grip on his backpack straps and swerved through the streets. Easily sidestepped groups swelling out of bars and clubs. Crossed busy streets. 

The sun had well and truly set at this point, but there was no sleeping here. St. Canard was lit up like a Christmas tree, neon signs declaring it all OPEN. O-P-E-N. OPEN OPEN OPEN. 

Someone clipped Drake on his shoulder, causing him to stumble. Nearly fall head-long into roaring traffic. Horns blared. A bike’s bell pealed loudly against the city’s din. 

But Drake managed to regain his footing and righted himself firmly on the sidewalk, blushing furiously as he waited for the walk signal. If anyone noticed his near death, they didn’t say anything. Community without connection. 

He kept his eyes locked on the orange hand telling him it wasn’t safe to cross. 

Of course Drake Mallard had almost died on his first night in the city. Drake Mallard was a nobody. Getting run into traffic would have been the highlight of Drake Mallard’s day. 

But Darkwing Duck. No one would have dared to bump into Darkwing Duck, even accidentally. 

He was so eager to leave Drake Mallard behind his feathers were bristling. An itch was starting on his back, in between his shoulder blades, which he ignored. It was psychosomatic. The itch went deeper. 

It wasn’t an itch as much as it was a dislike. A loathing. Of himself.  

Drake Mallard had achieved absolutely nothing. He didn’t belong to a sports team, an extracurricular club, or any after school activities. He’d gone to prom alone because he’d gone to every school function alone. He didn’t have a job because he didn’t have the resume to land a job, and no charity in the vicinity would even let him volunteer since he’d been run out of nearly all of them for his inability to focus.  

“You daydream too much, Drake,” they’d all said. 

Shows what they knew. 

The white walking figure disappeared and was replaced by the flashing orange hand, an indication to pedestrians to move it or lose it. 

When had the walk signal changed? 

He stumbled into the crosswalk, skirting across the street and over to the next block. 

If he’d been allowed to just wade his way through high school, unmemorable and unremarkable, that would have been fine. But his love of comic books, his squat build, and his beak that was clearly too big for his face, had earned him the nickname Drake the Dweeb from the lowliest freshman to the highest faculty member. The principal himself had almost used the nickname to the crowd earlier that very day at their graduation ceremony, the too-bright sun scorching the lawn of the football field and the hundreds of families sitting on uncomfortable folding chairs. 

“Drake the— Drake Mallard.” 

Drake hadn’t bothered to move the tassel out of his face as he shook hands with the principal and accepted his diploma. 

The thing is, you can’t fight the truth without looking like a fool or a sociopath. Drake was a dweeb. 

And he wanted to get rid of Drake Mallard. 

The closer he got to the Audubon Bay Bridge, the faster he walked. 

He darted across more streets, scrambled past shopfront after shopfront. Closer, closer, closer. The suspension bridge was what St. Canard was known for. The skyline wasn’t complete without those dark spindly towers and long parabolic cables. They were in every silhouette printed on t-shirts and carved on magnets.  

Reaching the bridge, Drake peered up at it. 

And started climbing. 

Up and up and up the hanger. 

Hiking.

Up and up and up the cabling. 

Until he reached the top. 

The small building situated there. 

These buildings were perched atop all the towers, windowed square turrets with long steel rooftops reaching for the sky, flashing beacons at their very apex warning aircraft from flying too low. 

They were more than aesthetic features of the bridge. 

They were functional buildings. 

(Well. “Functional” if you had a very very good imagination. Which he did.)  

Inside were two floors connected by a spiral staircase. All kinds of cylinders and pipes jutted up from the ground and electrical panels were mounted on the walls. It was clearly just a maintenance room, but it was a room.

Drake had climbed up to one after a particularly brutal argument with his father, needing to think and wanting the height to look out over the city from a distance while he replayed the argument over and over and over in his mind. Instead, he had found the perfect place for a hideout. It had taken him months to find all the furniture he needed, countless late nights to haul it all up in pieces and re-assemble it in the tower, but he’d managed to furnish the place. 

The second floor held a mattress with a mess of blankets and nothing else. 

The first floor had much more promise. There was a small functional bathroom (which was probably only installed due to city health and safety regulations for the unfortunate workman who was assigned to fix whatever was in this room). His kitchen (read: hot plate, dented microwave, paper plates, plastic utensils, and a repurposed stained sink) was perched on top of a long low cylinder jutting up from the tiled floor. One corner of the tower was lined with small lopsided bookshelves he’d cobbled together from wood shop scraps. His entire comic book collection was carefully ordered within them and a few criminal justice textbooks from his father’s college days. He’d placed his folding lawn chair and overturned milk crate in that space, both lined with mismatched lumpy cushions. A wardrobe — an actual full-sized wardrobe that could very well house a lion and even possibly a witch — was tucked opposite the library and was the piece he was most proud of. 

He’d gone to garage sales, yard sales, estate sales, and even sifted through the dump a few times to acquire his little conglomeration of furniture. There wasn’t much by way of feng shui, but everything was his. 

Drake tossed his backpack onto the mattress as he walked by and slid down the banister of his spiral staircase. He ran to the wardrobe, stripping out of his clothes as he went. Tugging the wardrobe open, something swooped in his stomach as he caught sight of the outfit hanging there. His fingers shook, but he managed to pull on the turquoise turtleneck. The purple suit jacket with double-breasted brass buttons. The purple cape that he’d carefully sewn onto the shoulders, the fabric cascading down his back. 

A small scrap of purple fabric was curled carefully in one of the drawers and he pulled it out, securing the mask around his face. 

Instantly, he breathed easier. 

Drake Mallard was gone. 

Darkwing Duck, St. Canard’s new hero, stood in his place. 

Darkwing Duck was intimidatingly intelligent, surprisingly strong, heroically honorable, and utterly unforgettable. 

(For all those math nerds out there: Darkwing Duck > Drake Mallard.) 

He grabbed ahold of the final piece of his costume, a large fedora the same purple hue of his coat and cape. Darkwing spun on his heel. 

He would have strode across his Tower to gaze out over his city, but a trail of discarded clothes stopped him in his wake. 

Oh, Drake Mallard, what was Darkwing Duck going to do with you? 

Darkwing lost no time in scooping up all the discarded fabric. There was an unexpected weight to one of the pieces and he scavenged through the folds until he had unearthed his house key. Stuffing the clothes into the very back of a drawer in the wardrobe for the lion or witch to find, he shut it with a satisfying snap and stood. 

Darkwing closed the wardrobe doors, key clutched in one hand and fedora in the other. He flew up the staircase. Large open air windows were carved in the steel walls and he made his way over to one, climbing out of it and onto the ledge that edged around the Tower. 

Carefully making his way to the side of the Tower that overlooked the sparkling waters of Audubon Bay, Darkwing drew his arm back and chucked the key as far as he could throw. (Which wasn’t very far; Drake Mallard hadn’t been on any sports teams, after all.) 

The lights of the city and the full moon in the sky caught on the metal key and it glimmered and flashed as it descended down down down into dark murky waters. 

Never to be seen again. 

The unease and writhing in his stomach settled and slumbered. 

Stuffing the fedora onto his head, Darkwing Duck climbed to the topmost point of his Tower and surveyed his city. 

It was his job to protect everyone in it. 

A big job. 

Impossible, one might say. 

But he was going to do it. 

And he was going to be great. More than great, he would be a legend. Well-known and beloved by all who knew him. 

Darkwing Duck, St. Canard’s hero. 

He liked the sound of that. 

Chapter Text

He’d tracked Billy Bluebottle to one of those big business skyscrapers in the middle of town, all impenetrable steel and tiny windows and revolving glass doors that people get stuck in if they don’t move fast enough. 

(Not that Darkwing had experience with that. Drake the Dweeb, however…

“God, Drake, we can’t take you anywhere,” his father had said, half-teasing, half-serious as he physically stopped the rotating door so he could fish out his only child. Stellar’s pride and joy, apple of his eye, etc.. [Sarcasm.]) 

It was dusk. Darkwing had been crouching in the lengthening shadows of the parking garage next to Billy’s brand new Coup DeVille, it’s veneer positively shining even in the night. 

What Darkwing wouldn’t give to have a set of his own wheels. Nothing ostentatious as a Coup, you understand, but something. Getting around the city on foot was not only physically and mentally draining, but it was playing absolute hell on his heroic image. What would the criminals of St. Canard think when they encountered the greatest addition to the justice system walk up to a crime scene like some kind of schmuck? 

Of course, you needed money to get a vehicle. The whole “getting paid” thing was what Darkwing was firmly calling a “work in progress.”

(Really, he hadn’t thought that payment would be an issue. Obviously, once he was recognized as the daring do-gooder, the city officials would be tripping over themselves to hand him a decent living wage. Maybe even an organization like S.H.U.S.H. would contact him, the spy agency desperate to get someone like Darkwing Duck on their payroll. But S.H.U.S.H. was a pipe dream; one of those fantastical ideas that help lull you to sleep at night.) 

Billy had stayed at the office late. Probably scoping out the office supplies for a future raid. He’d squirrel them home and set them beside his prized copy of St. Canard High’s copy of Moby Dick. The nerve. The absolute gall of— 

Billy shuffled over to his car, digging through his pristine businessman trousers for the keys. Beams of amber cascaded down from the streetlights. 

When Billy reached the car, key in the door, Darkwing leapt out. 

“Billy Bluebottle,” he said, spreading out his cape. “Your criminal days are at an end!” 

Billy whirled around, eyes round in fear and his beak dropping open.“W-what? Who are you?” 

His heart thundered in his chest. This was it. “I am Darkwing Duck!” 

Billy had looked him up and down before saying, “Okay.” 

Aaaannnd there it went. 

Billy straightened up. “Well, have a good one, Darkwing.” 

And he opened the car door, tossing his leather briefcase onto the passenger seat. 

‘Ah,’ Darkwing realized. ‘Playing it cool.’ 

Darkwing kicked the car door shut and Billy sighed, bringing up a hand to rub his face. 

“Look, man,” Billy said, looking at Darkwing, “it’s been a really long day and I just want to go home.” 

“Nay, villain!” Darkwing said, crouching in anticipation for the impending brawl. Billy was clearly biding his time, hoping to get the drop on Darkwing. 

Ha! 

Double ha! 

“Is this… some kind of performance art?” Billy asked. 

How could this be going so poorly? How could Billy not remember him? Darkwing Duck had saved the senior prom! That electrifying villain Megavolt had nearly ruined the whole evening, but Darkwing Duck has swooped in and saved everyone. 

Perhaps Billy didn’t recognize him. He was wearing a different hat now, after all. 

Maybe it was the hat. Should he change back to the original hat? 

No, fedoras were way cooler than historically accurate headgear. 

So what was it? Why wasn’t this working? 

“The only performance here,” Darkwing said, still staying low to the ground, still on the watch for Billy’s inevitable attack, “is yours! I admit, your brave face is the bravest I’ve come across, but I can see the terror in your eyes!” 

Billy blinked.

Okay, okay, that had come out wrong. 

Clever banter really was an art that Darkwing was still mastering. (Drake had been absolutely useless at art, just like he’d been absolutely useless at everything else.)

“Well, the show’s over, Billy!” Wow, his legs were really starting to burn from crouching for so long. If Billy would just attack him so he could spring back up, that would be great. “I know all about Moby Dick!” 

Billy blinked at him again. “The book?” 

“No, the off-Broadway musical. Of course the book!” Giving up on Billy’s intent to attack, Darkwing stood up and almost sighed in the instant relief as he straightened his legs. “You borrowed said book from the St Canard High library for your final English project and have yet to return it.”  

There was a few moments of silence and then Billy started laughing. Not the maniacal cackle that Darkwing had been expecting from this criminal mastermind, but a normal-sounding laugh. One that Drake had heard reverberate down the halls of their school for the past four years. 

“Man, I knew Mrs. Sage-Grouse was protective of her books, but this seems a little extreme.” 

“Mrs. Sage-Grouse didn’t send me,” He brandished his cape, thrusting his chin up. “Darkwing Duck knows about all the crimes happening in St. Canard. I have been keeping an eye on you from the day the book became overdue.” 

“You realize how creepy that sounds, right?” Billy shook his head. “And how this is such a non-issue.” He opened his car door but Darkwing kicked it shut again. 

Billy groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Dude, I just wanna go home.” 

“Not until justice has been served!” 

“I don’t even know where the book is anymore.” He dug through his trousers, pulling out his wallet and flipping through the bills tucked away in it’s leather folds. “This should cover it, right?” Billy handed over a one dollar bill. “Library fines are, what? Ten cents a book or something?” 

“Ah, you know how much library fines are! Clearly not your first offense!” Darkwing’s mind was spinning. Villains didn’t confess to their crimes outside of an interrogation room. He’d had every intention of dragging Billy to the police station, of shaking the hand of Chief Vollture, and starting his official employment. Maybe getting the key to the city. 

Billy smiled, a smug curl of his beak as he thrust the dollar towards Darkwing. “Have her keep the change; my way of compensating for having to deal with you.” 

“Have at ye, villain!” Darkwing said, lunging forward, his fist cocked and ready to lay this trouble maker flat on his back. But Billy easily dodged Darkwing’s attack.

Right, he had been the captain of the football team. He had reflexes. 

Darkwing, unable to regain his footing, fell flat on his face. 

Billy scoffed and climbed into his car. The door closed like a shot in the night, jarring Darkwing’s already bruised ego. And probably his bruised beak. 

The engine roared to life as Darkwing sprang back up to his feet. The driver’s window rolled down to reveal Billy’s smug smile. “There’s real crimes happening out there every day,” he said. “But you came here for an overdue library book.” Shaking his head, Billy shifted into reverse and started to back up. “Grow up, man.” 

Darkwing made a lunge at the car, but with a squeal of tires, Billy Bluebottle zoomed out of the parking garage. 

Blast. 

Vanquished by not having his own mode of transportation. 

And maybe by his clumsiness. Who was to say? 

Darkwing tried to focus on his win — getting the money to cover the library fine — and not on the memory of his father’s disappointment that haunted him like a specter. 

“You gotta keep your your fists up, Drake! And don’t stop moving, you don’t want to be an easy target.” 

“You’re not teaching our son how to fight,” his mother had said, coming out of their house with a basket of laundry on her hip and an angry expression on her face. 

“Just how to defend himself,” Stellar had said, pushing Drake’s small fists up in front of his face. “Those comic books are going to be social suicide.” 

“Stellar Mallard!” 

“Oh, calm down, Ana. He’s not good at fighting, anyway. Don’t know why I bother.” 

Darkwing picked up the dollar bill, tire marks from Billy’s car now imprinted on the face of the country’s first President. Sorry, sir. Darkwing was a huge fan of your work. Don’t mind Billy and his disrespect. 

Don’t mind Billy. 

Since he was going to have to stop by the library anyway, he might as well look into boxing manuals. Or self defense books. He had always been more of a visual learner, and without Stellar’s voice in his ear, maybe he’d be able to absorb the information. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

“Not so fast, citizen!” Darkwing snagged their collar and yanked them back. 

The woman tumbled backwards, her arms pinwheeling as she collided with Darkwing. The self defense books had come in handy, though, and Darkwing was able to avoid getting hit in the face and to set her on her feet in the blink of an eye. 

The surprise on her face morphed into something like anger, but Darkwing clicked his tongue in disapproval, pointing towards the walk signal. “You do not have clearance to cross, madam,” he said. “Luckily Darkwing Duck was here to save you!” 

“There aren’t even any cars!” she said, eyebrows drawn low. 

This wasn’t right. She should be weeping at his feet, thanking him for risking his life to protect hers. Not look like she was about to deck him. 

Mentally running through the chapters on how to dodge an incoming attack, Darkwing gestured toward the empty street. “You don’t have the right of way!” 

Rolling her eyes, the woman spun on her heel and walked right into the street. Even though the signal was still the orange hand. 

Quashing his anger at her blatant disrespect, Darkwing was about to spring after her and risk his life again when she turned back around, a can of pepper spray in her hand. Changing direction (he wasn’t an idiot), Darkwing held up his hands in surrender and backed away. 

“If you want to be useful, then leave me alone.” She gave him one last glare before continuing on her way. And no, she didn’t get clobbered by an oncoming vehicle because she was right, the streets were deserted. But what if there was a high speed chase going on? What if the vehicle careened around the corner and hit her just when she was secure in her life and her choices and then she was bedridden and amassing huge debt to the hospital, all the while hoping some mythical hero had come out of nowhere and saved her? 

Well, nuts to her. Darkwing would go protect someone who deserved it. 

He turned and surveyed the street. 

Silent. 

And not one of those “it’s too quiet and is suspicious” situations. It was just late at night and this part of the city was closed for the day. 

Which Darkwing didn’t understand. 

Because St. Canard was rife with criminal activity. 

Rife. 

His father had often worked overtime for traffic violations, drug busts, robberies, domestic disturbances, and even a few hostage situations. The crime in this city was astronomical. 

So why was Darkwing Duck, St. Canard’s premiere superhero, unable to find any criminals to bust? 

Night after night, he prowled the streets (still frustratingly on foot). He even went down the alleyways that mothers told their children to avoid. 

And zilch, nada, nothing. 

If it hadn’t been for Billy Bluebottle, Darkwing’s crime fighting career would be one big bust. And that encounter was barely a success. Mrs. Sage-Grouse had been happy to get the money, but had been very confused why this strange duck in purple had delivered it on behalf of Billy. Darkwing had used her confusion to his advantage, telling Mrs. Sage-Grouse that she always had a protector in Darkwing Duck, St. Canard’s great hero. 

“Aren’t you that nice young man who fought that electricity rat man at prom last year?” she’d asked. Darkwing had preened. Mrs. Sage-Grouse had patted his cheek with her dry wrinkly hand, telling him, “Thanks for looking out for the little guy, Mr. Darkwing.” 

That bit of praise had given Darkwing the determination to protect all the small people. Except the lady he’d just saved from uncertain vehicular manslaughter had not been as grateful as Mrs. Sage-Grouse. 

No matter. 

Darkwing Duck was not in this business to be thanked by throngs of fans. 

Not that it would kill the citizens of this city to be a little grateful. 

What he needed was a big crime. Something that would get his name out there in all the papers. Show all these ingrates he was doing this for their own good! (And not as a selfish yearning for love and acceptance. Not at all.) 

Which brought him back to his dilemma of not being able to find much of anything worth his crime fighting time. J-walkers. People who didn’t return library books. Way below Darkwing’s pay grade. 

He knew there was a discrepancy between what Hollywood and TV shows said the police did and what the police actually did. The actual real life police had a lot more paperwork, for starters. And not every case ended in a shoot-out or a dramatic stand-off between good and evil. 

Darkwing knew this. 

But knowing something and believing it to be true are two different things. 

Because Darkwing had been secretly (not so secretly) hoping to have at least one shoot out. Or a stand-off. He wasn’t picky. 

He didn’t think that was too much to ask; he was the denizen of darkness after all. The purveyor of all that was good and righteous in this city. There were bound to be criminals that would not take well to his heroic role. Which meant there were going to be some run-ins that didn’t end well. Or got out of hand. 

The criminal element was so wildly unpredictable, their emotions so often getting the better of them. They weren’t called crimes of passion for nothing. 

The problem wasn’t that the criminals weren’t passionate, or that they wavered at encountering such a paragon of positivity that Darkwing projected, or even that the run-ins were mundane. 

It was that there weren’t any run-ins. At all. 

Darkwing had been patrolling the city streets ever since dedicating himself to protecting the city and so far? Nothing. 

If only there was a way for him to know about the big crimes as they happened… 

Stellar had a police scanner in his car. Drake had gone on some ride-alongs with his father, and there was constant chatter on those things. All sorts of crimes being reported and all in real time. Drake may have been useless at gym and art and… okay, pretty much everything, but something he did understand was tech. He had a decent grip on math and science, too. Maybe enough to rig something of his own. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

It took him four radios and twelve walkie talkies before he figured out how to rig his own police scanner. Too many trips to the store, cleverly dressed in a ball cap and trench coat to hide his identity. (No one had even batted an eye at his appearance, thus proving he was a master of disguise and could add that to his crimefighting repertoire.)

Luckily, Drake had had the foresight to save every penny of his allowance all his life, which gave Darkwing a decent sum to work with now in this non-payment period. (And some inheritance from his grandfather had helped considerably.) But money was quicker to leave than to come in, and he really needed to get some job lined up to keep bringing in that cash. 

Flipping on the police scanner, Darkwing led himself through his warm up routine (which may or may not include hitting an old sandbag he’d found on the side of the road and patched up with some duct tape, which didn’t help much with sand leaking out of it, but that’s what a broom was for) waiting to hear about the plethora of crimes he would be able to assist with. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

The next book that graced Darkwing’s library, that very night, was a manual translating St. Canard police code. 

Had he crawled back to his childhood home, slipped through the open window of his old bedroom, and rifled through Stellar’s old papers until he’d found it? He’d have to have been caught to confess to such a thing. And he hadn’t gotten caught. Even with Stellar home. At least the car was parked in the drive. He’d probably been sleeping off another hangover. 

More impressively, Darkwing hadn’t been seen by their nosey neighbor, Mr. Chat. Anyone who’d met Mr. Chat would understand how big a feat this was, and compliment Darkwing on his skills at stealth. (Had he imagined the biggest late-night talk show host interviewing him on this particular scenario? Only a dozen times as he made his way back to the Tower.) 

A few days of study on this police code and Darkwing was an expert, able to translate the complicated string of numbers into the crimes they represented. 

The city became much more exciting after that. Darkwing didn’t have to prowl the streets looking for crime anymore, didn’t have to anger deli owners who were convinced he was scaring away their customers (ahem… Frank), didn’t have to hope he would find something that would finally give him some experience as a crime fighter. 

He found the criminals now because the police scanner, that he kept strapped to his waist, told him where they’d be. 

But there was a new problem. 

Because his police scanner wasn’t just giving him the location of the evil lurking in the city. It was also giving the police this information. Flashing police lights became a common occurrence in Darkwing’s next weeks. If he had a dollar for every time he’d missed a criminal take down by a few minutes, he’d be as rich as Scrooge McDuck. 

The reason the police were so efficient, Darkwing realized, was because they had cars. Which Darkwing still did not have. A car would ruin his image. (And would drain his already dwindling savings, but that was less important.) 

Still. 

Having a set of wheels would have been nice. 

Darkwing had no compunction working with the police, they were just as interested in protecting the city as Darkwing was. But did they have to constantly steal his thunder? 

“Control all units, there is a 10-31 in progress. Suspects are at the Second National Bank. Any available units report.” 

A burglary.

And Darkwing was less than a block away. 

Digging through his coat for his smoke bombs, Darkwing changed course and sprinted towards the bank. He couldn’t get a good grip on his bombs, his fingers were shaking so badly. 

This was it. 

This was it. 

When he became a true crime fighter. 

No pressure. 

(But all the pressure.) 

Everything was at risk here. 

As he rounded the corner, he saw the suspects stumble down the steps of the bank and high tail it down the alley across the street. 

Little did they know that alley was a dead end. Darkwing knew. He knew this city like the back of his hand. 

His fumbling fingers finally gripped the gas canister and he pulled out the pin, chucking it down the alleyway as he raced after it. 

“Stop criminals!” he called, grabbing the edges of his cape and spreading it out menacingly. “I am Darkwing Duck and I am here to bring you to justice!” Darkwing posed dramatically as the blue smoke dissipated. 

The burglars were scaling the wall at the end of the alley, climbing over it. Which Darkwing hadn’t seen coming; the wall was easily ten feet high. But one sat astride the wall and was reaching down to help their partner. They glanced back to Darkwing, something like fear on their faces, but they only laughed at him when the smoke cleared, the partner pulling their compatriot up to the top of the wall. 

“Sorry to put a damper on your take-down,” said one of the burglars as the one sitting on the wall sniggered. “Better luck next time, dipstick!” 

“That’s Darkwing!” he called, running towards the wall. Could he scale this? Probably. He’d been working out. 

The burglars continued laughing as they jumped down to the other side. 

Darkwing leapt at the wall, scrabbling piteously at the crumbling brick. But he wasn’t able to find any footholds. Or handholds. He dropped back to the ground, stumbling and falling to his back, the police scanner digging into his abdomen. How had that burglar managed to get atop the wall? They must have some sort of specialized equipment. It was clearly insurmountable by anyone who was mortal and gear-less. (Read: him.) 

Glancing back down the alley, Darkwing caught sight of a fire escape. He got to his feet, wincing, and went towards it. Grabbed the ladder, yanked it down, and climbed it. He was huffing and puffing by the time he got to the top, eagerly scanning the city streets splayed out around the apartment complex for any sign of the criminals. 

He saw nothing. No moving shadows or even the faint pounding of feet. 

Leaning on the ledge of the roof, still trying to catch his breath, Darkwing set his beak on his crossed arms. 

His first run-in. 

Not exactly according to plan. 

At least his smoke entrance had frightened them. But his entry lines? Clearly just yelling at criminals to stop wasn’t effective. There had to be a better way to introduce himself that would also  strike terror into their souls. 

He also had to up his workout regimen, he realized as he coughed from the exertion. A hero wouldn’t be much use if the criminals could out-run him. 

Police sirens screamed through the streets as the red and blue lights reflected off the surrounding buildings. Not wanting to see if Stellar was amongst the officers called in, Darkwing dropped down to a sitting position, ear glued to the police scanner. 

But that would be the most exciting thing to happen that evening. 

And for the next few weeks. 

Chapter Text

Darkwing tossed a smoke bomb into the alley, calling, “I am the Terror that Flaps in the Night!” 

He was sure he misheard the exasperated groan coming from the soon-to-be-captured villain. It was more likely a gasp of horror, knowing they had finally been caught, and by St. Canard’s premier vigilante. 

If they knew who he was at all. No, he wasn’t going to think like that. He was getting more of a reputation amongt the low-lifes and criminal classes. Mostly as an eccentric with smoke bombs and a flare for the dramatic, but any reputation was better than being an unknown. 

“I am Darkwing Duck!” 

He walked through the last tendrils of smoke just as he finished his introduction. His timing was getting pretty good. (It was all in the waiting, making sure he didn’t deliver the punchline until most of the smoke had already cleared so that he could make his grand entrance at the best moment.) 

Congratulating himself on getting the ratio of the smoke in the canister right once again, Darkwing stepped into the alleyway and surveyed the scene. The mugger, standing near one of the buildings, was desperately studying the fire escape as if it were a viable exit route. It was the only option available, really, with the alley walled off at the end and the brick structures too high for anyone to scale. Without any dumpsters or other climbable apparatus, the villain was well and truly caught. 

He tried to keep his cool. 

Honestly, he wasn’t sure why all the villains ran down alleyways. Maybe it was because they were narrow so cars couldn’t follow them. Maybe it was because they wound through the city blocks, creating confusing shortcuts for those who don’t travel the streets regularly. Maybe it was part of some villain handbook, rule number seventeen: “When being pursued after a caper, thou shalt always run down the nearest alleyway.” Darkwing didn’t know the reason, and had no interest in knowing, because he wasn’t a villain. (Still, it made you think, didn’t it?) 

“Hand over the stolen goods,” Darkwing ordered, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands on his hips. Uncompromising. Unmovable. Like the heroes in his comic books. 

The mugger looked over to Darkwing with a withering look. “Fat chance,” she said. The stolen purse was slung over her shoulder and totally clashed with her outfit.  Even if Darkwing hadn’t seen the crime happen right before his eyes, he would have pegged this criminal for what she was for that reason alone. The bright red sequined bag would never have gone with the ripped flannel shirt hanging loosely on the slender frame, the torn jeans and the tennis shoes with holes in the toes. She at least needed a different pair of shoes to pull this bag off.

“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” Darkwing said, advancing while keeping his eyes on her.  

But he was sort of hoping that she would. That she’d be an adept fighter. At least a scrappy one. He hadn’t been training all those mixed martial arts to then never use them. He was ready to put them to the test. Itching to. 

Rolling her eyes, the mugger tossed the bag on the ground and took up position, standing like a soccer goalie intent on devouring their opponent before they let them score. 

Darkwing tried not to look too excited as he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet and brought up his arms in a defensive position. “As you wish.” 

Before Darkwing could best decide which fighting style to flex into, the mugger dashed forward, faster than he’d given her credit for. He dodged out of the way, her fist flying past his face. He blocked a second swing, managing to get a foot planted in between hers before he feigned to her right. When she went to step back, he swept her other leg out from under her. She went down with a grunt.

This was working. He was doing it. 

Darkwing dropped down, intent on restraining her, but she surged upward, gripping his forearms and shoving him backward. Landing hard on the asphalt, the air whooshed out of Darkwing’s beak with the speed of a gale force wind. 

The mugger lost no time in straddling his middle and grabbing hold of his wrists in one hand, pulling them both toward her. She used her free arm to push against his elbows, the creases shining up towards the sky. Leaning back and increasing the pressure, she smirked as his elbows hyperextended, threatening to bend the opposite way than they were meant to. 

“You’re, uh, pretty good at this,” Darkwing panted, still not having fully gained his breath back. 

“And you suck.” The mugger pushed on his elbows more, and Darkwing withheld a whimper. 

“You gonna let me go, masked wonder?” she asked, her small eyes darting over his face. 

“It’s Darkwing Duck.” When she put more pressure on his elbows, he winced. What was he supposed to do if his bones broke? He didn’t have any health insurance. He didn’t have the money for a hospital visit. Not to mention, those types of injuries took weeks to heal, didn’t they?  He couldn’t be out of the game that long. 

“I’m afraid,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t regret this move, “I have to arrest you.” 

The mugger scowled. Then he twisted his hips one way and his shoulders the other. It did the trick, he was free. But the mugger simply rolled away, scooped up the purse, and darted back down the alley. 

This wasn’t going to be good for his reputation. She was probably running off to tell all her mugger friends about how she was able to get away from Darkwing Duck. That he wasn’t a threat.  

And he couldn’t have that. 

