Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The lights of Justice Tower cut sharp against the St. Canard night, purple-white beacons that swept the skyline like the proscenium of a theater. Inside, the mission room was equal parts stage and war room—long table, humming consoles, glass walls that reflected screens into infinity. The air smelled faintly of ozone from the machines, paper from the half-forgotten files stacked under lamps, and a trace of coffee Violet had abandoned hours ago.

Above the table hovered the projection: three ornate containers labeled in stark white text—ALPHA, BETA, GAMMA—their brass frames rotating slowly as holograms, each etched with sigils that shimmered like they might whisper secrets if you stared long enough.

Darkwing Duck planted himself before the display with the gusto of an actor about to deliver a monologue. His cape swirled, brushing the chair legs, catching the light like storm clouds. He jabbed a finger at the hologram, voice booming through the room with practiced drama:

“Tonight, my compatriots! Justice calls, and we shall answer! These vessels contain artifacts of danger so grave, so unspeakably powerful, the criminal underworld would tear the city apart to seize them! But fate—yes, fate itself—has chosen me, the terror that flaps in the night, to intercept their vile designs!”

He spun, cape arcing dangerously close to a console. Gosalyn, perched cross-legged on the table with her crossbow across her lap, didn’t flinch. She just flicked her gaze up long enough to catch the cape almost clocking a lamp, then dropped her eyes back to her bolts, testing their tension with crisp, metallic clicks.

“Or,” she said flatly, “we just grab the boxes, bust through whatever cheap villain traps they set up, and go home. Easy.”

From the console in the corner, another voice cut in—smooth, steady, threaded with the calm of someone who’d already accounted for every variable twice. Violet Sabrewing didn’t look up as she spoke; her eyes were locked to the screens, the glow turning her glasses into pale rectangles of light. Her fingers typed in a rhythm that felt almost musical, pulling up schematics, layering blueprints on surveillance feeds, and mapping routes with clinical efficiency.

“Not easy,” she corrected. “Container Alpha is in the St. Canard Museum’s west wing, suspended inside a rotating laser grid programmed to shift every thirty seconds. Container Beta is within the central clock tower’s gear system. If you mistime the cycle, you will be crushed. Container Gamma is displayed on the sky-barge for the Elite Gala, accompanied by two dozen guards and twenty drones.”

Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly, when she turned her head a fraction toward Gosalyn. “And Dewey is circling the museum perimeter tonight. If he notices you on the roof—”

A loud click! broke her words in half.

Darkwing, looming beside the console, had pressed a flashing button like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. The comm feed snapped off. Screens flickered, one monitor went black.

“And that,” he declared grandly, “is why I shall keep the element of surprise! No foe will intercept our communications while I command the system!”

The silence that followed was immediate and accusing. Gosalyn dragged a palm down her face.

“Dad. You just muted the one person who actually knows what she’s talking about.”

“I was—ah—testing the system!” Darkwing said quickly, fumbling to untangle his cape from the chair wheels.

The speakers crackled back on. Violet’s voice was deadpan, like steel wrapped in velvet. “Testing concluded. Please refrain from pressing random buttons.”

Gosalyn grinned despite herself, flicking her bolt back into place. “Don’t worry, Wise Girl. I’ll keep him away from the shiny toys.”

“Please do,” Violet said, and though her words were even, Gosalyn swore there was a soft thread of warmth hiding underneath.

Darkwing either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He swept his cape once more, chest puffed, eyes glinting in the monitor light. “Danger, spectacle, justice! The fate of St. Canard itself may hang upon these containers!”

“Or,” Gosalyn interrupted, shouldering her crossbow, “we get moving before Dewey spots me hanging upside down over a skylight. Priorities, Dad.”

Violet’s hands hovered above the keyboard again, her gaze darting across feeds. She said nothing, but her silence carried weight. Gosalyn could feel it even through the comm link—Violet tracking her movements, Violet already planning the countermeasure for Dewey’s curiosity.

And on one of the darker screens, deep in the corner, a flicker of pink static bled through the feed like a heartbeat. Watching. Listening.

⸻

The museum at night was all hushed breath and silver reflections. Marble floors turned their footsteps into whispers. Display cases glowed faintly, catching the moonlight in sharp-edged prisms. Old portraits stared from gilt frames as though they disapproved of intruders sneaking across the galleries. The Alpha container sat under its dome of rotating lasers, gleaming like a prize spider trapped in its own web.

Gosalyn crouched on the ledge above the atrium, ponytail whipping in the night draft from the skylights. The hush made her pulse feel louder than the gears of the building. She lived for this part—the silence before the storm, the stillness of the stage before the cue line. She held her crossbow close, bolts numbered in order like chapters of a story only she could write.

“Pattern’s three-two-one—pause—four,” Violet’s voice whispered into her earpiece. “Quicksilver, step left on the second cycle. Darkwing, the east alcove; distract the guard when I cut the feed.”

Darkwing tipped his hat. “Distract? My dear, I shall be a symphony of distraction.” He descended like he was making his entrance to thunderous applause.

Gosalyn smirked, muttering under her breath. “Yeah, yeah. He’ll trip on something in three minutes.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Violet murmured.

Her tone was even, but Gosalyn heard the undercurrent—the way Violet’s voice bent ever so slightly when it was just for her. It always hit her square in the chest, like a lighthouse beam sweeping the water. Gosalyn shifted her crossbow in her grip as if the weight would steady the rush in her blood.

