By Rebecca Littlehales
The Adventures of Young Darkwing Duck
By Rebecca Littlehales
Act I
Gosalyn Mallard entered her house and kicked the door shut behind her, dark clouds forming above her head.
Drake Mallard was, by his own account, a great kid. He was smart, good looking, brave, popular... Sure, he could have had a few more friends here and there, but heck, he figured, he was reclusive by nature. Despite his spectacularity, though, in most ways he was really your average, run-of-the-mill fourteen-year-old boy. And, though he was loathe to admit it, when he got bored, trouble generally followed.
["Hey!" said Gosalyn, interrupting Drake's story. "Nice, kinda dumb, big, strong guy- sounds like Launchpad!"
"--He and I were very close- okay, I mean, more or less. We had our moments... okay, so we fought a lot. I mean, he was my younger brother, and so of course I was mean to him. But under it all... Well, I guess I loved him." Ruth paused for a moment, as if admitting this pained her somehow, and then she went on. "Anyway, I was the one who picked the fights. In fact, whenever I'd tease him he just took it. That was part of the reason I did it, really, just to take out my aggresions on him. It was wrong of me, I know. But- he was my younger brother."
St. Canard was mostly dark at 10:50 that evening. Drake looked down into the alleyway he had requested to meet his client in. It was still empty. He looked up, and breathed in the night air. It was so cool, so clear, up here on the roof! Way better than a tree branch. But something was missing. Drake knew what it was, and he knew how to rectify it.
["So, you went into business? What happened to 'doing good deeds for the good of it', Dad?" asked Gosalyn.
Duckboy was distracted from his evening search by the sound of breaking glass. He turned around and saw huge figure breaking into the newly-opened Bindler's Hardware store across the street. The figure was standing in shadows, as the street lamp had burned out. The man was also wearing a cap which covered his face pretty thoroughly, and Duckboy was unable to distinguish whether he was Deacon Feathernest or not. But one thing he was sure of: The man was committing a crime, and it would look great if Duckboy caught the criminal on his own!
"Hi, Gosalyn," Drake greeted his daughter. She grumbled something in a language unrecognizable as English, and passed him. "Hey, who tied your shorts in a knot?"
She flopped down on the couch, her arms crossed over her chest. "It's not fair," she said.
"Welcome to life." This only earned him a glare from his nine-year-old daughter. "Okay, okay, what happened?"
"This lady was walking her stupid, drooly dog, and it saw a cat across the street and went after it. It was the owner's fault, 'cause she didn't even have it on a leash or anything. Anyway, it was crossing the street and then a car came right at it. The woman didn't even try to get to it, she just stood there screaming! I was right there, so I ran across the street and grabbed the dog on the way."
Drake paused, trying to figure out the problem. "And...?"
"And, I didn't even get a reward! She had tons of cash, I could tell from all the rings an' stuff she had on, and all I got was a stupid 'thank you!'" said Gosalyn, bristling.
"That's what your problem is? You committed a good deed and didn't get paid for it, so you're upset?"
Gosalyn looked insulted. "Hey, I didn't just want money!" she said indignantly. "I would have settled for a high-priced video game!"
"Gosalyn, you don't do good deeds just to get something out of it!"
Gosalyn put her hand over her eyes. "Oh, here it comes- the 'virtue is its own reward' speech!"
"Wrong, Gos. No speech."
"Really?" asked Gosalyn, peeking through her fingers.
"Instead, I'm going to tell you the story of my first case!"
"I knew it. I knew there had to be a catch." Gosalyn paused. "Hey, this isn't the one where you beat the 'King' of St. Canard, is it?" she asked. "I was there, remember, 'Drakey'?"
"No, my sweet, loving daughter," said Drake, patting her on the head and giving her a sarcastic smile, "that was when the great hero inside me first reared its noble head. This came years later...."