Darkwing sprang to his feet as the wail of police sirens pierced through the sounds of the city. There were a few small puddles in the cracks and craters of the asphalt from recent rainfall. And he could make out the footprints of the mugger veering towards the right. Grinning, he took off, eyes glued on the footprints, growing fainter the farther they went. If those sirens would just stop, he might be able to hear the pound of her sneakers on the ground. What were the cops after, anyway? 

The police cars squealed to a halt in front of him, causing Darkwing to halt abruptly. Police officers clambered out, weapons drawn. 

“Ah, officers,” Darkwing said, quickly taking stock of the physique of the cops around him. Searching for the familiar slope of shoulders, the lanky frame, the wide beak of his father. 

But Stellar was not here. And Darkwing breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. 

The lack of his father could only mean that the police were here as reinforcements rather than to bring him in. Well, he hadn’t expected the help, but he was glad for it. If only they could work on their timing so that he could capture the criminal and then hand them over to the fuzz. 

“The criminal escaped. Barely,” he said, gesturing in the direction he was sure the footprints led. “We might be able to catch her if—” 

“Hands where we can see them, sir,” came the voice of one of the officers. 

“—we work tog- W-what?” Darkwing looked around at them. No one looked familiar. All young. Rookies. Clearly didn’t know what they were doing. 

But it seemed they weren’t making any attempts at going after the mugger. They were, for some reason, staring at him. With their weapons still drawn. 

“Get on your knees!” another barked, far less friendly. 

“No, you don’t understand!” Darkwing said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m not the criminal! She went—” 

“On your knees!” cried the second officer, advancing a step and gripping his pistol. 

Darkwing followed the order, dropping down to his knees and putting his hands on his head. “The criminal is getting away,” he said as they approached, the not as nice officer grabbing his wrists roughly as he handcuffed him. 

“You have the right to remain silent,” said the nicer officer, holstering his weapon. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” He patted Darkwing down, removing his remaining spoke bombs from his jacket pockets and the makeshift police scanner where it had hung on his hips. 

Darkwing nearly protested, but remembered all the stories his father had told, and chewed on his tongue rather than utter a single word. 

Mr. Not-As-Nice dragged Darkwing to the police car, shoving him inside and slamming the door. 

The officers didn’t give any indication as to why he was being arrested. As they drove back to the station, they merely talked quietly to one another or listened to the radio when an all call sounded. 

Darkwing had never been on this side of the police car, no matter how many times Stellar had threatened to toss him back there if he wouldn’t stop talking. He’d never realized how degrading it was, to be man handled into a car. Forced to look out at the world from behind bars. 

It wasn’t a reality he thought had been in his future. Not in a thousand years. 

Was Stellar behind this? Had he caught on? Figured out that his son was the new vigilante protecting the city? Had he orchestrated this arrest, and was he waiting for Darkwing at the station? 

Darkwing wasn’t ready to face Stellar. He’d only just gotten used to being on his own. To waking up when he wanted, to eating what he wanted, to living by his own rules. Coming face to face with his childhood tormentor when he’d just managed to escape…. 

Squaring his shoulders, he focused on his breathing. 

He would deal with it. He was Darkwing Duck. And Darkwing Duck wasn’t afraid of anything. Certainly not of a washed up cop who had long ago left his glory days behind. Not of his dead-beat dad who had turned to alcohol for comfort when they’d lost Ana. 

The car came to a stop in front of the station and Darkwing steeled himself, still keeping his beak shut as he was all but dragged inside. His feather print was taken, his mug shot captured (that would be worth a lot of money one day; they better relish having it while he was still unknown). His name plate proudly declared him “Darkwing Duck” instead of his other — legal — name. Then he was escorted to an interrogation room. 

Sitting alone, cuffed to the table, Darkwing’s imagination ran wild. Of seeing his father waltz in, asking if he really thought he could get away with this. Slamming the door open and demanding to know where he’d been. Knocking, opening the door, poking his head in and reminding him that he couldn’t ever get away. 

Darkwing had set his face into a mask of cool indifference when the door opened. 

But it wasn’t Stellar who strode in. 

Chief Vollture shuffled inside, a Manila folder tucked under his arm. 

Huh. 

It certainly was a twist to send the chief of police in to interrogate him. 

Was Stellar watching from the other room? 

Vollture looked so much older than Darkwing remembered. There was a definite stoop in his back that hadn’t been there before. His feathers were graying along his head. It hadn’t been that long since Darkwing had seen him, had it? It would have been… at one of the precinct family picnics. When Ana had been alive. 

Well. 

A few years then. 

Still, the time had not been kind to Vollture. 

He had always joked about retirement when a big case came up at the station, saying he was outta there and his lieutenants could handle whatever they were up against. But now Darkwing wondered how far away retirement really was. How old did you have to be to retire? 80? 100? Vollture looked like he was getting pretty close to the latter. 

 Easing down into the chair opposite Darkwing, Chief Vollture placed the folder on the steel table. He regarded Darkwing with those warm brown eyes… except they weren’t warm now. Something was steeled within them and it sent a shiver down Darkwing’s spine. 

At least he hadn’t been recognized (of course not! He was a master of disguise after all!). But to have the St. Canard police chief give him such a cold stare was unsettling. He used to play with Vollture’s sons; they went camping over a few summers. Darkwing had had more dinners at Vollture’s house than at his grandmother’s. 

But that Vollture was not in this room with Darkwing. 

“So,” Vollture said, opening the folder and looking at the copy of Darkwing’s mugshot. “You’re a vigilante.” 

“Superhero,” Darkwing corrected automatically. 

He smirked. “A big claim.” Vollture sat back in his seat, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. 

Darkwing sat up straighter, wanting to pull his hands into his lap but unable to with the handcuffs chained to the top of the table. “I have been working on my own, but I am more than willing to partner with you. It’s never been my intention to go against the police.” 

Which was mostly true. He just didn’t want to partner with his father. 

“There’s no partnering here, son,” said Vollture. “There’s only the police.” 

“I… what?” 

“We can’t have vigilantes…” he held up a placating hand when Darkwing started to protest, “I’m sorry, superheroes roaming around. Think of the chaos, if anyone with a mask and a cape was allowed to patrol the streets and bring in criminals.” 

“I’m not anyone,” Darkwing argued, his brow furrowing. He had helped, right? He had made a difference, hadn’t he? Surely the police could see he wasn’t against them. That he was fighting against the criminals of the city. That he was helping and making a difference. 

“‘Course not. You’re special. Got skills we don’t and the dedication to boot. I’ve heard it all, son.” Vollture ran a hand through the feathers on his head, letting out a long sigh. “Look, we’re willing to overlook this, but you have to drop this whole Darkwing schtick immediately.” 

“It’s not a schtick,” Darkwing growled, tugging at his restraints. 

“We’re willing to help. Got a psychologist on call who’s willing to speak to you.” 

“I don’t need a psychologist,” Darkwing spat. 

“Sure ya do. I don’t know if ya just weren’t loved enough as a kid so you’re looking for the love of a whole city instead, but it can’t go on. You aren’t trained. You’re putting yourself at risk if you keep this up.” 

Darkwing ground his teeth. Maybe there was another version of Darkwing who snarled and snapped and acted every bit the caged animal he felt he was. But here, in this version of himself, Darkwing managed to keep his seat (only just) and spread his hands in a non-threatening manner.

(It was a tactic that went all the way back to Ancient Rome: showing your hands. Proving you weren’t holding a weapon, that you weren’t going to attack, that you weren’t a threat. That’s where the handshake came from.) 

“Chief Vollture,” Darkwing said, “we’re on the same side. We can’t have untrained vigilantes wandering the streets. I promise you, I’ve gone through extensive training and have been instrumental in keeping the streets of St. Canard safe.” (Read: “I have read a lot of books, started practicing martial arts, and at least two villains run when they see my blue smoke.” Which was basically what he’d said.) 

Chief Vollture hummed before grabbing the folder and bringing it into his lap where he flipped through the pages. “We’ve been following you for some time. I wouldn’t say you were instrumental.” 

Before Darkwing could snap something scathingly personal that would knock Vollture down a few pegs, an officer poked his head into the room and Darkwing’s blood ran cold. 

It was Lucien Jabiru. Stellar’s partner. 

Darkwing’s theories of tonight being an inside job roared back to life and he focused on keeping his breathing steady, even as his heart raced. 

But Jabiru only spared him a glance, his beak curling down in disgust as he took in the purple attire. 

He didn’t recognize Darkwing either. And just how many times had Jabiru been over to the Mallard household? Okay, so Darkwing couldn’t remember the exact number, but it had been often. Sometimes for dinner, other times for holidays (Jabiru didn’t have any family, so he was a permanent fixture at all the big ones). Mostly he just stopped by to drink with Stellar after a long day’s work. 

And he didn’t recognize Darkwing. 

He decided to take it as continued proof of his disguise genius and valiantly ignored the voice in his head that mentioned he might not have been as significant to these men as they had been to him. 

“Sir,” Jabiru said, attention on the chief. “Got a call about a 10-64 down at the St. Canard Hotel.” 

The code caught Darkwing’s attention; it was a quality of life disturbance. There was no way of knowing what sort of disturbance it was without an identifying letter after it. Darkwing wondered which it would be…

“Damn kids,” Vollture muttered. “Send a car down to check it out. Have Goshawk and Tern ready to go down for backup. ” 

Jabiru nodded and left. 

“Every year,” Vollture said, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. 

Darkwing’s brain went into overdrive, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Kids at a hotel. Causing a disturbance. Something that happened every year….

Was it…?

No. It was too early. 

But. 

St. Canard High always rented out the biggest ballroom at the Hotel for prom. St. Canard’s prom was known for getting pretty rowdy. 

If it was prom… that meant it had been a whole year since he’d dawned the mask and cape and become Darkwing Duck. 

One year since he’d encountered his destiny. 

No matter what Vollture said. He was born to do this. 

Vollture snapped the folder shut and surveyed Darkwing. “You may not like it, son, but this is your official warning. If we run into you again, we’re gonna lock you up for good.” 

Trying to look contrite, even going so far as to slump in his seat, Darkwing nodded. 

Vollture tapped the folder on the table once before standing. “Nothing against you. You seem like a fine kid with a good head on his shoulders. This is for your safety as well as the safety of the citizens. Get home safe, now.” 

With that, Vollture left. Darkwing looked up, having no intention of giving up the sacred calling of heroism. But he had to give the appearance that he was. It was all about the game, after all. Give ‘em a good show and no one would see the mallard behind the mask. Smoke and mirrors and all that. 

So he didn’t put up a fight when the officer came in with a set of keys to release him. Pretended to be embarrassed, defeated, as he slumped out of the station, sniggers and whispers from the officers following him like specters. Jabiru, standing near the front desk with another officer Darkwing didn’t recognize, eyed him dubiously before returning to the conversation he was having. Darkwing didn’t see Stellar anywhere, but that was for the best. The old man was probably nursing another hangover back at home. 

Once he was several blocks from the station, Darkwing broke into a run, sprinting back to the Tower. 

He knew what was at stake, that this might not be the last time he encountered the police when he was out on a job. That he could be breaking the law with every crime he stopped from happening. And he was willing to lay everything on the line if it meant his city was all the safer for it. 

Still. 

A whole year. 

He would have thought he would have been farther along in his career by now. At least one major villain taken down and several reporters obsessed with finding out any information they could about him. Maybe a mustachioed editor demanding any and all photos of the Darkwing Duck for his newspaper. 

Instead, Darkwing couldn’t even take down a mugger without getting arrested for trying. 

He would just have to train harder. 

Study more. 

Avoid the police. 

Earn the city’s respect and undying loyalty. (Maybe keep tabs on his fan clubs, but that was a bridge he’d have to cross when he came to it.) 

This time next year, Darkwing Duck would be known citywide as the hero St. Canard needed but hadn’t deserved. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

1 year later

He wasn’t known exactly. Not by the city as a whole. But Frank now knew who he was; the deli owner who used to yell at him for scaring his customers away now gave him free hoagies after he’d stopped a duo of robbers one night. 

Over the last year, Darkwing had learned more fighting techniques. And basic first aid. (Don’t ask.) 

As he gazed out over the city, towards the hotel where prom was, once again, taking place, he promised himself that this time next year things would be different. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

1 year later 

He was dropping more and more criminals at the doorstep of the police station. 

Villains were all starting to know his blue smoke when it was deployed and scrambled for the hills. He caught most (read: some) of them. 

Okay, so next year…  

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

1 year later

Maybe he needed to hand out business cards? Headshots? So people knew who he was? 

While the criminal underbelly of St. Canard was fast learning his name, Darkwing Duck was still an unknown entity to the general populous. Which really rankled because hadn’t he worked hard enough for some recognition here? 

Batman had a signal. Maybe Darkwing Duck should look into getting one of those. 

Chapter Text

Darkwing would never know what greater forces led him to the cemetery that fateful day in June. 

But on the day in question, he was chasing a neer-do-well who had robbed a jewelry store. Maybe the villain thought he would lose his pursuer if he cut through the cemetery (Ha! Darkwing Duck couldn’t be dissuaded by a creepy cemetery, spooks, or goblins!). So he took a sharp turn and vaulted himself over the gates, landing hard with a grunt. A few of the precious jewels spilled out of his sack, glinting in the moonlight. He considered grabbing them, Darkwing saw him hesitate, but then he pushed himself to his feet and bolted down the winding path circling around the patches of gravestones. 

Scoffing, Darkwing easily scaled the gate, launched himself into the air, and landed, cat-like, on his feet. He followed the villain, scooping up the jewels without even pausing in his pursuit. He could picture the old jeweler crying tears of joy when Darkwing returned the stolen haul, each and every precious stone accounted for. 

Pocketing the jewels with one hand, he withdrew a makeshift gas gun with his other. It had once been a confetti canon, but Darkwing had modified it to launch his gas canisters. He no longer only had his blue smoke (which he’d gotten trademarked), but he also specialized in laughing gas. An easy and painless way to incapacitate villains; it had been successful on more than one occasion. 

Not that he wanted to brag, (that was a lie), but he had gotten good at capturing criminals unscathed with minimal fuss. If only he could go up against villains who would actually give him a challenge. All of these common street criminals knew who he was by now, and his success rate with catching them was through the roof. Darkwing Duck was making a difference in the city, even if no one with a 9-to-5 job knew who he was. Or any of the rich patrons who could give him access to unlimited resources to fund his crime fighting career. 

Scrooge McDuck, the tycoon over in Duckburg, employed Gizmoduck full time to watch over his money bin. And Darkwing was a much more effective hero than that old bucket of bolts. He liked to imagine what he would do with all that money. Turns out being an adult was horribly expensive, even if he wasn’t exactly paying rent on his Tower. 

Food alone took a lot of his budget. His costume, too, was eating up a large part of his bank. While he made everything himself, he had been experimenting with different fabrics that could uphold against more intensive fighting. A non-tear cape was essential, though not discovered yet. Then there were his gadgets, like this gas gun, that he’d had to make out of knock-off party store gimmicks. 

The whole “earning money” thing was still a work in progress. 

For now, he would take bagging this jewel thief. 

Unluckily for this criminal, Darkwing was very familiar with the layout of this particular cemetery. He knew a shortcut. It was through the graves, but he would be able to cut off the robber before he made it to the other side of the cemetery. 

Launching himself over a headstone, Darkwing took off at a sprint, easily weaving his way in and out of the graves. There was something comforting about being here, about it always staying the same. All that really changed was the colors of the flowers that were placed at headstones. Darkwing hooked a right, heading down a hill that looked more and more familiar as he gained more ground. He wrestled a wave of some emotion that threatened to spring up like a geiser. He didn’t have time for this. He had to catch this guy. 

Taking in a deep breath, Darkwing darted to the left. 

And ran headlong into a gravestone. 

He tumbled back, head over heels. Groaning, Darkwing propped himself onto his forearms, sending a glare to the headstone that wasn’t supposed to be there. Darkwing knew this hill like he knew his hideout, he knew where each of these graves stood as sentinels of the deceased. And this new headstone…. 

Darkwing’s thoughts stopped as he read the name. 

Officer Stellar Mallard

Of St. Canard the 92nd Precinct

Succeeded by his beloved son, Drake Mallard

He blinked. Blinked again. As if he could erase the name, this turn of events, if he closed his eyes long enough. 

Well. This did explain why a new grave had sprung up next to his mother’s. 

Darkwing took a deep breath, the tightness in his chest not because he’d run into this gravestone. Got to his knees, eyes glued to the name. 

Darkwing wasn’t sure why he was so shocked. Why it was shaking him to his core. He’d left, hadn’t he? Gone without any further thoughts about Stellar. 

And why shouldn’t he? 

All through Darkwing’s middle and high school careers, Stellar had been in a permanent state of  drunkenness. Or hungover. Alcohol seemed to loosen his tongue, Stellar criticizing his son every time he saw him, never happy or proud with what Drake was doing. Nothing had ever been enough. No matter how much he’d tried to impress his father and how hard he tried (and he tried really really hard), Drake had never been enough.  

So Drake had left. Took on the identity of Darkwing Duck, erasing every part of his past that had led him to that point. On some level, Darkwing must have known this would happen. That he had seen Stellar for the last time, that his father would eventually pass on and he wouldn’t be there. 

All he felt was a giant hole in his chest, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. 

Stellar had died. 

Darkwing had missed his funeral. 

Missed everything in Stellar’s last few years. 

He inched forward, the soft grass parting under his weight. He reached out to his father’s gravestone, tracing the words “beloved son.”  

Had he been? 

Had he been, really? 

For all the crap Stellar had thrown at Drake, he hadn’t been much better. 

He’d rebelled any chance he got, even went so far as to vandalize a statue during their last Christmas, giving him a criminal record long before he became the hero he was so desperate to be. He hadn’t kept up on his school work. Hadn’t behaved like a policeman’s son should at those police balls and gatherings, instead being every inch the bratty kid who just wanted to do what he wanted to do instead of what his father wanted. 

The only force in the world that had tied them together into something cohesive had been Ana. And even then, the two never saw eye to eye. 

Well.

That wasn’t entirely true, was it? 

Once upon a time, Stellar and Drake had been thick as thieves. 

When Drake had been a kid, they’d played cops and robbers almost every day. Stellar used to swipe freshly baked cookies for Drake before Ana could catch them missing. He took Drake on errands, the two of them loudly singing along to whatever was on the radio. He taught Drake how to be handy around the house, building furniture, fixing anything that broke, taking on home improvement projects. He helped Drake with his homework, building science fair projects side by side, showing him the different constellations in their backyard, reading school books aloud. 

Drake had idolized his father. And, he was pretty sure, Stellar had loved him. Once. Maybe. 

When did that change? 

Probably when they found out about Ana’s diagnosis. 

It was like a light had suddenly been turned on in a dark room. Darkwing was able to see everything. 

That was when the drinking started. When Stellar started pushing Drake to reach impossible goals. When he’d shamed him for reading comic books, told him he had to be tough. And when he became so disappointed when Drake fell short of those expectations. Stellar had became even colder, harsher, more ruthless after Ana had died. 

Sure, it wasn’t right. Stellar shouldn’t have taken it all out on his kid. But Darkwing finally understood why. He’d lost his wife, just like Drake had lost his mother. The sunshine in their lives had been robbed, leaving them in darkness. 

All this time, he’d thought it was something he’d done. That Stellar had seen something in his son he’d despised, that he’d stopped loving Drake because he was, ultimately, unlovable. 

Darkwing was having problems breathing. A heat was crawling up his throat, choking him until he finally released the sob, the names of his parents blurring as tears gathered unbidden in his eyes. He drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly. 

How long had Stellar been gone? 

Long enough for a grave to be properly sealed with grass and flowers growing over top of it. How long was that? 

“See,” he choked, his knuckles turing white, “I still don’t know anything.” 

He was alone. 

There was no one left. Stellar and Ana didn’t have any siblings. Darkwing’s grandparents had passed on long ago, some of them before he was even born. 

He was an orphan. 

No one left to answer so many of the questions he still had. 

Like how to get a mortgage. And what a mortgage was. 

Why was equity a thing? 

Were stocks and bonds just myths? 

How did you balance a checkbook? 

How much time passed before a grave would have grass growing over the top? 

“I’m sorry,” he said, another sob loosing from the regions of his rib cage. 

Tomorrow. 

He could figure out what to do tomorrow. 

For tonight, he sat on his parent’s graves and said his goodbyes to the stillness of the night. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

“Drake, my boy,” breathed Mr. Cole, the family attorney. “I’ve been trying to contact you for weeks.” 

“Yeah, sorry, I’ve been….” Darkwing trailed off, not sure of what excuse to give. Let Cole draw his own conclusions. 

Mr. Cole hummed before asking, tentatively, “So, I take it you have heard the news?” 

“Yeah,” Darkwing said, leaning heavily against the glass of the payphone booth. He had on his trench coat and baseball cap getup. Typical of the big city, no one gave him a second glance, and he was grateful for the anonymity today. 

“I know this must be a difficult time for you,” Cole said, sounding like he truly did know how bad things were getting in Darkwing’s head. “Is there a time when you can come by the office? To settle—” 

“I—I’m out of town,” Darkwing lied easily, casting his eyes upward. To the old green building where Mr. Cole’s office was. He had almost dug out his Drake Mallard clothes today, very nearly walked through the door that read “Graylag Cole, Attorney At Law” and sat in the squashy armchairs in front of Cole’s large mahogany desk. 

But he hadn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to take on the weak and cowardly persona of Drake Mallard again. 

Darkwing Duck had to take this on with all his might. Because Drake Mallard was falling apart.

“Don’t know when I’ll be back,” Darkwing said, clearing his throat.

Cole hesitated, the silence stretching on long enough that Darkwing hurriedly dug around in his pockets, sliding another quarter in, desperate to not lose the connection. 

“Of course,” Cole eventually said. “Well, I was named the executor of the will since we were unable to contact you after… after Stellar’s passing. Of course, if you would like to take over or name another executor—” 

“No,” said Darkwing, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “No, I want you to do it.” 

Cole was silent for another moment before his professionalism snapped into place and he said, “Yes, well. I’ve gone through all the normal procedures.” He proceeded to talk about informing everyone about Stellar’s passing, getting his death certificate, and then settling everything in regards to his debts. 

Darkwing vaguely remembered his father going through these paces when Ana had passed away. He was in high school at the time. She had always told him to be good. To fight for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. So, while Stellar had arranged everything for Ana’s funeral, Drake had drawn up a list of heroic names that would become his future identity. 

“Do you want to keep the house?” Cole asked suddenly, drawing Darkwing out from his reverie. 

“No.” He couldn’t even fathom stepping back over the threshold. Knowing no one was inside. 

“I can put it on the market,” Cole said, the cool professionalism a balm on Darkwing’s frayed nerves. “How long do you need to gather any necessary items from it?” 

He wrestled out another quarter and slid it into the phone. “I don’t need anything.” 

“Really, Drake, I know you and Stellar didn’t get along, but surely there must be something you’d like to salvage.” 

“There’s nothing.” Even though Darkwing was sort of half thinking about breaking in and looking around again. Drake couldn’t go back, but Darkwing might be able to. Drake had left it all behind, no intention of ever returning. Darkwing had made no such decision and was getting closer to broke every day. But was Darkwing’s determination stronger than Drake’s fear? “Sell it all.” 

Cole cleared his throat, clearly disapproving, but he said nothing outright. “Very well.” There was the sound of shuffling papers. “All things considered, your father left you with very little owed. The man always was meticulous with money.” 

Darkwing leaned his forearm on the glass, his forehead resting atop it. He was not going to cry in this phone booth in front of God and everyone. 

“Of course,” Cole continued, “the money from the estate will be joined with the inheritance your parents left. Shall I leave it all in the same account?” 

Darkwing had to clear his throat again. “Yeah. That’s… that’s fine. You’ll take out whatever I owe you from that, right?” 

“If that's what you wish,” said Cole, his voice soft again. 

“It is,” said Darkwing. 

“All right. Do you need anything else from me, Drake?” 

There were so many things Darkwing needed, but from Cole? “I don’t think so.” 

“Is there a number I can reach you at? In case there are more questions?” 

A bat signal really would have paid for itself by now. 

“Um, I have a PO Box.” 

He’d sprung for one as a way for reporters and adoring fans to send him tokens of their undying devotion. Never mind that it had sat empty since Darkwing had opened it. 

Cole sighed. “A phone number would really be more helpful.” 

“I don’t, um, stay in one place for very long.” 

Cole hummed again. “A pager might help, you know. Or one of those new mobile phones.” 

Darkwing barked a harsh laugh. “Like I can afford anything like that.” 

“Well,” said Cole, that gentle tone back, “you might be able to now.” 

That’s right. Inheritance. Because his parents were gone and money was all that was left. 

He used the distraction of finding his last quarter to stave off the tears that were so close to squeezing through his closed lids. Not here not here not here he prayed. 

“Maybe,” he said. “Do you want the PO Box number?” 

Cole took the information. “You do know you can call me if you need anything?” he asked. 

Darkwing pressed his free hand to his face, all the better to conceal how his features were contorting in an effort to hold in his breakdown. He wasn’t patrolling tonight. There was no way he could leave the Tower in this state. The criminals of St. Canard would never take him seriously again. He’d be a laughing stock. 

“Yeah,” he finally breathed into the receiver. 

“I do mean it, Drake. Anything at all. You’re….” All alone. “What I mean is there are people who knew your parents. And we are here to help. Including myself.” 

Darkwing pulled the receiver away from his ear and pressed his hand over it, allowing a few shuddering breaths but swallowing down the sob. You can let it all go at the Tower, he promised himself. But not here. 

Bringing up the receiver to his ear again, Darkwing forced out, “Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.” 

“I sincerely hope you do.” It sounded like Cole cleared his throat. “Goodbye, Drake.” 

“Bye, Mr. Cole.” 

Darkwing hung up, the sob wrestling free on its own, the sound loud and harsh in the small booth. Leaning back against the glass, he forced his eyes open and studied the busy street around him. 

No one looked at him. 

Passed by on their own errands and business. 

Part of him was glad that they weren’t sending him pitying looks. 

But another part sort of wanted some sympathy. A shoulder to cry on. Not Cole. Not Chief Vollture, who, he was sure, would welcome Drake Mallard into his station, but not Darkwing Duck. Not Jabiru, who had always teased Drake like he was his little brother. 

No, Darkwing wanted someone who truly deeply cared about him. 

Darkwing Duck and Drake Mallard. 

But there wasn’t anyone. 

He had made sure of that. 

The world had never seemed quite so big before. 

And he’d never considered himself to be so small. 

It really was him against all of this, wasn’t it? 

Darkwing sucked in a breath, squaring his shoulders and tugging the collar of his coat up. Stumbling out of the booth, he hurried along the sidewalk towards the Tower, his grief and loneliness clawing at his insides, tearing him up from the inside out. 

Maybe one day he’d matter to someone out there. To a fan. To some concerned citizens. To the police, if they ever decided to partner with him. 

But something as constant and comforting as a family wasn’t a reality for him. He didn’t realize how he’d subconsciously depended on it until it was gone. How sorry he was to see it go, knowing it wasn’t coming back. 

Darkwing Duck worked alone. 

Had to work alone. He couldn’t go through something like this again. 

Chapter Text

The night air was so still Darkwing felt his breathing was disrupting it. Even though he was always careful when approaching an unfamiliar location, or made sure he was as silent as he could be when he was closing in on a villain, tonight every sound he made was amplified by about a thousand. 

Earlier that day, he’d found a note in Darkwing Tower. That’s right, inside his hideout. Taped to one of the windowsills that he used as his entry and exit. After getting over the sheer shock of finding this note (really, it was trying to process that someone somewhere knew not only of his heroic endeavors, but also where his hideout was), Darkwing made a thorough search of the Tower for anything else out of the ordinary. But there was nothing, so he climbed back up to the second level and inspected the note. A folded scrap of paper that was torn from a high quality notebook and secured with a thumbtack. This person was well to do and knew tape would have picked up their finger print. (He still dusted for them and came up with nothing on the paper or the tack.) Big block letters — the form of handwriting that was least likely to be identifiable — had a date, location, and time across the paper. It had been written using a ball point pen that was starting to run out of ink if the re-tracing of the last few numbers were anything to go by. (And they were always something to go by.)

Whoever this was was smart, cautious, and knew what precautions to take to avoid detection by the great Darkwing Duck. 

He was intrigued. 

Okay, more intrigued than he would have been normally. 

Which was how Darkwing found himself slinking into one of the empty warehouses near Audubon Bay. Where this meeting would take place. In about half an hour. 

Darkwing wasn’t a spring chicken. He knew this could very well be a trap. Perhaps it was a clever mastermind whom Darkwing had thwarted one time too many, and he would finally put a face to his long-standing opposition. The mastermind would make some vague threats, telling Darkwing to stand down or he’d be trodden underfoot. Like Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty. 

He had imagined this meeting so clearly in his mind, and had all of his responses ready to go.

A stand-off between good and evil worthy of the silver screen. 

Maybe he should have anonymously tipped off the newspapers that this meeting was taking place. This would be amazing press. And would launch Darkwing directly into the public eye. 

Well, hindsight was 20/20 and all that. All of his future clandestine meetings would be leaked to the press, but for tonight… 

Darkwing slipped into the warehouse, careful not to make any sort of disturbance to the piles of dust gathered around the room. He glanced around the open space, quickly finding the areas most likely to be used as a place for someone to hide. Nothing had been disturbed around them, and none of these hiding places were near windows or other points of entry. He could safely presume he was the first to arrive. 

With the meet time fast approaching, Darkwing looked up to the rafters. People rarely looked up when they entered a new location. Why would they? They were the apex predators, they had nothing to fear. Only prey had to study their surroundings for threats. Only those afraid of being attacked had to make sure nothing would get the jump on them from above. 

And Darkwing was the predator in this situation. (Ideally in every situation, but his Professor Moriarty was somewhere out there, and Darkwing was sure he’d be hunted at some point.) 