The lasers breathed around her in delicate, lethal ribbons. She shifted a foot onto a beam, balance perfect, breath measured. Violet’s voice guided her with surgical precision: three centimeters left, don’t put weight on your heel. Gosalyn obeyed, every nerve alive.

“Only if you’re watching,” she whispered.

There was a beat of silence—and then a sound that was half-laugh, half-exhale. “Eyes on you, idiot.”

And Gosalyn, reckless grin splitting her face even in the shadows, whispered back, “Good. Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite surveillance system.”

The lasers danced, the halls breathed, and the museum watched as Gosalyn descended into its heart—every step dangerous, every step a performance for the one voice steadying her from afar.

~~~
The clock tower loomed over St. Canard like a skeleton of iron and brass, its gears grinding with the patience of centuries. Each clang of the massive teeth echoed through the cavernous chamber, turning the air into a pulse of sound and vibration. The Beta container sat dead center, encased in a glass pod nestled between the gnashing gears. The light from the tower windows cut long shadows across the floor, slashing the walls with bars of gold and iron.

Gosalyn stood balanced on a railing high above the chamber, arms stretched wide like she was already rehearsing her stunt. The wind from the broken windows tugged her ponytail and licked the edges of her jacket. Her grin was pure adrenaline, bright and shameless. “Okay,” she muttered to herself, rolling her shoulders, “this is basically screaming ‘Quicksilver stunt show.’ I was born for this.”

Violet’s voice slipped into her earpiece, cool and steady. She had mapped the entire tower in real-time, the clicking of her keys in the background like a heartbeat that belonged only to her. “Correction,” she said, her tone clipped but tinged with something warmer underneath. “This screams death trap. The gears complete a full rotation every ninety seconds. The pressure sensors reset every forty-five. You will have a six-second window to remove the case before the teeth lock again. Do not miscalculate.”

Gosalyn crouched low, toes gripping the railing. Her grin widened. “Six seconds? Please. That’s like a lifetime in hero seconds. Plenty of time.”

Across from her on another beam, Darkwing flailed in the draft, his cape whipping as though trying to take flight on its own. He clutched his hat with both hands. “Plenty of time for lunacy! Who in their right mind builds a vault inside a clock tower? This is the work of a thematic madman!”

“A villain who enjoys aesthetics,” Violet replied. “Now focus, both of you.”

The static in the comms cracked once, then cleared. And then her voice, pitched softer, was directed only to Gosalyn: “Don’t get reckless. You always… overextend in moments like this.”

Gosalyn bit back the laugh bubbling up in her chest. She loved it—loved the fact that Violet always sounded like she had a ruler pressed against the chaos, measuring her heartbeat in exact increments. “Don’t worry, Wise Girl,” she whispered. “You know you’ve got me on a leash. I wouldn’t dare make you watch me mess up.”

The pause that followed was brief, but Violet’s voice shifted when it came again—cool on the surface, something else humming beneath. “Eyes on you, as always.”

That was all Gosalyn needed. She leapt.

The beams spun beneath her boots, teeth the size of doors snapping shut inches from her ankles. She vaulted an axle, somersaulted over another, and landed in a crouch that made the iron tremble. Every time her crossbow bolt struck a drone or embedded itself in scaffolding, Violet’s voice guided her corrections with exacting detail—three degrees higher, half-step left, brace your elbow.

It was like they were dancing. Violet orchestrated from above; Gosalyn performed with every muscle screaming for more.

Then—pink light.

It spilled into the chamber in sudden spotlights, bouncing off gears and steel, coating everything in sequined shine. From the shadows below, a figure rose with a whirl of rhinestones and satin.

“Well, well, well,” she trilled, her voice like sugar melting on glass. “What dazzling toys the clock has dragged in.”

The Lady in Pink unfurled her cape, sequins exploding in the light. Drones poured from hidden compartments, their glittering shells buzzing like a jeweled swarm.

“Seriously?” Gosalyn groaned, drawing another bolt. “She comes with an entrance package now? Who is this woman?”

“A rival diva,” Darkwing bellowed, pointing dramatically. “And in my city, there is only room for one master of the grandiose entrance!”

“Incorrect,” the Lady purred, sliding across a beam with feline grace. “I didn’t come for you, caped nuisance. I came for the container. And for a girl who loves an audience.” She winked straight at Gosalyn.

Gosalyn bristled, teeth bared in something between a grin and a snarl. “Sorry, Sparkle Queen. I already have someone in the audience worth showing off for.”

“Gosalyn—” Violet’s voice was clipped, warning, though Gosalyn swore she could hear the faint catch of pride behind it.

She sprang into the gears again, bolts flying, drones exploding in glitter bursts that rained down like confetti. Her laughter rang out, reckless and sharp. “See that, Wise Girl? That’s for you!”

The Lady clapped daintily from her perch, voice echoing like theater. “Bravo, darling! Burn bright before you burn out.”

But Gosalyn didn’t falter. She seized the container with a six-second dive that skimmed the breath from her lungs and clutched it to her chest, triumphant. She held it up like a trophy.

“Got it!” she crowed, breathless.

