Disclaimer: I don't own Darkwing Duck or any character featured in that show and I don't make money with this. This goes for this and all future chapters of this story.
Author's Note: This started out as a bit of background for my other story, Close to Home, and grew from there. It should work as a stand-alone as well, though. This story is set about three years before Darkly Dawns the Duck and details how Grizzlikov and Steelbeak got to their current positions as chief agents of their respective organizations.
We all know what happened to Steelie's predecessor, so this story will naturally imply a few disturbing situations, but all the gory stuff happens off-screen. What little graphic violence does occur should be covered by the current rating.
I hope you enjoy the read, and of course reviews are much appreciated.
Chapter 1: Introduction
The stately building in the heart of St Canard that hosted S.H.U.S.H. central was bustling with activity. Clerks were busy handling tons of paper, security guards kept a watchful eye on the premises and the obligatory class of fifth-graders out on a field trip was being led through the corridors, excitedly whispering among themselves.
In comparison the topmost floor was almost eerily quiet. Due to the secrecy of the matters that were handled here, access was usually restricted to higher ranking personnel – most of which were now assembled in the Director's office. J. Gander Hooter somberly looked at the agents he had summoned for a meeting of grave importance.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I called you here to discuss the situation overseas," the gander announced and the agents nodded. They all knew which situation their Director was referring to.
Two years ago, through a combination of skill, panache and sheer luck, the DIA had managed to take out Dr NoGood, the head of the European branch of F.O.W.L., jokingly referred to by most agents as the Foreign Organization of World Larceny.
With the local leadership of the organization in complete disarray its members had turned on each other like mad dogs. Some, the ambitious ones, vied for the vacant position at the top of the food chain while others tried to sever ties with their parent organization and eke out their own little empires. At the same time independent criminals saw the crack in F.O.W.L.'s power and moved in for the kill. And of course everybody saw the perfect opportunity to settle old scores. Within days the criminal underworld in cities all over Europe erupted in a vicious, bloody power-struggle and it was all the authorities could do to try and keep civilians out of the line of fire – and the true goings-on away from the headlines.
In their struggle to restore order – or at least stability – the law was aided, ironically enough, by F.O.W.L. itself. From what could be gathered from between the lines of literally hundreds of action reports, the mysterious avians who formed High Command had cracked down on dissenters and challengers alike, with the full extent of their power. In a masterstroke of logistics they had dispatched a veritable army, and what had started out as a series of isolated skirmishes turned into an all-out war.
While the secret battles raged in Europe the situation on the other side of the Atlantic was no less tense. With their resources stretched to the breaking point F.O.W.L. buried itself deeper than ever and they guarded their secrets with a brutality so far unheard of. Several informants met with very sticky ends and with visible criminal activity at an all-time low, the agents of S.H.U.S.H. were reduced to following paper trails and third-hand rumors, often in vain.
But now, after almost two years, the flood of reports of firefights, arson, car bombs and assassinations from overseas had shriveled to a trickle. Apparently the situation in Europe could be considered stable again, and J. Gander Hooter had called his leading agents to inform them that the uneasy ceasefire in the States was about to end.
"The reports of the DIA are clear on this, and our own analysts agree," he told them. "The local underworld is growing restive as of late, and we've had several sightings of felons who are known to have ties with F.O.W.L.." He folded his hands on the desk with a grave sigh. "It seems High Command is calling their agents home."
"So they finally decided to cut their losses," chief agent James Pochard commented with a sardonic half-smile. Smiling came naturally to the drake, it was rare that his beak didn't show at least some sign of amusement – a stark contrast to his ursine friend and oft-time partner who was all scowls.
"Such as they are," agent Grizzlikov muttered darkly.
Hooter smiled briefly at the exchange, as it mirrored his own feelings on the matter. As far as their analysts could tell, F.O.W.L. had lost close to one third of their network in Europe in the aftermath of NoGood's death – a serious set-back to their power, but a far cry from what the euphoric DIA had expected right after the canine's demise. Of course with the invisible conflict sprawled out over several different countries, all of which had their own jurisdiction and internal politics to worry about, launching a coordinated attack on the syndicate had been all but impossible, but Hooter couldn't help but feel that a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity had been missed.
