Chapter 1
QuackerJack
The mind is fragile, easily manipulated by those who were ahead of everyone else. Inventors and companies alike were always planning, constructing, able to bring forth something new to draw the simple-minded flock with their musty cash grabs. Always feeding the public entertainment through virtual violence, appealing to the younger group by choke holding them into popularity contests amongst their peers. "I got the latest Whiffle Boy console. You aren't cool till you've got one. Jump ropes and hoola-hoops? Those are for the lame." How disgusting it is to live in a world where individuality is shunned and following is the newly accepted ideology of brain rotting television games.
Gone are the simpler days, with mind numbing excuses of wired entertainment left to stand in their place. At least that's what Quackerjack thought. The tiny doll, that had once been the flamboyant toymaker, sat on a shelf in a quiet storage room gathering dust. It had been almost a decade since he'd zapped himself into a doll with the digitizer, the very same machine he'd used on many civilians of St. Canard. His own self demise was an apology to his beloved girlfriend Claire for his behavior, not that he regretted hurting anyone. "They deserved it. All they ever did was warp everyone into becoming addicted to their train wreck excuse for amusement! My toys were forward and did what they were supposed to, no gimmicks", he thought as his gaze remained permanently forward towards one of the building's cracked cement walls.
"One day folks will thank me" he supposed, a tingling sensation around his doll body. An odd feeling for Quackerjack, as he'd never felt anything physical since he became a toy. The odd pulsating warmth in him had been resonating in the tiny figurine's chest for weeks, but only now was he feeling it so intensely. Then there was only pain, hot and tearing at his fabric. It was as if every stitch that mad up his current being was being torched. The intensity of Quackerjack's agony caused him to believe that he was dying as his surroundings turned a blinding white! "Who knew dolls could kick the can", he mused as he felt the feeling fade. Maybe he was gone and he'd go to the great toy land above. A loud crash and a sudden gasp was all he heard before the world became dark and still.
When morning arrived so did his vision, the dim haze of the sun's light faintly illuminating his side of the storage room. Something normal for him, as being a doll meant one had no eyelids. Dreams would fade him in and out of reality whenever, what he assumed was his soul, craved to rest. They always ranged from reliving an old memory of him partaking in villainy with the Fearsome Five or spending time with the woman he missed so dear. However, something wasn't quite right to Quackerjack. The tingling sensation was gone but the mallard remembered he'd been on the shelf and not on the ground. "Not that I can do anything about it" came a loud and disoriented voice, making his insides jump! He hadn't heard anyone enter, much less recognize that voice he heard just now. Not that he could focus on that for too long, there was an odd itch in his eye. It was when the world went dark for a brief second and his eyes were met with relief that he realized what was going on.
The mallard's body gave an odd flop, something akin to a jump of shock but half-hearted like a ragdoll. "I'm alive. . .", he managed to mumble as he slowly sat himself up, still unaccustomed to the returning sensation in his body. Quackerjack attempted to touch his face with his hands, failing the first time by missing and the second from nearly loosing his balance. The third time, however, he was able to press his gloved hand to his bill. The rubber slowly dragging its cold texture across his warm skin. Something like a garbled laugh escaped him, it would take him some getting used to before he'd feel he was truly back, but he couldn't wait. "Wait till she sees me now I bet she'll be so happy!"