CAGED

* 1 *

The world returns to me slowly. It is still pitch black even when I open my eyes to peer into nothingness. Regardless I can feel. I can sense the world around me. The air is stiflingly hot. I have no sense of time. How long have I been out?

I sit up and instantly regret the move as pain lances up my spine. I let out a moan and clamp a hand to the nape of my neck and tremble against the nightmarish ache. I look about, careful not to strain the misused muscle, but there is nothing to be seen, only intense blackness.

Am I blind?

Or… perhaps blindfolded. I touch my face but there's nothing there. No blindfold. I blink a few more times, searching for something, anything. There is nothing to see. Anxiety threatens to push my heart up into my throat.

And then there is a light. The corresponding pain forces me to flinch. There is the distant sound of a door being shut, and the light is gone. I draw a deep breath and push myself back until I'm sitting against a wall. My brain races with worry. Where am I?

"So the bossman says to me, we got a bit of a problem on our hands. And it aches down to the pit of my soul to see that he's right about that."

Blinding light pierces my soul in that moment, and I let out a cry of surprise as I turn toward the wall.

"I gotta say, I never expected to see you back in this God-forsaken hole."

I feel my fingers wrap about a metal pipe. A bar. I'm sitting in a cage. I lay my head against the corner of the cell and stare at the back of my eyelids. The light is too powerful. I have to adjust before I can see.

"Mr. Bulba doesn't like open ends, Miss Mallard."

"Can't say I much appreciate it either."

A soft chuckle. "No. I don't suppose you do. It must really eat at you every day, this hole in the pit of your heart." Metal scrapes against concrete. He's pulling up a chair. I don't try to look, but I hear him sit just outside the cage, so close that he could reach out and touch me if he so desired. "You do surprise me, though. You surprise me very much."

"Glad I can help."

"What are you doing in St. Canard?"

"Wish I knew."

"You're pretty talkative for some reason."

I pull my legs to my chest and wrap my arms around my knees. "Maybe."

He lets out a soft chuckle. "You seem perturbed, Gosalyn. I expected a bit more enthusiasm coming from the pistol who grew up in the shadow of the Midnight Mallard."

I slowly peer up at the man on the other side of the bars. I don't recognize him. He's slender, lanky even. A scraggly lion with a lopsided and gentle smile. Totally out of place.

"Enthusiasm? Yeah… I walked into Bulba's office with my tits practically hanging out, and then he catches me with my pants down… literally. I think I've about reached my low point." I crouched down in the corner of the little cage and wrapped my arms around bony knees. "This pistol isn't exactly loaded, is it?"

"At least you aren't firing blanks." I look at him, but he quickly changes the subject. "Did you even have a plan?"

"Eh… I don't know."

The lion offers a sympathetic smile.

"Who are you? Why the interest in me?"

"Frankly, to me you are the most interesting person alive."

I continue to stare at him. He takes it as an invitation. Scooting forward, toward the bars, he leans in and smiles. "You knew Darkwing Duck. You might say I knew him a bit as well."

"Well congratulations," I mutter, looking away. "Not that it means anything."

"No, I suppose not."

"What about you?" I ask suddenly, turning my eyes back on him. "You don't exactly strike me as criminal underworld material."

The old cat chuckles. "Nah. I guess not. I used to run security in this joint before I was unofficially retired by Mr. Bulba. He thought it would be best to move his own men into the front office."

"So you aren'tcriminal underworld material," I interject, my voice rising a little with renewed hope. It fails almost immediately with the dejected shrug of his shoulders.

"Don't get your hopes up, kid," he says. "I'm still on the payroll. How else you think I could have gotten in here?"

I'm staring at my feet. "Yeah? And what exactly did you expect to accomplish? This is a waste of time for both of us."

"On the contrary." He smiled soberly. "I believe a talk would be mutually beneficial."

"Is that so?"

"Why of course."

"You'll find I don't have much to talk about."

The gangly lion cocks his head slightly, and leans forward, his elbows on his knees and chin resting on interlocking fingers. He seems to be studying me, perhaps considering his next move the way a master chess player scrutinizes the board before making his move. There is something in his dark eyes, something sincere, something thoughtful. It reminds me of someone I used to know, someone else who was close to my father. The easy drawl might even be disarming if not for my current predicament.

"Anyone else know you're in town, Miss Mallard?"

Though his tone and posture hasn't changed in the slightest, the alarm screaming in the back of my head is all too clear.