Violet’s voice slipped through her ear, quieter now. Relief softening each word. “You’re reckless. You’re impossible. But you did it.”

And Gosalyn, grinning like a fool, whispered back: “Anything for you, Wise Girl.”

⸻

The sky-barge floated above St. Canard like a palace on clouds, neon pink and purple lights washing the hull in decadent glow. The music of the gala seeped through the decks: strings tangled with electronic beats, champagne laughter spilling over into the night air. The Gamma container shone at the very center of the ballroom, encased in crystal like a crown jewel.

From the maintenance hatch below, Gosalyn peered through the grates. Lasers wove through the dance floor, flaring with every downbeat of the music. Above, partygoers shimmered in sequins and silk.

“Ballroom security grid is synced to the rhythm,” Violet explained, voice steady as her fingers flew across her keyboard. “Move on the downbeat. You can weave through undetected.”

“So,” Gosalyn muttered, tugging her gloves tighter, “basically we’re supposed to dance our way through?”

“Yes,” Violet said simply. “Simplest phrasing: yes.”

Darkwing burst out from the hatch before Gosalyn could react, spinning dramatically onto the floor. He timed his cape flares to the violins, his hat tips to the bass drops, moonwalking backwards through the laser grid like he’d rehearsed for years. The crowd gasped and applauded, thinking he was hired entertainment.

“The Terror that shimmies in the night!” he declared, dropping into a split under a beam.

Gosalyn slapped her forehead. “I cannot believe this is my life.”

“Believe it,” Violet answered, her dry voice tinged with fond amusement.

Gosalyn vaulted into the ballroom, flipping between beams with ease. Where Darkwing strutted, she flowed—efficient, sharp, deadly. She landed beside the vault and pulled at the casing with precise force, Violet whispering lock-breaking patterns into her ear.

When the crystal case clicked open, Gosalyn snatched the Gamma container free, her grin wild. “Mission complete.”

The crowd cheered as if it were all part of the act. Darkwing bowed, milking the spotlight. Gosalyn dragged him toward the hatch before security caught on.

And in her ear, Violet’s voice softened again, edged with something more personal this time. “Also… Gosalyn?”

“Yeah, Wise Girl?”

“Your PrettyBoy is circling the deck outside. Dewey.”

Gosalyn froze mid-step, face burning hot. “Aw, you’re not jealous, right, babe?”

“I have no reason to be jealous of him,” Violet replied evenly. Yet the quiet, deliberate weight behind the words made Gosalyn’s heart trip over itself.

She ducked her head, clutching the Gamma container tighter. Her grin, hidden from everyone else, was stupid and giddy. “Good,” she whispered. “Because he’s just my best friend. You’re the one I’d risk the lasers for.”

The comm went silent for a beat. Then Violet exhaled—half laugh, half surrender. “Focus, Quicksilver. Get out of there.”

And Gosalyn, flushed and glowing, bolted into the maintenance shaft with her father, three containers secured, and the weight of Violet’s words humming like a second heartbeat in her chest.

Above, unnoticed, the Lady in Pink leaned over the balcony rail, clapping slowly. Her smile gleamed sharper than the sequins on her cape. “Oh, little firecracker,” she whispered to herself. “You’re going to be such fun to break.”

Chapter Text

The Justice Tower’s mission room still thrummed with the aftershock of their daring night. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, gunpowder, and faint smoke from Darkwing’s dramatic smoke pellets. The three containers—Alpha, Beta, and Gamma—sat on the steel table like trophies, their brass casings gleaming under the violet glow of the monitors. Ancient runes crawled faintly across their surfaces, humming as though alive, throwing pale reflections across the ceiling.

Darkwing hovered over them like a general basking in victory, cape swept out, chest puffed, every angle rehearsed for an audience that didn’t exist. Gosalyn, meanwhile, had collapsed into her chair, crossbow tossed onto the table, boots kicked up like she owned the room. Her grin was bright, but her body buzzed with leftover adrenaline, leg bouncing furiously under the table.

“Okay,” she said, stretching her arms behind her head with a pop of joints, “we’ve officially won St. Canard bingo. Exploding museum lasers? Check. Killer disco drones? Check. Dad moonwalking at the Gala like a middle-aged disaster? Double check.”

Darkwing sniffed, snapping his cape for emphasis. “You say ‘disaster,’ I say ‘historic. That moonwalk will live in legend. Songs will be written. Monuments erected.” He paused dramatically. “Children yet unborn will whisper of the night Darkwing Duck reclaimed the moonwalk for justice.”

“Yeah,” Gosalyn muttered, smirking, “by me. When I roast you every chance I get.”

Violet, perched at the console with her hands folded neatly in her lap, pushed her glasses up her beak. Her voice, measured as always, carried the faintest note of something softer beneath the formality. “It was technically flawless choreography. Ill-advised in the middle of a mission, but flawless.”

“Vindication!” Darkwing cried, throwing both arms skyward, nearly knocking one of the containers to the floor.

Gosalyn snorted. “Whatever. Anyway.” She pivoted in her chair to face Violet, the grin on her beak dimming into something smaller, softer, like a candle hidden behind her teeth. She hooked an ankle around the chair leg, leaned forward, chin on one hand. “So. Victory tradition? I’m thinking… double date.”