Creeping over to the closest support beam, he pulled out a rope from his pocket. He’d gotten this particular addition to his arsenal from a villain’s foiled attempt to break into the museum. Darkwing had been disappointed at the time; what self-respecting villain uses plain old rope to break into one of the highest security museums in all of Calisota? Darkwing had only ever gone up against small time crooks and criminals who clearly hadn’t thought things all the way through. If only Professor Moriarty would just show himself… 

Breathing deeply to calm himself down, he remind himself to be patient because he would be meeting his greatest adversary in a few short minutes. Darkwing looped the rope around a nearby support beam, and secured the rope around his waist with a figure eight bend knot. He’d dug out his old Boy Scout manual to find those after he got the rope; Darkwing had memorized all the knots, using this rope to practice until he could do them in under thirty seconds without thinking about the motions. Practicing the knots had particularly come in handy lately when he’d been unable to sleep. Those long days when the weight of his life, the consuming terror of being alone, and leaving the world without making any sort of difference pressed heavily on his chest, making it impossible to breathe or even move. At least he’d found a productive way to spend his time instead of staring up at his ceiling, spiraling into dark thoughts and deeper fears. 

Darkwing tightened the slack on the rope and grabbed both sides, starting his climb; he wrapped his legs around the beam, moved the rope up above his head, then pulled himself up after it. 

Reaching the rafters, he untied the rope, coiled it up, and stuffed it back into his pocket before darting across the warehouse, jumping to one steel beam after another. The far east side had the most shadows, so he tucked himself in the corner there, cloaked in darkness and with the perfect vantage point to watch everything that would happen below. The door to the warehouse was directly across from him on the west side. 

He settled in to wait, wondering who this deadly adversary was going to end up being. 

He hoped it wasn’t the police. That this wasn’t some way of trapping him to try and convince him to stop being St. Canard’s greatest vigilante in all of the city’s history. (That wasn’t an exaggeration; St. Canard hadn’t had a vigilante before, so, therefore, Darkwing Duck was the greatest in all of it’s history. No matter that he was writing it as it happened.) 

Chief Vollture had retired a few months ago, actually retired instead of just mentioning it in passing. The new chief could have arranged this meeting, he supposed. Darkwing had not met them, but knowing all the officers who had been traipsing through that station in the past twenty years, he didn’t think any of them were smart or subtle enough for something like this. But they could have brought someone in from out of town. Duckburg or Spoonerville or Cape Suzette. If he was a police chief, Darkwing would want to meet himself. His name was circulating more and more and he was really starting make waves amongst the criminal underbelly of St. Canard lately. 

He wouldn’t admit that the loss of both his parents had affected his performance, but the proof was there. Darkwing was more driven now, more reckless, wanting so badly to prove himself and make a place in the city and in the world. Hoping that someone would recognize his hard work. See the good he was attempting to make. And thank him for it. 

Was it desperation driving him? Sure, okay, if you needed a word for it. But Darkwing was more inclined to think that he was looking for a basic need that all living things chased after: to feel like they were apart of something. To feel like they belonged somewhere and were making a difference. 

The warehouse doors suddenly burst open, a crowd of people dressed in black suits flooding into the warehouse, all holding guns as they searched the place. Darkwing grinned when no one looked up. That wasn’t strictly true; a few did but never for more than a few seconds. His hiding place went completely unnoticed. 

Not everyone could be as good a crime fighter as Darkwing Duck. He was used to being better than the average black suit-wearing gun-toting… agent? Officer? Mafia? 

Scratch officers, these people were too well dressed. Agents wasn’t off the table. 

Neither was the mafia, or another type of criminal organization. Darkwing really shouldn’t hope this was the mafia, but wouldn’t that be amazing? The mafia wanting to meet him? He was getting closer to meeting his Professor Moriarty. 

Despite his thundering heart, his trembling fingers, Darkwing took a breath. 

Time to really show what he was worth. 

He reached into a pocket in his suit, pulling out a gas canister and glanced around to determine where he should drop it when a hulking grizzly bear lumbered into the warehouse. He, too, wore a dark suit, but the tight expression on his face made Darkwing think that his patience was much thinner than the others in the room. 

Darkwing’s fingers slipped on the canister at the sheer size of him, his gleaming teeth, his long claws. He swiped for the canister, not ready yet to make himself known, but it was too far out of his reach and it dropped to the floor where it deployed. 

Sighing, really wishing he could redo the whole thing, Darkwing crouched, getting ready to leap down. The suits whirled around to face the smoke, all of their guns pointing at it. The grizzly also looked over to the smoke, his expression darkening, but making no move for a weapon. 

That had to be his Professor Moriarty. Time for Sherlock Holmes to make his appearance. 

“I am the Terror that Flaps in the Night!” Darkwing called, enjoying how his voice echoed in the rafters of the warehouse. He jumped down, the smoke hiding his clumsy landing. Grabbing his cape, he spread his arms and declared, as the smoke dissipated, “I am Darkwing Duck!” 

He glared at those gathered, daring any of them to approach. 

None of them did. 

Well. 

He was good at his job. He would be intimidated if he was meeting himself, too. 

The grizzly bear loomed over Darkwing, so much taller with bulging muscles that were clearly defined even under his suit jacket. 

His palms sweating, Darkwing dropped his cape and stood straight. “Who sent me the message?” He kept his eyes trained on the grizzly, simultaneously hoping and terrified that it was him. 

“That would be me,” said a reedy voice from the place where the grizzly was standing. 

Okay.

Either the grizzly was an incredible ventriloquist (his mouth hadn’t moved from the curl of his snarl), or someone else had spoken. 

And that someone else turned out to be a small bespectacled owl with graying hair along the sides of his balding head. He stood at a fourth of the bear’s size and was wearing a tan suit, making him stand out amongst the black suits everyone else in the room was sporting. 

“A most impressive entrance, Darkwing,” said the owl, a smile on his small curved beak. 

“A bit dramatic, director,” rumbled the grizzly, his Northern European accent thick and his voice as deep and menacing as Darkwing had imagined it would be. 

“Unexpected, I’d say,” the director countered, his British accent clipped and precise. “Quite unlike anything we have seen before.” He looked on Darkwing approvingly.  

“Because it is idiotic,” the bear muttered darkly, glaring at Darkwing down his snout, his teeth bared. 

“Nonsense, Gryzlikoff.” The director — of what, Darkwing still didn’t know — walked up to Darkwing, his small eyes glinting kindly in the evening light. “He’s exactly what we’ve been looking for.” 

“Not to be rude,” said Darkwing, glancing around at all the people in suits who still stood resolutely around him, guns now at their sides instead of pointing at him, “but who are you?” 

“Apologies, my boy,” said the owl, with a slight bow of his head. “I am J. Gander Hooter, director of—” 

“S.H.U.S.H.,” Darkwing breathed, suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded. “I-I’ve heard of you, sir. S.H.U.S.H. is… it’s legendary.” The spy organization had been responsible for keeping St. Canard safe for decades. Since its founding in 1908, it had put dangerous serial killers, corrupt businessmen, and the most illustrious villains behind bars. Darkwing had considered working for them before he had decided to strike out on his own. Even now, it seemed like a pipe dream, working for S.H.U.S.H.. A lofty goal he would dream about but which he knew, deep down, would never happen. 

And here they were. They’d invited him here. 

Darkwing didn’t have many heroes himself — at least, few that weren’t fictional — but S.H.U.S.H. was most definitely among them.

He might be sick. 

Which was so not cool when you were meeting the organization you’d idolized since childhood face-to-face, but the excitement churning in his gut might not leave him much choice. 

“Indeed. Our reputation has the benefit of history that precedes us.” J. Gander was still smiling at Darkwing as he walked all the closer, one of his small hands resting in the pocket of his vest and the other tucked behind his back. “You, Darkwing Duck, also have quite a reputation.” 

“Oh, well,” Darkwing preened a little. He didn’t mean to, but when you receive a compliment from one of your heroes, it happened on its own. “I do what I can, Director Hooter.” 

“Please, call me J. Gander,” he said, coming to a halt in front of Darkwing. He stood at half of Darkwing’s height and he’d never been particularly tall himself. Which had always been annoying because Stellar had been very tall. The fact that Darkwing hadn’t inherited that instead of his short and stout frame was just an insult. 

A sharp pain sliced through Darkwing at the thought of his father and he shook himself, standing tall, practically towering over J. Gander. “Are you in need of my assistance, sir? Is that why you arranged for us to meet here?” 

“Well, that is the question, my boy,” said J. Gander, something clouding his face and taking his gentle smile away. “I am of the opinion that you would be a great asset to our little organization.” 

Darkwing gulped, suddenly unable to breathe. Him? A great asset to S.H.U.S.H.? Was he dreaming? A sharp pinch to his arm determined that he was very much awake. 

“However, I am not the only voice at S.H.U.S.H. and others have some doubts,” J. Gander said, sounding disappointed as he glanced back at Gryzlikoff who crossed his arms over his massive chest. 

“You… um, I— What does that mean, sir? In regards to me? Sir.” Darkwing wished the words wouldn’t stick in his throat so much. Heroes never got nervous. They always knew what to say. And Darkwing was a hero. He had to get it together. 

“We have been watching you, Darkwing,” said J. Gander and if his eyes weren’t twinkling and his beak pulled up into a small smile, that would have been the creepiest thing Darkwing had ever heard. (It might still be one of the creepiest things he’d heard.) “However, since not all of us are convinced that you would be an asset, we will continue to watch and gather more data.” 

“Sure, yeah,” said Darkwing, already wanting to bolt out of the warehouse and prove himself. Arrest all of the villains prowling the streets this and every night. “I get it. Um, is there anything I need to work on? Specifically? Sir.” 

J. Gander opened his beak, but Gryzlikoff stepped forward, uncrossing his arms so his large skull-crushing hands hung by his sides. “You are too unpredictable, Darkwing Duck. You have no set methods, no real training. You are relying on nothing but your own ingenuity when you should be more methodical. More controlled and precise.” 

“This is, unfortunately, where we disagree,” J. Gander said with a small sigh. “I enjoy your ingenuity and unpredictability. It’s unlike anything we have seen at S.H.U.S.H. before, and this is why I believe you would be useful. You would offer us a new perspective.” 

“Right. Okay. So… which is it?” Darkwing asked. “Am I supposed to play by the rules more,” he gestured to Grizzlikoff, “or stick to my more unconventional methods?” He looked to J. Gander. The thought of becoming more disciplined, more by the book, made his skin crawl, but if S.H.U.S.H. was on the line… Well, he’d do pretty much anything. 

Gryzlikoff said, “Be more methodical,” just as J. Gander said, “Be yourself.” 

Darkwing blinked and glanced between the two. “What?” 

J. Gander stepped forward and patted Darkwing on the shoulder, which he had to stretch up to reach. “Do what you have been doing, my boy. Time will tell if the others are swayed by your own ingenious methods and we bring you on board, or if we decide to leave you to your own devices.” He smiled broadly. “Regardless, know that you are doing good in this city and people are starting to take notice.” 

Darkwing might just melt right through the floor. To think, J. Gander considered him ingenious. That he was doing good. Just like Ana had wanted him to. 

“I know your father can say things that aren’t kind. One day, you’ll be able to tell if what he says is actually true or not. But know this,” she reached out to him, caressing his cheek, “you are a good boy. And I want you to always try to be good. Can you do that for me?” 

Drake thought about it, but was soon lost in the endless blue of her eyes. The same blue that was reflected back to him in every mirror. 

“I think so,” he finally said. 

Ana smiled. “Then nothing anyone says about you matters because you know, deep down, that you’re good.” 

Darkwing swallowed thickly. He hoped she would’ve been proud of him. 

J. Gander turned to one of his agents and made a hand motion, yanking Darkwing out of his memories. The agent in question stepped forward, holding a briefcase which she offered to J. Gander. He placed it on the ground and opened it, revealing the strangest looking gun Darkwing had ever seen lying nestled in foam. The gun was black except for a coil that separated the barrel from the trigger, which was a bright pink. 

The same pink that was the inner lining of Darkwing’s cape. 

They really had been watching him. (And it was creepy.) 

J. Gander removed the weapon and held it out to Darkwing. “A new gas gun which we modified after your own. It should be able to  hold and fire the gas canisters you have been so cleverly employing in your missions.” He handed it over. “Think of it as my own encouragement. Something you can tangibly hold and know you’re doing exactly what you should be.” 

Darkwing, shaking slightly, cradled the gun in his hands like it was made of porcelain. He studied it, itching to try it out. But he wouldn’t do it here where he was so likely to make a fool of himself in front of all these people. He’d work with it in the privacy of the Tower first, perfect his technique with actual fire power instead of his own home made atrocity. Then he’d utilize it on the streets. Where the criminal element stood no chance at evading him. (Not that they stood much of a chance before, but especially not now.)

Looking up at J. Gander, Darkwing said shakily, “Thank you, sir.” 

J. Gander bent down again, pulling out a few gas canisters from the case before closing it with a snap. “We also have new canisters for you to try on your upcoming missions. Your laughing gas,” he held up a green canister, “tear gas,” a pink canister, “and, of course, your trademarked blue smoke,” a blue canister. He handed them to Darkwing who awkwardly juggled the gun in one hand and scooped up the new gas canisters in the other. 

“We will be in touch,” J. Gander said, picking up the briefcase and turning away. He made a motion and all of the agents filed out. Gryzlikoff frowned at Darkwing, sending him one last glare, before he, too, followed the other agents. 

“I’ll make you proud, sir,” Darkwing said, desperate to do so.

J. Gander turned to Darkwing with that smile on his beak. “You already have. Keep the city safe. S.H.U.S.H. will find you when we want to talk again.” He walked out of the warehouse without so much as a backward glance. 

Darkwing surveyed the new weapons in his hands. Never in a million years had he dreamed of owning something so cool. So advanced. 

He was like a real hero. 

With gadgets. 

“And remember, Darkwing,” came J. Gander’s voice from across the warehouse. Darkwing nearly dropped his new weapons in his shock, looking up to see the owl silhouetted in the doorway, the rays of the setting sun illuminating the space around him like he was some sort of deity, “we will be watching.” 

Very creepy. 

But Darkwing was encouraged.

He wanted to salute, but his hands were full, so he settled for a nod before the door was closed and he was left to the darkness of the warehouse.  

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

The gas gun worked like a dream. 

All of the criminals Darkwing came up against didn’t know what hit them (literally; Darkwing was still figuring out how far his gun’s radius was and the canisters would sometimes bounce off the criminal’s heads or shoulders before engaging). He wasn’t sure if it was J. Gander’s vote of confidence, this new goal he could aim for, or something else entirely, but Darkwing was putting more criminals away than ever before. 

The police were getting used to seeing him stroll into their station, bank robbers, muggers, vandals, and loiterers secured with rope (all that knot tying was really coming in handy) and handed over for prosecution. He still hadn’t met the new police chief, but Darkwing hadn’t been arrested again. Now, when a police car arrived on the scene for one of his cases, the officers in question would get out of their car, ask if he needed help, then bundle the burglar away, saving Darkwing the trouble of lugging these criminals through the streets. 

He half wondered if S.H.U.S.H. had something to do with the sudden police partnership, but didn’t dwell on it too much. Because he was unstoppable. 

In addition to his new gun, Darkwing had disassembled the S.H.U.S.H. gas canisters to study how they were manufactured and he now made those for all of his gases. The tear gas was a stroke of genius he was disappointed hadn’t come up with his own, but it was proving too effective for him to get too upset about it. 

Did he sometimes overdo it? Perhaps. Did he occasionally pose at the end of an arrest, looking around for a S.H.U.S.H. agent or the press, either of whom might be taking notes or snapping his photo? Maybe. (Okay, he did it a lot, so sue him.) 

But the amount of criminals he brought to justice was doubling. Tripling. 

So what if he sometimes lectured the ne’er-do-wells about their life choices? Or narrated his actions like he was in a comic book? Or posed when he was sure he was being watched? 

So what if he started paying closer attention to how his suit looked? It was just pride in his personal appearance that made him iron his cape every day before venturing out. Forced him to make even more suits and put them on a dry cleaning rotation. 

Personal pride. 

That was all. 

He was taking an interest in his grooming. He was trying to reform the criminals so they wouldn’t criminals anymore. (He had no good reason for his narration or posing. Yet.) 

And if he kept looking for his own Professor Moriarty every time he was out on patrol, well, that was just good sense. His archiest of arch nemeses was out there somewhere and he needed to be prepared. 

Chapter Text

There were moments — they were few and far between — when Darkwing Duck missed being a normal citizen. 

Like when he had to go to the grocery store. Cramming his magnificent suit under his trench coat was exhausting and it wrinkled his cape in a way that was impossible to get the fabric smooth again. (A wrinkle-free cape was still in the works.) Swapping his fedora for a baseball cap was less exhausting but much more embarrassing. (Why have a hat aesthetic if you weren’t going to wear something that was worthwhile?)

Or when he got injured on the job. Not only was health insurance still something Darkwing didn’t have (he needed an emergency contact and an ID and neither of those things were really, you know, conducive to a hero whose secret identity didn’t exist anymore), but then there was the whole “medical file” thing he’d have to contend with. Medical files couldn’t be accurately updated when the patient didn’t have a history. And don’t get him started on actually paying for all of these procedures and check-ups. Yes, he had some money, but not that much money. At the end of the day, Darkwing found it easier to just tend to his own wounds or lounge about the Tower until he could find the strength to cure himself of whatever ailment or injury he’d sustained. 

But more than having to figure out medicine and how to carry his groceries up to the Tower in those flimsy plastic bags, it was moments like this when Darkwing really yearned to be a citizen of St. Canard instead of its dark defender. 

He’d seen the posters in town for weeks, a stab of jealousy slicing through him whenever he passed on, his favorite singer advertised to play for one night only at Cormorant Hall. Powerline was out on his Devious World Tour (so named after his most recent album).  

His first album had come out when Darkwing was still in high school and he’d instantly known this was the greatest musical mind that had ever been born. Never mind Mozart or Elvis or The Beatles. Powerline was the Prince of Pop and was changing the world. Darkwing had managed to collect all of his albums in some shape or fashion, even when he was fighting against the most dastardly criminals of St. Canard’s slums. 

Tickets for this particular night had been sold out the day they’d gone on sale. Darkwing had been skulking around the ticket office that day, breaking his strict nocturnal schedule to be on patrol for Powerline’s sake. (And, maybe, to see if there was a ticket he could snatch up.) He hadn’t had time to purchase anything, though, because brawls had broken out and even a few fists flew. But Darkwing Duck had been there to break them up. He’d even managed to finally finally get into the paper. Even though they’d misprinted his name. Dark Wing Duck. He still kept the clipping. It was taped to the wall in the Tower, one solitary scrap of paper on the huge space that stretched from floor to ceiling. But he needed all the space because there would be so many more new stories he’d pin there. (So he kept telling himself.) 

Was it the lure of more press that brought Darkwing to the rooftop of Cormorant Hall the night of the concert? Maybe. Was it the idea of being close to Powerline, a night to point to and say he was there for it? You were getting warmer. (Really, Darkwing just wanted to hear his favorite musician and personal hero live. Even if was from the stairwell on the roof of the concert hall.)

Was he in place a little too early so he could watch Powerline’s tour bus pull up? No. (Yes.) That was purely coincidence. (He’d considered camping on the roof overnight but had decided that was too far.) He had to be early to case out the building in the event he had to leap down and break up another brawl. And he had cased the rooftop after watching Powerling walk inside. He discovered searchlights had been installed on the rooftop, daisy chains of cables snaking over to a massive power grid. Was able to find the walls that were climbable and which ones were sheer smooth stone that couldn’t be ascended without professional tools. Located foliage around the building that could be adequate hiding places for ne’er-do-wells. (Or himself for a particularly dramatic entrance.) 

Darkwing secured a few ropes in a few choice locations just in case he needed to climb up or drop down in a hurry. He had been tinkering with his gas gun to rig it for grappling hooks as well, but he hadn’t cracked that particular code yet. 

The sun was setting when Darkwing jerked awake. (He was going against his normal sleep schedule, okay? Maybe don’t judge him so harshly.) The voices of hundreds of people reached his ears. The searchlights had been turned on, their beams not yet discernible in the dying sunlight, the units whirred slightly as they turned in circles, a beam of light sweeping over the landscape. 

Darkwing stretched and stood, ambling his way to the edge of the roof and peered over. A large crowd was assembled around the building, bottlenecked at the entrance as they handed over their tickets. A man wearing a Powerline shirt was standing on a box, holding up programs and calling out the price. Resting his beak on his crossed arms, Darkwing wondered if a program might be dropped later so he could scoop it up. He doubted it; Powerline merchandise was rare despite the singer’s popularity. 

He kept his eyes peeled for any trouble, but everyone was well behaved. No doubt too anxious about getting stopped by Darkwing Duck, the masked wonder who had stopped that brawl at the box office a few months ago. (Or not wanting to get kicked out by security and risk not seeing Powerline. There was no way to really know.) 

As the sun set and the crowd slowly disappeared into the hall, Darkwing gave the city one last cursory sweep with his eyes. Please, this one night, let all the villains postpone their dastardly plans. 

He crossed the roof and took up position beside the stairwell, his lock picks making quick work of the locked door. Settling against the doorjamb, Darkwing closed his eyes, heart soaring when the concert started, echoes of the songs floating up the staircase to the roof. 

It was the closest Darkwing could come to normalcy, listening to the dregs of the beloved songs by his favorite artist. And he soaked it up as much as he could. 

When a shadow passed in front of one of the searchlights, blocking the powerful beam, Darkwing snapped his eyes open and whipped his head around. What could possibly have gotten in the way of the search light all the way up here? The shadow had been too large to be a bird. It hadn’t been any sort of aircraft; it wouldn’t be flying this close to the ground, and he would have heard its engines besides.  

His curiosity getting the better of him, Darkwing rolled into a crouch and inched his way across the roof, silently searching for the shadowy scoundrel. 

At first, Darkwing thought it was just a wayward fan. Dressed in Powerline’s trademarked yellow jumpsuit. But then he remembered that he had been sitting by (ahem, guarding) the door, which was the only entry point to the roof. No one could have slipped by him. So this person had gained access to the roof by some other means. 

Reaching for his gas gun, Darkwing loaded in a smoke cartridge while keeping his eye on the miscreant. 

Who wasn’t… doing much? They were walking towards one of the searchlights, something strapped to their back. Probably some sort of backpack to better steal something in. Little did they know that Darkwing Duck was on the case and would put a stop to their nefarious deeds. 

Taking aim, Darkwing fired his gas gun and he crept up behind the cloud of smoke, crying, “I am the Terror that Flaps in the Night! I am Darkwing Duck!” 

Brandishing his cape, he stood to his full height as the smoke cleared and eyed the criminal. 

Who was looking at him with something like shock in his beady eyes. 

“Darkwing Duck? From St. Canard High?” 

Holy cats. 

It was Megavolt. 

The first villain Darkwing had ever fought against. At his senior prom. (Never mind how many years ago.) 

And here the rat was again. Every inch the super villain Darkwing had been hoping for. 

Dressed in a yellow jumpsuit with what looked like a battery strapped to his back, a socket affixed on his chest, and a hat shaped like a plug on his head. The years had not been as kind to Megavolt as they had been to Darkwing, who, if his mirror was anything to go by, was getting more dashing by the day. Only a few strands of fried curls stuck out at odd angles from the sides of Megavolt’s head and one of his eyes was distinctly smaller than the other. 

This was even better than Darkwing had been hoping for. 

All of the major superheroes had villains they battled over and over. And now Darkwing had one of his very own. 

“Megavolt,” Darkwing growled, glaring at him from under the brim of his hat. “Thought I scared you away for good at St. Canard’s prom back in ’77.” (Better to pretend he hadn’t been in attendance as one of it’s students.) 

“I mean,” Megavolt scratched his head, those blue rubber cleaning gloves on his hands, “I don’t know if I’d call it scared.” 

“Terrified, then,” substituted Darkwing. 

“Annoyed, I guess,” Megavolt put in, shrugging. “You ruined my fun.” 

“I wouldn’t call picking on innocent children fun, Megavolt,” Darkwing said, fishing through his pockets for a gas canister. Tear gas wasn’t an option since Megavolt was wearing safety goggles. Laughing gas should work fine, though. 

“Shows how little you know,” Megavolt said, waving him away. “Now, I’m busy, so if you don’t mind…” 

“You need a ticket to attend the concert,” Darkwing said, pulling out his gas canister. “And I have a feeling yours is gonna be invalid.” 

“Concert? Is that why they’ve enslaved these beautiful bulbs?” Megavolt turned back around and placed a gloved hand on the side of one of the searchlights as if he was going to pet it. 

And then he did. 

Pet it.

Like it was a dog. 

It hadn’t occurred to Darkwing that villains could be so… weird. But if he was going to go up against the criminal underbelly, he had to be prepared to face those who weren’t all there mentally. 

“Don’t worry, my pretties,” Megavolt said, patting the searchlight. “I’ll free you.” 

“Sorry, Megavolt, but you aren’t taking those lights anywhere.” Darkwing stuffed the canister into his gas gun. 

“Let me guess.” Megavolt turned to him with a dark grin. “You’re going to be the one to stop me?” 

“I am.” Darkwing aimed his gas gun at the villain. 

“I’ve been liberating lights and other appliances for years,” he whined. “What makes these so special?” 

Years? Megavolt had been committing crimes for years? Why hadn’t they been reported? And why was this the first time Darkwing was hearing about it? Did S.H.U.S.H. know? 

Megavolt didn’t give Darkwing a chance to answer, instead ranting, “What I’m doing is important! You all see lights differently, see some of them as more important than others. But they’re all equal. They all are unique feats of genius. But no one cares when I take home lights that have been cast off, those that are burned out or broken. And as soon as I come to free some that are a little bigger, all of the sudden I can’t liberate them from your enslavement. Have you stopped to think that lightbulbs also have feelings?” 

“You,” said Darkwing, eyeing him, “really need to seek some professional help.” 

“I’ve got all the help I need,” Megavolt said, facing Darkwing and clenching his fists. As he did, sparks of electricity surged around his hands and spidered up his wrists. 

Was that fear or excitement that shot up Darkwing’s spine? Because, with the years that stretched between their meetings, Darkwing had forgotten that Megavolt had powers. Specifically, the ability to control and wield electricity. 

In hindsight, the desire to free lightbulbs made way more sense. 

Scowling, Darkwing fired. The laughing gas exploded in a cloud over Megavolt’s head. Darkwing ducked behind the A/C units to avoid the vapor, fishing out another canister and reloading his gun. 

Megavolt dissolved into a fit of giggles. Darkwing peered around the unit in time to see him shatter the glass of the searchlight’s door. He reached inside and twisted the bulb free. 

That would be why he wore rubber gloves. They didn’t conduct electricity. 

“Oh, no you don’t, Megavolt!” Darkwing said, leaping out and pointing his gas gun at the villain. But what good would more laughing gas do? Megavolt didn’t seem affected at all other than his reedy chuckles as he made his way to another searchlight. 

Growling, Darkwing stuffed his gas gun into this costume and took off at a run across the rooftop, grabbing Megavolt around the waist and tackling him to the ground. Megavolt cackled all the way down. Using his cape to protect his hands, Darkwing managed to wrestle the lightbulb free from Megavolt’s grasp. 

“Hey!” Megavolt still loosed a giggle or two, but his eyes were narrowed in frustration. 

“Sorry, Megavolt,” he said, standing and cradling the lightbulb in his cape. It was still very warm. He turned around to put it back. “Your days of stealing anything are over. From now on, you’ll be under the watchful gaze of Darkwing Duck. No bulb will go unnoticed, no electrical current forgotten, for Darkwing Duck doesn’t let anything of importance slip by— oops!” 

He tripped over some of the cabling on the rooftop and sprawled forward, face planting. The bulb soared out of his grasp and fell in a graceful arc, shattering as it made contact with the roof. Darkwing sat up, shaking his head to clear the fuzzy feeling in his beak from hitting it dead on. 

An enraged growl loosed from somewhere behind him. 

“Oh, now you’ve done it!” Megavolt cried. “You’ve hurt my feelings and broken one of my poor enslaved children!” 

Darkwing turned and saw the villain outlined in an electric blue glow of electricity that surged up and down his body. Like a live wire. 

Okay. 

Maybe he was out of his depth here. 

Megavolt walked forward slowly, a smile spreading across his muzzle. “You know,” he said, his voice softer, less angry, “I’ve always preferred my duck fried.” 

He pointed a finger at Darkwing. 

And shot a beam of electricity toward him. 

Run. 

He should run. 

Scrambling up, Darkwing narrowly missed the shot of electricity that scorched the roof where he’d been lying mere moments before. 

What was he supposed to do? He didn’t have powers. He was just a normal duck. 

No, he wasn’t normal. He was Darkwing Duck. He didn’t need powers. He had brains. 

So, what repelled electricity? 

He ran across the roof as Megavolt sent another current of energy after him, now using both hands to direct the surges. 

Electric currents couldn’t easily pass through insulators. The best insulator was rubber. None of which he had on him. 

Darkwing was fast running out of roof. He had no plan. Other than to not get fried. 

He’d stopped Megavolt before.

What had he done? 

Trapped him in the prom’s disco ball. 

The edge of the building was approaching at an alarming rate. 

He had no disco ball, but maybe he could trap him again. 

Seeing one of the ropes he’d secured earlier, Darkwing changed direction, narrowly missing another blast from Megavolt. He barreled towards the rope, grabbed ahold, and leapt off the rooftop. A buzz of Megavolt’s electric shock singed his tail feathers. 

The air whistled in his ears, his feathers whipping around his face as he fell. Gripping the rope, Darkwing managed to maneuver himself so he was perpendicular to the wall with his feet inches from the brick facade of the building. The rope pulled taught, stopping his fall, but instead of coming to a halt, he used his accumulated motion to run along the wall. His feet pounded on the building as he raced to another rope he’d hung a few feet away. 

Reaching out, he managed to get a grip on the new rope and let go of the first. Clutching to the new one, he shimming up towards the roof. 

Panting, still not really sure how he was supposed to succeed, Darkwing pulled himself up onto the ledge of the building. Megavolt was on the opposite side, peering over the edge, probably looking for him. 

Grinning, Darkwing grabbed a smoke bomb out of his jacket, detonated it, and tossed it down as he got his feet under him. 