This is the type of question an interrogator would use in order to squeeze a confession out of a suspect. My guard is up and I am more certain than ever that it would be a mistake to talk to this man. I fight against the flood of rage whispering darkly in the back of my mind. I turn my head so I can't see him and stare off into nothingness with gritted teeth.

I just want to punch something. Preferably his stupid face.

"Nah. Of course not. You're far too clever to go announcing your presence in the city. Too much of the hate your father imprisoned has been released since he went away. You know better. Nobody knows you're here."

My fist slowly relaxes its grip on one of the bars of my cage. I didn't even realize I'd grabbed it. My fingers ache from the pressure; just how long had I been squeezing the damn thing?

"Hell, child, you barely even know you're here, yourself."

And with that, the old scraggily lion puts his hands to his knees and slowly pushes himself up out of the chair. He stands tall over my cell for a time—Bulba obviously didn't want me comfortable enough that I could get up and walk around while I was his captive—and finally plants his fists on his hips.

"Just so you know, my name is Charles Devareaux. Don't you forget it."

No, I don't suppose I will.

* 2 *

I must have drifted into and out of sleep a dozen times over the course of the next few hours. I know it was a fitful, restless sleep. I feel as if I must be dreaming.

The known world blurs with the impossible. It's a garbled realm without time, without plausibility. Familiar faces blend together in a hodgepodge of insanity. Amidst the maniacal nightmare I see familiar eyes, gazing upon me with disdain.

When at last that uneasy sleep fades away and my body forces itself awake, I push myself up into a seated position. It's still cramped in this cage. My body aches from lack of use.

I'm quite certain I'd been drugged. Taurus Bulba's no fool. It's clear he remembers me and my so-called spirit. I should have made certain to cover my tracks. This kind of mistake…

The image of my father's face, concealed by his mask and his familiar, wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, brings feelings of isolation, of regret. So often I thought, after the fact, that the duck in the mask was not the father who left me behind. The mask, the cape and hat, the ego. They were nothing but a disguise. My true father, Drake Mallard, the caretaker of our home and the man who tucked me into bed at night… he was the one who left me behind. Because it was just something he had to do, for the sake of everyone.

As if his daughter never mattered.

His adopted daughter.

I quickly realize my brain is just scampering about, searching for excuses, laying blame at the feet of the dead. Does that make me an ingrate? I guess it does. The truth is Dad may have left before his time, may have left me alone and facing an uncertain future with no real path to follow, but he did leave behind something no one ever could: he left me with a desire to find myself, to make myself more than what I had been.

It's a difficult journey, a path I wouldn't wish upon anyone else.

This is my journey. My path. It belongs to me and me alone.

I put a hand to my throbbing temple. Some kind of splitting headache, something else I wouldn't wish upon even my worst enemy.

Okay, that's a lie. I'd just love to slam a two by four upside Taurus Bulba's fat, ugly head right now. See just how far his stupid brain would splatter. Only if.

I lean back against the metal bars, stretching my long legs out as far as I can, and find that I if I press my feet flat against the far side of the cage, I can just about lock my knees as if I were standing tall. The bars rub painfully into my back as I stretch, but there's not much I can do about that. Sleeping on the hard, metal floor was nothing less than torture, and now the pain of the bars against my spine are a small price to pay to simply be able to move my aching muscles about, if even just a little.

* 3 *

Sometime later one of Bulba's henchmen enters the room. My eyes, which had adjusted to the near-pitch black of the room are again blinded by a painfully bright beam of light. I'm pretty sure it's intentional. Bulba doesn't want me to have the opportunity to get the drop on any of his goons when they come to do… whatever it is their big bad boss has ordered them to do.

I tense as the footsteps get closer. I'm eager to pounce, to regain my freedom, but I'm hardly in a position to strike.

Heavy breathing accompanies the footfalls. Whoever the bastard is looming over me, he's taking a moment to scrutinize my undignified position.

"Don't know why the bossman has it in for you, babe," he says in a smooth voice. He sounds young. His voice oozes with pleasure as he leans closer. My eyes are starting to adjust; he's a big, tall kid with broad shoulders, powerfully built with very little body fat. "Guess it don't matter." He fiddles with something he pulls out from within his suit jacket. There's a familiar, soft click and I see a glint of steel as he aims a weapon at me.

The shot is nearly silent, like a gentle breath of air. Something sticks into my neck.

A swat at it like I would a pesky fly, and I find it there, nestled within my feathers.

