Disclaimer: Disney owns Darkwing Duck, dead or alive. Or undead. I'm just borrowing him to play with.

Disclaimer: I want to thank Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for Sherlock Holmes generally, The Sign of Four and The Five Orange Pips specifically. It was far from intentional to have incorporated such notions, but they do ring quite familiar as I reread this particular plot of mine. Now I could keep listing all the fantastic stories that I have experienced throughout my life that are permanently embedded in the workings of my brain, or I could just say a blanket thank you to all those fictional writers that have come before me, including other fanfiction writers. You rock.

A/N: This is only a work in progress theory on Drake's father. If you have a different opinion, I'd be fascinated to hear a bit of it, but this is how it is written in my continuum at the moment.

A/N: I find my theory plausible. Then again, I'm an Australian born Alpha Centaurian. I welcome any advice on any perceived plot holes and character gaps.

A/N: Also, I am aware that my writing uncannily resembles space debris. Despite my emotional attachment, I do appreciate any help to make it a bit more readable. After all, despite the constant argument with the program, I still use Word's grammar checker before uploading.

A/N: Please review. I don't consider myself a terribly scary person. I'd love to hear any words of advice or opinions to help me make my stories more enjoyable to read. I promise I don't bite ... much.

Prologue: Bunker

His youngest child had just graduated from university last semester. The divorce from his wife went through last month. Curtis Mane, newly appointed executive officer for Mackerel & Co crossed his company paid, fully furnished single person apartment to look in the wardrobe mirror and undo his tie.

It had been decades since he'd been in his old home city, and now, after all the things that had happened in his life recently, here he was again in good old St Canard. Curtis was looking forward to another walk down those forgotten familiar streets. Perhaps he'd go down to the fair grounds near the docks? Or Grand Central Park; he knew those places wouldn't have changed much.
"I wonder if the Silverlight lounge is still trading. Oh, hang on ..." His memory wasn't the best anymore. "Was the name of it actually Silverlight, or was that the singer? Oh, but that woman was an angel!" He sighed, a smile growing warm on his face as his memories resurfaced. "Was it ... Ellen? No, let me think ... Alana? Or something ... Eleanor? Eleanor? Yes, that was her name." He shook his head. "What a total knock out."

There was a knock on the door. Curtis went and opened it.

"Oh, hello!" He blinked, letting the dog in a trench coat in.
"Curtis Mane. It's taken you a while to come back to St Canard. I read in the financial review about you taking over at Mackerel & Co. The stocks rose a third when the markets heard you were taking the executive role."

"Sure ... I'm sorry; my memory's starting to go these days. I'm not as young as I used to be, you know. I recognise you, but I can't even remember where from."
The dog stared stonily at him.

"Well, do you remember Drake Mallard?"

Curtis swallowed, his eyes opening wide in shock, now he was remembering. "Oh, my god, you're Harris. That was thirty odd years ago!"
"Yes, Mallard's not a name one can easily forget. Even after thirty years, one still remembers ... him."

"Er, how about a drink?" Curtis needed a drink, anyway.
The dog was sullen. "I've waited for you."
"Sorry, I've only got scotch." Curtis hurried across the room to the scotch bottle and poured two glasses. He held up the second one but the dog just stared grimly at him. He put it back down.

"Do you recall your mutiny at Ducklehoff? You were on Drake Mallard's side."

Curtis swallowed his scotch with shaking hands, put down the glass and straightened. "It wasn't mutiny, Harris. He relieved you of duty."
"Oh, he made it sound like that: 'Belay that order, men. Stand down, soldier. You are relieved.' Those were the words he used when Mallard countermanded my orders on the field. You supported him. But really, that was just plain mutiny."
"It wasn't mutiny; that charge was cleared at the inquiry!" Curtis argued, going red even now so long afterwards.

He took a breath to calm himself. "Harris, you can't still be angry about that incident, the inquiry has been over for twenty something years. I'm sure you've moved on with your life by now. I have."
"I lost my career."
"So did he! I did too. But I got over it. All Mallard did was his duty to protect the rest of us and the civilians. Don't blame Mallard because he took over the job that you couldn't handle."

"No, I didn't blame him for that."

The old dog pulled the gun out of his pocket. "I only executed him for his mutiny."