But what was he supposed to say now? 

He’d already introduced himself and had gone to the trouble of using another smoke bomb, so it wasn’t like Darkwing could do a sneak attack. (Why hadn’t he thought of a sneak attack?!) It was too late now, the smoke was already dissipating. Better think of something else to say.

“I am the outlet that’s lost power and won’t work no matter how many times you reset the breaker!” Darkwing heard himself saying, which wasn’t too shabby. It even sounded coherent. 

Megavolt whirled around, his face twisted in an annoyed scowl. As the smoke dispersed, Darkwing gave him a triumphant grin. 

“Ooh, now I’m getting annoyed!” Megavolt said, sending another wave of electric shock towards Darkwing, who leapt over it and landed back on the roof. 

Megavolt sent blast after blast of electricity, the beams pounding into the roof or ricocheting into the sky. Darkwing managed to dodge and duck and slide out of the way as he wove around the rooftop. Casing the place early had proved useful; he knew the layout better than Megavolt did and was able to use all the nooks and crannies to his advantage. 

“Why won’t you,” Megavolt asked, his tone tight in frustration, “stay still?” He released a blast of energy, bigger than any of the others. This one coming from Megavolt’s entire being rather than just his hands. 

Darkwing managed to tuck and roll to safety, but the blast hit the breaker, cutting all of the power on the roof. And not just the roof. Darkwing heard the frustrated cries of the hundreds of people from the direction of the stairwell. 

The concert. 

Darkwing had completely forgotten about it. 

And now Megavolt had made the whole hall lose power. 

Powerline hadn’t asked for this. And he certainly didn’t deserve to have one of his concerts ruined because some crazy rat was trying to steal his searchlights. (What a sentence.) 

Surging to his feet, Darkwing balled his hands into fists and searched the shadows for Megavolt. 

Luckily, Darkwing had been living in the night hours for the better part of ten years. He had adapted. 

Against the well-lit cityscape, Darkwing had a pretty clear picture of the roof based on the shadowy outlines of the equipment. Where Megavolt had gotten to, Darkwing didn’t know, but he made his way to the edge of the roof and untied a rope, quickly coiling it up beside him. 

A light surged to life somewhere behind him. 

Except it wasn’t a light. It was Megavolt, sparks of electricity winding around his fingers. 

“Come out come out wherever you are, ducky.” He peered around the A/C unit and loosed a growl when he didn’t find his quarry. 

Darkwing crept up behind Megavolt, making sure to stick to the shadows and keep his footsteps silent. He could probably secure the rope around Megavolt from behind. A constrictor knot would keep his hands tied up. 

His electric powers might burn through the rope. Might hit Darkwing and electrocute him. 

It was a risk worth taking. Powerline deserved to have a good concert, and if Darkwing could give him that, it was the least he could do after what his music had done for Darkwing. 

Taking a steadying breath, Darkwing leapt up, tackling Megavolt and quickly wrapping the rope around him, deftly securing his wrists together with the constrictor. 

A surge of electricity shot out from Megavolt’s hands, hitting Darkwing square in the chest. 

He was blasted backwards. Darkwing sprawled on the ground, feeling as though his whole body was alive and humming with a static heat. When the heat abruptly stopped, Darkwing was left feeling like he’d run several marathons around St. Canard. His muscles ached, his head pounded, and he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. 

Turning on his side, eager to curl in on himself until the pain passed, he half opened his eyes to find Megavolt. 

He was thrashing on the ground, unable to get his hands free. 

Hey. 

Darkwing had done it. 

He’d successfully subdued the villain. 

Not stopped him. He would have to turn Megavolt over to the police somehow. But he’d saved the concert. 

The concert! 

His head felt like it weighed about a hundred pounds as Darkwing lifted it, looking back to the breaker box. It had just shorted out, right? So Darkwing could do what he had to sometimes do with his outlets. Turn it off then back on again? 

It was worth a shot. 

Grunting with the effort, Darkwing managed to heave himself up onto all fours and crawled over to the breaker. He reached for the big handle on the side, which was facing downwards and shoved it up. Stretching as far as his fingers could reach, he just managed to get ahold of it again and yanked it down. 

The box sprung to life, lights flashing and motors whirring. 

Things all around the roof clicked back on. The A/C unit’s fan started to spin. The searchlights flickered on before spinning, their beams crisscrossing in the sky. 

Faint cheers could be heard from the stairwell and Darkwing grinned. They weren’t for him directly, but they sort of were. No one knew what he’d done to get the power back on, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was that the concert could continue. 

He was also wondering what to do with Megavolt, who was wriggling on the ground like a fish caught on a hook. 

“Blast you!” Megavolt shouted, his murderous eyes fixed on Darkwing. “I’ll make you pay for this, Darkwing Dip!” 

Did that mean Darkwing had a life-long enemy? 

He sure hoped so. 

Megavolt writhed, another blast of electricity arcing towards Darkwing. 

As he dropped back down to avoid the blast, Darkwing saw the shards of glass scattered on the roof and he grinned. Another insulator. 

Grabbing the biggest piece, he threw it into the electric streak. The blast ricocheted off the glass and harmlessly into the sky. The now scorched shard of glass toppled back to the ground, tinkling into smaller pieces. 

Grinning, Darkwing eyed his flailing enemy. “Maybe you will. But not today, Megavolt.” 

Megavolt roared in frustration and Darkwing stood, hurrying to the second searchlight. Using his lock picks, he made quick work of the hinges on the searchlight’s door. Using the latch and the hinges as anchors, he secured his cape around the glass door and hefted it up on his back like a turtle shell. Or a shield. 

It would be enough to protect him from Megavolt for now. 

He tied the rope more securely around Megavolt’s wrists and used another to restrain his legs, swinging his glass shield around when Megavolt tried to blast him away. His cape was singed (the real tragedy of the night) and the glass darkened with each blast, but it held. The last rope he had was used to bind Megavolt to one of the lattices the searchlights were attached to. 

Then he stood over a searchlight, using his hat to send out a message via morse code. 

SOS ROOFTOP

It took about half an hour, but eventually a few police officers arrived on the scene, looking somewhat aghast at seeing Darkwing, parts of his costume and feathers singed, crouching behind a glass dome and keeping an eye on a villain who was spouting an occasional electric blast. 

“Officers,” Darkwing said, easing himself into a standing position and withholding a wince. He hurt all over. “Megavolt was responsible for the blackout in the concert hall tonight. I managed to subdue him.” 

“How’d you do it?” one of the officers asked as another approached Megavolt cautiously. 

“Oh, just some heroic know how,” Darkwing said, puffing out his chest a little, which he immediately stopped doing when it sent a spike of pain streaking down his spine. 

“Chief Jabiru isn’t gonna believe this,” said the officer who was peering down at Megavolt. 

A jolt of something zipped through Darkwing and he didn’t think it was the electric shock. Jabiru, the new police chief. Once his head was more clear, he could properly process that, but not right now. 

“I suggest some rubber gloves when you restrain him,” Darkwing said. 

“I need to call this in,” said the officer by Megavolt. 

“Ask for backup and the gloves,” said the other one standing beside Darkwing. She turned to him. “Thank you, Darkwing. We appreciate the help.” 

“Think nothing of it,” Darkwing said, unable to withhold his smile. “Just doing my job.” 

“Do you need some medical attention?” She asked, eyeing him warily. 

His head was still pounding, his limbs felt heavy, and he wanted to do nothing more than sleep for the next five years. 

But he still didn’t have health insurance. 

“No, no. Just need to walk it off,” Darkwing said, barely withholding a grimace. “Should I leave Megavolt with you?” 

“Yeah, we got him.” She glared at Megavolt as the other officer talked into his radio. 

“If you need anything else, let me know.” 

“We will.” The officer smiled at him. “Thanks again.” 

Darkwing nodded and eased himself down the stairwell into the hall. He would have preferred a more dramatic exit, like jumping off the roof or something, but he didn’t think his injuries were up for it. The volunteers stationed around the concert hall all gave him a wide berth, eyes wide as he passed them. 

But Darkwing was blind to their stares when he heard Powerline’s voice coming through the speakers. Smiling and humming the song as he made his way outside, Darkwing wandered back to the Tower. 

Chapter Text

Darkwing surveilled the abandoned service garage from a group of bushes for at least an hour before he approached, picking out stray leaves from the pockets of his cape and the ribbon around his fedora. 

He’d arrived back at Darkwing Tower later than usual (or, he guessed, earlier in the morning; nocturnal schedules were a trip) to find a piece of paper pinned to the wall near his bed. The address of this very location was written in messy scrawl with a date and time. 

Feeling like S.H.U.S.H. should probably update their message system, Darkwing had collapsed into bed and promptly did not fall asleep. Instead, he obsessed over what S.H.U.S.H. could possibly want with him. Had he passed their tests? Was this when they offered him a job? Or would Gryzlikoff laugh in his face, telling him that he would never be an agent of S.H.U.S.H. no matter how much J. Gander liked him? 

There was, also, the possibility that this was the work of F.O.W.L., S.H.U.S.H.’s adversary. The Fiendish Organization for World Larceny had recently been gaining traction in the news. Word on the street was that Taurus Bulba, the biggest crime lord the city had seen since the days of the mafia back in the 30’s, had refused to sign on with F.O.W.L. and that was why he had been caught by the police and imprisoned for his ninety-nine life sentences. The take down of Taurus Bulba had only helped to bolster F.O.W.L.’s reputation not just as a criminal organization, but as a safety net for St. Canard’s crooks and delinquents. Rumors were circulating that some of the bigger named villains were in negotiation with the agency with Bulba’s takedown still fresh in everyone’s memory. 

It made sense, didn’t it, that F.O.W.L. would want to eliminate the great hero of St. Canard (ie. him) before he became too big a problem? Not exactly a Moriarty, per say, but very close. Maybe this meeting was when they attempted to lure him to his certain doom. 

Darkwing could only hope. To be seen as such a big threat that he had to be taken out… 

Well. That had always been the dream. 

All told, he’d only gotten a few hours of fitful sleep before he sprang out of bed and journeyed to the meet up location. 

Darkwing crept towards the service garage. Its windows were boarded up and the dusty “CLOSED” sign dangled at an angle in the streaky door window. Drawing out his gas gun, Darkwing pushed the door open. 

Or, he would have. 

If it hadn’t been locked. 

Just a minor set back in his never ending battle against crime. 

Darkwing edged his way around the building, looking for another point of entry. There had to be a way for him to get in; S.H.U.S.H. or F.O.W.L. wouldn’t leave him out to dry. S.H.U.S.H. because this was, likely, his performance review. F.O.W.L. because they would want to eliminate him in as discreet a place as possible. 

All of the windows were boarded up. All the doors locked. Was this part of this test? Getting into a secured building? 

Well, Darkwing Duck wasn’t one to back down. What were locked doors to the Masked Mallard? 

Choosing the door in the back of the service garage, Darkwing deployed his patented double foot webbed kick, the door crashing open. (After he’d done it about four times. Maybe his kick needed more work. At least he had tried it on a building before he’d tried it on a criminal. He’d never have lived that down.) 

Gripping his gas gun, Darkwing entered the building, blinking in the hopes that his eyes would adjust to the darkness more quickly. He’d read somewhere that pirates had worn eyepatches, not to look fearsome (which it did) or because they lost eyes in battles (this they also did), but so their eyes would adjust to the sunlight on deck and the darkness below deck more quickly. Slapping a hand over one eye, Darkwing glanced around the room. He was pleased when his pirate know-how turned out to be useful after all. An eyepatch was decidedly dastardly, but maybe he’d add one to his heroic costume. 

A big open-concept area littered with car jacks met his eyes. Strange clips and hooks were secured to the walls as if to hold tools or car parts. Darkwing dropped his hand from over his eye. It looked like any ordinary service garage. Nothing untoward. 

But there had to be something untoward. 

There weren’t any rafters he could hide in here. Maybe he could duck down in the front office then wait until he heard the group enter, then pop out in his blue smoke (TM). 

Stealing across the garage, Darkwing slipped into the front of the building. Where a decent sized lobby met him. Two offices, a large counter, a big tiled area in the front where car parts could be sold and chairs were situated for a waiting area. All empty now and looking pretty ghostly with all the accumulated dust and grime. Darkwing glanced into the offices, determining which space would be better suited for a surprise entrance. 

The second one behind the counter caught his interest, but not as a potential hiding place. 

It was only half the size it should have been. 

Darkwing glanced back in the lobby, sizing up the expanse of it. Then looked back in the office. 

Unless there was industrial pipes and electrical units built into the far wall of the office, it was much smaller. Swapping his gas gun for his magnifying glass (knowing how much he looked like Sherlock Holmes and proud of the comparison), Darkwing began inspecting the office for any sort of oddities. And he found one. 

A small tear in the wallpaper. When it was peeled back, he saw a button installed in the wall. 

Tucking his magnifying glass away, Darkwing took a breath to steel himself. Then he pressed it. 

The far wall moved, sliding up like a garage door and disappearing into the ceiling. Behind the false wall was a staircase. Digging his gas gun back out, Darkwing gripped it tightly as he darted down into the bowels of the building. 

The wall must have slid back in place above him because a loud clang echoed around the room and he was plunged into complete darkness. He was a heartbeat away from grabbing out his flashlight (which he hated using; a hero carrying around a flashlight didn’t inspire much fear) when he saw a thin beam of golden light below. Snaking out from underneath what looked to be a door at the bottom of the staircase. Behind which his counterparts were doubtless stationed. 

Taking deep breaths, Darkwing edged his way down the rest of the stairs. Felt along the door until he located the handle. Readied his gas gun. 

Then deployed a gas cartridge moments before he flung open the door.  

“I am the Terror that Flaps in the Night!” He tucked away his gas gun. “I am the henchman who unwittingly revealed the secret location of a hideout!” He grabbed the edges of his cape. “I am Darkwing Duck!” He stepped into the room just as the smoke cleared. 

The room was empty except for a woman with dark hair, a lab coat, and glasses who was blinking at him in surprise. It looked like some sort of mad scientists lab with bits and bobs around the walls. She was bent over what looked like a soldering station. 

Darkwing was debating whether to question the bespectacled woman as if she were the suspect of a crime, or apologizing and asking where J. Gander/the F.O.W.L. High Command were stationed. 

Luckily, his decision was made for him. 

“Darkwing, my boy!” 

He wasn’t gonna lie, the fact that it was J. Gander Hooter walking towards him with that approving smile on his beak caused Darkwing’s heart to sink a little. He hadn’t realized how much he had been hoping for F.O.W.L. until the possibility was taken away. 

“I told you he would figure out how to get down here,” J. Gander said with a furtive glance up at Gryzlikoff who lumbered beside the small owl. He growled something under his breath, but J. Gander looked to Darkwing, his smile firmly in place. “How have your weeks of crime fighting been going?” 

“Quite successfully, sir,” said Darkwing, puffing out his chest and placing his hands on his hips. “But what do you have to say?” 

“Your introductions have become even more ridiculous,” growled Gryzlikoff with a roll of his eyes. “And you are still far too volatile.” 

“On this volatility,” said J. Gander, “we are in agreement.” 

Darkwing’s heart sank. 

He’d been trying so hard. 

He even had a tried and true villain who was now a sworn enemy in Megavolt. And it still hadn’t been enough. 

But Darkwing couldn’t follow rules and regulations. It went against everything he did as a hero. He was all about unpredictability and catching his enemies (and sometimes [often] himself) by surprise. 

Well, if S.H.U.S.H. couldn’t support him in this, things would be okay. Sure, he probably wouldn’t get anymore cool gadgets like his beloved gas gun. But he was better off on his own. He'd been doing just fine before S.H.U.S.H. and he’d keep doing well. He’d never needed anyone. He worked alone. 

“And I think it is your strongest asset.” J. Gander grinned up at Darkwing. “S.H.U.S.H. would like to formally offer you a position in our organization.” 

It felt like all of the breath had left Darkwing’s lungs all at once. He gasped, choked on the sudden intake of air, and coughed before managing to get out a shaky, “R-really?” 

“Yes, my boy.” J. Gander’s eyes twinkled behind his half moon spectacles. 

The woman who was still in the room was smiling, too. 

Gryzlikoff was decidedly not smiling, but Darkwing had a feeling that the glower was just a normal expression on the bear’s face. 

“I-I… I’m…. Yes! I accept!” 

“Wonderful!” J. Gander clapped his hands together and motioned to the woman in the room. “This is Dr. Sara Bellum, our esteemed scientist. She has been working on a few upgrades to your gas gun as well as more technological advances we think could benefit your heroic escapades. Would you mind terribly if we were to renovate your hideout on the Audubon Bay Bridge?” 

“Darkwing Tower?” Darkwing asked, grinning at Dr. Bellum as he shook her hand. 

“Is that what you call it?” J. Gander said, looking positively delighted. Gryzlikoff snorted. 

“Um, yeah?” 

“I am glad to know it’s official title.” J. Gander turned to Gryzlikoff. “Would you mind getting the paperwork for Darkwing’s employment? I want to get everything in order today.” 

Gryzlikoff hesitated for only a moment, glaring daggers at Darkwing — and probably planning on how best to stab him with actual daggers — before nodding to J. Gander and leaving the room. 

“Gryzlikoff is an agent who lives by our rules and regulations, you understand,” J. Gander explained. “Your methods are opposite of his, so I anticipate some differences of opinion. Of course, if we didn’t have you, we would never look at situations in a different light. I keep trying to convince him of such things, but he is resolute. Perhaps one day. Anyway, Dr. Bellum.” 

Sara Bellum gestured to to her workbench, which had more gas canisters as well as a grappling hook. Darkwing was ready to cry as she took his gas gun and walked him through how to use his upgrades. But it was nothing to the rush of emotion he felt when she led him into another room with more tech they were going to outfit Darkwing Tower in. Including a motorcycle. 

Darkwing approached it slowly, fingers reaching out and caressing its gleaming varnish. It had been painted in his signature purple. The hood was shaped like a beak curving over the front tire, the windshield reminiscent of his eyes behind the mask. Exhaust pipes curved up the sides and rose in the back, reminiscent of his cape billowing behind him in the wind. 

“It’s rigged with everything you could possibly want for a motorcycle and then some,” explained Dr. Bellum. “Ejector seat, the ability to drive over any terrain, including under water as long as you can hold your breath, a sidecar for extra weapon storage or to hold criminals after you’ve arrested them. The wings back here,” she motioned to the back, “funnel the exhaust to keep it out of your line of sight and offering an extra burst of speed.”

Darkwing was trying to keep it together. 

He really was. 

But there was a sizable lump in his throat as he circled the motorcycle in awe. 

He had his own set of wheels. 

He couldn’t cry here in front of his new employer and his co-workers, but it was a very near thing. 

“I’ve been calling it the Ratcatcher,” said J. Gander, watching Darkwing with that knowing smile on his beak. Almost like he knew how close Darkwing was to losing his composure right here in this abandoned service garage turned S.H.U.S.H. secret base. 

Darkwing had to clear his throat before asking, “Ratcatcher, sir?” 

“After your impressive defeat of Megavolt,” J. Gander explained. “He is a rat, after all, and I do not think it was your final run-in with him. You’ll likely be very busy keeping the streets free from his particular form of menace.” 

Darkwing gave a watery smile as he stroked his motorcycle — the Ratcatcher — once more. “Probably.”

“We hope these little trinkets will help in your future endeavors. Ah, Agent Gryzlikoff,” J. Gander held out his hand to the bear who lumbered in with a huge stack of papers. “Thank you. Darkwing, my boy, this is the tedious part of employment, I’m afraid. But once we fill these forms out, we won’t need to do it again.” 

Darkwing nodded, looking forlornly at the Ratcatcher as he was led out of the laboratory and into a large office. There was a wooden desk behind which J. Gander sat as Darkwing took a chair opposite. 

Page by page, they went through the forms. Which was when Darkwing found out he was salaried, would accrue sick and vacation hours (though he didn’t know if or when he’d use either unless he became gruesomely injured), had a healthcare plan, would be outfitted with the latest and greatest S.H.U.S.H. equipment for his hideout and his own use, and was officially under the jurisdiction of the organization, so the police and other governmental officials wouldn’t have any say over his methods or his behavior, all of which S.H.U.S.H. would now regulate. 

As cool as a showdown with F.O.W.L. would have been, Darkwing had to admit that he was grateful it had been S.H.U.S.H. after all who had summoned him here. 

“We normally make our new agents go through orientation training,” said J. Gander as Darkwing signed the last piece of paper, “but you are not an ordinary agent. I don’t want to inundate you with too many S.H.U.S.H. regulations and, thus, potentially take away some of your creativity. I suppose….” He glanced around his office, went to a bookshelf, and pulled out a copy of a thick paperback volume. Handing it to Darkwing, he said, “Our policies. You should read through them at the least, but I’ll dismiss you from the classes we assign our new agents.

“Now, regarding Darkwing Tower, when would be a good time for us to come by?” 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

Darkwing Tower had been his haven. His home. 

But now it was a real bonafide secret hideout worthy of the greatest of heroes. 

His bookshelves were filled with volumes he had dreamed of owning but hadn’t had the money for. His furniture was upgraded, so he had a real armchair in his study and his bed didn’t sag when he laid down anymore. An additional point of entry was installed in the floor of Darkwing Tower in the form of a lift. He gained access to it via the watery bottom of Audubon Bay and was raised into his hideout. The Ratcatcher was given a prominent home next to this. 

A computer was installed in the far wall with video calling capabilities which meant J. Gander didn’t have to resort to handwritten notes to meet with Darkwing anymore. It came with an upgraded police scanner (of sorts) that tracked the activities of the more well-known criminals in St. Canard and alerted Darkwing to their whereabouts. His kitchen was upgraded to a training course where he had to dodge and weave his way through a timed physical test before he was rewarded with breakfast to keep him fit and at the top of his game. 

It was everything Darkwing had been dreaming of and all he’d been hoping to one day own. 

And it was all his. 

After almost fifteen years, Darkwing was officially the hero he had always envisioned himself being. 

He hoped St. Canard was ready. 

Darkwing Duck would own the night. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

“I am the Terror that Flaps in the Night!” The blue smoke(TM) swirled around him in voluminous clouds as he spread his cape out behind him. “I am the black spots on film reels that ruin the scenes. I am Darkwing Duck!” 

The smoke cleared and a walrus peered back at him, an excited look on his face. “Would you mind doing that again?” he asked, pulling over his camera and peering through the viewfinder. “I want to capture such a magnificent entrance!” 

Darkwing preened slightly (maybe more than slightly. Hey, could you blame him?), but quickly sobered. “You should have thought about that before you stole all of those props from the film studios!” Darkwing studied the equipment. “By the looks of it, it seems you stole more than props.” 

“Alas!” the walrus bemoaned, a hand coming up to his head like he was about to faint, “I am but a poor film student who cannot afford to make the pictures he dreams of! They haunt me, visions of these would-be films and how they can change the course of the entertainment industry!” 

Why were all the criminals Darkwing went up against certifiable? 

“Sure, sure, sure. Well Mr. uh, what was your name?” 

“Tuskerninni! The great director!” He rolled the “r” in “great” as he gestured grandly with his hand. 

And Darkwing was accused of being dramatic. 

“Well Mr. Tuskerninni, your projects are about to be cancelled!” 

His face twisting into a sneer, Tuskerninni shoved the camera towards Darkwing, who dodged it deftly. “You’ll have to catch me first, caped mysterio!” 

“Gladly!” Darkwing said. 

He caught Tuskerninni and sent him to prison. J. Gander gave him a raise. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

“Who’s the wise guy? And what da heck is he wearin’?” said a rooster, peering down his gleaming bill at Darkwing. 

So he’d been hasty in checking out this F.O.W.L. base. Had he, theoretically, assumed that the organization had not continued to use it after it had been gutted by a fire? Maybe. (Yes.) Had he, feasibly, let his guard down and then didn’t anticipate getting taken hostage by this rooster and a handful of F.O.W.L. Eggmen? Who was to say? (Also yes.) 

But Darkwing loved a good challenge. And going up against this incredibly well-dressed F.O.W.L. agent was the most excitement Darkwing had had the past few months. (It was a really nice suit. Only a two piece, though. But a criminal’s fashion sense only went so far.) 

“We haven’t met yet,” Darkwing said, grinning up at his captor. “Allow me to introduce myself!” He jumped up to his feet, his wrists freed from the rope bonds thanks to his buzzsaw cufflinks. 

“Grab him you goons!” the rooster cried, the Eggmen moving towards Darkwing. 

But he detonated one of his blue smoke bombs and used the coverage to scamper away. Climbing up onto one of the towers of crates, Darkwing tossed another blue smoke bomb down and said, “I am the Terror that Flaps in the Night! I am the gun that jams just when you need it most! I am Darkwing Duck!” 

As the smoke cleared away, Darkwing felt a twang of fear when he saw the rooster grinning at him like Christmas had come early. 

“Darkwing Duck,” the rooster said. “You’re reputation precedes ya. Yer one of dem S.H.U.S.H. lackeys who’s been interferin’ with F.O.W.L.’s plans.” 

Darkwing flipped his cape at the compliment. “I’ve been proud to do it, Agent…?” 

But he didn’t need an introduction. From his higher vantage point, Darkwing was able to see how the light glinted off of the rooster’s bill and his fear exploded into full-blown terror. The rooster’s beak was metal. As Darkwing’s reputation had preceded him, the rooster’s was just as well known to Darkwing. 

Steelbeak. One of the highest ranking F.O.W.L. agents. 

Hoo boy. 

“I feel almost insulted that ya don’t know me,” Steelbeak taunted. “But I don’t see much need to introduce myself since I’m gonna be scramblin’ your brains.” He pulled out a crowbar from his suit jacket. 

Darkwing did manage to escape, but only because he detonated the F.O.W.L. base. (Accidentally, but no one needed to know that. Who knew dynamite could be so touchy?) Steelbeak swore his revenge and Gryzlikoff gave him a long lecture about the proper usage of explosives. No raise, but he’d been congratulated on taking one of F.O.W.L.’s active bases off the map. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

Seriously, was Darkwing wearing a sign or something? One that read “will only deal with nutcases”? How did he keep running into these, quite literally, insane criminals? 

“Sorry, Ammonia Pine, but you won’t be stopping construction here today!” 

“But look at this place!” she wailed. “It’s a dump!” 

Looked like a pretty standard construction zone to Darkwing. Admittedly, it was a little untidy, but weren’t all construction sites? 

“If you’re gonna stand in my way, I’ll just have to clean the floor with you before I clean the rest of this place!” Ammonia threatened. Which, as far as banter went, wasn’t the strongest Darkwing had come up against, but the cleaning fumes seemed to have disintegrated part of her brain. 

She was almost too easy to beat, getting distracted by anything out of place or slightly smudged. Darkwing successfully employed his patented double foot webbed kick to take her down just in time for the police to swoop in and arrest her. 

There was no newspapers or TV news stations, but Darkwing didn’t blame them. Ammonia certainly wouldn’t make for good TV. Even if Darkwing did look immaculate today. 

Some wise guy in a suit came up to him after, though, and said, “I just wanted to say thank you.” 

Darkwing whirled around, proud of how his cape fanned out behind him, and waved away the thanks. “Just doing my job, citizen!” 

The wise guy’s jaw dropped. “Darkwing Duck?” 

“Why, yes! You want an autographed photo?” He dug around in his cape. “I’m sure I have some around here somewhere…” 

“No, I— I’m sure you don’t remember me, but…” 

Darkwing looked up, fully taking in the person before him. His eyebrows rose. He did remember. How could he forget? “Billy Bluebottle?” 

Billy grinned and spread his arms in a half shrug. “It’s been awhile.” 

“It has.” 

He looked so much older. Lines had started to carve trails around his face and there was a more decided slump in his shoulders. The suit was more expensive looking than the last one Darkwing had seen him in. Had that much time really passed? Wasn’t it only yesterday that Billy was the valedictorian of their graduating class? And where did that leave Darkwing, all this time later? How different did he look?

Shaking himself, Darkwing asked, “You have anymore overdue books?” 

Billy grinned. “Not a one. I’ve never been late with anything since you found me that night.” 

Something warm spread through Darkwing’s chest and he nodded, not sure of what to say. 

“Thanks for saving my project,” Billy said, gesturing back to the construction area. 

“The least I can do,” Darkwing said. “Darkwing Duck protects all of St. Canard.” 

“Well, keep up the good work, Darkwing. And thanks again.” 

Darkwing didn’t get a raise or even any accolades for stopping Ammonia Pine from shutting down the construction of the new City Hall, but somehow Darkwing felt like he’d walked away with the biggest prize of them all. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

Darkwing brought the Ratcatcher to a halt, the criminals he’d secured in his sidecar soaring through the air and crashing into the police station. As he swaggered in, Darkwing caught sight of a mustachioed officer behind the front desk, peering down at the criminals who had been delivered to his proverbial doorstep. 

“Another order of dastardly delinquents deposited on your doorstep courtesy of Darkwing Duck.” He hopped atop the criminals to better look the officer in the eye. 

Smiling, he offered, “That’s two words, not three. Both ‘D’s capitalized.” He fished out a photograph he’d taken of his heroic self and his business card and handed them over. “Here’s my photo. If the papers need more glossies, my number’s on the card.” 

Leaping back down onto the ground, Darkwing declared, “Now I must go!” He sniffed, wrapped his cape around himself, and stalked out of the station, calling, “The scent of crime in in the air!” 

He exited the station and paused on the stoop, feeling his cape flapping in the wind behind him and waited. 

But only silence met him. 

He glanced up and down the street only to find it completely empty. Where was the press? The action news van should have been here to witness his triumphant take down! True, these were just your standard burglars that Darkwing had stopped from stealing… whatever it was they were after from the Natural History Museum. This wasn’t your Megavolt or Steelbeak, or someone who demanded attention from the press. 

But he’d spent all afternoon ironing his cape. 

With a sigh, he revved the engine and took off down the deserted streets. He drove straight up the cables to the Tower, parking his motorcycle and surveying his surroundings. 

Another night cleansed of its criminal element thanks to Darkwing Duck. 