Violet blinked, adjusting her glasses as if they had fogged. “Double… date?”

“Yeah,” Gosalyn said breezily, waving one hand as though it was obvious. “Me and you. Dad and Launchpad. Dinner, bowling, whatever. That way if Dad decides to bust out another dance routine, LP can wrangle him, and you and I can—y’know—actually have a night without sequins trying to stab us.”

Darkwing choked, nearly swallowing his cape. “Excuse me—dates? Who gave you permission to—?”

But before his rant could crescendo, every monitor in the room flared pink. The holographic containers flickered out, replaced by a wash of rhinestones, sequins, and theatrical spotlights that seemed to bloom from the screens themselves.

A familiar laugh rang through the chamber—high, bubbling, mocking, like champagne corks popping one after another.

“Ohhh, my darlings,” sang the voice, syrupy and cruel. “Did you really think the curtain had closed?”

The Lady in Pink appeared across the central monitor, framed perfectly against mirrored walls and a backdrop that sparkled like a stage. Her cape shimmered like liquid light, sequins scattering the glow in a thousand directions. She bowed low, dimples flashing with feline delight.

“Bravo,” she cooed. “Truly. Three containers, snatched right out from under my nose by my darling little pests. But now?” She raised her chin, eyes glittering. “Now comes the encore. You’ll bring them to me.”

Darkwing slammed his palms on the table, leaning close enough that his reflection warped in the monitor glass. “And what makes you think we’d ever hand dangerous artifacts over to a rhinestone-crazed diva with delusions of grandeur?”

Pink only smirked, sidestepping in the frame with a lazy grace. The camera shifted with her, revealing the contraption behind her—an elaborate, glitter-drenched machine bristling with feathers, gears, and straps. And bound to it, wrists above his head, shirt rumpled, was Dewey Duck.

His eyes went wide the moment he saw the feed. “CROSSBOW!!!” he screamed, voice cracking into three syllables. “Don’t give her anything! Just—just get me out of here!”

The machine whirred ominously, a massive mechanical feather descending toward his stomach like a guillotine of ticklish doom. Dewey thrashed wildly against the straps, feathers flying. “SHE’S SERIOUS! SHE’S REALLY SERIOUS! SHE’S GONNA—”

The Lady in Pink clapped her hands together in delight, cutting him off. “Yes, yes! My helpless, darling little Bluebird. Quicksilver, Crossbow, even you, Darkwing—every hero has a breaking point. And yours?” Her grin widened to a cruel crescent. “Yours just happens to squirm.”

She spun in place like a conductor and barked at her henchmen: “Laugh!”

Startled, the pink-suited goons burst into forced, awkward chuckles, a chorus of fake cackling echoing under her shrill trill. She threw her arms wide, basking in her self-made applause. Then, with a flick of her manicured wrist, the feed fizzed into pink static, leaving the Justice Tower bathed in silence.

For a long, heavy moment, no one moved. The containers gleamed mutely on the table, innocent and deadly.

Darkwing’s voice broke the quiet, grim now, low and tight. “She wants us to bring them to her.”

“She has Dewey,” Violet said softly, hands clenching the armrests of her chair until her knuckles showed white under her feathers. Her calm cracked at the edges, eyes glinting hard behind her lenses.

Gosalyn was already on her feet, crossbow in her grip, shoulders squared. Her eyes burned green fire, her jaw set like stone. “Then she’s gonna regret ever thinking he was leverage.”

The echo of Dewey’s raw, terrified scream still clung to the air, vibrating in her bones. But louder than that was Gosalyn’s vow—a silent, unshakable truth that rooted itself deep in her chest: no one touched her best friend. No Lady in Pink, no villain, no diva with sequins for blood. Nobody broke Dewey Duck without going through her first.

And when they stormed that glittering tower on the skyline, Gosalyn knew she’d make the Lady pay for every second he’d spent strapped to that table.

⸻

The Lady in Pink’s tower shimmered against the night sky, a gaudy skyscraper that bled sequins and light. From the street below it looked like a nightclub masquerading as a cathedral—panels of glass glowing rose-gold, spotlights spinning lazily upward into the clouds. Inside, her throne chamber was equal parts ballroom and funhouse, every wall mirrored, every surface littered with glitter, rhinestones, and velvet. It was dazzling, overwhelming, and suffocating all at once.

She stood in the center of it all, cape flaring as she spun for her own reflection, her laughter bouncing back at her a hundred times. Her sequined heels clicked in rhythm like a metronome of menace. “Tonight,” she purred, addressing her mirrored audience, “I shall claim what is rightfully mine. Three containers of unimaginable power, wrested from the claws of mediocrity and delivered into the hands of brilliance.” She spread her arms, as if blessing her reflection. “And when they are mine, St. Canard itself will sparkle with my will!”

At her side, Tyrone, her squat and perpetually miserable henchman, shuffled with clipboard in hand. “Uh, and what if they don’t bring them?”

She didn’t even glance at him. “Oh, they’ll bring them, darling. Because I have the loveliest bargaining chip of all.”

The sound of clanking gears filled the chamber as a platform rose into view at her command. Atop it, bound hand and foot to the infamous Tickle Table, was Dewey Duck. His shirt was untucked, feathers sticking in every direction, his bright blue hoodie now wrinkled and smeared with glitter from the straps. His wide eyes flicked to every mirror, catching his own panicked reflection multiplied infinitely.