A tiny dart. More like a needle really, not even an inch in length. Too late, I rip the dart free. The poison's already worked itself into my bloodstream. Of course it would have been impossible to avoid. Here I lie in a cramped cage, easy pickings for Bulba's pathetic goons.

If these guys are pathetic, just what does that make me?

I feel myself weighed down by the poison coursing through my veins. I try to lift my arm as I see through heavy, drooping lids as the youthful henchman leans toward the bars. With a key he unlocks the heavy padlock and swings the door open. Then he sets a plate of… something in my cage. I gaze at it. Momentarily the vision of Bulba's cook leaning over the meal with a dropper, adding an ounce of poison to the mixture…

Of course, that is a fear completely fabricated by paranoia. Bulba already has me cornered. He probably knows I am much more valuable to him alive. If I was dead why lock me up to begin with? There'd been ample time to slaughter me when he had me cornered in his office with my pants around my knees.

"Stuff'll wear off in a couple minutes. Eat up. Gonna be a busy night."

He rises, and then steps away. He stuffs a hand in his pocket as he turns, nearly stumbling over the chair where the old lion had sat earlier during our brief conversation. What was his name again? Charles Devareaux.

The henchman grumbles a curse under his breath and slides the chair back and out of his path. Then he saunters easily to the door. My eyes are still heavy, but I can still see as he pushes the door open and shuts off the light.

He vacates without a goodbye. Somehow I find that comforting.

The door shuts behind him, and all is dark again.

Or mostly dark. Soon, just as he promised, the feeling returns to me and I am able to push myself back into a seated position. It's almost like a weak shot of adrenaline kick starting my heart so that I'd have some much-needed energy. I touch the plate. It's Styrofoam, and the fork itself is cheap plastic. Nothing to drink.

I know that I need my energy if I'm to even have a chance at reversing my fortunes. I've already determined that Bulba wants me alive, so it's very unlikely my food is poisoned. And if it is, what the hell. I deserve my fate for being stupid enough to fall into his clutches to begin with. The only way out is to rebuild my strength.

I take a bite. It's still warm, and surprisingly good. Some sort of a goulash over white rice. Not bad at all.

As I eat I catch sight of a small red light. It winks off the moment I see it across the room. I hadn't seen anything like it before now, but it's there and it's obvious. Having vision accustomed to the dark makes it very easy to spot.

I focus on that spot, and after three or four seconds, the light returns. I count the seconds: one, two, three…

And off again.

One, two, three…

The light winks on. Three second intervals to be sure. But what exactly is that light? I'm focused now. I quickly bolt the rest of my meal, slip the empty plate through the bars and onto the floor, silently thanking Bulba for supplying me with the much-needed source of fuel.

All the while I continue to watch that small, red dot as it winks on and off. Something is up. What could all this possibly mean? What the hell am I missing? Think, Goz… Think!

But I can't think, because all of a sudden, my head is swimming in drowsiness. Again. My unseeing eyes drift lazily to the plate. My head wants to panic but my body has reverted to a sudden stupor and refuses to respond. Have I underestimated Bulba's cruelty? What sort of sick, twisted game is he playing?

I blink a few times. My whole body slouches back, leaning heavily into the bars behind me. I know it should ache but my brain doesn't care to recognize the pain anymore. So very tired. So… defeated.

There is a soft compression in the air, like a pulse of sudden power that makes every joint in my body ache. It is a different sort of pain then that of the familiar ache of unused muscles. I've never quite felt anything like this.

I can't count the seconds. My body doesn't even budge. Somehow I realize something is about to happen but I just can't pinpoint the significance of the ordeal.

There is a crash. The door flies open, but this time there is no light on the other side. I can't even convince myself that I'm supposed to care. All I know is a deep, sinking numbness as my world sinks into oblivion.

* 4 *

I'm lying on my back, but this time the ground is so soft, as if I'm lying in the heavens, on top of the clouds, well beyond the reach of the troubles that have plagued me for so long. There is a gentle warmth and the appealing scent of the fresh linen. If even for a moment, I'm grateful for the illusion of happiness.

The room is bare save for light furnishings. A nightstand at my bedside. The small dresser across the room. It's hard to tell but I think the walls are a light blue. The ceiling is so high the light can't quite reach it, lending to the feeling of endlessness as I peer to the heavens. There is still darkness, but this time a dim light blankets the room in a pleasant ambiance, lending to the distinct feeling of safety that I dare not trust even as I peer about the room.

I don't recognize this place. I don't recognize anything.

