It was positively the most pristine day the city of St. Canard had seen all year. The sky was clear, almost an electric true blue, with a few fluffy, flawless white clouds hanging about. A small steady breeze was slipping in and out of the trees with a soft, but tremendous rustle accompanied by children giggling in the branches. All in all, the perfect day for outdoor barbeques and games; the sweet smell of meat on a grill was everywhere. Absolutely no one was in their home on this shining Saturday afternoon. Well, almost no one.

Drake Mallard had to be one of the only people on his block not venturing outside to enjoy the day. Instead, he sat in his kitchen with the blinds drawn stabbing repetitiously at his lunch, a slight frown that had nothing to do with the food wrinkling his brow. After a few more jabs he let the fork drop into the macaroni. His baby blue eyes narrowed to his bill, lending him an air of confusion and contemplation. How many times now had he caught himself staring off into nothing? Not eating because he was full of . . . Emotions? Thoughts? Emptiness? Hell if he knew why this vacuum of an introspective cloud had glued itself to him. Nothing life changing, or threatening had happened to him recently -not taking into account the large knot on his forehead from a rouge baseball. No unusual circumstances, no strong criminal activity, absolutely nothing that he could pinpoint as the cause of this funk.

A little voice in his head piped up with a round of "liar, liar, pants on fire".

The crime fighter started tapping his fingers, annoyed that the voice was gaining in volume. Trying to distract himself, he started humming. A catchy little tune issued forth that people in another "other" dimension would have recognized as the Darkwing Duck theme song, to him it was just noise. Still "liar, liar" rang in his ears, playing on as grating background vocals to his smooth hum, growing louder and louder until finally . . .

"Enough already!" He pulled at the plumage on his head, and smashed his palms into his ears before pushing his plate out of the way, and burying his face in the crook of his arm. The little voice stopped, curiously waiting for the words that might follow.

"I know what's bothering me," the mallard grudgingly admitted into his cranberry shirt sleeve (a gift from Morgana). The little voice grinned and disappeared, leaving him with "was that really so hard?" floating around in his brain in bold lettering.

Drake sighed, pulling his head up to stare at the blue and white back-splash. But what to do? What can I do? It's not like-

"Daaaad! I need a band-aid."

"Huh? Wha -gaah! Gosalyn, what did you do?"

Drake had whirled around to find his energetic, nine year old daughter staring at him from the backdoor with one of her "ookaay, mydadwasonmars" looks. The left knee of her jeans was gone and a bright red, dripping mess in its place. The rest of her was covered with dirt and grass stains, including her fiery red hair. With one swift movement he had lifted the little girl under her arms -holding her away from his shirt- and set her on the counter, pulling one of several first aid kits out of a drawer.

"Talk little missy, how did you manage this?" Dabbing a disinfectant wipe over her knee, he shook his head and said, "this is disgusting!"

Gosalyn rolled her eyes. "Chill, Dad. I didn't break anything, except for the sprinkler head."

Drake paused. Did he really want to know? "Sprinkler head?"

"Yeah, it was sooo cool! Ow. Do you have to use that spray? I'm not going to die from a skinned knee."

"You never know where a serious infection might be hiding. It's better to be safe than sorry."

"Whatever. Anyway, Honker and I were playing soccer, mostly just practice goal shots, and we decided to be creative. You always say to use your brain, so I got the croquette mallets out of the garage, I got my bike, Honker got his bike, and then we started up a seriously cool game of polo."

Drake cocked an eyebrow at her. "Polo? Like the kind they play on horseback?"

"Yeah, but this is the best part: I'm speeding toward Honk. He's comin' at me. I swing and send that sorry soccer ball straight into the goal with no mercy." She imitated the winning shot with a huge smile, green eyes dancing, then lowered her hands sheepishly.

"Okay, you score a goal, then what?" Drake tied off the end of the bandage and looked his daughter in the eye.