“Let me go!” he yelled, thrashing against the bonds. “This is cruel and unusual—mostly unusual!”

The Lady in Pink prowled toward him like a cat circling its prey. She leaned close, one manicured finger under his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Oh, my sweet little Bluebird,” she crooned. “You’ll be the star of my next act. Helpless, dramatic, so very… breakable.”

Dewey squirmed. “I’m not breakable! I’m—hey, no touching! I have boundaries!”

Her laughter, rich and shrill, filled every mirror.

The chamber doors crashed open.

Darkwing Duck stormed in, cape flaring, gas gun already drawn. “I am the terror that flaps in the night! I am the—”

“Darkwing Duck,” Gosalyn snapped, stomping past him with her crossbow leveled. Her voice was sharp enough to slice glass. “And Quicksilver. Don’t forget me.”

Her eyes locked immediately on Dewey. The fury that lit in her chest nearly sent her sprinting, but she forced herself to stop, to keep her crossbow steady. “PrettyBoy,” she hissed under her breath, the nickname slipping out unbidden.

Dewey’s face lit up despite his panic. “Crossbow! You came for me!”

The Lady in Pink’s brows shot up, then lowered into a smile that gleamed like a knife. She placed a hand dramatically over her chest, head tilting with faux innocence. “Ohhh. Oh, how precious. Quicksilver and her Bluebird, swooping in to save each other. Romance in the shadows. A forbidden duet!”

“What?!” Gosalyn and Dewey shouted at the same time, both sputtering.

Darkwing faltered, his cape mid-swish. “Wait, what duet?”

The Lady ignored him, stepping back so that all the mirrors multiplied her smug grin. “The stolen glances. The desperate cries of ‘Crossbow!’ ‘PrettyBoy!’ It’s practically operatic. Oh, don’t be shy. You’re positively blushing for each other.”

“I am not—!” Dewey choked, thrashing against the straps. “We’re best friends! She’s my—my partner in crime-fighting chaos! We’re not—no! Absolutely not!”

Gosalyn’s feathers bristled, her face flushing hot under her mask. “Listen here, Glitter Gremlin, you don’t get to decide what we are! He’s my best friend. My best friend, got it?!”

“Denial!” the Lady sang, pirouetting in place. “Oh, it’s delicious. The audience will eat it up. The scowling heroine, the trembling boy, bound by fate and feathered hands of destiny.” She gestured grandly at the massive mechanical feather poised just above Dewey’s belly, twitching menacingly. “Shall I show you how much he truly adores you? Watch how quickly he sings when tickled!”

She flicked the remote in her hand. The feather lowered, its shadow crawling across Dewey’s chest.

“AHHH!” Dewey howled, thrashing wildly. “NO! SHE’S CRAZY! CROSSBOW, DON’T LET HER—!”

“LET HIM GO!” Gosalyn roared, crossbow aimed dead-center at the villainess. Her whole body shook with fury. Every instinct screamed to charge, to break the machine, to pull Dewey into her arms and shield him.

Darkwing put a hand on her shoulder, steadying. “Patience, partner. Villains like her want us rattled.” His voice was grim now, gone of theatrics.

The Lady only laughed, her sequined cape flashing under the spotlight. “Oh, it’s too late for patience. The drama is already written! Hand me the containers, or watch your precious PrettyBoy fall apart before your eyes.”

Dewey writhed against the restraints, feathers ruffled, his wide brown eyes locking on Gosalyn’s green. For a moment, all the mirrors, all the sequins, all the Lady’s shrieking laughter fell away. There was only the two of them—her shaking with fury, him desperate and terrified but trusting her more than anyone else in the world.

“Crossbow,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “don’t let her win.”

Gosalyn’s chest tightened, her grip on the crossbow steadying. She swallowed the quake in her throat and forced her voice to ring like iron. “I won’t. She doesn’t get you. Not now, not ever.”

The Lady in Pink tilted her head, smirk sharp as broken glass. “Oh, my darlings. You already sound like lovers in denial. How touching.”

“Best. Friends!” Dewey yelled, his voice cracking as the feather hovered inches from his stomach. “She’s my best friend!”

“And that,” Gosalyn growled, stepping forward, crossbow glowing as she locked aim at the sequined queen, “makes you the deadliest fool in this city. Because nobody—nobody—uses my best friend against me.”

The mirrored chamber pulsed with the tension, alive and hungry, every reflection watching the standoff unfold like an audience waiting for the final act.

And for the first time that night, the Lady in Pink’s smile faltered—just a flicker—before curving back into a sharper grin. She pressed the remote tighter in her palm. “Then prove it, Quicksilver. Prove how far you’ll go for your Bluebird.”

The air itself seemed to hold its breath, the tension crackling like it might split into lightning.

The mirrored throne room shimmered like a living thing, every wall reflecting the scene a hundredfold. Dewey Duck strained against the glitter-slick straps of the Tickle Table, panic sweat dripping down his temples as the enormous feather-hand hovered just above his stomach, twitching ominously. The Lady in Pink swayed beside him with the remote, her sequins scattering light like shards of stars.

“Hand me the containers,” she sang sweetly, “or I will make your darling Bluebird squeal until he bursts into confessions.”

Dewey kicked his legs, face turning pink. “We are not—” he yelped as the feather lowered another inch, “we’re not darling-anythings! She’s my friend! Just a friend! My best friend, okay?!” His words tumbled over themselves, frantic and unsteady. “She’s got a girlfriend anyway!”