I know it is time to make my move. It takes a moment of concentration, but at last I push myself up. The heavy, warm comforter slips from my shoulders.

I put my bare feet to the floor and sink into the softest, warmest shag carpet I have ever had the pleasure of standing upon. I sigh happily, if only for an instant of gratification, and ease my weary body out of bed.

I'm wearing a soft, pink nightgown made of fine silk. Well, doesn't this just get better and better? Who the heck changed me, anyway? For that matter, had I even been wearing clothes while I was lying in that cage back in the Javelin (assuming, of course, I had been in the Javelin after Taurus Bulba caught me in the act). I don't remember much more than being in the most awkward, uncomfortable position in my young life. I guess I might as well have been naked.

I check for a change of clothing but there's nothing in the dresser. I take a moment to gather my wits about me before I push open the door and step out into the hall. It surprises me a little that I'm free to roam about, even if I don't know where the hell I am. Is there even anywhere to go?

The hall is dark. The weak light coming from behind me reveals several doors. To the far right there is a sequence of flashing lights. The pattern reflecting off the walls seems to be that of a television screen or computer monitor. The hall opens up into a larger room. I move slowly, one hand against the wall. I'm still a little weary, and my legs a little weak. I haven't quite shaken the effects of the poison.

The room is not as large as I'd thought. As I step out of the hall and into that room, a motion sensor reacts to my presence and the room is flooded with a blinding light. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the fluorescent bulbs overhead, but when they do I stop in my tracks.

Most of the walls are bare, and the carpeting has become ice-cold linoleum. What gives me pause is the collection of monitors positioned against the far wall. Though I've never seen this particular setup, everything about this strange room feels familiar.

I draw a slow breath, and then I move forward, my eyes searching every screen.

The flood of information is telling. As my mind begins to process the flood of information I feel my heart quickening in my breast. "My God," I murmur. I put my hand to the back of the leather chair. It's empty, and the seat cool.

Behind me, something changes. A gentle hissing sound. Warning bells go off in my head. I spin about, just in time to see a panel in the ceiling dropping to the floor, blocking the path back into the hall.

I stare into the eyes of young woman… a girl really, probably a few years younger than myself. A bear with soft blonde fur. She smiles. "There you are. When you weren't in your room, I knew I'd find you here."

I watch as the girl slides past me to the monitors. There's nothing I can think to say. Even the most obvious questions slip my mind as I watch her. I can't shake this feeling lurking just beneath the surface.

The girl plops down into the empty chair and spins about to face the monitors. She reaches out and rests a finger on one of the buttons. She turns a dial with her free hand before toggling the switch. "This is Bird's Nest calling Raven. The chick has hatched."

My mind snaps into action. Almost without conscious thought I'm translating the girl's words. Bird's Nest? That's an obvious code for home base.

The chick has hatched? Something has changed. Something expected. I get it all too well. I just woke up. I'm the so-called "chick"… great.

What about Raven? Well, that's obvious enough. At least I think it is.

"Where is she now?" a deep, velvet voice flows easily through the speakers.

"She's right here with me. I'm about to offer her some breakfast if you care to join us."

There's a long pause. "Take care of her, Molly. I'll be in touch."

The connection ends and we're left in silence.

"Well… that was… brief," I say slowly.

Molly giggles from her seat. "That's Raven. A man of few words to say the least." She swivels back around and peers up to me from the chair. She is still smiling. Her soft brown eyes sparkle. She's at least a few years older than I was when Dad died, but she's still just a kid. "Well, I suppose I should introduce myself."

I narrow my eyes. "The thought had occurred to me."

She giggles. "Molly Cunningham. I'm a junior at St. Canard Metropolitan University."

Junior? As I try to process just what that means she's bouncing up out of the chair. She takes me easily by the arm. "Come on. LP's making French toast."

The wall slides open, lifting up into the ceiling as we approach. Or, rather, as she drags me across the room. We are back in the hall. The warm carpeting is a pleasant reprieve for the cool linoleum I'd been standing on a minute age. I glance back as she continues to lead me down the hall, just as the wall slides back into place.

The mystery behind that wall at the end of hall is simple enough to grasp: it's not supposed to be there. That's not at all a mystery to me because I can grasp the nature of the crazy world I've awoken to. This is a world I've seen before. It's not the same familiar world I left behind after Dad's final battle, but it's certainly something I can relate to. Who exactly is this girl? More importantly, what exactly is her interest in me?

And who is this stranger who calls himself Raven?