He wouldn't have catagorized his actions as "trouble-making" at all, of course. They were, in fact, quite furtive. To spectators, he appeared to be sitting in a tree, birdwatching. He knew that very few of the neighbors would suspect that he was actually on the lookout for suspicious goings-on in the upper levels of their houses. And he had certainly seen some interesting things today- like eighteen-year-old Sheila Birkingsduck getting ready for her date. He figured her box of tissues must be nearly empty now.
Claire Mallard was in the kitchen doing dishes when she recieved a phone call from her next-door-neighbor, Mrs. Birkingsduck. "Hello?" she asked as she wiped soap bubbles from her hands. "...He's what?" She ran to the window and looked out. Sure enough, Drake was seated in the top branches of the elm tree with a pair of binoculars in his hands. Claire was simulateously horrified and humiliated. "Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Birkingsduck. It's summer vacation, after all, and... Yes, I'll try to keep a better eye on him. Yes. Thank you."
She dashed to the back door and went out and around to the side of the house. "DRACOB MALLARD, YOU COME DOWN FROM THERE RIGHT NOW!"
Drake winced. Being called your full name by your mother was a sure sign of trouble. He didn't know what he was in trouble for, but he figured maybe he could still score some brownie points if he did what she said now. "Okay, Mom," he said, and started to climb down. Unfortunately, his foot had fallen asleep and he couldn't control it. He lost his balance and plummeted down about thirty feet.
"Inside the house right now, young man," said Claire, standing
over him.
"I... can't... move," he croaked. She sighed and grabbed him by his shirt collar, and then she dragged him inside.
"I try to be a good mother, heaven knows... And heaven knows that I always think that I make the right decisions. Now, I'm aware that with me being out of the house so much, I don't have the time to teach you what's right and what's wrong. Drakey, I know it's natural for a boy your age to be... curious about things like this, but you have to understand that looking into other peoples' windows is illegal." By now, Claire was nervously pacing the floor. "I think maybe, when your father gets home, you and he should have a little talk about... well, about life, and--"
"MOM!" cried Drake. She was taking this completely the wrong way. Sure, he'd seen Sheila, but he hadn't been trying to. "That's not what I was looking at! I was just bored! Geez!" There hadn't even been that much showing, after all.
She smiled a little, obviously relieved. "Well, next time you're bored, try to do something a little more constructive, okay? Maybe you could even earn some money!"
"Yeah, right, mom. Doing what? Opening a lemonade stand or..
some...thing..." He trailed off as an idea hit him.
The next day, there was a large makeshift vending stand outside of the Mallard residence. Drake was sitting at it, wearing his best "trustworthy" smile, with a little cash box next to him. A closer inspection revealed that he had large circles under his eyes, a direct result of the fact that he had stayed up all night making plans for his new business. He had made about a hundred fliers, and also made sure that he had whatever materials were necessary to build the stand. This stand, however, did not sell lemonade. The hand-lettered sign read: "Heros For Hire! We're professionles! We're Cheap!"
Drake cracked his knuckles and waited for business to come pouring in. He'd spent the whole morning distributing his fliers all over town. Many of them had gone under windshield wipers on cars. He was deeply satisified with his sense of entrepreneurism- although he wasn't sure if such a word really existed. "Yep, yep, yep... This is a great way to become known as a hero, and make some extra cash!" he said as he settled down.
The hours ticked by, and there were no customers in sight. Several times, Drake's eyes started to shut, despite his best efforts to keep them open. At one point he came up with a way to stay awake: Every time he started to fall asleep, he would bang his head three times on the stand. It worked wonderfully the first few times, but after a while, it started to make him even sleepier. In a last, desperate effort, he ran into the house and asked his mother for some coffee.
"Coffee?" she said in surprise. "You want to drink coffee?" She was starting to get that 'Aw, isn't that cute' look on her face.
"I need to stay awake, Mom!" he said, trying to hurry her up. He was probably missing a bunch of customers.