He leapt off his bike with a mighty yawn, deciding to make himself some breakfast for dinner before he hit the hay. By way of the elaborate training course, he gathered everything a champion needs for breakfast, complete with cereal, grapefruit, orange juice, eggs, and toast, all cooked and put together to perfection and in a new record time. 

… Except for the milk, which was delivered by way of the refrigerator launching itself into the sky.  He always forgot the milk, and so was crushed beneath the appliance which really put him off his appetite, his hard-earned foodstuffs squished and scattered around the kitchen. 

Deciding to skip breakfast, he headed up to bed, changing out of his Darkwing suit and into pajamas, though he was careful to keep his mask on. It simply wouldn’t do to have J. Gander video call him and suddenly know his secret identity, after all. 

Not that there was much of an identity to hide. 

Stretching out on the mattress and pulling the blankets up over his chest, he looked up at his ceiling which was lightening with the first rays of sunlight.

Even with his rogue’s gallery increasing, Darkwing still wished he could get a shot at a really big time criminal. His very own Professor Moriarty. 

Chapter Text

Sitting on the topmost spire of Darkwing Tower in an easy chair that was poised so perfectly he could lounge in comfort without a fear of falling, Darkwing scanned the skyline with a pair of binoculars as the twilight shadows crept across the sky. And his eagle eyes caught sight of… an eagle? 

He dropped the binoculars to blink (maybe he hadn’t gotten enough sleep? But if he was dozing off, what a weirdly specific dream…) before he brought them back up to study the bird of prey that was soaring across the twilight sky. (It wasn’t imagined; it was actually there.) Ah, it was a condor, not an eagle. Which still didn’t make any sense. Nor did it explain the suitcase clutched in its talons. 

“I know birds travel south, but this is the first one I’ve seen with luggage. This bit of feathery intrigue is best investigated by Darkwing Duck!” He sprang from his chair and dropped down an opening in the roof of the Tower, landing on the Ratcatcher. Wasting no time, he revved the engine and took off, tires squealing as he sped down the cabling and followed the condor. 

The bird led him through the city and out to the rolling green hills in between St. Canard and Duckburg. Past sleepy cottages and weigh stations all the way to the railroad and the train currently speeding along the tracks. 

Usually, Darkwing prided himself on his deductive skills, on his ability to piece together a villainous scheme and counteract it with his own personal brand of heroism. But, he had to admit, this was elluding him. The condor was likely the minion of someone… whether it was a nefarious someone or a righteous someone remained to be seen. (Please be a nefarious someone, please be a nefarious someone, please be a nefarious someone.)

The condor soared above the train, flying in the same course. He needed to get on that train. 

Accelerating, Darkwing steered the Ratcatcher onto the tracks behind the locomotive before slamming the “autopilot” button. Leaping onto the handlebars, he reached for the caboose’s railings. When his feather tips only brushed the chilled metal rail, Darkwing loosed a frustrated growl. Gathering his fortitude, he lunged from his bike and grabbed ahold of the caboose with a grin. 

Pulling himself onto the platform, still feeling like his bones were rattling around in his body, Darkwing dug through his suit pockets. Settling the small black device in his palm, he pushed a few buttons, effectively sending the Ratcatcher back to Darkwing Tower to await further instructions. Obediently, the bike slowed and drove off back towards the city. Gotta love modern day technology. 

Darkwing turned towards the door and pushed into the caboose where he found an old goose sorting mail. 

“One side, conductor person,” Darkwing said, walking past the goose and making his way towards the opposite side of the car to the other door. 

“Hey! Wait! You can’t go in there! That’s top secret!” called the employee. 

But Darkwing was too quick for the aging train mailman conductor whatever-he-was, and had already reached the door, his feathered fingers curling around the handle. “Don’t worry,” he assured the employee. “Just checking on an unauthorized bird boarding.” 

He opened the door and turned to continue on his way when he caught sight of two military personnel standing guard on the very next car over. S.H.U.S.H. may have jurisdiction in St. Canard, possibly in all of Calisota, but he doubted they had much say over one of their agents fighting against the U.S. military. 

Shutting the door, Darkwing peered through the circular window to better gauge the situation. Maybe he would catch sight of that condor again. And how, exactly, would he explain that? 

“Yes, sir, military person, sir. You see, I boarded this train (illegally) by following a bird of prey. Yes, it is odd behavior for a bird of prey, that was why I was so intrigued, you see.” 

No, thank you. 

But all thoughts of how he could explain his presence flew from his mind when he recognized the two faces in the military uniforms. Hoof and Mouth. Who worked for Taurus Bulba. 

… Was Bulba active again? He was still serving time in prison (99 life sentences, remember?). Or did this mean his cronies were working for someone else? Or OR had they struck out on their own? Regardless, their presence here could only mean that they were up to no good. A train heist with Taurus Bulba’s henchmen? This is what Darkwing Duck was born for. 

Darkwing grabbed out a smoke canister and opened the door a crack, detonating it. He slipped out onto the platform under cover of his smoke, calling out, “I am the Terror that Flaps in the Night!” He climbed atop the train’s handrail and grabbed the edges of his cape, spreading it out. “I am the switch that derails your train!” 

His blue smoke evaporated and he arranged his expression to one he hoped would strike fear into the hearts of Bulba’s cronies. “I am Darkwing Du—” 

Hoof and Mouth just… pointed their weapons at him and fired. 

Darkwing cleverly (not accidentally at all) used another smoke bomb to hide his escape and ducked underneath the barrage of bullets, slinking across the connecting coupler between the cars, and positioned himself behind the two henchmen. 

As the smoke cleared, they ceased their fire, Mouth hurriedly bumbling, “Do you think he’s dead? I think he’s dead. Do you think he’s dead? He must be dead.” 

Darkwing puffed out his chest, balling his hands into fists. “Sorry, I’m fine.” He hit each of the henchmen on their heads, dazing them both. “But you two are taking a turn for the worse.” Grabbing the sashes of their uniforms, Darkwing tugged the fabric and the two twisted around, disorienting them. He propped them up on the hand railing and dug around in his cape for a pair of handcuffs. He couldn’t wait to bring these two in! Maybe he should skip the police station and take them straight into S.H.U.S.H.. Surely J. Gander would be interested in Bulba’s henchmen being back on the playing field. 

A blinding flash caused Darkwing to glance up at the distraction. 

It was the train conductor mailman person from the caboose. A camera was pointed at Darkwing. Another flash emitted into the darkness and the tell-tale clicking sound reaching Darkwing’s ears. 

“Photos?” Darkwing asked, a thrill dancing down his spine. Finally! He scrambled back towards the caboose, pulling the train employee onto the platform. “You’ll never get a good shot from there!”

Leaping back to his dazed not quite yet restrained criminals, Darkwing clambered atop them, putting his hands on his hips and grinning. “Now, go ahead. Take it.” 

There was only a moment’s hesitation before the conductor mailman person resumed the photos. Darkwing grabbed the edges of his cape and spread it wide. “How's this? It’s not too pretentious, I hope.”

Darkwing had only just busted Taurus Bulba’s henchmen and was already getting his photo taken! He’d be in the papers. Famous for his efforts against these agents of evil. It heartened him to know the citizens of St. Canard would be reassured of their safety under his watchful gaze. (And that they would finally know who he was. Maybe he’d get a fan. Multiple!) 

After a few more flashes and clicks, Darkwing waved the conductor mailman person away, saying, “Listen, I have to get back to work. But you make sure you get copies to all the major dailies.” The man scowled at Darkwing, but turned to go back inside the caboose and Darkwing called, “Oh, and I’d like a set, too!” 

“Yeah?” came a new voice from behind him. “Well, paste this in your scrapbook!” Something hit Darkwing directly in the back (and he was no spring chicken anymore. He knew he’d be feeling this for days). He flew through the air, colliding head-long with the caboose’s door. 

Slouching to the ground, Darkwing massaged his forehead, where he could already feel a headache forming behind his eyes. Great. A back injury and a headache. He was on a roll. 

“You’re out of your league, duck,” said the same voice that had joined the tussle. Darkwing looked back, his jaw dropping. Hammerhead Hannigan. Taurus Bulba’s right hand man. Dressed in his usual pinstriped suit. (Steelbeak wished he looked this good. Pinstripes really added some umph, you know?)  

What was going on here? What was on this train that it had brought all of Taurus Bulba’s henchmen aboard? 

Hannigan grinned and disconnected the train cars, holding the pin in one hand as he waved to Darkwing with the other.  “You better run along to your costume party!”

“You can’t get rid of Darkwing Duck that easily!” He reached into his suit and yanked out his gas gun.

Pulling out his grappling hook, he loaded it, aimed, and fired towards the advancing train. The hook soared through the distance that was growing between them every second and caught onto the handrails of the train car. And that’s why S.H.U.S.H. paid him the big bucks! 

Darkwing’s triumph was short lived as something on the train car exploded, lifting the car off the tracks and into the air. Unable to think of what to do other than hang on, Darkwing gripped onto his gas gun. The rope attached to his grappling hook pulled taught as he dangled from the end of it. 

He was so focused on not letting go, on trying to ignore how sweaty his hands were getting, on how it would be so very bad if he dropped from this height, that he didn’t notice something was following him. 

The same condor that had led him to this train. 

It soared near Darkwing, its talons and beak flashed dangerously in the moonlight. Okay, it had to be in league with Bulba’s henchmen, right? What other reason did it have for being here? And why come after him? He was the hero!

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” Darkwing cried as it soared a little too close for comfort. 

But it was too late. The bird’s sharp beak snipped right through his rope. 

He wasn’t sure if the swooping sensation in his stomach was from panic or the fall as he tumbled down towards the ground. 

This was it. 

How Darkwing Duck met his demise. 

No, this couldn’t be it.

There had to be something he could do. 

Some trick up his sleeve. 

He had no parachute to deploy. 

But he had a cape. 

It was better than nothing. 

Darkwing stuffed the gas gun into his suit before grabbing onto his cape and trying to angle it precisely so it would catch the wind. It took some doing. And all of his muscles (some of which he didn’t even know he had… which would only make him even more sore tomorrow). But act as a parachute it did, the pink lined cape ballooning out and slowing his fall. 

He tried to aim for a large section of soft grass. 

But a dumb airplane hanger came out of nowhere. And Darkwing crashed right through the roof. He landed in an undignified heap beside some old timey plane that the Wright Brothers had probably piloted.  

Dazed by the impact and disoriented with the rush of falling from the sky and surviving, Darkwing remained sprawled on the ground for a few moments. Bruised, battered, but never defeated. Darkwing Duck would spring back to action. After a few more minutes. (Seriously, this aging thing was really uncool. Was there a petition he could sign, or…?) 

When the world stopped spinning and the throbbing from his impact faded to a dull pulsing, Darkwing rolled up onto his feet, dusting off his suit. He’d never get these stains out of the fabric. Maybe this suit could become the one he used as a sample for future suits. The S.H.U.S.H. tailors needed all the help they could get. 

“Hold it right there, you pirate!” 

Darkwing whirled around, seeing nothing but a huge brown blur racing towards him. Holding out his hands to show his lack of rapier or eyepatch, Darkwing called, “No, no, no! I’m a—”

He was bulldozed by the mass of umber and sepia and very effectively wrestled to the ground. Darkwing was halfway to reaching for his gas gun when his head was shoved into a tire. His bill caught on the rubber, causing the tire to sit immovable on his head. Like he was in some cheap Saturday morning cartoon. 

Trying to yank himself free, he heard the sorrel-clad monstrosity say, “Nobody messes with the airplanes in my hanger! Or my name isn’t Launchpad McQuack.” 

He didn’t have the patience for this. He didn’t have the time for this. Taurus Bulba’s henchmen were getting farther and farther away the longer Darkwing tussled with this terra-cotta tosser. 

Still grappling with the tire, Darkwing said, his voice muffled by the rubber, “You don’t understand! I’m not a thief! I’m…”

Something yanked the tire free and Darkwing gasped down a lung full of the fresh air. He collapsed onto the ground, completely exhausted from his night’s escapades. There better be some big reward for this case. 

“You’re Darkwing Duck!” squealed the tawny (he assumed) Launchpad McQuack. (What a name.)

Darkwing paused, looking up at this looney layabout. And he really had to crane his neck back, because this duck was huge. Towering well over Darkwing’s head with massive shoulders, a beak that looked to be the cross between a duck’s and a pelican’s, and a shock of red hair poking out from a pilot’s cap. 

But this giant wasn’t what had caught Darkwing’s attention. “You know me?” 

No one knew him. Okay, a few people knew him, but they didn’t get his name right. It was always Darkwing Dip or Dorkwing Duck or some other playground plagiarism that sat a little too close to home. 

“Know you?” Launchpad helped Darkwing stand and dusted him off, the pounding a little forceful on his battered body, but effective as clouds of dust flew off Darkwing. “I’m your biggest fan!” 

“A fan? Really?!” (Darkwing’s voice might have gone a few octaves higher than normal, but he could excuse that. He had always wanted to meet his biggest fan.) 

Launchpad wasn’t exactly the fan Darkwing had thought he’d acquire on his heroic escapades (he seemed to be a bit of a recluse rather than a well-adjusted filthy rich person who would become his patron and benefactor), but beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

Hearing the note of desperation that had colored his tone, Darkwing cleared his throat and painted a skeptical expression on his face. “I mean… Really?” 

“Sure!” said Launchpad, undeterred by Darkwing’s skepticism. His eyes were kind, the crows feet around his eyes deep with how large his smile was. “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh,” said Darkwing as casually as he could, though he was unable to keep some of his pride out of his voice (going up against Taurus Bulba’s henchmen was nothing to sneeze at), “just another stop over in my never ending fight against—” 

That’s when he saw Launchpad. 

Really saw Launchpad.

Took in the pilot’s cap. The brown coat that was actually a bomber jacket. The cream scarf secured around his neck. And, probably most telling, he was standing next to an airplane. And hadn’t he  called this dump his hanger? 

“Hey, you’re a pilot!” Darkwing exclaimed. “We can use this plane to catch those crooks!” He darted towards the Wright Brothers plane, clambered up onto the wing, and slid into the front seat. Clearly the passenger seat (he deduced, since there was a lack of controls up here). 

“Oh, I got something a lot better than this plane!” Launchpad said, still smiling as he turned and walked away.

Feeling panic bubble in his chest as this pilot (his only chance to capture Bulba’s henchmen) left, Darkwing cried, “No time! Get in! We have evil doers to thwart.”

Launchpad stopped. He turned, thumbing over his shoulder. His gestures were big, eager, honest. “But in the next hanger, I got this—”

“No, fan!” Darkwing interrupted. Fan. That was it! He could use that to his advantage. “I’ll give you my autograph.” 

Launchpad ran towards the plane so fast it was like he teleported there. 

Who knew those would ever be magic words? Darkwing had dreamed of them having an effect on people, but to actually see it… It was pretty cool. 

“I’m here for ya, DW!” Launchpad leapt into the seat behind Darkwing. 

DW? 

It was a better option than Darkwing Dip, but honestly. 

“That’s Darkwing,” he corrected. 

Launchpad gave no indication that he’d heard, just started the plane’s engine and hit the gas pedal. Darkwing had no issue with Launchpad flooring it. The faster the better; villains getting away and all that. 

But (and it was a big but), the plane was in reverse. 

Gaining speed. 

Taking off. 

Flying through the air. 

Backwards. 

“Hey, you know, I could be your sidekick!” Launchpad yelled over the whoosh of air whipping around them. 

Now, Darkwing wasn’t a plane expert. If the vehicle was anything other than the Ratcatcher, he didn’t really know how to operate it (and sometimes he barely knew how to operate the Ratcatcher [Dr. Bellum was a super genius and had designed it so that it was easy to operate… for someone like her, which Darkwing decidedly was not]). All that to say he was pretty sure that piloting a plane backwards wasn’t how you were supposed to fly. 

“I got a whole scrapbook of your newspaper clippings!” Launchpad continued, just as enthusiastically as he had said anything in the last few minutes. “Of course,” he continued, his voice dropping to a quieter tone, almost like he was talking to himself, “it’s not a very big scrapbook.”

“Um,” Darkwing interrupted, twisting around in his seat to face Launchpad, “w-wouldn’t it be easier to fly if we were facing the other way?” 

“Hm?” Launchpad blinked and Darkwing considered throttling him. Except murdering this pilot meant there was no one to fly the plane, so where would that leave him?  

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Launchpad chuckled like this was some kind of silly mistake instead of him flying a plane backwards through the air. “I sometimes have trouble with that.” 

Trouble with flying?

Or trouble with reverse? 

Or (somehow) both?? 

What sort of pilot had Darkwing recruited here? 

But before Darkwing could even consider how he might look in prison stripes, Launchpad got them facing the right way and soared over the top of the airborne train car. 

Something had been strapped to the top of it, a small rocket from what Darkwing could see, flames pouring out one end as it jetted over the sleeping countryside. That’s how they’d managed to get the thing to fly. And, if he squinted, the rocket almost looked like it was sitting inside the (now open) suitcase the condor was carrying earlier. Which cinched it: the bird was definitely in league with these henchmen. 

This seemed way too big an operation for Hoof, Mouth, and Hannigan. Sure, they were formidable minions, but this type of elaborate scheming was well beyond them. So who was pulling their strings? 

“It’s right under us!” Darkwing called to Launchpad. “Can you take us lower?” 

“No problemo!” Launchpad said. Then he went straight into a nosedive towards the train car. (Really wanted to reiterate that Darkwing didn’t know a whole lot about flying, but, again, he was pretty sure this wasn’t how you were supposed to pilot a plane near an air bound train car. If there were regulations for this type of scenario.) 

His stomach swooped at the sudden change in altitude and Darkwing loosed a yelp that he wasn’t proud of. The plane came to an abrupt halt directly over the train car and Darkwing gulped deep breaths so he wouldn’t be tempted to empty the contents of his stomach over the edge of the plane. 

“Gosh, thanks,” he said weakly, a hint of sarcasm tinging his tone. 

Launchpad glowed from the praise, obviously missing Darkwing’s sarcasm. 

Holding back a glower, Darkwing studied the car beneath him, wondering how he was supposed to get it back. Or anywhere, really. Maybe he could hook his grappling hook to the railing and have Launchpad steer the car to S.H.U.S.H.? But could Darkwing bring Launchpad to the secret base? He was, after all, just a normal citizen. And he hadn’t exactly read the rule book to know if employees were allowed guests. 

Before Darkwing could make a decision, sharp talons cut into his shoulders, yanking him out of his seat. 

Looking at his attacker, Darkwing caught sight of the condor. He tried to wrestle himself free. “All right, beak face, this is getting monotonous! You better—”

The condor released him, Darkwing heading straight for the ground. “No, you don’t understand. I like monotony!” he cried as he tumbled through the air. As if that little desperate attempt would change the condor’s mind. 

He was moments away from grabbing ahold of his cape to use it as a makeshift parachute again when Launchpad’s plane soared by. Darkwing reached out, only just able to clutch onto the metal underside of the plane. His shoulders were nearly yanked out of their sockets as he was dragged along with the plane’s trajectory. 

He only had Launchpad’s warning of, “Don’t worry! I’ll shake him, DW,” before then plane was diving into loops, curving into spirals, and careening into barrel rolls. It took all of Darkwing’s strength to just hold on as he was whipped around under the plane. (Forget being sore tomorrow, at this rate, he was going to be sore for the rest of his life.) Amidst the chaos of their flight, Darkwing caught a glimpse the plumage of the condor as it chased their plane. What was with this bird? It was like some sort of attack dog. He couldn’t wait to return to his Tower (if he lived long enough) and research Taurus Bulba and his choice of henchmen and pets. 

Darkwing shouldn’t have been surprised when the plane ended up getting tangled in some power lines, but surprised he was. 

He was hurtled from the plane, clambering for anything that might stop his fall. Wood met his desperate feathers, and he clung to it, wrapping his arms and legs around, why, it appeared to be a telephone pole that they’d crashed into. 

Catching his breath, hoping the world would stop spinning, Darkwing heard a screech from the condor. He looked up in time to see the bird flying back towards the train car, both of which soared over the city and disappeared into the night. 

His heart sank. “They-they got away.” 

The sound of Launchpad’s laugh broke through Darkwing’s desolation. 

Feeling his frustration boil over into anger, knowing his failure was due in some part (okay, a large part) to this inept pilot and his questionable flying skills, Darkwing sent a glare upwards. Launchpad was dangling over one of the wooden spokes near the top of the telephone pole. And he was grinning, his brown eyes sparkling. Like this was some kind of game instead of a very serious investigation. 

“You got that right, DW! So what do we do next?” Launchpad asked eagerly, clearly clueless to how grating he was on Darkwing’s frayed nerves. 

“We?” Darkwing sneered, barely biting back a snarl. “We do nothing!” He slid down the pole. “I work alone.” 

Leaping down onto the sidewalk, Darkwing brushed his suit off. Launchpad followed him down to the ground. 

“But,” Launchpad said, one hand rubbing the arm opposite (Darkwing wasn’t sure if this was because he’d been injured or because he was shy). “I thought I could be your sidekick.” 

Shaking his head, Darkwing glanced around, “Singing cowboys have sidekicks,” he said dismissively. He looked for the quickest way out of this quiet neighborhood. Suburbia still gave him the creeps; all the houses exactly the same. Everything so mediocre. What sorts of lives did these suburbanites lead? Boring ones. Darkwing was relieved to have gotten out when he could, to amount to something and be someone. 

 Catching sight of Audubon Bay Bridge in the distance, Darkwing marched towards it resolutely. “I rely on me. Nobody but me, got that?” 

“Oh, but—” Launchpad’s voice was steeped with disappointment. “Can’t I come with you? Please!” There was a hand on Darkwing’s shoulder, pulling him back, forcing him to look up at the shattered expression on Launchpad’s face. 

He did feel a little bad for being the reason why Launchpad had that expression on his face. But he couldn’t be. There was so much at stake right now. He couldn’t be dragged down by this bungling pilot. Think of his heroic image. Launchpad would ruin everything Darkwing was, and all he had been working towards. 

Besides, having a sidekick, someone to rely on, just meant he would be abandoned when Launchpad eventually (inevitably) realized he didn’t want to waste his time with the likes of someone like Drake the Dweeb. Or the pilot would die in the line of duty (any day now with those types of piloting skills), and Darkwing would run headlong into his grave when he was giving chase to yet another crook. 

Shaking himself free of Launchpad’s grip and the melancholy, Darkwing said, “Let me make this clear to you. I never want to see you ever again!” Turning on his heel, he stalked away. 

“Okay.” Launchpad sniffled. “So, uh, d-do you want my phone number?” he asked, a painful tone of hope in his voice. 

Darkwing growled but kept up his pace. 

Sidekick. 

As if. 

Once he was clear of the neighborhood, Darkwing called the Ratcatcher with his remote and sped back to the Tower, booting up his computer to look through S.H.U.S.H.’s files. 

Seriously, who robbed a train in this day and age? Trains weren’t used like they were back in the Wild West. Unless it was transporting cargo. He looked up the manifest for the train. 

There was only one thing on the list. 

Something called a Waddlemeyer Ramrod. 

Not familiar with either word, Darkwing searched them together. Then separately. 

From the Ramrod, he didn’t gather much. It was an invention. Recent. Untested. But with a lot of buzz from the scientific community. The inventor had died earlier in the year and the invention had been deemed too volatile without the creator around to monitor and improve it. So it had been destined for longtime storage with Scrooge McDuck’s resident inventor, Gyro Gearloose, whose lab had the most advanced security measures installed. 

One Professor Waddlemeyer had been the Ramrod’s inventor. Who was now dead. Leaving behind a granddaughter, Gosalyn Waddlemeyer, and no other family. 

Well, it seemed these goons had been after that Ramrod. Because there was a whole fat wad of nothing else on that train. 

Next, Darkwing scoured the files S.H.U.S.H. had on Taurus Bulba. The condor had a name, after all. Tantalus. He was Taurus Bulba’s prized pet who kept track of Bulba’s many business dealings. He’d been caught before with a video camera strapped to him, the transmission feeding back to Taurus Bulba’s base of operations. 

This looked more and more like a Bulba scheme. All his henchmen and Tantalus being involved was too big a coincidence. Drug lords still led their organizations from within prison. Who was to say Bulba couldn’t be doing the same thing? It was the only theory that fit all the facts, so it was what Darkwing would go with until he gathered more data. 

So this Ramrod was something Bulba was interested in. But if the scientific community was stumped by how to operate it, how did Bulba think he’d get it to work? 

Unless. 

The granddaughter. 

Waddlemeyer’s only remaining family. She could have inherited some of his scientific prowess. Or, at the very least, maybe had some knowledge of the Ramrod. 

If Darkwing could find the girl, maybe he could get an advantage on Bulba. 

Was Taurus Bulba his Professor Moriarty? Was this finally about to happen? 

Chapter Text

A small helpless girl with shockingly red pigtails stood in the middle of a circle comprised of Hammerhead Hannigan, Hoof, and Mouth. 

Darkwing added a burst of speed, his eyes zeroing in on the kid, who looked so much smaller next to Bulba’s goons. 

The girl (it had to be Gosalyn Waddlemeyer because what other unfortunate orphaned child would be in a Kumbaya circle of death with Hammerhead Hannigan, Hoof, and Mouth?) suddenly swung her roller skates out wide and smacked Hammerhead square in the jaw. When Hoof and Mouth ducked down to grab her, she easily dodged out from between them. 

Just in time for Darkwing to scoop her up as he zoomed by on his bike. He had to hand it to this small duckling; he couldn’t have executed this rescue any better than if they’d actually planned it. And she had wicked good aim. 

“Never fear, little miss! Darkwing Duck has you now!” he declared, grinning down at her. This was probably her first time getting rescued by a hero; he wanted to make sure he lived up to her expectations. 

He was absolutely gobsmacked when the clearest greenest eyes he’d ever seen in his life collided with his. You know those times when you can feel the world slowing down around you, almost like the universe is telling you to pay attention because this was important? Yeah, it was one of those. He was so dazed he could have sworn he’d been the one clobbered with her skates. 

The world quickly got back to its normal speed when she punched him square in the gut. Then yanked his hat down over his eyes. 

Struggling to catch his breath, Darkwing quickly reached out and smacked the autopilot button on the dashboard. (He’d thought those days of blindfolding himself and memorizing where all his gears and controls were were just because he’d been a little… let’s say protective of his bike and didn’t want to have to pause in a high speed chase just to locate one of the controls. Never once did he think he’d actually be blindfolded while driving.) 

“I'm not one of the bad guys!” he cried, wrestling with his hat. 

“Yeah, right. You’re wearing a mask!” she countered, punching him again, this time hitting his solar plexus, making him lose what little breath he’d gained back. 

This was definitely not going to plan. 

He finally managed to yank the hat off and had just enough time to exchange a glower with the hellion before a machine gun rat-a-tat exploded from behind them. Bullets zipped in a wide arc around the Ratcatcher. Darkwing stuffed his hat on his head and glanced back. Hammerhead’s ugly mug was poking out of a sunroof in a windowless creeper van in hot pursuit. Talk about not being able to get good help these days. These henchmen couldn’t even hit him with a military-grade weapon. If he was Taurus Bulba, he’d be irate. 

Gosalyn’s arms wrapped around his waist. And the universe slowed down again. Forced Darkwing to pay attention because this was important. This child — this nine-year-old kid — was in danger. This wasn’t about Taurus Bulba anymore. This was about keeping Gosalyn safe from these very violent hugs. 

Darkwing curved himself around her small frame, effectively shielding her from their pursuers. “I take it you’re convinced that I’m the hero now,” he said, unable to keep the smugness from his tone. She leveled him with an impressive glare. One corner of his beak curled up of its own volition. She had guts. 

They coasted down the road and he took the Ratcatcher out of autopilot. Serving beside a bus, Darkwing dumped Gosalyn into the Ratcatcher’s sidecar while the were briefly hidden. He then hit the breaks and jerked the handlebars in a tight turn down an alleyway. 

Bulba’s goonies missed the alley, but quickly caught up on the next street over where Darkwing had merged into some unexpected traffic. 

Gosalyn sat up, turning to look behind them, but Darkwing gently pushed her back into the sidecar. “Stay down,” he instructed. “I have a little surprise for them.” Hitting another button on his dashboard, he grinned when he heard the van’s tires squealing. The Ratcatcher had dumped oil onto the road, causing the creeper van to slip and slide along the asphalt. 

Traffic opened up and Darkwing hit the accelerator to serve through it and onto the open road. 

“Keen gear!” exclaimed Gosalyn, her eyes sparkling. “What else does it do?” She reached a small hand toward the dashboard, her feathers brushing over a large round red button. 

“Don’t touch that!” Darkwing shrieked. In a totally controlled very heroic way. 

“Why not?” Gosalyn asked, still trying to push the button anyway. Darkwing grabbed her wrist and directed it back into the sidecar with her. 

“It’s an ejector seat,” he explained. “And I’m not about to leave my bike alone under your supervision.” 

Gosalyn scowled, crossed her arms, and sank down into the sidecar. 

“Since the orphanage isn’t safe, you’ll be okay at the police station.” He rounded another corner, accelerating to get there all the faster. Darkwing would be able to drop off the small disaster of a duckling, then he could track down Taurus Bulba’s henchmen.  

A line of police cars were parked in front of the station. Almost like a barricade. Clearly they’d heard that Bulba’s cronies were loose and they were already prepared to offer their services to Darkwing in his crusade against evil. 

But. 

They opened fire. 

On Darkwing. 

He caught sight of Jabiru, everything about him from his expression to his stance absolutely uncompromising. (And it was so easy to imagine the specter of Stellar standing right beside his partner, a look of disappointment clear on his face.) Jabiru pointed right at Darkwing, and the officers aim became more concentrated. On him. 

Mouth dry, heart thudding painfully in his chest, Darkwing steered the Ratcatcher in a wide arc, disappearing down another alley. 

“Oh, yeah, I feel real safe now,” Gosalyn said sarcastically. She looked at Darkwing with one eyebrow cocked higher than the other.