"I am afraid we cannot hope to prevent them from entering the country," the gander said unhappily. "They've had more than enough time to make the necessary arrangements at their leisure."
"Do we even know how many are left?" agent Fangwell, a lean canine, asked. "Surely they've had casualties."
"Beyond a doubt, but we have no idea how many," Hooter had to admit. "In addition to the seven agents still in custody of the DIA we have four confirmed fatalities on F.O.W.L.'s part. We can only guess how many losses they suffered beyond that. Regardless, they will become bolder again. We have to be ready."
He scanned his agents when he said the words, pleased to see the determination on their faces. Unfortunately they would need more than determination in the coming weeks. Even if only half of the agents made it back here, they would be the better half. Those who were careless, slow or simply not smart enough – in other words, those who S.H.U.S.H. would be able to handle with little effort – had likely perished in the bloody conflict overseas. The ones who came home now were not only the best F.O.W.L. had to offer, they had been tempered by two years of constantly being on edge, of being sent from one hot spot to another, always fighting and killing for influence, power and their own lives. With operatives like that filling the ranks again, High Command would no doubt seek to break free of their self-imposed boundaries, and sooner than Hooter would like.
A storm was brewing.
.* * *.
After the meeting was concluded agent Grizzlikov stood next to the coffee machine in the corridor, a paper cup with the deep black liquid in his right hand. "These home-comers will be trouble," he muttered, unknowingly echoing Hooter's thoughts. "If they survived that turf-war they will be cream of the harvest."
James Pochard, long-time friend of the ursine, gave a good-natured sigh of exasperation. "It's cream of the crop, Vlad."
The huge bear furrowed his brow as he mused over the expression. "That makes no sense, either," he decided with a shrug.
"Anyway, if we're lucky it will take them some time to reorganize. You know, establish a new pecking order." James took a sip out of his own cup, looking thoughtful. "And I guess some of our old friends are going to wake up with knives in their backs pretty soon."
Grizzlikov snorted. "That's nothing to count on. They control their agents better than that."
"So they think, but some might try and advance their position all the same. F.O.W.L. doesn't exactly cater to fair-players."
"But it caters to people who are good at making examples," the bear muttered darkly. "You know..."
James made a disgusted sound. "Please, that has to be a rumor." When his friend raised a skeptical eyebrow, he conceded, "Or at least an exaggeration."
The bear harrumphed, but left it at that.
"I only hope it won't take us too long to assess their new strategy," the duck continued. "Maybe once we find out what they're up to we can drop these heightened security protocols."
"It's S.H.U.S.H. regulation," the bear said with a shrug.
"I know it's necessary," James said evasively. "It's just bad timing, is all."
"How so?"
The duck muttered something incomprehensible.
Grizzlikov raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"I met someone, all right?" the other sighed. "There. Happy?"
"You mean you met girl?" the ursine asked, skeptical for a moment. James didn't answer but instead gave a sheepish smile, and Grizzlikov's surly expression turned into a huge grin. "You met girl!"
"Shh, keep it down," the drake whispered, apparently not keen to have his new acquaintance discussed by the grapevine. "And it's not just any girl. I think this could be... you know, the one." His beak turned into a ridiculously happy smile.
Still grinning, the bear clapped his friend on the back – causing the avian to stumble an unsteady step forward. "Then you don't let her get away," he said with playful sternness. "Maybe she'll finally make honest duck out of you."
"Eh, we're nowhere near to that," James replied as he regained his balance. "But... maybe, if it lasts..." His face grew serious again. "But, see, that's the problem. She's a sweet girl, and I don't want to spook her with some huge security detail."
His own smile faltering as well, Grizzlikov sighed. "She doesn't know what you do?"
"She thinks I'm an accountant," the duck admitted with a helpless shrug. "You know how it is, if you tell a girl you're with S.H.U.S.H. she's either intimidated or expects you to act like Derek Blunt."
"You know what girls do when they find out they have been lied to?" Grizzlikov asked dryly.