A new look came across her face. "Oh... My little man is growing up!" she said tearfully. "I miss so many things while I'm at work, but at least I could be here for this!"
"Moo-oom, I'm in a hurry," Drake said, a whine creeping into his voice.
She stood up and gave him a hug. "You want to drink coffee.. Soon you'll be wanting to shave, and spit, and do all those other man things!"
"Mom! It's just coffee!"
"Coming right up!" Claire said, wiping her eyes. Oh well, Drake figured, at least it seemed to be making her happy.
So Drake spent the rest of the afternoon sitting at the stand with a large thermos of coffee. He discovered that he really liked the stuff. It did wonders for his energy, too. His mood was starting to lift.
Then strong gust of wind struck up, and Drake saw dozens of his fliers blow by in the wind. It was a terrible blow to his self-esteem. In a burst of embarrassment, he suddenly realized that he was a fourteen-year-old boy selling heroes. No one was going to come! He must look so stupid! He stood up, stiff from having sat in the same position for most of the day, and started tearing the stand down. "I should have realized what a dumb idea this was! What was I trying to do? Be like that dumb comic, 'Super Pig'?" He turned around and started going back up to the house.
"Does this mean you're closed?" said a female voice behind him.
Drake turned around to see a young woman, probably in her early twenties, standing in front of him. She had blond hair and light blue eyes, and was a pretty average height. Slim, pretty, seemed well-off. She looked like she had a little attitude, or maybe she was just feeling silly for doing business with a teenager. She was holding one of his fliers in her hand. She looked at it, then at him, and then looked a little puzzled- and rather skeptical.
Drake sat down again quickly, his speed intensified by the jitteriness brought on by all the caffeine he'd consumed. "Closed? No. Can I help you?"
For a moment, she didn't seem to be able to speak. She just looked at him, and at the stand, as if they weren't real. "Um... Well," she said, shaking herself out of it. "How much do you cost?"
He hadn't considered that. "How much have you got?"
This question seemed to shock her. "I don't believe this. Forget it, it's my fault for taking this seriously. Good luck, kid." She started to walk away, but stopped when he spoke again.
"No no no!" he said. "It's my fault. I meant to ask, 'How much are you willing to pay?'"
She stood with her back to him for a moment, trying to decide if she should just keep walking. This wasn't what she had been expecting at all. She looked down at the flier again, and read it over in her mind. "Have a problem that's out of the ordinary?" it asked in bold letters. "Come to 'Heros For Hire'! A variety of heros that are quick, professionle, and happy to take your case. Located at 833 Quackenbos Street. Satisfaction is guaranteed!" The rest of the flier listed praise from "satisfied customers." She had figured that if those people were happy, she might as well check it out. But instead of a large, professional building, filled with large, powerful adults, all there was was a short duck with a large bill. He looked young, too. She turned around to face him, and decided that bargaining couldn't hurt. "Is ten dollars okay?"
He jumped on the offer like he was afraid it would disappear in a second, which made her uneasy. "Ten dollars is fine, madam. You pay after the case has been solved, and if it's not done to your satisfaction, you don't owe anything." This reassured her somewhat.
He seemed sort of on the hyper side. Boy, would she feel silly if it turned out this was some sort of practical joke. At the moment, though, he seemed sincere. And he was an alternative to the police. "Tell me truthfully," she said. "Are you for real?"
He looked taken aback, and then insulted. "Of course I'm for real! Do you honestly think I'd go to all this trouble if I weren't for real?"
She considered the question. Despite his hyperactivity, he looked pretty tired. And there was this stand, and a bunch of fliers that advertised him. "Fine, then. I guess I can at least tell you my problem. My name is Ruth Feathernest. I had a brother, named Deacon, a few years younger than me. He was very popular, and very good in sports. His grades weren't so good, though."
"Typical jock, huh?" said Drake.
Ruth didn't smile, but looked at him unblinkingly for a moment before continuing. "He made his greatest triumphs on the high school football team. He was a very sweet boy, very trusting--"
"It wasn't," said Drake. "And don't interrupt." He went on.]