“But, but I-I-I….” 

It didn’t make sense. Darkwing hadn’t worked directly with Jabiru since he’d become the police chief, but almost all the officers he partnered with talked about how Jabiru had been grateful for Darkwing’s help. But there was nothing grateful in that long hard stare that had been fixed on him. 

Launchpad (yes, you read that right. Launchpad McQuack of crashing a plane and generally wrecking Darkwing’s day fame) appeared beside the Ratcatcher, on a bike, pedaling like mad. 

Darkwing blinked, all thoughts of Jabiru gone in the wake of this new revelation. 

Launchpad McQuack. 

Was on a bicycle beside the Ratcatcher. 

And looking for all the world like he was only minimally winded. 

Which, really, was just rude. 

“What did you do to make those guys so mad?” Launchpad asked. 

Oh, good. The whole city had witnessed this betrayal from the St. Canard Police. Everyone would know that the police had changed loyalties and that blow would take months for Darkwing to counteract. At least Brutus had had the decency to stab Cesar in private. 

“I didn’t do anything!” Darkwing cried. “And what are you doing here?” Hadn’t he been explicitly clear when he’d left Launchpad in that wreckage? “I never want to see you ever again!” didn’t have a lot of secret subtext. 

“I figured you might want some help,” Launchpad said, that ever-present smile spreading his big beak wide. 

Right. Help. From the likes of Launchpad McQuack. Don’t make him laugh. 

 Darkwing rolled his eyes as he came to a stop at a red light. Gosalyn reached out to the nearby newsstand and grabbed a copy of the early edition. 

Great. 

Just great. 

This girl was a hurricane of chaos and a thief. 

Could this day possibly get any worse? 

As soon the light turned green, Darkwing floored it before the small kleptomaniac could snag anything else. 

“How about robbing a train?” she asked, holding up the paper like he wasn’t driving a motorcycle on a busy street in the middle of the day. 

“What? I didn’t rob a—” Seeing a photo of himself on the page, Darkwing hit the autopilot button again and snagged the paper. “Oh, that’s not a bad picture, though.” It was, in fact, a full action shot of him taking out Hoof and Mouth. “You don’t think it’s pretentious, do you?” He wondered if he could get it blown up. Framed. Plastered on all the billboards in the city. On a flag he could fly from Darkwing Tower.

The explosion of machine gun fire sounded again and Darkwing lost his grip on the paper, the sheets lost to the wind. Maybe the kid could steal him another copy after he saved her. 

Right, he still had to save her. Because the police had been absolutely zero help. 

Grabbing hold of the handlebars, he steered the Ratcatcher down another street, Launchpad at his side. They narrowly avoided colliding with henchman’s creeper van. 

The police station was out. 

The orphanage was out. 

Well. 

There was always his Tower. 

Swerving down to head towards the wharf, where Audubon Bay met the warehouses. “Drastic times call for drastic action!” Darkwing glanced down at Gosalyn. “How are you at holding your breath?” 

Her eyes sparkled with mischief and Darkwing found he was smiling in return. Sure, he’d gone into the hero business to make a name for himself, to be loved by the city he protected and maybe the whole world. But this job could be fun sometimes. And, honestly, this was the most fun he’d had in a long time. 

He drove them down a pier and straight off the end. Right into the Bay. The Ratcatcher sank straight to the bottom, both Darkwing and Gosalyn still aboard, and he didn’t hesitate, continuing to drive towards the Bridge. To the base of the Tower. Where a doorway opened as they approached.  

Darkwing drove straight in, the door closing behind them with a muffled clang. As soon as the door was closed, the platform they had parked on started rising, breaking the surface of the water and Darkwing gasped down a lung full of air, climbing off the bike and wringing out his cape. 

“Wow!” gushed Gosalyn. “A police chase with bullets, crooks, and everything! Sure beats study hall at the orphanage!” She hauled herself out of the waterlogged sidecar and landed on the platform with a splat. Those green eyes were wide as they looked at Darkwing with something like awe in their depths, her red hair plastered to her forehead in long spidery strands. “Are all your days like this?” she asked. 

Darkwing was taken aback. Sure, he’d dreamed of seeing it one day. Had wanted it with every fiber of his being. But to actually have this girl look up at him like he was the coolest person she’d ever met… 

Well. 

Darkwing was suddenly shy. 

“No, because I’m usually sleeping,” he babbled. 

Gosalyn snickered and Darkwing found himself smiling down at her again, a warmth spreading in his chest. 

He continued, “But when I learned Professor Waddlemeyer had raised a granddaughter, I knew I had to get to you before Taurus Bulba did.” 

“Who is he?” Gosalyn asked. 

He removed his hat, rivulets of water running down his face, and he shook out the chapeau. “A deviously clever criminal mastermind who, I’m convinced, is still operating his gangs from inside prison.” 

Gosalyn practically wriggled with excitement. “Just like in the comics.” Huh. She read comics. Darkwing was about to ask which ones were her favorites when she said, “I bet you guys are eternal enemies, right?” 

Darkwing cleared his throat. “Uh, well…” He laughed weakly and squeezed more water out of his hat. “Uh, he actually doesn’t even know I exist. But he soon will! Mark my words,” he said with conviction, his soggy hat drooping pathetically in his hands. 

The platform reached Darkwing Tower and locked in place.  

“Keen gear! What a hideout!” Gosalyn said, whipping her head around to look at all of the gadgets and gizmos. 

Keeping his tone casual, trying not to sound like he, too, thought this hideout was the coolest place he’d ever seen, Darkwing said, “Oh, yes. It’s just a little shack I like to call home.” He tossed his hat towards a hook on the wall that housed it. And he missed. 

Of course. 

Nothing about today was going as planned. 

He watched his saturated hat fold over on itself onto the ground, not having the energy to walk over and hang it up properly. “Speaking of which, we have to find you a safe place to…” Darkwing glanced around for her, but the small agile thing had disappeared. “…Stay.” He swept his gaze over the Tower, focusing on his tech that blinked, flashed, or made noise. She was like a magpie; anything shiny was sure to attract her attention. 

“Why can’t I just stay here?” Gosalyn asked, her voice coming from somewhere above him. She’d climbed up onto his computer station and was half hanging off the ledge, eyes glinting in excitement.“We make a great team!” 

Darkwing, heart in his throat at seeing her one wrong step away from tumbling down to the hard floor, scurried up the ladder after her. 

“I am not a team,” Darkwing said, reaching the computer level and eyeing her as she scampered from machine to machine. Did all kids have this much energy? “I’m sorry, but you’d just be in the way—Don’t touch that!”

And just like on the Ratcatcher. She touched the very thing he told her not to.

The lever Gosalyn had pulled activated a ray gun he’d recently gotten from S.H.U.S.H.. The barrel rotated on its fixed station and pointed at him. And fired. The beam barely missed him as he ducked down the ladder, the laser burning a hole in the floor. Great, now he’d have to file paperwork with S.H.U.S.H. to get that repaired. 

“See,” Darkwing grit out, climbing up to the computer station and glaring down at Gosalyn who at least had the decency to look sheepish, “little things like that tend to cramp my style.” She shrugged and Darkwing sighed, whirling around to the desk. He shoved papers aside, finding his phone book and thumbing through it. “Let’s see if I can find you a hotel or something.” As he flipped through the pages, he muttered, “Maybe the animal shelter has an opening.” 

“Well, I suppose I could leave,” said Gosalyn, her tone sweet which immediately put Darkwing on edge. She was all reckless energy and impulsive reactions; no way she’d be so sweetly compliant. He glanced over his shoulder and she was smiling, which he didn’t like at all. “But I might let it slip where a certain masked avenger hangs out.” 

Phonebook forgotten, he rounded on her, hands on his hips as they squared off. “You wouldn’t!”

Gosalyn shrugged, a look of innocence painted on her features. “Hey, I'm a kid. I’m supposed to be irresponsible.” 

Darkwing grit his teeth as he studied her. She was definitely too smart for her own good. A worthy opponent. She’d already anticipated this decision from him, and was countering with her own clever plan. Kind of like Moriarty.   

“Like I said,” he grit out. “It’s much too dangerous out there. I better keep you close.” Where he could keep an eye on her. 

She suddenly lunged for him, and before he could counter attack, her small arms were wrapping around his waist in a hug. “Thanks, Darkwing!” 

He didn’t know the last time he’d been hugged. Or shown any type of physical affection. Not since he’d been at home. With Mom. 

No way. It couldn’t have been that long. Had it? 

It had. 

Darkwing swallowed, the warmth that had been in his chest earlier spreading through the rest of him. He reached down and detangled her arms from around his waist. “Hm, yeah. Right.” Those green green eyes stared up at him, a smile spread across her beak. 

Clearing his throat, Darkwing spun around and swung onto the ladder. “I need to change out of this suit.” He leveled her with a glare. “Don’t touch anything.” 

She glanced up at the computer, considering. Flashing him a grin, she said, “No promises.” 

Rolling his eyes, Darkwing descended and disappeared behind his changing screen, peeling off the soaking wet clothes. He’d have to get these to the dry cleaner right away; there was no way he’d let the polluted water of Audubon Bay ruin another one of his suits. Glancing around to make sure the kid hadn’t snuck back here to spy on him, he swapped his used mask for a clean one, adding the waterlogged scrap of fabric to the sad pile at his feet. 

When he reached for a new hat, it was missing. And he had a pretty good idea of who the culprit was. 

Glancing around the Tower, Darkwing called, “It’s hopeless. No one gets the drop on Darkwing Du—”

Something dropped right on top of him, immediately making him a liar (she had literally gotten the drop on him) and knocking him on the ground. He landed on his front, hands coming out in time to stop his beak from hitting the floor. 

“Gosalyn Waddlemeyer!” she cried triumphantly. Darkwing glanced back and there was his hat, perched on her head. She was quick; he hadn’t even heard her approach or notice his hat disappear. 

The look she was giving him was a challenging one, an eyebrow raised wondering what he was going to do. And he couldn’t very well let that stand, could he? He leapt up and twisted to grab Gosalyn by the ankles midair. The hat fluttered to the ground as she hung upside down. 

“In a lightning move, Darkwing Duck turns the tables on the tiny terror!” 

She reached out, tickling his midsection, which made him dissolve into helpless laughter. 

“So, she’s tickling…” He teetered, he tottered, he toppled. “Would you stop that?” He released her as he collapsed in a heap and she grinned, triumphant. “That’s no fair, tickling,” he despaired. 

“You know what’s not fair? Kidnapping a helpless kid and then not feeding her.” 

“I did not kidnap you, I rescued you!” Darkwing shoved his hat on his head and led the way to the kitchen. How often, exactly, did children need to eat? Probably a lot. Darkwing was out of his depth here. 

They climbed up to the kitchen and Gosalyn immediately darted over to the table, exclaiming, “A radio! Let’s have some tunes!” and promptly hit the timer to start Darkwing’s training course. 

His heart thudded painfully in his chest (why did she keep pushing buttons without asking what they were for?) as he sprinted over to her. “What are you doing?” 

Gosalyn was holding the timer to her ear, probably tying to listen to the music she thought she’d started. She must have read some of his panic, because she said with the tiniest smidge of contrition, “Turning on the clock radio?” 

Darkwing glanced up, seeing the utensils, a plate, and a bowl soaring right for her. Grabbing hold of Gosalyn, he sheltered her against his chest while he dodged the projectiles. “That’s not a radio!” 

The plate and silverware scattered on the ground and Darkwing set Gosalyn down. 

“Keen gear!” she said. “This is some kinda training course, huh?”

The machine gun popped out of the counter and Darkwing snatched up the bowl, holding it up to catch the wayward cereal. “You might say that.” What came next in the sequence? What came next?? 

“Let me try!”

“No!” he said, horrified as he looked around to her. “It’s too dangerous!” The refrigerator door swung open, deftly knocking Darkwing to his feet. A rifle slid out from the depths of the fridge, aiming at Gosalyn. And shot a pair eggs directly at her head. 

Darkwing tossed the bowl of cereal aside, scrambling over the fridge’s door to get to Gosalyn and hide her from his disaster of a kitchen. What had he been thinking bringing a small child to his heroic hideout? 

But turns out she didn’t need his help. 

She caught the eggs in a skillet (and where had she found a skillet? He didn’t even know he owned one). When the trap door opened near her, flames licking toward the top of their prison, she smoothly stepped away, cooking the eggs over the fire. Rescuing a plate from the ground, she deposited the perfectly cooked eggs on top. Sliding the plate onto the table, she grabbed the forgotten flatware before she leapt up into the air to catch the toast that shot toward her from the toaster. The fridge rifle loosed another shot, a grapefruit and oranges it’s new ammunition. She landed on her feet, slicing the grapefruit in half with the knife then speared the oranges on the utensil. The wedges of the grapefruit landed on the table, rolling next to to the plate and she placed the toast next to the eggs and set the kabob of oranges next to the grapefruit. Slipping into the chair, she looked to Darkwing for approval. 

But Darkwing grabbed the clock and stopped the time, staring at it. 

The numbers there were the lowest he’d ever seen. She’d beaten all of his previous records and had made it all look so easy. 

“That was amazing!” he said, sending a smile down to her. She smiled back, wearing a look of pride. 

Slow down. Pay attention. This is important. 

Darkwing set the clock on the table, hurriedly saying, “It’s-it’s not at my level, of course, but that’s still pretty impressive.” 

Eyeing the empty glass on the table, Gosalyn muttered, “Darn. Forgot the milk.” 

With a sinking feeling of dread, Darkwing glanced back in time to see the fridge spring up into the air. Rushing forward, Darkwing grabbed Gosalyn and dragged her out of the way as it came crashing back down to the ground. 

Narrowly missing them both. 

Gosalyn twisted in the circle of his arms, her eyes wide as she scolded, “You oughtta be more careful!”

“Yeah, sure.” Darkwing straightened, dusting off his suit. 

Gosalyn ran out of the kitchen, Darkwing following her to try and stop any other wayward button pushing. But she only emerged from his closet area, cradling a helmet and handing it to him. “I found this stashed in the closet. How come you don’t wear it when you ride your bike?” 

“Because it doesn’t look… uh.” Cool. But he couldn’t say that. Glaring at it, he decided on, “Dramatic,” before tossing it aside. 

Gosalyn perched herself on the Ratcatcher, watching him with that raised eyebrow again. “Neither does scrambled brains.” She gestured to the sidecar. “You should have seatbelts, too.”

“Look, kiddo,” said Darkwing, lifting her off the bike and setting her down on the ground. “I appreciate the concern, really, but I knew this job was dangerous when I took it.” He tousled her flame red hair. 

Gosalyn peered up at him. “How come you wear a mask?” Her gaze was pointed, like she was trying to see what he looked like. Like she was trying to see him. 

Biting down the panic that surged at the thought of being seen as Drake the Dweeb Mallard instead of Darkwing Duck, he grabbed his cape and brandished it dramatically. “Because there is nothing so terrifying to the criminal mind as the unknown.” Huh. That almost sounded cool. 

Leaping up onto the Ratcatcher, he exclaimed for the all the villains who weren’t there, “I am the thing that goes bump in the night! I’m the neuroses the that requires a $500 an hour shrink!” 

“You mean you don’t take off your mask for anyone?” Gosalyn asked, leaning against the Ratcatcher and looking at him. 

“That’s right. Not no one, not never.” 

“What about,” she said, feathers skimming over the Ratcatcher’s hood, “a really really really close friend?” 

“Well, uh…” 

Who would be unlucky enough to see his actual face? Who would want to? 

This girl. 

Probably. 

Wanted to. 

And he couldn’t fathom why. Darkwing Duck was so much better, so much more worthy of people’s adoration and attention than anything Drake had ever come close to. So why was she still looking at him like she had X-ray vision and was able to see right into the center of him? 

Leaping off of the Ratcatcher, trying to shake the unease, he walked over to the spiral staircase. “Come on, kid. It’s time for bed.” 

Chapter Text

“But if I use your bed, where will you be sleeping?”Gosalyn sat atop the sheets of Darkwing’s bed with him beside her. He was wrestling her shoes off her feet. Her socks were still damp, the footwear stubbornly staying on. That uncomfortable feeling came back, reminding him that he should have done something about her soggy clothes earlier, that he was not equipped to handle this situation. 

“Oh, I won’t be,” he reassured her with a confidence he did not feel. “I’m a night person, remember? And with Taurus Bulba at large again, I’ll have to be extra vigilant!”

“What does he want with me anyway?” 

“Well…” He shoved himself off the bed to stand in front of Gosalyn. Better leverage, that’s what he needed. Grabbing ahold of her shoe, he tugged. “Bulba stole your grandfather’s invention and he thinks you know how to operate it.”

The leverage was much better. Maybe a little too good because Darkwing flew backwards with her shoe in hand. He nearly slid right off the edge of the upper level and fell straight down to the first floor, but managed to catch himself in time.

With a shake of his head, Darkwing walked back over to the bed. “What is a Waddlemeyer Ramrod anyway?” 

Gosalyn took a deep breath. “It’s a trachio-specific device that disrupts gravitational bonds on a molecular level that allows manipulation on a macro scale.” 

Eyebrows raised, Darkwing tossed her shoe next to her other one on the floor. “What does that mean?” 

Gosalyn shrugged with a smile. “I don’t know. I think it makes things float and stuff.” She dug around in her purple shirt, pulling out a small photograph with torn edges and creases spreading like a spiderweb across the back. “Here’s a picture.” 

Darkwing sat beside her once more, looking down at it. 

There was Gosalyn, not much bigger than she was now, in the arms of an elderly duck wearing spectacles. A machine stood in the background, presumably the Ramrod, with multicolored knobs and buttons in front of a screen. 

“That's Grandpa,” Gosalyn said in a small voice, a finger pointing at the older duck in the photo. 

He switched his gaze from the Ramrod to the figures in the photo. Really taking in how happy Gosalyn had been. How carefree. How the older duck, Professor Waddlemeyer, was looking at her with all the devotion in the world. 

Darkwing ached for Gosalyn. For her loss. He wished she didn’t have to be on her own. She was too young to know that type of loneliness, to know the devastation of losing everything. He hoped there was a warm welcoming loving home out there for her; she didn’t deserve to be alone. 

“It looks like you were really close,” were the words that tumbled out of Darkwing’s mouth. Which was better than saying nothing at all, he supposed, but there had to be so many better ways of expressing condolences than it looks like you were really close. So out of his depth. 

“We were.” And that sad tone in Gosalyn’s voice, the way her eyebrows furrowed broke Darkwing’s heart right in two. All he wanted, suddenly and without any reservation, was for Gosalyn to be happy. To wipe that forlorn look off her face and never see it there again. 

Straightening, Gosalyn flung herself back on the bed, crossing her arms with a determined look on her face. “But-but he never told me how to work the Ramrod!” 

Darkwing smiled slightly at her and grabbed his comforter, tucking it around her small frame. “Unfortunately, Taurus Bulba doesn’t know that. His men will be searching for you, you know.” He chuckled at the thought of this little ball of energy running into Bulba. The crime lord wouldn’t know what had hit him. (Probably literally) “Although, if they knew how much spirit you have, they’d probably run the other way.”  

“Spirit!” Those green eyes were positively sparkling. Darkwing didn’t have time to feel satisfied that he had successfully cheered her up. Because Gosalyn sprang up and kissed him on the cheek. Wrapped her arms around his neck in another hug. 

Shocked as he was, he also… liked it. Being held by someone else. Which was dumb because he was so much larger than her, so she couldn’t do much by way of holding, but all the same. 

“Thanks, Darkwing,” she whispered. 

“Oh, uh, sure,” he said weakly. 

Smiling, Gosalyn detangled herself from around him and laid down, curling under the blankets. He was still able to feel the heat from where she had been snuggled up against him. 

Tucking the blankets firmly around her, he stood. “Goodnight, Gosalyn.”

He lingered for a moment, just watching her chest moving up and down. Turning, he slunk away, careful to not make any noise. 

But he hadn’t got more than twenty feet when he heard Gosalyn bemoan, “I can’t sleep!” from behind him. 

Darkwing spun back around. “Aw, you just need something to relax you! I think I have a large mallet around here somewhere,” he joked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. 

But she was studying the photo of her grandfather again and Darkwing knew he’d screwed this up. Said the wrong thing again. Had probably upset her. 

He was so spectacularly bad at this. 

“Grandpa used to sing me a lullaby,” she said, looking up at him hopefully. 

“Oh,” said Darkwing, his heart sinking. “Well, that’s—” There was nothing he could do to pretend this was any less of a disaster. So he confessed, “I, um, don’t really do lullabies.” 

Her whole face crumbled. Her eyes took on a glossy sheen like the was about to cry. 

And Darkwing was so desperate for everything to be okay, for Gosalyn to be happy, that he found himself saying, “Why don’t you teach me one of his so that I can sing it back to you?” 

He sat at the foot of the bed, leaning towards her in what he hoped was an inviting gesture and wasn’t looming or intimidating. 

Gosalyn eyed him dubiously. “This has the suspicious ring of reverse psychology to it,” she said, which made him smile. She smirked before sighing. “But have it your way.” 

She sat up, propped the picture up in the folds of the comforter and began to sing in a slightly off-key, but still innocently childish voice, 

“Close your eyes little girl blue 

Inside of you by the rainbow

Yellow blue red blue purple too 

Blue purple and green then the yellow”

The song wasn’t much for lyrics. But now that he’d gotten the gist of the tune, Darkwing said, “Let me try.”

He eased her back down into the mattress. 

“Rest your head, little girl blue 

Come paint your dreams on your pillow”

He tucked the blanket under her chin. 

“I’ll be near to chase away fear 

So sleep now and dream till tomorrow” 

Gosalyn’s eyes drooped and she turned onto her side, snuggling under the blanket. 

“I’ll be near to chase away fear”

He ran his fingers through her hair before he could remember that he was bad at this. 

“So sleep now and dream till tomorrow” 

Leaning back, Darkwing watched her drift off to sleep. “Goodnight, Gosalyn.” 

He turned on his side, propping his head on his hand and continued his vigil, warm golden light spilling into the Tower. Evening light was so much softer than the morning light. Sun sets more glorious than sun rises. 

It was the time of day that he blamed for thinking that maybe he could stop by the orphanage to see Gosalyn sometimes. Take her out for lunch or something. Maybe bring her back to the Tower to keep exploring. She seemed to like it enough. They could finally talk about comics. And have a very serious conversation about not pushing buttons until she knew what they did. The images of Gosalyn exploring the Tower, bouncing all over the place with those green eyes shining in her round face made a slow smile spread across his beak. 

It wasn’t until he was jerking awake that he realized he’d fallen asleep. He leapt up, ready to fight whatever was making that unexpected noise… but it was only Gosalyn. Snoring loudly. 

Chuckling, Darkwing shook his head. She could wake Elvis. Gosalyn was clutching the photo of her grandfather, which Darkwing gently rescued from further damage. The rainbow lullaby was playing on repeat in his mind and he hummed the tune as he surveyed the photo again. 

“Yellow blue red blue purple… too? Hold the phone!” He pulled out his magnifying glass and studied the control panel of the Ramrod. The buttons there. Were yellow, blue, red, purple, and green. 

The lyrics matched the controls of the Ramrod. 

Gosalyn knew a code to the machine all along and never even knew it. And for her sake, Darkwing would make sure it stayed that way. 

He placed the photo on the bedside table as a blinding light flashed behind him, cutting through the night spread out beyond the windows. No thunder followed. The flashing continued, blinding against the darkness without any thunder in its wake. Turning and walking towards a window, he gazed up at the clouds. Where more light shone down from them periodically. 

No. Not periodically. It was a pattern. Could it be…? 

He went back to his bed, fishing out the Boy Scout Handbook from under his pillow, grateful he’d kept it around after all. Opening to the page on Morse Code, he grabbed a notepad and pencil, jotting down the message. 

“Taurus Bulba, the criminal genius, recognizing the error of his ways, is offering to surrender himself, but only to Darkwing Duck.” 

Slamming the book closed, practically jumping up and down as he cried, “Yes! It’s headline city!”

“What’s up? Win the lottery?” came a sleepy voice behind him. 

Darkwing whirled around, guilt gnawing at him as a tired Gosalyn rubbed the sleep from her eyes. 

“Oh, Gosalyn! I-I didn’t mean to wake you. But look!” He handed her his notepad with the message he’d decoded. She took it, yawned, and studied his cramped handwriting in the low light. 

“It’s obvious my reputation has spread through every sewer and gutter where criminals gather,” Darkwing said. “I don’t even have to make a move, they come to me, groveling at my doorstep, pleading to be turned in. I sense a major motion picture here.” 

Not only was he going up a big time criminal. A Professor Moriarty. But that big time criminal was already surrendering to him. 

This was everything Darkwing had ever dreamed of. Everything he wanted. 

“But,” said Gosalyn, looking up at him, “that doesn’t make sense. He just escaped from jail!”

“Escaped? How do you know that?” 

“It was on the front page in the paper. Didn’t you see it when you read about how you’d robbed that train?” 

He had not. He had been a little more distracted by the fact that his photo was in the paper… But no matter. So Bulba was free, so what? He was already so afraid of Darkwing that he was ready to surrender. 

“Well,” Darkwing said, taking the notepad back, pointing to the message. “It’s obvious that he’s had the chance to talk to his men about me.” 

“But you told me Taurus Bulba was a criminal genius. Why would he surrender to you?” 

To him? What was that supposed to mean? 

“He knows he’s outmatched. I have his men on the run.” 

Gosalyn laughed. “From what I remember, we were doing the running.” 

He ground his teeth together. She didn’t think a villain would surrender to him, Darkwing Duck? She didn’t think he was capable of striking fear into the hearts of evil doers everywhere by his reputation alone? He’d been working these streets for years, longer than this ungrateful kid had been alive. What did she know? 

“Oh, you think it was all just luck?” Darkwing said, setting the notepad on the windowsill and facing her. 

Gosalyn had stopped laughing, but was still grinning like she was about to burst into another bout of laughter. “I didn’t say I—”

“You think this is just a coincidence that you’re here with me instead of with him?” Darkwing asked, his hands balling into fists. 

All of the merriment died from Gosalyn’s eyes and she shook her head emphatically. “Hey, no!”

“That I’m just another clown in a costume.” The poison spewing out of his mouth, words he’d heard all his life, came out with an intensity that he hadn’t expected. “Who’s gonna take Darkwing Dip seriously?” 

Tears welled in her eyes. “But I don’t think you—”

“Never mind!” he snapped. “It doesn’t matter.” He marched towards the spiral staircase, away from the girl who had tears streaming down her cheeks. He had to face the music: he was bad at this. Bad at social interactions. Bad at doing anything that didn’t involve crime fighting. 

So why did it hurt to see her like this? 

He marched down the stairs, not looking back to see if she was following him. If she’d gone back to bed. If she was still crying. He had always done better on his own; it was best to let her go.“After Taurus Bulba’s back in jail, you’ll be back in the orphanage, then we can both get back to our lives.” 

Who was going to take this costumed clown seriously? 

Taurus Bulba was. He, rightfully, recognized Darkwing Duck as a force to be reckoned with. And if he wanted to meet, then Darkwing would certainly deliver. 

Climbing aboard the Ratcatcher, Darkwing turned on the engine and was a second away from hitting the gas when he saw the helmet sitting in the sidecar. He studied it for a moment before rolling his eyes and grabbing it. He shoved it on his head and buckled it on. Setting his fedora in the sidecar, he revved the engine and took off into the night. 

To face Taurus Bulba. 

To face his destiny. 

To finally be the hero he’d been born to become. 

No matter what any little girl with red hair and big green eyes said to the contrary. 

Chapter Text

Taurus Bulba had chosen the rooftop of the First National Bank of St. Canard as their meeting place, which was fitting. Anything other than the tallest building in St. Canard would have been an insult. Not only was Taurus Bulba the biggest crime boss in St. Canard’s recent history, but Darkwing Duck was St. Canard’s only successful independent hero. 

In short: this would be the showdown of the century. (No pressure.)

Taking a deep breath and trying to still his shaking hands, Darkwing deployed his smoke bomb, calling out, “I am the Terror that Flaps in the Night! I am the jailor who throws away the key!” 

He stepped out from his hiding place, spreading his cape wide as his trademarked blue smoke dissipated. Ready to face Taurus Bulba head-on. Ready for the biggest, most important fight of his life. 

Darkwing fixed a confident expression on his face. “I am—” He looked left. Looked right. Saw no one. “Feeling really stupid.” 

He was alone, like a chump who’d been stood up on a date. (He didn’t have experience with that. Dating, not getting stood up. You’d be shocked how many criminals set up a meet only to never show. Shocked.) 

Darkwing shook his head, releasing his cape, the hem dancing down around his legs. “Boy, I hate it when I’m early. Sheesh, if only the criminal masterminds would be more punctual.” 

He faced the city and sat down on the edge of the rooftop, feet dangling over the edge. Heights had never bothered him. Seeing the city from way up here reminded him of everything that was at risk. Everyone who was depending on him. Like a certain little red-headed girl. 

His eyes raked over the looming outlines of buildings and the bright neon of signs toward the bridge. He easily found his Tower, wondering if Gosalyn was still crying… 

“Please accept my apologies,” drawled a voice from somewhere behind him. 

About time.

“Well, okay,” Darkwing huffed, “but next time you—” 

Taurus Bulba. 

Was standing behind him. 

Darkwing scrambled to his feet, whirling around to survey the villain. 

He was massive. The bull stood several feet taller than Darkwing, his barrel chest and broad shoulders all the more impressive in his exquisitely tailored three piece suit. (Three piece. This guy had class.) Twin horns curved up above his head, giving him all the more height, and his beady eyes were offset by a wide smile. 

“Taurus Bulba!” Darkwing said. (Squeaked. Heroically.) “How did you—? Where did—? Um…”  

Seeing Bulba before him, the legend whose name he’d only read in case files and heard whispered amongst the criminal underbelly, really took the wind out of his sails. 

Still. 

He was Darkwing Duck. He couldn’t be intimidated by a villain, never mind if said villain was the most legendary in the city. 