"Yes, I do," James muttered. "That's why this added security is so inconvenient right now. She'll be angry enough when I tell her, but if she finds out because she stumbles into one of our agents..." His face fell. "I'll really be plucked, then."
"You have to tell her soon," Grizzlikov said quietly. "This heightened security won't just go away." And while he didn't consider himself an expert when it came to female sensitivities, he suspected that being brought in and questioned by S.H.U.S.H. because of her association with their chief agent might be a good reason for any girl to terminate said association.
"I know," the avian sighed. "I'll just have to find the right moment. This is nothing I can do on the phone."
"I'm sure she'll understand," the ursine told his friend encouragingly.
"Yeah, that's what I hope." Dropping his empty paper cup into the waste-bin, the drake straightened his tie. "Come on, let's get to work. See what we can coax out of the surveillance systems." More to himself he added, "I know I'll sleep easier once we have a measure of the new guys."
.* * *.
In front of a nondescript office building a cab stopped. A tall, broad-shouldered rooster in a pristine tuxedo stepped out and for a second his metallic prosthetic beak was resplendent in a ray of sunlight. He flinched at the sudden brightness – this would definitely take some getting used to.
As the car drove off, the avian strode up the stony steps to the main entrance. At the top of the stairs however he hesitated and turned around to regard the famous skyline with a grim smile.
"Ah, St Canard. It's so good to be back." The city hadn't changed all that much in his absence. He, on the other hand, had changed quite a bit.
Two years ago, after Dr NoGood's death had thrown the European branch of F.O.W.L. into chaos, Steelbeak had been one of the operatives High Command had sent abroad to bring their wayward assets to heel again – or, barring that, bring them down. Back then he had been one of many agents – flagged as promising, but still with little more than his sorry excuse for a prosthetic beak to distinguish him from the bulk. Things were different now.
When he entered the building he was quickly apprehended by two guards in nondescript suits – who even more quickly straightened up when they recognized him. One of them escorted him to the elevator and entered the code that would grant him access to the lower floors.
"Welcome home, Sir," the duck said when the elevator-doors closed behind him and he began his slow descent. Steelbeak gave a smug grin. Now this was much more like it.
During his time abroad he had quickly earned himself a certain reputation. First of all, by not dying – not a small feat in an environment where F.O.W.L. operatives – both local and imported – had perished left and right at the hands of renegades, independent criminals and general riffraff. Steelbeak wasn't privy to all the numbers, but by his estimate only two fifths of the agents High Command had sent would return from their little field trip. It would take the organization years to recover from this.
Of course it could have been worse. The whole European network had been dangerously close to simply evaporating and those who were loyal to F.O.W.L. - or rather, those who were smart enough to avoid the wrath of High Command – had had to fight tooth and claw to regain control again. The results he had been able to produce in that department had quickly made him one of High Command's favored agents – complete with bigger paychecks and a considerably longer leash.
More importantly, he had been the one to hunt down the traitorous agent Feathers Galore who had aided the DIA in eliminating NoGood. Somehow she had coaxed a full pardon out of the agency and since then done her best to drop off the radar – he had found her holed up in a cozy little cottage in the Swiss Alps. The cover had been perfect, except for the regular letters she had written to her long-time lover, Bruno von Beak – at the time imprisoned in a high security facility near Duckburg and busy with exchanging classified information against a reduced sentence.
Incidentally, the mallard had recently passed away as well, from a sudden and entirely unexpected heart-attack.
Glancing at his reflection in the metal walls Steelbeak once more admired his polished metal beak. Eliminating Galore had certainly paid off for him – not only in the form of a substantial raise but, more importantly, a stay in one of F.O.W.L.'s secret hospitals where, during a nine-hour surgery, his old prosthetic beak had been replaced with – well, this baby. The fact that it was far more expressive and optically pleasing than the dull, bulky monstrosity he had been fitted with right after what he thought of as the 'accident' was the least of it.
Unlike the old one this implant wasn't made of actual steel but a special light alloy, which greatly reduced the weight of the prosthetic, thus finally relieving him of a very literal pain in the neck. Along with that came heightened endurance and certain other enhancements – designed to give him an edge, as it had been put by Dr. Floccus, his attending physician.