She seemed like she was having some pretty big guilt feelings about something. Drake wished she'd hurry up and get to the point- he wasn't a psychiatrist, after all, and he was only getting paid ten dollars. He stifled a yawn. She noticed. "Sorry if this isn't your every day hero fare," she snapped. Drake laughed apologetically.
"Anyway, a few weeks ago, he started getting testy, and snapping at me whenever I'd make fun of him. Normally, I wouldn't have been bothered- it was almost good to see him sticking up for himself. But, it was so out of character for him that I didn't know how to react, so I started picking bigger and bigger fights with him. The big dope was all too eager to get into them, himself. After a while of this though- he just disappeared." She was silent, looking down at the ground. Apparently she blamed herself.
Drake asked, "So, I assume you've talked to the police, and they can't do anything for you?" As soon as the words were out, he wished he could take them back. If she hadn't seen the police yet, then he had probably just reminded her of them.
Her reaction was sudden, and violent. She sprang to her feet, slammed her hands down on the counter of the stand, and exclaimed, "NO! No police!"
He leaned back, away from her. "O-kay."
She seemed to catch herself, and looked away, blushing. "Look, I've got a good reason for not wanting the police involved. See... He didn't just go missing. I think I might know where he is. When he and I started getting into fights, he started getting weird. He quit the football team, and stopped playing sports entirely. None of us could get near him. He'd snap at anyone who said anything to him. Then he stopped talking entirely. And then... One day, he just wasn't there anymore, and all I know is that, a few days after he left, all these crimes started. And everytime there's a witness, the person they describe fits my brother to a tee."
Ah, the case, at last. Drake was relieved that she'd finally gotten to it. "So I'm supposed to get him to turn himself in," he guessed.
She looked at him like he was nuts. "What are you, nuts? I don't want him to go to prison! Can't you see that I drove him to do this?" Her demeanor began to crack. She stared at him across the stand, speaking very emotionally. "I know he wouldn't commit these crimes on his own! He was never like this. I must have pushed him too far. Listen, I want you to help me find him so that I can tell him that I'm sorry, and then take him home."
Drake spoke up. "Maybe I- er, that is, one of my employees, I mean, should go alone first."
Ruth's glare returned. "Why?" she asked suspiciously.
He decided not to tell her that he wanted to solve the case all on his own. After a moment of thought, he said, "Well, he might not want to see you after all this. I mean, think about it..." Ruth did, and nodded quietly. Drake was silent for a moment, his chin in his hand. It was a mediocre case at best, but everyone had to start somewhere. Besides, he told himself, the poor woman was obviously distraught. She needed a hero. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and in a voice filled with drama, he stabbed a finger in the air and said, "This sounds like a c-ase for--" He froze, embarrassed beyond belief. His voice had chosen the worst possible moment to crack.
Ruth wasn't sure whether she should laugh or groan, and ended up doing neither. He was the person she had entrusted her brother's future to? Oh well, it was only ten dollars, she thought. "A case for who, Einstein?" she asked, prompting him.
He remained frozen, now for a different reason. He couldn't think of a heroic name to save his life. "A case for-- One of our many well-trained heroes. I'm not sure which one I'll put on your case just yet," he said, coming up with this explanation on the spot. "He'll meet you... Let's see, how about he meets you behind the Stop-N-Shop at about 11:00 tonight, is that okay?"
"That's fine," she said curtly. He was a horrible liar. It was all she could do to keep from laughing. "Thank you."
"No problem, ma'am! That's what we're here for!" he exclaimed nobly, and that was it. She exploded into a burst of laughter, and then stifled it quickly. "Um..." said Drake, looking at her sympathically, "do you wat a tissue?" She seized the opportunity, faked a few tears into the tissue, and walked down the sidewalk, her shoulders still shaking with laughter.