He cleared his throat, grabbing the edges of his cape and spreading it out once more.“I am the Terror that Flaps in the Night. I am the surprise in your cereal box.” 

Taurus Bulba was still peering down him with what could only be described as an indulgent smile. Those dark eyes were fixed intently on him like they were a sniper’s scope, aiming to kill between one moment and the next. 

“I’m…” Darkwing swallowed. “I’m…”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Taurus Bulba, his words slinking into the awkward silence stretching between them. “You’re Darkwing Duck.” 

Darkwing dropped his cape once more. Gripping onto some semblance of confidence deep down inside himself, he managed to get out, “Uh, yeah! That’s… yeah.” 

Taurus Bulba laughed, the sound cutting through Darkwing’s frail fortitude and leaving him feeling as though he was stranded in the wilds of Siberia, stripped to nothing, slowly freezing with no help in sight. 

“Your ego is out of control, isn’t it?” Bulba asked. 

Darkwing’s gut dropped down to the region of his toes. “What?” 

This couldn’t be right. Taurus Bulba was afraid of him and the threat he posed to his organization. He wanted to meet up, have this Holmes vs. Moriarty scene where he’d try to get Darkwing to back down and Darkwing would courageously stand firm. 

“Why would I surrender to you?” Taurus Bulba’s expression was still holding all the conviction that Darkwing was lacking. 

Those words… they were an echo of those Gosalyn had said to him in the Tower. She hadn’t been right. Had she? 

Before he had time to catch them, try and see if there was something else he should say instead, the same words he’d said then spilled out of his beak now. “Because I have your men on the run?” 

Taurus Bulba laughed again, louder than before. “Oh, please. I manipulated you like a puppet.” 

No. 

No, this. 

This wasn’t a set up. 

It wasn’t a trap. 

It was a criminal genius meeting up with a heroic genius. Two opposing forces colliding to see which one would be left standing. 

“Well… I… manipulated you into manipulating me,” he said, some of his courage surging up at the thought of being duped. He was Darkwing Duck! He didn’t get duped! “I have you right where I want you! Alone with me, Darkwing Duck!” He leapt at Bulba, extending his leg out for a direct kick to the solar plexus.

But Bulba easily reached out a massive hand and grabbed Darkwing out of midair. Put him into a chokehold and pushed Darkwing down onto his knees. Bulba’s grip was tight, his strength so much greater than anything Darkwing possessed even on his best days. (Maybe, just maybe, he was out of his league here.) 

“Sorry,” Bulba said, the words purred into Darkwing’s ear, “I don’t have time to play. But I did call some of your friends.” 

He turned, forcing Darkwing to look in the direction he moved. 

Police officers ran out onto the roof from the stairwell. They easily found the pair of them. 

“There he is!” said one cop, pointing. “Get him!” 

They ran in their direction. 

“I believe they have questions about a certain train robbery.” Bulba shoved Darkwing forward so he toppled onto his hands and knees. 

Gasping in an attempt to get his breath back, Darkwing grit his teeth. This was so quickly spiraling out of control. He needed to get it together. 

“A certain train robbery,” he mocked. That certain train robbery hadn’t been a train robbery at all, but an attempt to stop Bulba; he was flaunting that he had outsmarted Darkwing, which really rankled. 

But there was something this criminal genius hadn’t thought of that had instantly occurred to Darkwing (not that he was one to brag [not]). “At least they have you, too, fat boy.” 

(Okay, so was he a little ashamed that he’d resorted to name calling like he was back on the school playground? Maybe a little. But this guy was really getting under his feathers.)

Darkwing glanced up, searching for Bulba, wondering how he could keep him distracted long enough to get him in handcuffs, too. 

But the roof was deserted with no sign of the large bull. 

He couldn’t just disappear. He was too big for that. 

Darkwing clamored to his feet, spinning around, frantically searching. 

“I’d love to stay,” called Bulba. Darkwing glanced up and there he was, holding onto a rope ladder dangling from a flying airship that was shaped like Taurus Bulba’s stupid fat head. “But I have a date on a bridge with a little girl.” 

What? 

A bridge? 

A little girl? 

Gosalyn. 

Dread curdled through him, making his hands shake, his breath come in gasps, but Darkwing fought it down with a determination he hadn’t felt before. Stamped it out as he reached for his gas gun, loading his grappling hook, and pointing it at Taurus Bulba’s air ship. 

It didn’t matter that the ship was probably too far away. It didn’t matter that he was desperately outmatched (and outwitted). Nothing mattered because Gosalyn was in trouble. And Darkwing knew, with everything in him, that he would do anything — absolutely anything — to keep her safe. 

He aimed, his finger on the trigger as he zeroed in on his target. 

Something tackled him from behind, the stranger’s hands grabbing at his shoulders and shoving him to the ground. 

Darkwing’s arms pinwheeled, his gas gun flying out of his grip, and his panic hit him full force. 

The police officers were wrestling him to the ground. 

And Taurus Bulba was getting smaller and smaller as he climbed up into his airship. 

“No!” he called, fighting against the multiple pairs of hands restraining him. “He’s getting away!” 

But the officers weren’t listening to him. One had a pair of handcuffs out, slapping them on his wrists. Another was holding him down, grunting with the effort of keeping Darkwing under control. Neither of them bothering to look over their shoulders at the escaped convict. At the airship heading straight for Darkwing Tower. 

“Gosalyn!” Darkwing cried. 

He had been blinded by headlines, focused on the grandeur of being a hero. He had overlooked the most important piece of it: protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves. 

Okay, it was more than overlooked. He had never thought of protecting anyone if it didn’t bring him glory.

…

Maybe.

Maybe he’d never been a hero. 

“You have the right to remain silent,” said the officer who had handcuffed him. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” 

“You don’t understand,” said Darkwing, desperation tinging his tone. “We have to go after him.” 

“Sir, it’s better for you if you don’t say anything,” said the other officer helpfully, hauling Darkwing to his feet. 

But he couldn’t stay silent. Not now. 

“Listen to me,” said Darkwing as he was yanked towards the stairwell, “there’s a hideout in the top of Audubon Bay Bridge. The third tower in on the right as you’re leaving the city. If you climb all the way to the top, inside the building, you’ll find a little girl named Gosalyn Waddlemeyer. You have to get her to safety.” 

It was shocking just how much it didn’t matter that he was giving up the location of his secret hideout. That he’d just revealed where he kept everything that was remotely connected to him both as Darkwing Duck and Drake the Dweeb Mallard. Sure, he was vaguely aware of there being consequences to his actions, but the only thing that he was cognizant of was Gosalyn.  

She was… Well, she was everything. 

And Darkwing had put her at risk, had endangered her life because he couldn’t see past his own ego. 

The officers exchanged glances, Darkwing looking between the both of them, hoping to see some sort of decision making. But they just looked confused. He glanced over his shoulder, to Bulba’s ship that was heading towards the Tower. 

He struggled. Tried to pull away, to free himself. He had no plan, nothing in mind that he could do, but he had to get to her. 

The officers’ grip tightened and they dragged him down the stairwell, the door closing behind them, leaving him in a cramped dark space. Stillness pressed in on him from all sides, suffocating, constricting. 

Darkwing continued to put up a fight as they struggled down the stairs and outside to the cop car parked at the curb, the front tire on the sidewalk and the red and blue lights flashing. As soon as the sky spread overhead once more, Darkwing looked up, trying to locate Bulba’s ship, but saw nothing. Just clouds that were obscuring the stars, the full moon. 

“Please,” Darkwing begged as the officers shoved him into the back of the car. “You have to help her.” 

One officer shook her head as the other climbed into the passenger seat, talking into his radio. 

Darkwing’s eyes were trained on the sky. “Please find Gosalyn. Taurus Bulba will… he’ll… Please.” He looked at the officers who were peering at him through the glass that separated him from the front seats. 

“Why do you care so much about some kid?” asked the driver. 

Darkwing opened his beak, ready to fire off exactly why. 

Except the words didn’t come. 

If only he could show them what was in his head. Let them see how big and green Gosalyn’s eyes were, how they sparkled when she smiled. The way she so effortlessly destroyed his record in the kitchen training course. The look on her face when she was remembering her grandfather, the sadness that shouldn’t be sitting with someone so young. How she’d so easily wrapped her little arms around him in a hug, not at all intimidated by a hero. (Self-proclaimed hero.) 

If he was honest with himself (actually honest and not delusional) she’d been more of a hero than he had ever been. 

Gosalyn had focused on his well-being from the start (his helmet, where he’d sleep). Had easily seen through Bulba’s guise and realized he was setting a trap. Challenged Darkwing on his way of life and his ideals. And she should have. Because he’d been so very wrong. About everything.  

Being a hero was useless if you didn’t have something to fight for. What had Darkwing been fighting for all this time? Fortune and glory. (Mostly the glory.) 

Gosalyn had been ready to fight for her grandfather, for his invention. And she would still fight against Bulba and his cronies. She had integrity. She had intelligence. She had spirit. 

And Darkwing had dismissed all of that for the lure of a potential front page story. 

He’d been playing the hero his entire life, but now, when he was faced with a true villain and the highest stakes, he had no idea where to even start. He’d never once lived up to the image that he had tried to build. 

Darkwing jumped out of his feathers when the officers grabbed ahold of him, yanking him out of the car and hauling him into the police station. He blinked lazily at the camera as they took his mugshot, shuffled down the hall when they led him to his cell. The door clanging shut reverberated through him, sealing his fate. Confirming that this was exactly where he needed to be, locked away from everyone else. Kept someplace where he wouldn’t compromise anything else. 

Shuffling over to the cot, Darkwing sat on the edge, eyes focused on the pillow. So easily seeing a small form curled under the blankets, her red pigtails a stark contrast to the white of the pillowcase. 

He had failed her. 

The tiny girl who had looked at him with so much excitement shining on her face when she’d learned he was a hero.

Little did she know (little did he know) that he was anything but. 

He’d been lucky. Every every night he had gone out to patrol the streets, every interaction he had with a criminal. 

He could have had a life. Been someone worth knowing, done something useful. 

But no. 

He’d chosen to be a clown in a mask and a cape and his life was filled with nothing but case files and chemistry sets. 

Darkwing reached forward, to the image of her lying in the bed before him, “Little Girl Blue” echoing in the silence. But his fingers only met coarse fabric. 

Gosalyn was gone.

Lying down on the cot, Darkwing curled on his side, around the phantom Gosalyn as if that might keep her safe. Eyes fixed on the wall, he wondered how high the odds were that this was a dream. That he could possibly still be asleep beside Gosalyn in Darkwing Tower, her snores about to wake him at any moment. That this nightmare would soon be nothing more than self-doubt and the realization that he was not at all what he should be. Who he should be. 

Darkwing didn’t wake up from a dream. 

Chapter Text

The wall in front of him suddenly exploded, rubble cascading down onto the concrete floor. 

Darkwing blinked, wondering if this was a dream, and looked over at the aperture in the wall. 

At Launchpad McQuack sitting on the Ratcatcher, studying the controls with his face screwed up in confusion. “Oh, that’s reverse!”  

Launchpad looked over at Darkwing with a sheepish smile on his face. “I thought it was park.”

Even in a dream (or hallucination, it was all the same thing, really), Launchpad was looking at him with the same puppy-dog like devotion. 

Sitting up, Darkwing studied him dubiously. “Launchpad?” 

The disaster pilot smiled and waved a little. 

Heart kicking into overdrive, Darkwing leapt off the bed and dashed over to the Ratcatcher. “Launchpad!” He gripped the brown sleeve, feeling the fabric beneath his feathers. This was real. Launchpad was here. He wasn’t alone. He might be able to do something. “What are you doing here?” 

“Uh,” Launchpad looked embarrassed, studying the Ratcatcher, “this was left behind when the cops took ya away. I was coming to bail you out.” He nodded to the gaping hole in the wall that looked out on the deserted street. “Guess there’s no point to that now.” 

“No, but…” Darkwing looked up at the well-meaning pilot. “Why did you come back here? To me?” 

Launchpad shrugged, that gentle smile starting. “I know you said you work alone, but sometimes it’s nice to have some backup. And I couldn’t leave my biggest hero behind.” 

Something settled in his bones and Darkwing climbed into the Ratcatcher’s sidecar. “Well, thanks, Launchpad.” He looked up towards the skies. The clouds were all that met his inquisitive stare, but the promise of finding Bulba’s ship bubbled up in his chest, giving him something suspiciously like hope. “Maybe this costumed clown can still be a hero.” 

He glanced over to Launchpad, meeting his earnest eyes. “By now, Taurus Bulba must have Gosalyn in his airship. We have to find a way of getting up to him.”

“Airship?” Launchpad’s eyes were glinting as he shifted on the Ratcatcher, revving the engine. “No problemo, DW. I got just the thing!” They drove into the night. Far out of the city limits. To Launchpad’s hanger. It was empty; the plane they’d used to follow Bulba’s henchmen was probably  still in pieces in whatever godforsaken part of suburbia they’d crashed into. 

Launchpad leapt off the Ratcatcher once he’d parked it, only hesitating for a second over “reverse”. Darkwing followed, but came to a halt as Launchpad pulled the cover off of a plane in the neighboring hanger. 

It… It looked like him. 

The cockpit was his head, the windshield his eyes. His beak protruded from the cockpit, the same proportions as his own, and wings expanded out from the sides of his head like his feathery cheeks. 

Launchpad was watching Darkwing carefully, pride shining in his eyes. 

“I-I love this!” Darkwing exclaimed, studying the plane again. “It even looks like me.” 

“I told you I was your biggest fan!” Launchpad said excitedly, pushing a button, the cockpit swinging open on a giant hinge in the back. Darkwing climbed aboard, Launchpad right behind.  

“I’ve been working on it for a year,” Launchpad continued, smiling at Darkwing as he sat in the pilot’s seat. “I call it the Thunderquack.” 

Darkwing shook his head as he looked around the cockpit. From the pilot’s seat, the co-pilot’s seat to the controls, and the additional seating behind him. Plenty of room for Launchpad, Darkwing, and a small girl whose personality was far bigger than she was. “I call it sensational! We’re gonna bring Bulba down like a ton of bricks.” Darkwing took his seat beside Launchpad and looked over at him with a small smile. “Sidekick.” 

Launchpad whooped as he started the plane’s engine and soared up into the skies. 

Darkwing kept his eyes peeled for anything resembling Bulba’s airship, but he needn’t have worked so hard at it. One moment, Darkwing was searching through the clouds and the next, there it was, hovering in front of them. 

It opened fire on the Thunderquack immediately, but Launchpad reacted perfectly, dodging and weaving through the onslaught of bullets. (And this was the pilot who’d had problems with reverse? A duck of many mysteries, this Launchpad McQuack, sidekick to Darkwing Duck.) 

As they circled around in a wide arc, Darkwing looked back towards the airship, a frown on his beak. “We need to blow an entry hole in that thing!” 

“I don’t know, DW,” Launchpad said, also looking at the airship, which was easily five times the size of the Thunderquack. “That sounds dangerous.”

It was. Very dangerous. 

He made a promise then and there: they’d make it. Gosalyn, Launchpad, himself. They would all walk away from this or Darkwing wouldn’t walk away at all. 

He secured his hat on his head. “Well, then, let’s get dangerous!” 

Launchpad only hesitated for a moment before flying back towards the airship. The press of a button had the beak opening, a missile firing from its depths. It hit the target, a hole blown away where the eye would be in the bull’s face. 

Launchpad pointed to a trap door which led into the beak of the plane and Darkwing didn’t think twice. He climbed down into the beak and prepared to jump. 

As Launchpad flew as close as he could, Darkwing launching himself across the space and rolling into the airship. 

Rolling up to his feet, Darkwing dusted himself off as he surveyed his surroundings. It was the prison Taurus Bulba had been serving his 99 life sentences in. He’d built the ship around his cell block. That was how he’d escaped. Darkwing had to hand it to the evil mastermind: that was pretty clever. 

He had no idea which way Taurus Bulba was. And there enough time to search. 

So… he should bring Bulba to him.

“Lovely decor!” he called, eyes and ears peeled for any movement. “Early penitentiary?” 

“I’ll flatten this guy like a two penny nail!” came a voice somewhere to the right. Darkwing whirled around and there was Hammerhead. 

Planting his webbed feet, Darkwing taunted, “Well, if it isn’t Hammerhead Hannigan.” 

The goat snorted and started sprinting right towards him 

“And so eager to see me, too.” Darkwing waited until Hammerhead had gained just enough forward momentum. Then he stepped aside. hammerhead collided head-first with a support beam, denting the hard metal. Hammerhead fell, hitting the ground with a dull thud as Hoof and Mouth scurried out to investigate. 

Darkwing grabbed his gas gun and aimed it at the two henchmen. “All right you muscle heads, where’s Gosalyn?” 

“Really, Darkwing, all you had to do was ask,” came the carefully constructed syllables of Taurus Bulba. 

Darkwing spun around, pointing his gas gun at Bulba as he emerged from the shadows, that smug grin still firmly in place. Bulba yanked at something behind his back, then lifted it up and held it out in front of him. Leaving it — her — dangling in midair. 

“She’s right here,” Bulba crooned. 

Gosalyn. She was tied up in a length of rope and looking around wildly at her surroundings. 

Darkwing’s heart skipped a beat. She was unharmed. Clearly afraid and in so much danger, but she wasn’t hurt. As quickly as the relief had come, a seething anger replaced it. He started to run over to Bulba, but Hoof and Mouth pointed pistols at him. 

Glancing up at Gosalyn, whom Bulba had carefully positioned right in front of his vital organs, Darkwing tossed his gas gun onto the floor and allowed the henchmen to lead him out onto the exterior of the airship. Taurus Bulba’s laugh boomed around the cell block. 

The aircraft was hovering over the First National Bank, the Ramrod he’d seen in Gosalyn’s photo stationed on the rooftop of the building. Taurus Bulba descended onto the rooftop first and immediately walked over to his shiny new toy. He all but tossed Gosalyn aside, unconcerned as she released a small grunt of pain. Darkwing’s ire overshadowed his worry and he leapt from the airship, running over to her. She gave him a small smile as he helped her sit up and untied the rope. (Knowing all those knots had been a great skill set to learn.) 

“Are you okay?” he asked. His initial assessment had been correct; she was physically unharmed. But something told him that haunted look in her eyes would linger for quite some time. 

“I’m sorry, Darkwing,” she said, ducking her head and sounding close to tears. “If they hadn’t caught me, you wouldn’t have risked your life.” 

Darkwing smiled, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “Gos, before I met you, I didn’t have a life worth risking.” 

She blinked furiously, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug that was just a little too tight. And he eagerly returned it. Darkwing felt like he was able to fully breathe again. 

They would get out of this. He would do everything he could to make sure of that. 

“So, you two are close,” Taurus Bulba said, sounding pleased. Darkwing released Gosalyn, pushing her behind him as he stood and faced the villain. Bulba was still smiling, Tantalus resting on one of his massive shoulders. Ooh, Darkwing wanted to smack that grin right off his face. 

“How touching,” Bulba said. “How fortunate. I’m afraid I’ll never get the code from this one,” he peered around Darkwing to look at Gosalyn, “she has too much spirit.” 

Gosalyn scowled and Darkwing almost loosed a smile. Spirit indeed.  

“However, if by chance, she trusted you with the code,” Bulba said, looking at Darkwing with a dark glint in his eye. He looked up to Tantalus and nodded, the condor spreading its wings and swooping towards them. Darkwing tried to play defense, but the bird feigned to the left before dodging to the right, easily grabbing ahold of Gosalyn in its talons. Her feet kicked in protest, but the great bird soared higher and higher, paying no mind to her protestations.  

Darkwing whirled on Bulba, his expression dark and his hands balling into fists. “Bring her down!” 

Taurus Bulba examined his fingernails. “Give me the code.” 

Darkwing crossed his arms. “She never told me any code.” 

Bulba hummed. “That’s a real possibility. But I’ve always considered myself a gambling man.” 

Darkwing’s heart pounded painfully in his chest when he heard Gosalyn’s yelp. Twisting back around, Darkwing searched the skies. 

But Gosalyn wasn’t there. 

Tantalus was. Staring at him with a smug expression. 

His heart now ricocheting around his ribs like a pinball, Darkwing ran over to the edge of the roof and peered over. 

He found Gosalyn. 

Falling down. 

Down. 

Down towards the street. 

Hundreds of stories below. 

It couldn’t end like this. Darkwing had just become someone worth knowing. And he knew, somehow, that this new and improved mallard would be ripped away from him in the wake of this child’s absence. 

He looked back to Bulba. “I’ll give you the code!” 

Tantalus was smarter than he looked because he did a flawless dive, his curled talons outstretched as he plucked Gosalyn effortlessly from her free fall. He soared back up into the sky, Gosalyn safely in his grip. 

For now. 

“The code,” Bulba said, hands tucked behind his back and an edge to his voice. “No tricks or she’ll make quite an ugly stain on the street.” 

Eyes still fixed on Gosalyn, Darkwing stumbled over to the Ramrod. “Little Girl Blue” played in his head as he keyed in the colors. 

Yellow. 

Blue. 

Red. 

Blue. 

Purple. Twice. 

Blue. 

Purple. 

Green. 

Yellow. 

The Ramrod whirred to life, lights flashing and blinking. 

“At last!” Bulba exclaimed, striding over to the Ramrod. 

Darkwing glared up at Bulba, fury burning in his eyes. “Now bring her down!” 

“Not before I test!” Bulba barked, moving toward the controls. 

The Ramrod, which looked like a lasergun attached to a pole but on a much larger scale, spun around at Bulba’s command. Its nose pointed towards a square building with Grecian columns in the front. The federal gold depository. 

Bulba’s grin was wide as he hit a few buttons. A beam of light shot down from the Ramrod’s thin barrel and hit the squat building. Splitting the stone in half like it was made of Swiss cheese instead of marble and concrete. It sucked gold bricks into the beam of bright swirling light. Bulba maneuvered the Ramrod, its nose pointing up towards his airship, and the gold bars shot inside with another flick of a switch. 

A female voice echoed around them, projected from speakers attached to the outside of the ship. “Gold secured, Taurus Bulba.” 

Bulba laughed, full bodied and loud. “I’ll strip St. Canard clean then hit every city in the country.” 

As much as he was itching to stop the planned path of pillaging, Darkwing gritted out, “Fine. Then you’re done with Gosalyn.” 

Bulba’s grin was still firmly in place as he purred, “Oh, quite.” He nodded to Tantalus. 

Who let Gosalyn go. 

And she dropped down towards the street once more. 

An anger unlike anything Darkwing had ever felt before surged through him, his blood positively boiling. He kicked Bulba right in his solar plexus, this time hitting his mark. The bull doubled over with a grunt of pain. 

Darkwing was ready to keep attacking. He wanted Bulba to suffer for everything he had put Gosalyn through. For, very likely, murdering her grandfather. Never before had such a strong sense of retribution ricocheted up and down Darkwing’s spine. 

But what good would it do? 

Gosalyn was still tumbling down towards her death. Darkwing had to do something to save her. She was his priority, not revenge. 

The Ramrod! It had made those gold bars levitate; could it lift Gosalyn the same way? 

Darkwing whirled to face the machine when a blur of purple shot through his peripheral vision. Tantalus wasn’t purple. Neither was the airship. What else had been in the skies tonight…?

The Thunderquack! 

“Launchpad!” Darkwing cried as he ran to the edge of the building, watching the plane come out of its nosedive, Gosalyn resting on its bill. 

Releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Darkwing turned back towards Bulba, who was crouching nearby, one hand massaging his stomach, eyes screwed shut. More than ready to get his revenge, Darkwing deftly ducked behind the Ramrod. 

“Where is he?” Bulba’s voice demanded. 

Hammerhead’s answered, “He was right here a second ago!”

Rolling a smoke canister out into the open, Darkwing called, “I am the Terror that Flaps in the Night!” The smoke billowed out, across the roof from where he was crouching.  

“There!” Bulba yelled. “Shoot the smoke!” 

The loud pops of a pistol being fired filled the still night air. The smoke dissipated and Bulba loosed a frustrated snarl when he realized his prey was still on the loose. 

“I am the chill that runs up your spine!” Darkwing announced, tossing another smoke canister in front of the Ramrod. Under the cover of his smoke, he ran around the machine to stand in front of it, saying with relish, “I am Darkwing Duck!”  

Hannigan aimed his pistol, the barrel pointed at Darkwing’s forehead. He didn’t flinch. 

Bulba shoved the pistol away, saying, “No! Not when he’s on the Ramrod!” 

Darkwing looked down at the controls, pondering aloud, “Let’s see. Now how does this work?” He pushed every button he could find and flicked all the installed switches and joysticks. The Ramrod’s laser began to spin in half circles, the beam shooting in out different directions.

“It’s overloading!” Bulba called, ducking to avoid the erratic beams. 

His henchmen weren’t so lucky. Hoof, Mouth, and Hannigan were all crowded together and hit with the light, floating off harmlessly into the night. 

Darkwing called, “It’s over Taurus Bulba! And this time, you'll be in a non-portable prison!” 

A machine gun dropped down from the airship overhead, aiming for Darkwing. He managed to get behind cover as it opened fire. The Ramrod, however, got the brunt of the damage, the laser swinging in a wide arc. A large beam of light deployed into the airship and the prison floated away, all of the bars of gold that Bulba had stolen mere moments ago floating down and tumbling down to the ground. Darkwing hoped the police would be able to account for them all. 

The Ramrod continued to shoot laser beams, faster and faster. Darkwing managed to dodge a beam that came close, but it was a near thing. 

“I think this is where the hero makes his dramatic exit!” he panted, looking around for that stairwell he’d been led down earlier. 

He quickly located it and was springing over when he suddenly stopped. Taurus Bulba was pulling out a gun from his jacket pocket and walking towards the edge of the building. Where the Thunderquack was hovering. Gosalyn was in the cockpit. Next to Launchpad. 

Darkwing had heard the term “seeing red” before but he didn’t realize how literal it was. The edge of his vision flashed scarlet as he whipped out his gas gun and flicked through the settings.

Taurus Bulba aimed at the Thunderquack’s cockpit. 

Making his selection, Darkwing fired. 

The grappling hook wound its way around Bulba’s horns and Darkwing yanked back on his gas gun. Bulba’s head whipped back rather violently, the pistol clattering to the roof as he staggered backwards. Away from Gosalyn. 

Regaining his footing, Bulba easily found Darkwing, fury etched into the lines of his face. 

The Ramrod’s malfunctioning laser missed Darkwing by a few inches. The controls on the machine were a red hot as the metal melted and fused the circuitry. 

Over Bulba’s shoulder, Darkwing saw the shape of the Thunderquack. 

When he’d jumped onto the airship, Darkwing had promised that they would get out of this, the three of them. 

But he wasn’t confident about his math anymore. 

Maintaining eye contact with Taurus Bulba, he backed into the stairwell. 

The Ramrod loosed a loud whirring sound. 

He pushed the door open with his hip. 

Bulba was seething. But the grappling hook was still tangled between his horns. 

Darkwing disengaged his gas gun from the rope. He tossed the gun away, the rope gripped in his feathered fingers. 

He could, at least, give Gosalyn and Launchpad a clear escape. 

Bracing his feet on the bottom of the doorframe, Darkwing wound the rope around both hands. 

He grinned at Taurus Bulba. And pulled. 

Bulba went sprawling, smacking into the roof. 

An explosion, all bright lights and heat, engulfed everything. 

Darkwing was blasted backwards, unconscious before he even hit the ground. 

Chapter Text

The first thing he noticed was how bright it was. White lights blinded him from somewhere overhead. He blinked blearily before shutting his eyes, bringing back the blessed darkness. 

He let it carry him away. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

Noises trickled in. Beeps, hissing, murmurs. 

Antiseptic assaulted his nostrils, so heavy it sat on his tongue. 

When he pried his eyes open, it was still bright but not as overwhelming as before. 

Had there been a before? He wasn’t sure. 

Then the pain kicked in. 

A relentless pounding in his head. 

Barbed and excruciating in his ribs. 

A stinging prickle tumbling up and down his arms. His left ached more than his right, down to the bone. 

The muscles of his legs gnawed at him as if they were disintegrating to nothing. 

He hoped if he was disintegrating to nothing, it would finish the job quickly. 

The darkness was a welcome reprieve and he eagerly let it drag him back under. 

—…—…—…— … —…—…—…—

Blinking, he groaned as the light attacked his sensitive eyes again. His ribs throbbed with every breath in and out. He brought up his hand to block out the light and glanced around the room as everything came into focus. 

It looked like a hospital room. The large window on one side, an uncomfortable plastic chair situated at his bedside, and an open door past the foot of the bed revealing a sink and toilet. 

What was he doing in a hospital? 

He glanced down at himself and was struck dumb by the cast enveloping his left arm.

What had happened? 

He couldn’t remember. There was nothing to give him even the smallest clue as to why he’d ended up here. Like this. 

Bringing up his good hand, he closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his beak. 

He didn’t feel… His eyes snapped open. 

There was no mask. 

He wasn’t wearing his mask. 

They were going to find out who he was. They would know that he was a nobody. That he wasn’t worth all this care. 

Tossing aside his blankets, he realized he wasn’t wearing his suit, either. There was absolutely no sign of purple, just the light baby blue hospital gown, both his legs in casts sticking out from underneath. 

Whatever fight he’d gotten into, he hoped he looked better than the other guy. Who had been the other guy? Someone big. Looming. With a smug smile and a sinister laugh. What had they been fighting about? A laser gun? That couldn’t be right. 

It hardly mattered in the face of the revelation of Darkwing Duck waking up in a hospital bed without his suit, mask, or cape.  

Sitting up, he bit back a groan as shocks of shattering pain raced up his spine, down his neck, through his legs. 

But he couldn’t just sit here, no suit on. He had to find it. Before anyone realized he was just a dweeb in a mask and a cape. 

He ripped off the IV, blood pooling on the back of his hand. Tugged away the other chords and cables wrapped around him. Darkwing managed to maneuver to the edge of the bed. The pain was beyond anything he thought was possible. Using his one good hand, he pushed himself off. And collapsed straight onto the floor, his ribs and legs and arm all huge crashing waves of pain. 