The second the words left his beak, the entire room froze.

The Lady in Pink’s sequined brow arched with wicked delight. “Ohhh?” she purred, tilting her head like a cat catching the scent of new prey. Her voice dripped with cruel curiosity. “A girlfriend? How precious. A sweetheart for my little Arrow? How deliciously dramatic.” She leaned closer to Dewey, brushing a manicured finger along the edge of the remote. “Tell me, darling Bluebird… who is she? Perhaps she’d be more cooperative if I invited her to join us.”

The mirrored chamber seemed to shudder with the weight of those words. Gosalyn’s feathers bristled like a storm breaking loose, her crossbow glowing brighter in her grip. She took one step forward, green eyes blazing with a fury so sharp it almost burned through the glass.

“Don’t,” she growled. Her voice was low, guttural, more dangerous than any shout.

The Lady in Pink smirked, savoring the spark of rage. “Oh, I see. Protective, are we? Is she fragile? Shy? How quaint. A little mouse to your little arrow. Imagine the performance I could stage if I had both of your—”

“DON’T. YOU. DARE.”

The words exploded out of Gosalyn like a detonation. Her voice rattled the mirrored walls, bounced from every reflection, and slammed back into the chamber until it sounded like an army was screaming with her. She leveled her crossbow, the shaft glowing, every bolt cocked with murderous precision.

The Lady in Pink faltered, her grin tightening into something more brittle under that raw, feral energy.

Violet’s voice crackled in Gosalyn’s ear, calm but urgent. “Gosalyn. Breathe.”

But Gosalyn wasn’t breathing. Her chest heaved, her grip locked. The idea of anyone—this glitter-obsessed monster, these sequined halls, anyone—laying a finger on Violet snapped something inside her.

“You can threaten me. You can scare him,” she hissed, jerking her head toward Dewey without breaking eye contact with the Lady. “But you so much as say her name like it’s yours to touch, and I will make sure you never set foot on a stage again.”

The mirrors seemed to lean closer, hungry for the collision. Dewey swallowed hard, wide-eyed, as the feather-hand froze above him, trembling in its restraint. The Lady in Pink’s smile thinned, caught between amusement and unease.

“Oh my little Quicksilver,” she murmured, cape glittering as she straightened. “Such passion. Such fire. You might just be my favorite performance yet.”

Gosalyn’s crossbow hummed like a living thing, and for the first time all night, the Lady in Pink hesitated—ever so slightly—as if realizing she might have overplayed her hand.

And Dewey, caught in the middle, whimpered through clenched teeth: “Dang it, why did I say that out loud?”

The mirrored throne room pulsed with tension, alive and electric as though every reflection was leaning in to watch the play unfold. Dewey writhed helplessly against the sequined straps of the Tickle Table, the massive feather-hand twitching inches from his stomach. Every mirror showed his wide brown eyes, his panic, his squirming—multiplied until it felt like the whole chamber was laughing at him.

The Lady in Pink raised the rhinestone-studded remote high, her smile dripping venom and sugar all at once. “Containers,” she crooned, her voice rising sharp and shrill as a conductor’s baton. “Now.”

The feather-hand dipped lower, its shadow crawling across Dewey’s trembling chest. He squealed, high-pitched, flailing so hard the restraints rattled. “CROSSBOW!!” His voice cracked into three syllables, raw with desperation. “Don’t do it! Don’t give her anything! I can—ahhh—I can take it!”

Gosalyn’s crossbow snapped up, her teeth bared. Her stance was solid, her heart hammering, but her mind was fire and lightning. She didn’t break eye contact with the Lady, even as her hands shook with rage. “Fine,” she snarled, her voice echoing off the mirrored walls. “Remote. For the case. That’s the trade.”

Dewey’s head whipped toward her, feathers sticking every which way. “CROSSBOW, NO!!” His voice pitched so high he practically squeaked, the sound ricocheting across every mirror.

She ignored him, her tone clipped and sharp as steel. “Slide the case to me, and Tyrone will slide you the remote. On three.”

She crouched, clutching the container case so tight her knuckles whitened. The mirrored floor gleamed under the glow of sequins and spotlight as she braced herself. “One. Two. Three.”

The case scraped across the marble, its reflection splitting into a dozen duplicates as it skidded toward the Lady in Pink. Tyrone fumbled forward, his stubby arms pushing the remote across the floor toward Gosalyn. It slid and bumped against the polished surface, almost within her reach—

Then the sharp click of a heel.

The Lady in Pink stopped the device beneath her rhinestone-studded stiletto, pinning it in place. Her smirk spread, triumphant, cruel. With a flourish, she bent low, picked up the remote, and straightened like she was lifting a trophy. “Thank you,” she said sweetly, her dimples flashing.

Dewey screamed like he was being murdered, the sound tearing out of him raw and panicked. “CROSSBOWWW!!” His voice cracked and squealed so badly it echoed like feedback. He kicked and flailed, eyes darting wildly to her for salvation.

Gosalyn’s chest heaved, her grip on the crossbow trembling with fury. She was seconds away from launching herself across the floor when Violet’s voice whispered urgently through her earpiece, low and intimate in the chaos.