As soon as she was out of sight, Drake scrawled 'CLOSED' across a piece of paper, stuck it on the front of the stand, and ran to his closet. He spent the rest of the daylight hours drinking coffee and rereading his old issues of 'Super Pig' for hints on crimefighting.
"This is the city of St. Canard. Every night, the creeps and criminals come crawling out to... uh... creep. No, dang it..." He paused, racking his brains for a good line to come next in his soliloquy. All the best comics had narration. And he'd been able to do it before!
His costume wasn't as great as it could have been, but for the amount of time he had to put one together, he didn't think it was half bad. He'd made a mask by cutting holes in a dark blue bandana, and tying it over the entire upper part of his head. For a cape, he was using a sheet- the obvious choice, of course, but at least he'd been able to find one that was dark colored and that didn't have floral print on it. His shirt was a black turtleneck that he rarely wore. When he had looked in the mirror and squinted, he had looked pretty heroic. It was good enough for a start, he thought.
A sudden gust of wind struck up, and billowed the cape out behind him. Lost in thought, the idea that this improved his image didn't cross his mind. But with his chin in his hand, and the cape blowing in the wind, he looked rather dramatic all of a sudden. "...To commit their.. conniving? Cunning? Cruelty! Yes! But they won't succeed- Not while FLASH, THE WONDER DUCK, is on the watch!" He scowled all of a sudden. "Flash" had sounded good when he'd settled on it a few hours ago, but now it made him sounded like someone's pet. He had spent most of the evening trying to come up with a good name, and had thought he had one, but now it seemed, well, dumb.
"QUIET UP THERE!" yelled someone from below the rooftop.
A rock came flying up towards Drake. He dodged it quickly. "Missed," he said, and stuck out his tongue. He went back to thinking of a good name for his hero identity. "Superduck... That's lousy. I don't even have super powers." A noise from below him made him look down, to see Ruth Feathernest in the alleyway, pacing nervously. "She's prompt," said Drake to himself. Probably the only thing in her favor. He couldn't go down to meet her without a name, though. Frantically, he went through everything that came into his mind. "'Slapdash, The Amazing Mallard', 'The Ruthless--' Nah, Ruth's right down there. 'The Black Crusader', 'The Masked Avenger', 'Dark'-- Dark-Light, Dark--" He stopped suddenly, seeing that she was starting to walk away. He was out of time, and he bounded down the fire escape to stop her.
"Ms. Feathernest?" he asked, breathlessly.
"Rats," she muttered under her breath, stopping short. "I thought you weren't going to show," she said, turning around slowly. "Ah.. excuse me... You're a hero?"
Drake decided to ignore her tone. She was just distraught. "Yes, ma'am, I'm from 'Heroes For Hire'. My name is... Duckboy," he said, giving the first name that came into his head. It was terrible. He hated himself for saying it, but he was stuck with it now.
"Oh. Duckboy. How nice," she said, making it clear that her opinion of the name was the same as his. "Anyway, I was saying, I was about to leave. I was hoping-- I mean, I thought you weren't going to come."
"Believe me, ma'am," said Duckboy gallantly, "I'm on the side of justice. No power on Earth could have kept me away! And I swear to you, no harm will come to you or your brother." He had no way of knowing whether this was true or not, of course, but he hoped it was. It was what heroes said, after all. "What can you tell me that will help the case?"
She basically rehashed exactly what she had told Drake Mallard earlier. He forced himself to listen to it as if he hadn't heard it from her before, and then she said, "I also have this photo of Deacon." She handed him a decent-sized black and white picture, apparently from school. Deacon was kind of good-looking, with a nice-guy smile and friendly eyes. There wasn't much intelligence in them, though. He looked pretty big in the photo- his neck seemed roughly the same size as his head.
Duckboy looked it over, trying to commit every detail to memory. "Anything else that might help me identify him?"
"Well... This is a longshot, since I haven't seen him in a while, but-- he did use to wear this portable radio around with him, with the headphones in his ears all the time."