She glanced back towards the yard. "Wellll, the end of my mallet sorta collided with the front of Honker's bike. He crashed -don't worry he didn't get hurt- and the back of his bike sorta went flying into my bike. I kinda went sideways over my handlebars and my knee slid into a sprinkler head, it snapped, and now I'm here sitting on the counter with you compulsively over wrapping my knee so I don't bleed to death."

Gosalyn inspected her dad's handiwork with "you've got to be kidding" written all over her face. "You do know I'm not going to die from this, right?"

Drake straightened out to the full of his 5' 7" frame and rolled his eyes. "Ha-ha, very funny. Now about the sprinkler head-"

Gosalyn's eyes grew twice their size. "Sprinkler head! I'm not in trouble am I? Because it really was just an accident, and I can pay for the sprinkler out of my allowance and- and."

Drake folded his arms and pinched the bridge of his eyes. "No, Gos, you're not in trouble, just don't ever do this again, got it?"

Her face lit up. "Got it. Thanks Dad." She wrapped her arms around him in a quick, but tight hug and bolted out the backdoor in a blur of red and purple.

Drake smiled deeply. A warm, tingling peace washed over him, filling him to the point of tears with adoration for the little girl he was proud to call his. He focused on her voice coming in from the yard and smirked, wondering if she would ever realize just how wrapped around her little finger he was.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he put up the med kit and started to clean the kitchen wanting, albeit reluctantly, to get back to his reverie.

He sat back down with the morning newspaper and tried to read the headlines, only to lower it with an inquisitive frown. What was wrong with going easy on him just once? To his knowledge the fiend hadn't so much as kicked at a cat, or given the bird to anyone that day. So why was it bothering him? Because if he didn't do something on one day, then he might do something on the next end up hurting someone.

An encore of "liar, liar" roared to life in the back of his mind, causing Drake to angrily mash the paper into a ball and hurl it across the kitchen. "Stop it, stop it, stop it."

Launchpad peeked in from the family room where he had been watching "Captain Rick Sky vs. the Ducksylvania Barons" -a movie Drake had declined to watch. The poster boy of a pilot had a curious, confused look on his face and was watching Drake through warm, dark honey colored eyes.

"You ok, DW?"

Drake sighed and went to pick up the paper ball. "Yeah, I'm fine, LP, just arguing with myself. I think I might go to the Tower to do a bit of work."

"Oh. Ok."

He had just thrown the paper away when the phone let off a shrill, high pitched noise that was in no way to be considered a normal ring. Receiving a full blast from it, Drake leapt sideways into the table with shock. Swallowing the desire to swear loudly, he snatched the phone, hissing "what the heck did you do to this thing?"

Launchpad shrugged saying, "the ringer died, so I replaced it," just as Drake rolled his eyes and said "hello?"

For a second Drake was expressionless, then a frown of pure consternation set in. He pulled the phone away, stuck a finger in his ear to make sure he was hearing clearly, then held the phone out to Launchpad still looking lost.

"Here, it's for you."

Launchpad smiled. "For me? Gee, thanks. Hello? Oh, hi Loopy, what's up?"

Drake left the kitchen, wondering vaguely who "Loopy" was -he hadn't realized some people actually talked like that.

"Eh, maybe she crawled out of a secluded cave in California," he mumbled to himself, kicking at the air, making a mental note to ask Launchpad about her later.

Half way to the double blue arm chairs he changed his mind, an afternoon nap sounded a lot better than work. Dragging his feet up the stairs and into the hall, he had two things on his mind as he made his way to his room. One: had that girl on the phone really said "like hi!"? And two: why couldn't he get-

The carpet smashed into his beak, or rather he smashed into it.

"What the?" He said angrily, pushing himself up to look back at his feet. Trip wire. In actuality it was very fine fishing wire coming from under Gosalyn's door running the width of the hall, but none the less a well placed trip wire.

"Figures," he muttered before shouting, "Gosalyn!" Marching back down the stairs in full "irate father" mode past the ongoing movie, past the pilot . . .

"Hey, DW you got a minute? Loopy wants to know. . ."

"Not now, Launchpad."