When he was able to breathe again and see beyond the spots that danced before his eyes, he caught a glimpse of the bathroom ahead, like some sort of siren song. 

Gritting his teeth, unable to keep down the grunts of pain, he slowly scooted across the floor. Through to the bathroom where he found the tatters of his suit in the shower, carefully piled on the built-in seat. What was left of it; he only knew it was his suit from the years he’d spent living in it. 

Sitting up against the wall, he reached with shaking fingers. He fumbled for the mask for a few minutes before he could get a grip on the thing. But get a grip on it he did, the scrap of purple fabric fluttering into his lap. Using his good hand and his teeth, he tied it in a sloppy knot and slid it over his head, the pounding behind his eyes so bad it was practically rocking him back and forth. 

His mask settled in a crooked slash on his face, the eyeholes not matching up with his eyes, but he released a breath with the familiar disguise in place. 

Had it been a bull? The grin and laugh fit with the looming shapeless thing in his mind. Taurus… something. 

Darkwing didn’t bother with his turquoise turtleneck sweater. With one wing out of commission, he could maybe wriggle into something that he could wrap around himself, like his suit jacket. He pulled it down, bracing one end of it against the wall as he set it around his shoulders. 

Taurus Bulba! That was it! The criminal mastermind who had managed to escape from prison and had stolen some laser thing. 

Darkwing gasped for breath as he fished his good arm through the jacket, gritting his teeth against the white-hot pain in his ribs, his head still throbbing mercilessly. 

It had come down to him and Bulba, hadn’t it? Standing on a building. Darkwing had been resolved, ready to not make it down from the building, and squared off with the bull as the explosion erupted around them both. 

But… there was…

There was another image. Darkwing’s face, hovering some blocks away. Two figures staring at him through the eyes. No, the windshield. It was a plane. One figure was dressed in brown and very tall, the other smaller with red hair pulled up into pigtails. 

Gosalyn. 

The name hit him like a punch to the gut, and Darkwing slouched against the wall, eyes unfocusing as the memory of her flooded back. 

He’d tried to save her. The small girl whose grandfather had invented that laser machine. The Ramrod. She was the girl he’d sung a lullaby to, who had been concerned about him coming to her rescue, who had asked if he would ever take his mask off. 

Curling his knees up to his chest, Darkwing rested his head on top of them.

He couldn’t. 

He couldn’t. 

She was too young to understand, to know. That he wasn’t worth anything outside the mask. If he took off his mask, if he didn’t have this suit, this persona…He was someone who had done nothing with his life. Someone who had been bullied, too weak to stand up for himself. Someone who hadn’t had a happy childhood and still struggled with whether he missed his parents or was glad to be alone. Someone who had no ambition, no skills, no talents. Someone who had spent his whole life trying to be someone else; someone who was worth knowing, worth being, worth fighting for. 

Because Drake Mallard. 

Drake the dweeb. 

Was nothing. 

Darkwing’s breath was coming out in short bursts, and he couldn’t quite get it back no matter how hard he tried. His limbs felt detached from his body. A sense of foreboding suffocated him. He wrapped his good arm around his legs like he might be able to keep out all the bad things if he was small enough. 

This broken disaster of a crime fighter (not a hero; he knew better now) was so much better than Drake Mallard. 

The small scrap of fabric over his eyes was easier to face in the mirror than his actual face.  

Gosalyn had been the first person these past fifteen years who had asked about the duck behind the mask. And she was smart. Insightful. Better than him in every conceivable way. So, if she thought Drake Mallard was someone she’d want to meet… then maybe… Maybe. 

His trembling fingers gripped the mask around his face. 

What if she hated Drake as much as Darkwing did? Then where would he be? 

He scoffed (maybe sobbed) and released the mask.  

Drake was no one. Drake had no one. Drake was an orphan with no friends, no family. 

Darkwing was the same in that regard. He worked alone. 

Not so alone anymore. He had taken on a sidekick. A crackpot pilot who had designed an airplane to look like Darkwing’s face. 

“I’m your biggest fan!” 

That was right, that was the way things were supposed to be. Darkwing was supposed to have fans, people who respected and revered him. 

“You mean you don’t take off your mask for anyone?” 

“That’s right. Not no one, not never.” 

“What about a really really really close friend?” 

The door to his hospital room opened. Darkwing looked up, panicked. Saw Launchpad (what was he doing here?) meander in with a cup of coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other. He looked toward the bed and spun back to the door, his newspaper fluttering to the floor as he called for a nurse. 

No, people couldn’t see him like this! 

Darkwing managed to get out a weak, “Launchpad.“ 

The pilot rushed into the bathroom, concern on his face. He set his coffee down on the lip of the sink. “Hey ya, DW.” Sinking down into a crouch, Launchpad surveyed him with keen eyes. 

Darkwing curled in on himself even more, sure he looked a sorry sight with his ripped mask, his coat that hung off his shoulders in tatters. “I... I…” He didn’t have words. He still couldn’t get enough air into his lungs, still felt so distant from all of this. Shame colored his cheeks. 

“Hey,” Launchpad said again, reaching out, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You need to breathe.” 

Darkwing took a shaky breath, winced when his ribs howled in protest. 

“Breathe into your belly,” Launchpad said, sitting beside Darkwing, his arm wrapping around his shoulders. “In and out with me,” he said. 

An untold amount of time passed, Darkwing inhaling and exhaling with Launchpad, there on the floor of a hospital bathroom. Eventually he didn’t feel as far away. Like he didn’t have to struggle to breathe anymore. Like he had settled back inside himself. Exhaustion weighed him down and he collapsed. Right into Launchpad’s chest, who easily caught him. 

“You want some help getting back into bed?” Launchpad asked gently. 

Heaving a sigh, Darkwing nodded. 

Launchpad easily scooped him up, carefully navigated through the doorframe, and set him back down on the bed. “If you needed to use the bathroom, you should have asked for help.” Launchpad eyed the discarded IV, the flatlined heart monitor, all the chords splayed out over the ground. 

Darkwing grit his teeth as he settled into the bedding. “I’m… not used to help.” 

“Cause you work alone?” Launchpad asked, innocently curious. 

(Because no one in their right mind would want to help him.)  

Darkwing heaved out another sigh, closing his eyes against the still bright lights. “Yeah, sure.” 

Launchpad smiled shyly. “You’re gonna need a little more help to get hooked up to all this stuff again.” 

Eyes springing open, Darkwing clutched onto his jacket, trying to pull it on. “I-I can’t have my identity compromised.” 

“This is a S.H.U.S.H. hospital,” Launchpad said soothingly. “They were the ones who found you and brought you here. If anyone can know about… well, about you, I’d think it would be them. Right?” 

You would think. 

“Well, I—” said Darkwing weakly, looking down at his suit, still half on. 

“Come on, DW. Let me get the nurse to help you out.” 

Swallowing, Darkwing nodded minutely. Launchpad disappeared for a moment before he was back, a nurse in tow. She clicked her tongue, efficiently hooking Darkwing back up to everything, writing something on his chart, and shaking her head before leaving them alone. 

Launchpad had settled into the uncomfortable plastic chair near Darkwing’s bed, coffee and newspaper retrieved and in his lap. Silence settled between them. Darkwing was ready to admit that he sort of liked this sitting with someone where they could just exist in silence when Launchpad opened his stupid beak. 

“Why’d you put your suit back on?” 

Darkwing opened his eyes, looking over to Launchpad. 

Who was watching him carefully. But unflinchingly. 

Swallowing, Darkwing shrugged. Went for honesty. “I didn’t want them to know… who I was.” 

Launchpad hummed, looked down into his coffee. “Sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.” 

“It’s… okay.” Why would he feel bad about that?

“Woulda been a lot easier, me explaining it all to you.” Launchpad smiled slightly. “But I had to get another visitor pass for today. They’re really strict, and I’ve had a bit of trouble convincing them I’m your sidekick. Knowing about Taurus Bulba and your motorcycle is what did it.” 

“The Ratcatcher.” 

Launchpad looked up. “What?”

How was someone so large to gentle? “It’s called the Ratcatcher. My motorcycle.” 

Launchpad grinned. “Is it named after your first fight with Megavolt? The one that put you on the map as St. Canard’s greatest hero?” 

Darkwing blinked. “How’d you know—?” 

“Biggest fan,” Launchpad said, pointing at himself. But the merriment was wiped from his face a moment later as he studied Darkwing. “D’you wanna take that suit off? It’s not really in the best condition.” 

“It’s fine,” Darkwing snapped. 

“There’s not much left of it,” Launchpad argued placatingly. 

“I said it’s fine!” 

It was Launchpad’s turn to blink. Then he nodded. “Sorry. I-I didn’t think— I just wanted to help, not find out your secret identity. I— I’m sorry.” Launchpad got to his feet, tossing his newspaper onto his vacated chair as he shuffled towards the door. 

“Launchpad,” Darkwing said, not sure why he’d called out. 

Launchpad turned. 

“Is-is Gosalyn okay?” 

He brightened immediately. “Oh, yeah, she’s fine! Spunky kid.” He chuckled then sobered. “She was pretty upset that you were… Well, from the Thunderquack, all we saw was the explosion and it took out most of the roof. So. We thought….” He shrugged. 

That Darkwing had died. 

“Anyway,” Launchpad said after a moment. “I took her back to the orphanage. So you got nothing to worry about.” He turned to leave. 

Nothing to worry about? 

Gosalyn thought he was dead. She was back in the orphanage all alone. Without any closure after she’d already lost her entire family. 

“No, wait!” Darkwing called. 

Launchpad faced him again, his expression as expectant and patient as ever. 

“I— Do you think I could see her?” 

“Well,” Launchpad said, waving to Darkwing. “You should probably wait until you’re feeling a bit better.” 

“But…” Darkwing looked down at his scorched suit. “I’ll be able to visit the orphanage?” 

Launchpad shuffled from one foot to the other. “I think she’d like to see you.” 

You. 

Not Darkwing. 

Drake. 

Would she? Really? 

Something deep inside Darkwing answered a resounding “yes.” 

And while he was at it, Launchpad would probably want to meet Drake, too. He had no idea why. 

These two. A pilot who had problems with flying in the right direction and a spirited girl who had awoken the true hero in him. They had gone up against Taurus Bulba with him. And it was only fair if they were asking to see who, exactly, they’d fought alongside.  

“You need anything, DW?” Launchpad asked, still standing by the door. Ready to leave once Darkwing gave the word. 

“I… I…” Darkwing cleared his throat.

His heart pounding so loudly he was sure Launchpad could hear it, he reached up, peeled off the remnants of his mask. “My name is Drake Mallard.” 

In the ensuing silence, Darkwing was sure he had made the biggest mistake of his life. Launchpad was Darkwing Duck’s biggest fan, not Drake Mallard’s. The image of his hero had been ruined forever. 

He’d been right all along. No one wanted to know Drake Mallard.

Launchpad walked over to the hospital bed, setting down his coffee on the table. Standing over him, Launchpad stuck out his hand with an easy smile. “Hi, Drake. It’s nice to meet you.” 

Was it? 

Surely it would be more of a dream come true to meet Darkwing Duck. 

But looking at Launchpad’s face, into those deep brown eyes, he knew. Drake was who Launchpad had come to see, really. He wanted to make sure Drake was okay. Drake was who he wanted to help. And Drake was who he was excited to be with now. 

A weight that had been pressing down on his shoulders for the past fifteen (maybe even twenty) years suddenly lifted.

Drake smiled up at Launchpad. Taking his hand, he said, “Likewise, Launchpad.” 

Chapter Text

He stood outside the building, gazing up at its cracked facade. 

A voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Launchpad reminded him to breathe. So he did, deeply, in and out. It helped. (Which he would never admit to Launchpad’s face.)  

With one last exhale, he squared his shoulders (as gracefully as he could with one of his arms resting atop a crutch), and reached down to give his cape a little jeuge before walking in. 

But there was no cape. 

No mask. 

It wasn’t Darkwing Duck who stood on this stoop. 

It was Drake Mallard. 

There were theories of parallel universes, right? Where there were an infinite amount of universes out there, most of them just like this one except for some small differences. Because people made different choices in different situations. 

He was sure that this moment, right now, was one of those life changing moments where he would choose one path, and another Drake Mallard in some other universe would choose the other. And their lives would be completely different. He wasn’t sure which one would turn out better. If “better” was even an option and not all just relative to this world and the circumstances that shaped it and him.  

Aaaand if he kept waxing poetic about the multiverse, he would never move from this single slab of sidewalk. 

Heart jackhammering in his chest, Drake closed his eyes and took another deep breath. 

He could do this. Sure, he hadn’t shown his actual face in this city for decades. Sure, he didn’t know how to behave like a normal person since he had worked his entire life to reject “normalcy”. Sure, he was a little freaked to face what he had always run away from. 

It would be worth it. 

(Of course there was no way to know if this would turn out the way he was hoping or if it would be a cataclysmic disaster. But he was willing to try. And that was something, right? … Right??)  

Drake opened his eyes up and climbed the steps into the red brick building. 

Limping inside, he found the office in question with the name “MRS. CAVANAUGH” printed in gold square letters on the frosted glass. He knocked on the door. Plastered a smile on his beak when he heard the invitation to enter. Hobbled into the office, hoping he didn’t look as freaked out as he truly felt. (A mask would have been nice to have right now.) 

“Mrs. Cavanaugh,” he greeted the bespectacled woman behind the mahogany desk with its chipped sides and stained wood grain. Atop it a Manila file was open, copies of Drake’s license, his proof of income, insurance provider, letters of recommendation, and everything else that summed up an adult life stacked high on photocopy paper. Mrs. Cavanaugh’s curly hair was pulled up in a bun and her eyes were as bright as her smile. 

She walked around the desk to shake his hand as he continued, “I’m Drake Mallard. It’s nice to meet you in person.” 

It still felt weird to introduce himself without any blue smoke. 

Graylag Cole, though, had been thrilled to hear the lackluster introduction when Drake had contacted him a few weeks ago. 

“Mr. Cole?” 

“Speaking.” 

“I-it’s Drake Mallard, sir.” 

“Drake,” he’d said, the name released on a sigh. “H-how are you, son?” 

“Oh,” said Drake, looking around at the S.H.U.S.H. hospital room with a grimace. “I’ve been better.” 

“It is good to hear from you,” Mr. Cole said. “Have you been receiving all the paperwork I’ve sent you over the years?” 

“Yeah, yeah. I got ‘em.” Stashed somewhere in the Tower. He’d have to find those. Keep them in a safe place. Maybe in a Filofax like his mother used to do. Where did one pick up a Filofax? “Thanks. For, um, dealing with my weird requests. But I-I’m back in town now, and I… I’m gonna stay.” 

“Oh, Drake, that’s wonderful news! Naturally, my office and all my staff are at your disposal. Whatever you need while you settle down, you just let me know.” 

“Thank you, sir. I did have a few questions. Um, I wanted to talk about a possible mortgage.” 

“Easily done, my boy. I’ll get you in touch with a friend of mine. He’s a realtor.” 

“And… and about adoption.” 

“Agreed, Mr. Mallard! It’s always nice to put a face to a name,” said Mrs. Cavanaugh.

She motioned to the armchair situated across her desk, but Drake remained standing. The faded upholstery looked to be the type that swallowed you whole and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to wrestle himself free. 

“From our conversations, it sounds like you and Gosalyn would certainly get along. All that remains is for you to, well, meet her.” Mrs. Cavanaugh smiled. 

Little did this woman know. 

“I’m ready when you are,” said Drake. “Or, when Gosalyn is.” 

“I’ll go get her,” said Mrs. Cavanaugh. “She’s been a bit… under the weather. Wait here, I’ll be back.” She stood and left the office through a door behind her desk. There was a hallway beyond it, lined with more doors. 

Drake leaned heavily on his crutch, trying not to let his nerves get the better of him. 

What if Gosalyn didn’t want him, after all? What if the attachment Drake felt was all one sided? 

Worse, what if Gosalyn was only interested in Darkwing Duck and wouldn’t want anything to do with middle aged Drake the dweeb? What if she wanted a life of adventure in the Tower instead of one of quiet mediocrity? 

He needed to calm down. It wasn’t like Darkwing Duck was going anywhere. He’d just be leading a double life. Raising Gosalyn by day (with any luck) and fighting St. Canard’s criminal underbelly by night. So, he could still offer some excitement. 

The door opened, Mrs. Cavanaugh pushing through, a look of sadness on her features and Drake’s heart sank. 

“I’m sorry Mr. Mallard. Gosalyn isn’t feeling very well today,” she said by way of explanation. 

“Oh, really?” he said, trying not to sound as devastated as he felt. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

It was awfully nice of her. To let him down so easily. 

Of course Gosalyn wanted nothing to do with him. 

He wanted nothing to do with Drake Mallard, either. 

But he’d been willing to give it a try—

Oh, well.  

“Perhaps another time,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said with a small smile. 

He wasn’t sure he could survive another visit. Returning with renewed hope only to (inevitably) get shot down again… yeah, that wasn’t really high on his list of priorities. 

“Frankly,” said Mrs. Cavanaugh, “it appears you’ve seen better days yourself.” 

“Huh?” Was his disappointment that obvious? He needed to work on his poker face… Wait. “Oh, the bandages, right! Well,” he laughed weakly. Yikes. He was useless at this socializing thing. 

Looking down at himself, he tried to come up with how he could have feasibly gotten so many injuries and said quickly, “This is just a little kitchen accident.” 

Wow. 

Wow. 

He had stared down some of St. Canard’s most notorious criminals and he couldn’t even manage a little white lie. As if he needed more proof that he had no idea what he was doing here…

The door behind Mrs. Cavanaugh’s desk moved slightly and Drake glanced toward it. Only to see Gosalyn poke her head out, those endless green eyes finding him almost immediately. 

Drake couldn’t help but smile. He’d missed her. 

It was like a tidal wave, the relief at seeing her unharmed, at how messy her pigtails were with her bangs half-hanging in her eyes. A cautiousness to the curve of her shoulder, the way her eyebrows were furrowed. 

Looking back at Mrs. Cavanaugh, who hadn’t realized Gosalyn was in the room, he added to his lie. Trying to make Gosalyn see that he was Darkwing Duck. But now he was… less. A dweeb, but with good intentions. “I have trouble making breakfast and I always forget the milk.” 

Gosalyn’s eyes widened. 

Mrs. Cavanaugh was saying, “Well, I’m sorry that Gosalyn—”

But Drake wasn’t listening. He had tossed aside his crutch, opening his arms as Gosalyn ran across the room and launched herself at him. 

He had underestimated her strength. Or that she had gotten a running start. 

Either way, he was sent sprawling backwards. Landing unceremoniously on his backside, Drake released a laugh. And hugged her close. 

With her arms wrapped securely around his neck, all of the anxiety and fear melted away. It was more than worth it to drudge up Drake Mallard, to assume such a boring lifestyle again, if she would be there with him. 

“Watch the ribs, kid!” he said, releasing her only to tousle her hair. She was sitting in his lap, eyes roving over his facial features and smiling bigger and bigger the more she saw. He returned her smile, pushing her bangs back. 

A cloud suddenly darkened Gosalyn’s face as she said, her voice impossibly small, “I thought you were—”

“Ha!” Drake puffed out his chest, “Nobody can hurt Darkwing Du-Dr-Drake Mallard.” He finished lamely, glancing at Mrs. Cavanaugh to make sure his cover wasn’t blown (it wasn’t) before looking back down at Gosalyn.  

Leaning forward, like there was a secret that could only be spoken between them, he said softly, “I do have to take care of myself, though. Now that I’ll have an adopted daughter to worry about.” Reaching out, he caressed her cheek, marveling at how soft her downy feathers were. At how brightly her eyes sparkled at the thought of being adopted (by him). At how big her smile was. 

This was all he ever wanted. 

For her to be happy, to never again be touched by the sadness that had haunted her life, to have all of her needs met. 

“Um, now,” he said, straightening up. Gosalyn slid out of his lap and helped him stand up. “If it’s a-alright with Mrs. Cavanaugh, I thought we might go house hunting.” 

Gosalyn was still wearing that smile, practically vibrating with excitement. 

He had done that. Drake the dweeb Mallard had made this small girl so so happy that she could barely contain her emotions. 

Perhaps Drake Mallard wasn’t so bad, after all. 

“But how do you manage to drive in that condition?” Mrs. Cavanaugh asked, indicating Drake’s legs, both of which were still in casts. 

Gosalyn glanced around the room before darting away. She returned quickly, holding the crutch and offered it to Drake. Which he took with a grin down to her. 

“Oh,” Drake said, “I have help.” 

As if on cue, the wall nearby exploded (Drake shielding Gosalyn from the falling rubble) and in drove Launchpad. Backwards. In a hatchback. 

Launchpad climbed out of the car, a sheepish grin on his face as he loosed a nervous laugh. “Still having a little trouble with reverse.” 

Gosalyn laughed, a bright sound that Drake knew he’d never get tired of. 

He didn’t know what he was in for, accepting Launchpad’s help, not just as Darkwing Duck’s sidekick, but as a friend who would help him get his webbed feet underneath him as he began to navigate his new life. As a father. 

But he was willing to give it a try. 

They traversed the wilds of suburbia, eventually turning down a street called Avian Way. No sooner had they parked outside 537 that Gosalyn barreled inside, Launchpad on her heels. 

Drake walked over to the realtor, who was framed in the front door. 

“Almost didn’t know which one we were looking for,” Drake muttered. “This looks just like the house three doors down.” He studied the monstrosity. A multilevel house, probably with a living room in the front, kitchen in the back, an unfinished basement, yards (front and back), and multiple bedrooms. Just like the rest of the houses in this block. In this neighborhood. Across all of suburbia. 

“Yes, there are some similarities,” the realtor agreed, a cheerful smile on her beak, “but, if you’ll notice, the porches are all different to help distinguish—” 

“Oh, the porches are different! Silly me for not noticing the differences with the porches.” Drake withheld an eye roll. 

“This one’s my room!” called Gosalyn from the bowels of the house. Drake looked through the open front door and saw the small girl running out of one of the bedrooms. Gripping the banister with her small hands, she peered down at him from the second floor with her hair mussed and eyes bright. 

This wasn’t for him. He wasn’t alone anymore, and he had her to consider. 

The layout of the house (as far as he could see from the front stoop) didn’t look too bad. A half-way decent place for a kid to grow up. 

Resigned, he looked to the realtor. “Let’s put in an offer.” 

She smiled and pulled out a brick of a mobile phone, stepping away to make a call. 

Launchpad walked into the front hall, calling, “Gos, did you see the size of the backyard?” 

“Yeah! I could see it from my room!” She launched herself down the stairs and raced back through a door, which revealed the kitchen. Launchpad followed at a jog. 

Drake smiled. 

This was it. Where he’d set down his roots. Where Gosalyn would grow up. Where he’d return after a night of crimefighting. 

Which seemed an okay compromise if he got to hear those small shoes pounding on the floorboards every day. 

Chapter Text

He flopped more than walked into Darkwing Tower. Exhaustion clung to him like a soggy paper towel, remnants still sticking even when peeled away by the quivering fingers of caffeine. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would solve this except for a full night’s sleep. 

(And, yes, he was aware that sleeping from 3:00AM until noon wasn't a full night. He'd already argued the semantics with Launchpad and was not in the mood.) 

Darkwing schlepped through the Tower, not bothering to look through his case files to see what else he could possibly drudge up on Bushroot. Didn’t wander to the kitchen to make coffee and pull another long night, lost in the throngs of research. 

He wasn’t a young duck who could sacrifice sleep for the next case. 

Launchpad was somewhere in the Tower, checking the Thunderquack and noting what needed to be fixed. Not waiting for his sidekick, Darkwing sat down in his armchair and hit the statue beside it.

The chair, which usually transported him back home to Avian Way via an elaborate tunnel system S.H.U.S.H. had installed, remained stationary. Groaning, Darkwing hit the statue again. 

Nothing. 

Looks like he was driving home. 

Lugging himself over to the Ratcatcher, Darkwing secured his helmet and kicked the stand up. 

Launchpad poked his head out around from the Thunderquack. “We got another case, DW?” 

“No, we can’t get home because the chairs are broken, so I have to drive back like some sort of soccer mom.” 

Scratching the back of his head, Launchpad looked over to the armchairs. “They probably broke when Gos was jumping on them the other day.” 

Darkwing glared at his sidekick. “She did what?” 

Launchpad blushed. “She made me pinky promise not to say anything.” 

“Et tu, Launchpad? Well then, Brutus, you can spend the night here so you can fix the chairs.” He ignited the engine and headed out into the night. 

“Aw, come on, DW! It was a pinky promise!” Anything else Launchpad might have said was lost as Darkwing descended the bridge and zoomed across town. Thankfully, it being three in the morning, all the streetlights were green and he sailed through the intersections. No one gave him a second glance, the usual crowd out at this time used to seeing Darkwing Duck zipping through the city. 

As he roared closer to suburbia, though, he hoped all the early risers (and those psychopaths who woke up early to work out before the workday) wouldn’t see their savior rumbling through their quiet streets. 

Luckily, he didn’t see anyone. All the windows were dark, curtains shut against the night. (Early morning. Whatever. Still not in the mood.)  

Darkwing drove past manicured lawns, colorful flowerbeds, white picket fences, and Billy Bluebottle’s house. Who’d have thought Drake the Dweeb would wind up in the same neighborhood as Billy Bluebottle, class of 77’s golden child? Not him. Not in a million years. 

There, just a few blocks over from Billy, was his home. 537 Avian Way. 

Opening the garage, Darkwing parked the Ratcatcher. He’d have to wait until he had the cover of darkness to take her back to the Tower. Couldn’t have his new nosey neighbor, Herb Muddlefoot, knowing he was living next to a superhero. But the relocation of the Ratcatcher was a problem for future Darkwing. 

He closed the garage and walked to the front door. Digging his house key out of his pocket, he let himself in, sagging against the door as it closed behind him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it up to his bedroom. The couch was closer. Pushing himself to his feet, he entered the living room only to stop in his tracks. 

Gosalyn was fast asleep on the couch, not a pillow or blanket in sight. Just curled into a small ball at one end. 

It was part of whatever magic Gosalyn possessed that he suddenly wasn’t tired. Some strength returned to his limbs from the dregs of he knew not where. 

Parental reserves. (He assumed.) 

“Hey, sweetie,” he called softly, crossing the room. He sat beside her and reached to gently rub her back. “Come on, wake up.” 

Gosalyn blinked blearily, scrubbing at the tiredness lurking in her eyes. As soon as she caught sight of him, though, she reached up, holding out her arms to him. 

Like Darkwing could say “no” to that. (Seriously, he dared anyone to be where he was with this girl blinking up at them and do nothing.) 

He bent down and wrapped her in a hug, relishing the feel of her arms weaving around his neck. “How come you aren’t in bed?” 

“Was waiting for you,” she said simply. As if it was a fact of life. The sky was blue. The earth rotated around the sun. Gosalyn waited up at night for him to come home. 

“We’ve talked about this,” Darkwing said with a sigh. “You have a perfectly good bed upstairs and need to stay there, no matter how late my cases go.” He pulled away to give her a stern look. 

But he wasn’t able to deliver The Look (TM). Because she kept her arms locked around his neck as he leaned back, her dead weight traveling with him. 

He hadn’t accounted for the additional weight, and fell backwards onto the couch. His arms came up to cradle her so she wasn’t jostled. 

Now safely tucked against his chest, Gosalyn looked up at him, eyes traveling over his face. She reached up, pulled off his hat and dropped it on the coffee table. Untied the mask and tugged it off, the purple scrap clutched in her hand as she studied him further. 

“You’re okay?” she asked. 

Something in Drake softened at her tone, at how she needed to make sure he came home in one piece. Admittedly, he was still getting used to someone waiting for him, someone who was invested in his wellbeing. But it was nice. Knowing that no matter what the villains of St. Canard threw at him, this little girl — his daughter — was going to be at home. And that she wanted to see him walk through that door more than anything else in the world.

The anger at her for not following the rules (which were more like suggestions to her anyway) evaporated as if it hadn’t even existed. 

He hugged her close, bringing up one hand to tuck her head under his beak, her ear pressed over his heart. Which, he’d learned, she liked to listen to after he came home. 

Running his fingers through her hair, Drake said, “I’m fine, Gos,” before planting a kiss on the top of her head. 

She sagged against him, snuggling further into his embrace. 

“You should go to bed,” he said, but he was already reaching down with one hand, bringing up his cape. Wrapping it around her. Kept stroking her hair. Made no move to deposit her on the ground and march her upstairs. 

“So should you,” she countered, her tone slow and sleepy. 

Drake hummed and tightened his arm around her. 

He didn’t want to move. His head was propped up on the armrest, the couch cradling him perfectly. Gosalyn was a pleasant weight on top of him. The cape was wrapped around them both, a soft and effective blanket. 

“Compromise,” he said around a yawn, closing his eyes. “We sleep here.” 

“Compromise accepted,” Gosalyn said. 

“Only for tonight,” he amended quickly. “And tomorrow morning we are going to have a serious talk about you using the chairs at the Tower as your own personal bouncy castle.” 

“Yeah sure, Dad,” Gosalyn murmured. 

Dad. 

If you had cornered young Drake the Dweeb Mallard and told him he’d one day melt at the sound of one word, he would have laughed. 

Darkwing Duck? A father? Yeah, right. 

Darkwing Duck wasn’t a great father. He got carried away with heroism and focused too much on his image. 

Drake Mallard, though? He was… he was an okay father. 

He was still figuring out the kitchen (the layout and as a place to cook food in without any training modules installed in the appliances). And PTA meetings. And how to coordinate all of Gosalyn’s extra curricular sports with her school work and his career. 

But he wanted to do better. Be better. For her. 

Because whether he deserved it or not, he was Gosalyn’s dad. Which was an honor he did not take lightly. 

As he drifted off to sleep on his couch in his living room in his quiet suburban house, Drake Mallard, Gosalyn’s father, couldn’t remember a time when he had been more at peace.