"A portable radio?" asked Duckboy, amazed. "That you can fit into your ear?"
"No, no, no. Will you listen to me for a second? It's a rectangular box, just like a real radio, except smaller. You listen to it with headphones, and the ones that he uses are smaller than the normal ones. They're not exactly inside the ear, but they're much smaller than normal." He was giving her an incomprehending look. Kids, she thought, and sighed. "I know it sounds odd. If I could show it to you, I would. We have a friend- well, he's really more Deacon's friend, but he has a crush on me so he's always trying to impress me- named Charles, and he's something of a tinkerer. He made this thing for him. It works just like a bigger radio, with a dial to tune it, only it's- smaller. Do you see?" He still looked lost, but he nodded. As long as he wasn't asking questions, Ruth didn't care. She had made up her mind that this "hero" thing wasn't going to work, and as soon as he admitted he wasn't getting anywhere, she intended to go looking for Deacon herself. She had politely decided not to take him off the case- he seemed to think he was important because of it. That pathetic disguise... God, she felt sorry for the little geek. Feeling that something needed to be said, she added, "I preferred shopping to science, really, but he's sure it's going to be the next big thing."
"Ah," said Duckboy, not understanding a bit of it. "Well, I can't promise anything right away, ma'am," he says, "but I'll get on it A.S.A.P."
With that, he slipped away into the night.
"I'm getting to that! I'm not done yet!" said Drake. "Okay, where was I? Oh yeah! I had set off in search of my client's brother. Less than an hour later, I found him, although he was not in the most gratifying of positions..."]
As quietly as he could, he snuck up behind the thug as he entered the store. Standing as straight as he possibly could, he said, "Freeze, criminal!" and struck a pose as the thug turned around.
To Duckboy's dismay, the villain wasn't intimidated in the slightest. After a moment of looking Duckboy up and down, he started snickering. This built into full-fledged laughter in a matter of seconds.
Blushing despite himself, Duckboy shouted, "STOP IT! STOP LAUGH-inG!" With his voice at that volume, it was quite natural that it cracked again. The villain, who was starting to quiet down, broke into fresh hysterics at this. Duckboy, who was bright red, crossed his arms and cursed his hormones.
Considering him no threat, the thug calmed down and went back to his work. He had a large sack that he was filling with lots of different equipment. Duckboy couldn't see what it was from where he was standing, but that made no difference to him.
"Hey, hey, hey! I mean it, ugly! DON'T MOVE!" he shouted in a squeaky voice. This time his words had no effect whatsoever. He decided to try the emotional approach. "Um... Deacon Feathernest?" he asked hesitantly. "I have a message for you from your sister, Ruth. She says that she's sorry for being mean to you, and she wants you to come home so that she can apologize herself. Don't worry about the police. She hired me so that you wouldn't have to deal with them..." he trailed off. The crook was taking no notice of him whatsover. "That's, uh, if you are Deacon Feathernest. If you're not- you may as well give up, since I hold the full power of the law in my hands!" Realizing that the criminal wasn't going to listen to him, he said, "Okay, you asked for it!" He leapt onto the giant's shoulders and started pummeling away.
The criminal made no sign of feeling Duckboy's fists. Instead, he picked up his sack and started out the door.
"Aw, c'mon!" whined Duckboy, who was starting to tire. "At least say 'ouch' or something!" He paused a little, panting. The thug grunted and reached around to his back. He peeled Duckboy off of him and flung him, screaming, across the street.
Duckboy stopped screaming when he collided with a large brick wall. Fortune was, however, in his favor, because instead of bouncing off of the wall and landing on the concrete sidewalk below him, he bounced off of the wall and landed in a bunch of trash bags. Well, fortune was sort of in his favor, anyway.
"I am th'... walrus... Goo-goo-g'joob...," he sputtered, and passed out. The thug simply walked away, pausing for a moment to fiddle with the small cord leading to his ear.