. . . and out the door. His eyes locked in on a pair of kids and on to a certain red-haired, baseball wielding girl who knew the jig was up. The only question was which one? Although, she knew by the annoyed gleam in his eye it was one of her more creative ideas.

"Um, hi Mr. Mallard," came a soft, almost nasally voice.

"Hi, Honker." He said, sparing a glance at the bespectacled boy standing beside his guilty looking daughter.

"Hi, Dad, what's up?" She said cheerfully, trying to play innocent, which was hard when you didn't know what you were in trouble for.

Drake tapped his foot angrily. "What's up? What's up with the trip wire in the hall way! I mean booby-trapping your room is one thing, but-"

Gosalyn interrupted him. "Wait, just the trip wire?"

"Yes, the trip wire, what else would I," he stopped as a realization hit him. He took a deep breath, then calmly asked the inevitable, "what was it supposed to set off?"

Gosalyn opened her mouth just as a very loud "Yeowchie!" reached their ears, causing all three to turn and stare at the house wide eyed.

"It was supposed to set off a rubber dart gun that I modified." She said quietly as her dad's gaze fell back on her.

Drake leaned towards her. "Modified how?"

"Uh, I put a metal plate in the center of the rubber suction cup and ran a small wire with battery through the base so that it'll stick, but shock the mutant zombie that makes the mistake of entering the house. I guess it has a delayed reaction. I'll just go take it down now."

Drake smiled. "That sounds like the best idea I've heard all day. Oh, and by the way," he called over his shoulder as Gosalyn and Honker ran into the house, "after Honker helps you

dismantle that thing you're grounded!"

"What! For how long?" Gosalyn skidded to a halt on the porch step.

"I'll let you know in a year."

"Aw, Dad, that's not fair."

"No, what's not fair is Launchpad getting electrocuted, now march!"

Gosalyn slouched in defeat. "It won't hurt him, it's just Launchpad."

"You just earned yourself double time, missy." Drake said, opening the door for them.

Gosalyn groaned. "Come on, Honk."

Drake sank listlessly into an armchair in the living room, listening to the muffled voices and occasional thud coming from the second floor. Now he really wanted to take a nap and clear his mind, but since everything was going his way today, he wasn't remotely tired, nor did he feel like working. Quite suddenly, an idea came to him, one so simple he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before. His eyes alighted with his decision and he practically jumped to the foot of the stairs.

"Hey, Gos," he called up the stairs.

"Yeah, Dad?" Came the answer, although he couldn't see her, and it was accompanied by Launchpad saying "yeowchie" for about the third time.

Drake groaned, then cleared his throat. "I'm going to go out for a bit, I'll be back in about an hour."

This time Gosalyn did stick her head around the corner. "Somebody see Quackerjack? New mission from S.H.U.S.H.? Mutant-zombie-werewolves-attacking-city-hall? Can I go?"

Mutant what? Gosalyn's rush of words swirled around in his brain like bananas in a blender. Shaking away the momentary stun,Drake forced himself to appear stern. "None of the above, I was going to go the store."

Gosalyn's tone went from interested to disappointed like a sudden drop in the ocean floor, then crawled back up a few notches. "Oh. Can we have some ice cream for dessert?" She asked hopefully.

"Maybe, but I don't know with the way you've been acting." Drake said, picking up his keys from a side table.

"I promise I'll be good! I'll even clean my room. And besides, don't you think Launchpad could use some ice cream after accidentally getting electrocuted?" The duckling implored.

"I said maybe." His voice closer to his normal tone. Internally, he was chuckling. "Just behave while I'm gone."

"No sweat, Dad."Gosalyn beamed at him, throwing a sloppy salute his way before ducking back in the hall.

Drake smiled to himself as he shut the front door behind him, "no sweat, Dad" had to be one of the most ominous phrases in the English language since "no problem".

Author's Note: To let my repeat readers, if any, know, I've changed "east coast" to "west" after the realization that St. Canard & Duckburg are in the same state... Well, Duckburg is in Calisota, a place located on the west coast as written by Don Rosa, so I switched it. I also upped Gosalyn's age to nine after reading in several places that's her actual age. 5-21-2012