“My love,” Violet murmured, calm as a scalpel. “I can cut the power in five minutes. Keep her talking. Preferably without letting your… platonic soulmate get—” She hesitated, her voice curdling with disdain. “Tickled. My intellectual mind is wasted on that word. You’ll have at least two minutes to free him and retrieve the case.”

Dewey thrashed, feathers flying. His voice came out shrill, squeaky, cracking like a breaking violin string. “CROSSBOW! HELP! PLEASE!” He would deny the sound forever, but the walls carried it gleefully, every reflection mocking his pitch.

Gosalyn’s teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. She leveled her weapon, each syllable a warning, a blade of sound. “Let. Him. Go.”

The Lady in Pink only laughed, a high trill that made the sequins tremble on her cape. She tilted her head, eyes gleaming, savoring every ounce of tension. “One moment,” she purred, crouching by the case. Her manicured nails brushed the clasp, slow and taunting. “I must check, after all, that you weren’t planning to double cross me.”

The mirrors seemed to hold their breath. Dewey whimpered, straining against the straps, his whole body taut as the feather twitched closer again.

Gosalyn’s heart was a live wire, her rage bubbling hotter than the mirrored lights, every muscle coiled to spring the moment Violet gave her the word.

And the Lady in Pink smiled, wicked and theatrical, knowing the tension itself was the sweetest part of the performance.

The mirrored chamber trembled with the weight of the moment—sequins glimmering, spotlights catching every movement and multiplying them across the walls. Dewey strained against the glitter-crusted straps, his feathers damp with sweat, his legs kicking uselessly as the massive feather-hand hovered just above his stomach. His brown eyes darted everywhere at once, then locked on Gosalyn with wild, desperate focus.

Darkwing stepped forward, gas gun raised, cape billowing for all the world like he was ready to stage-dive into a finale. His voice cracked like thunder across the chamber.
“You have what you want, fiend! Let the boy go!”

Inside his head, though, his heart was rattling like a snare drum: Oh gosheshe’sgotmyboyfriend’sbestfriendohgoshshe’sgotthedaughter’ssoulmateohgoshgoshgosh.

The Lady in Pink did not move her foot from the rhinestone remote. Her smile widened, cruel and patient, the kind of grin that stretched out the tension like a bowstring. “Oh, I will, darling. But first—” She leaned down toward the glittering case, her thumb hovering delicately, dangerously, over the button. The feather twitched in response. “Where’s the third container?”

The feather-hand inched closer. Dewey’s eyes went saucer-wide. His voice broke apart, squeaky and raw, echoing off the mirrors. “AHHHH! NO! STOP! CROSSBOW, PLEASE!”

His voice cracked so sharp it was almost comedic, though nothing about the terror in his face was funny. He yanked uselessly at the straps, his body jerking with adrenaline, until he all but sobbed out a choked, “I DON’T WANNA BE TICKLED!”

Gosalyn’s jaw locked. Her whole body shook, a volcano on the brink. Then she moved.

Slow, deliberate, she reached into her satchel and pulled free the gleaming third container. The brass surface caught the chamber’s light, throwing it back across the sequined walls in harsh, accusing flashes. She held it up in one hand, her crossbow steady in the other, eyes blazing green fire.

“Let. Him. Go. Now,” she growled, her voice low and lethal. “Or I swear I will smash this to pieces right here and now. And then none of us get what we want.”

The Lady in Pink’s smile faltered—not gone, but thinner, strained at the edges. Her eyes flicked between Gosalyn’s steady hand and the container, and for the first time, she seemed unsure.

Dewey froze, his panic colliding with shock. His mouth opened, words spilling out hoarse and bewildered. “Crossbow?” His voice cracked again, soft this time, exhausted and trembling with adrenaline.

It wasn’t a plea this time. It was disbelief—half awe, half desperate hope—like he couldn’t believe she would put everything on the line for him.

And Gosalyn, every inch of her radiating fury and resolve, didn’t take her eyes off the Lady as she said it again, her voice steel:

“Let. My. Dewey. Go.”

The mirrors seemed to tremble, the sequins quivered, and even the feather-hand paused mid-air, waiting for the next move. The whole room felt alive, holding its breath, knowing a single wrong twitch could shatter everything.

The chamber’s tension stretched so taut it felt like one more second would snap it in two. Dewey’s ragged breathing filled the mirrored hall, his eyes locked on the feather-hand hovering over his stomach. The Lady in Pink’s finger poised on the button, sequined cape shimmering with each pulse of light. Gosalyn’s grip on the third container tightened, crossbow steady in her other hand, her glare locked like a target sight on the villainess.

Then—fzzzzzt.

Every spotlight fizzled. The mirrors went dark. The hum of the machines sputtered and died. The feather-hand froze mid-hover before clattering down uselessly, its mechanical whine cutting off mid-threat. The rhinestone glow from the Lady’s cape vanished, leaving only pitch black and the echo of her startled gasp.

“Wha—what is this?!” Her voice was shrill, snapping against the sudden dark.

Violet’s whisper cut through Gosalyn’s earpiece, sharp and triumphant. “Now. Move.”

Gosalyn didn’t hesitate. She bolted forward, her boots hammering the marble floor, the crossbow slung to her back so she could throw both arms around Dewey. The straps had lost their lock the instant the power cut, and he slumped forward into her grip with a choked sob of relief. His whole body trembled, feathers damp with adrenaline, as he collapsed against her chest.