It wasn't much of a pun, but after two months of convalescence Steelbeak had to agree with the portly gander. He was still awed by the ease with which he was now able to cut ropes, chains and even gun-barrels in two – just with a snap of his beak. Of course there were downsides. The first week he had been able to eat something that wasn't served in a feeding cup, he'd spit out severed fork-rakes as often as not. He had learned to control that by now but it would probably take a few more weeks until he attempted tasks that required more sophisticated fine motor skills – like French kissing. Steelbeak gave an acquiescent sigh. The things he did for his career.
With a soft bounce the elevator hit bottom, the steel doors opened and he faced a heavily muscled bulldog, clad in a black turtleneck and matching pants, who greeted him with a huge smirk. "Now look who's back from vacation. Nice suit."
Steelbeak's expression remained carefully blank. "Chief agent Stavro. Long time no see."
"Aw, c'mon, tin-grin. Give me a smile," the canine said with condescending joviality. "I hear you had a blast in Vienna."
"Three, actually," Steelbeak replied dryly as he stepped out of the elevator. A sweet little explosive device smuggled into a gathering of renegades who were in the process of setting up a protection racket, a bigger but equally sweet device to destroy an abandoned lab before it could fall into the hands of the authorities and a car bomb to get rid of a snooping DIA-agent, for good measure. "Want me to tell you about the bang-up job I did in Bruges, as well?"
Stavro's face darkened. "Look who's gotten cocky. But I guess in your case that's not much of a feat, eh, chicken?" He put an arm around Steelbeak's shoulder with a little more pressure than necessary. "Let me give you a bit of advice, here. Maybe you had some good times overseas, mopping up the dregs. But remember that you're back in St Canard, now. This is where we go toe-to-toe with S.H.U.S.H., this is playing with the big boys."
The rooster raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Do tell."
"Now, it looks like High Command thinks you can make it here, and who am I to argue with them," Stavro continued, ignoring the sally. "But I'd suggest you watch that attitude, 'cause it's really easy to wind up a smear on the concrete, here."
"So I hear," Steelbeak said neutrally. He had heard a great many things. Even in a super-secret organization like F.O.W.L. nothing could stop the grapevine. Word was that the chief agent had a little too much fun playing with the scrap press nowadays. Technically that wasn't really a flaw – if F.O.W.L. restricted membership to people without homicidal tendencies it would pretty much defeat the whole purpose – but there was such a thing as moderation. Making a messy example out of a captured enemy agent was one thing – heck, that was practically a perk. But squashing subordinates for increasingly trivial reasons wasn't just hell on the budget, it also generally wreaked havoc with morale. And compacting some dumb kid for dinging one's car – now that was just tacky.
"Speaking of High Command," the rooster continued, ignoring the thinly veiled threat for the moment, "I assume there's a conference room around, somewhere? They want me to call in as soon as I'm here."
"And you wouldn't want to keep them waiting, now would you?" the canine asked snidely and made no attempt to move.
After a few seconds Steelbeak rolled his eyes and cast a meaningful glance towards the ceiling – and to one of the numerous surveillance cameras which adorned the bleak corridor. "I'm sure neither of us would want that," he replied softly.
He hadn't thought it possible but Stavro's face darkened even more. "Eggman!" he roared, causing Steelbeak to wince.
Both agents turned towards the end of the corridor where one of the yellow-clad ducks was all but shoved into their line of sight by three pairs of hands in orange gloves. For a few seconds the short avian just stared at them, then he picked himself up in a desperate salute. "Sir!" he managed, and after a few seconds and an uncertain glance at the rooster added a half-hearted "...s?"
"Get agent Steelbeak to the conference room," the canine barked. "He has an appointment to keep."
"Sir!" the eggman repeated, slightly less panicked than before.
With a disgusted snort Stavro turned back to Steelbeak. "There you are. Now go see the big birds. Enjoy your moment in the sun." He leaned in on the rooster and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Because I'm going to enjoy what happens once it's over."
With that the huge bulldog walked off, roaring with laughter. Steelbeak watched him go, a thoughtful expression on his face.