“Gotcha,” she whispered, breathless but fierce, hauling him free of the table with every ounce of strength in her arms. He clung to her instinctively, voice breaking on her name. “Cross—bow—”

“I know,” she muttered, pressing his head against her shoulder. “I’ve got you, PrettyBoy. You’re safe.”

Across the room, Darkwing dove into the darkness like a man who’d rehearsed this scene his whole life. His cape swept wide as he skidded across the marble, fingers closing around the cold brass of the briefcase. With a grunt, he rolled to his feet, clutching the container to his chest like a relic of destiny.

The Lady in Pink shrieked in outrage, her heels clattering wildly as she fumbled for balance in the blackness. “No! No, no, no! This is my scene! Where are you?! Where is my spotlight?!”

Her voice grew fainter with every heartbeat. Gosalyn dragged Dewey toward the shadows, his legs wobbling but his grip tight on her shoulders. Darkwing flanked them, cape hiding their retreat.

Then, with a violent crack, the lights blazed back to life. The sequins glared, the mirrors lit up—

And the stage was empty.

The Tickle Table sat abandoned, its straps dangling loose. The Lady in Pink whirled, cape flashing in fury, but her chamber was barren save for her own reflection—mocking her in a hundred directions.

They were gone.

Far away, racing down a shadowed service tunnel, Gosalyn held Dewey tight as he wheezed into her shoulder, trembling but safe. Darkwing carried the case, his hat low, his face set with grim pride.

And in the comm, Violet’s voice hummed with the faintest smile: “Two minutes to spare.”

Gosalyn pressed her cheek to Dewey’s damp feathers, still guiding him forward. “Told you, PrettyBoy. Nobody gets to keep you but me.”

Dewey gave a weak laugh that cracked in the middle, clinging tighter. “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely, “best… friend… rescue… ever.”

Gosalyn’s grin flashed sharp in the dark. “You bet your feathers it is.”

And together, they vanished into the night, leaving the Lady in Pink screaming into her own reflection.

The Ratcatcher roared through the night streets of St. Canard, its engine a low growl as it darted between pools of neon light and the dark underbellies of bridges. The city blurred past in streaks of pink, violet, and blue, the adrenaline of escape still buzzing hot in the air. Gosalyn sat in the back seat, crossbow propped against her knee, one arm wrapped firmly around Dewey as though she hadn’t quite convinced herself he was real and safe again. He leaned into her shoulder, feathers still ruffled and damp from sweat, his hoodie wrinkled, glitter stuck to his face in stubborn flecks.

He was pale, exhausted, but he tried for a smile anyway. “Hey, Crossbow?” His voice cracked halfway through, hoarse from screaming, though he immediately tried to cover it with a little cough.

“Yeah, PrettyBoy?” Gosalyn glanced down at him, still keeping a hand braced over his chest like she could physically shield him from the memory of the Tickle Table.

Dewey blinked at her, slow, fighting sleep but determined. “Do me a favor? Kiss your girlfriend for me.”

Gosalyn’s head tilted. “…What?”

“Seriously,” Dewey mumbled, his words tumbling over themselves. “She makes you happy. She… she’s the reason you didn’t lose it in there. She kept me from—” he shuddered hard, feathers fluffing, “—from being tickled to death by a crazy lady. Least you could do is kiss her.” His voice cracked again on “kiss,” and he scowled like he knew he’d never live it down.

Gosalyn’s grin broke wide, crooked and mischievous despite the adrenaline still pounding in her veins. She tapped the earpiece, leaning closer to Dewey as she drawled, “Ya hear that, babe? PrettyBoy says we gotta kiss~”

There was the faintest pause of static before Violet’s voice filtered through, low and calm but undeniably curious. “What kind?”

Dewey groaned, smacking his forehead into Gosalyn’s shoulder. “Hero style, duh. You know, like—like movies. Superhero movies. After the rescue, big dramatic kiss. It’s tradition.”

Gosalyn cackled, nudging him. “Ugh, nerd. You’re such a nerd.”

Violet didn’t miss a beat. “I am unfamiliar with that terminology. Gosalyn, explain.”

Gosalyn’s grin sharpened into something downright feral. She stretched her legs out in the cramped back seat, her arm still slung protectively around Dewey, and leaned toward the comm mic. “Okay, so, get this. He wants me to kiss you while I’m upside down, hanging from a grappling hook. Like some kind of bat.”

There was another pause on the line, but this time Violet’s silence felt deliberate, like she was actually picturing it. When she finally spoke, her tone was as dry as ever, but there was a trace of warmth under the words. “Impractical. But… not unappealing.”

“See?” Dewey muttered, voice still squeaky from the adrenaline comedown. “It’s the perfect kiss. You’re welcome.” He slumped back into Gosalyn’s hold, already dozing, but his satisfied little grin lingered.

Gosalyn looked out the window, city lights flashing across her feathers, and chuckled low in her throat. “Yeah, yeah. You’re out cold in two minutes, PrettyBoy, but fine.” She smirked at the comm. “Guess I owe you one upside-down grappling hook kiss, Wise Girl.”

The Ratcatcher tore down the highway, the night swallowing their laughter, leaving behind nothing but the glitter-drenched fury of the Lady in Pink screaming to her mirrors in an empty, powerless tower.