We step through a door at the other end of the long hall, and I am greeted with much more pleasant lighting than that of the fluorescent overhead lights from the mystery room. It's a simple living room, with simple furnishings. Simple, but nice. The floor is covered with the same, soft shag carpeting from the hall and the room where I'd woken up. There's a big, tan couch and a matching recliner, and a coffee table at the center of the room. The distinct lack of a television set is the only real mystery in this living room. Who doesn't have a TV in the living room in this day and age? Wonders abound.

The décor makes perfect use of what little space there actually is. Two words come to mind: tidy and comfortable.

The sweet smell of maple and cinnamon draws me to a room beyond.

Molly gives my arm a tug. "Come on, Goz. He's waiting to see you."

"He? Just how do you…"

She ignores me, pulling me past the small living room and through the door on the other side. "Hey LP! She's awake! Breakfast smells awesome!"

"Oh. Thanks Molly. I'm glad you think so."

My heart leaps into my throat. That familiar voice seems to staple my webbed feet to the floor, and they refuse to budge as I stare into the small kitchen, to the big duck sitting in a wheelchair across the room. He's holding a spatula and leaning over a specialized oven range designed for the handicapped.

An image flashes in my mind.

An old friend looming desperately over the controls of the Thunderquack, a custom fighter jet designed in my father's honor. One terrific final crash, one catastrophic blaze of glory. Flames arc skyward, stretching to the heavens, as if offering one final plea for a hero's salvation.

"Good morning Gosalyn," he says pleasantly, turning in his chair to face me for the first time. His relaxed tone flows easily through the tension in the air, as if we had never parted ways. As if we had never said goodbye.

The spark of excitement in his eyes and the large grin spreading across his bill tell a different tale.

My vision blurs and my knees go weak as I stare at him, and then I let myself go.

A return to the past. A moment of weakness I had once sworn I would never face again.

"Launchpad!"

I bolt across the room as quickly as my two legs will carry me, and I fall to my knees and melt away into a mess of tears in his arms.

"I missed you too, little girl," he says as his warm hand gently strokes my hair.

* 5 *

The last time I saw Launchpad McQuack I'd been twelve years old. In fact, I'd thought I was seeing the last precious few seconds of his life. I'd snuck aboard the Thunderquack for a very good reason: Dad was in terrible danger, and I was the only one who could warn him. I was the only one he could trust. Because he'd been betrayed.

I just didn't know who.

My gut instinct was that I should have trusted Launchpad. He was someone I could always trust, for whatever reason. But I couldn't find it in myself. Not that last time. I had to get to Dad on my own. It was my only choice. The only choice.

But Launchpad found me. I guess there was no hiding from him in his own jet. Shame on me for thinking he wouldn't know. He wasn't always the sharpest tool in the shed, but he'd always known the Thunderquack inside and out. He should… he'd designed the damned thing.

Had I just taken the time to explain everything from the beginning, just maybe we could have figured out some way to get to Darkwing before F.O.W.L. could unleash their hellish weapon upon St. Canard.

But I was an idiot. Dad died. At least his pain was over beyond that point… but it was only the beginning of Launchpad's suffering.

"French toast is awesome, LP!"

We are shaken from an uncomfortable silence by the nauseating excitement of Molly Cunningham. Maybe that's for the best. Molly is an excitable girl. Maybe we should take our cues from her right now. This is a reunion, and despite the pain of how it all ended, I know Launchpad would never hold it against me. That's just not the kind of man he is.

"She's right," I say suddenly, smiling over at him. "Thanks for breakfast, Launchpad."

"Shucks," he replies with a smile. "It's nothing, really."

I smile, but I avert my gaze as a blush creeps across my cheeks. I can't express in words how good it is to see him again. So good, in fact, that it overshadows the deep guilt I feel at the pit of my soul when I look at him, when I even think about him. I have to admit, it had been a long time since I'd thought of my old friend… Dad's trusted sidekick.

"Goz?"

I glance up to him again, and this time I realize I'm near tears again. I blink them away and force myself back to the present. My eyes dart between the unlikely pair: an adolescent blonde bear and an aging crippled pilot. I guess it doesn't really surprise me given my experience with Launchpad's relationships. He hangs in some very bizarre circles.

"It's nothing, Launchpad. Just… thinking."

He nods. "I guess it's a lot to take in, huh?"

I grunt softly at that, shaking my head as I run my last bite of French toast through a small pool of maple syrup. "You can say that again."

"You want some more?"

"Uh… sure."

To my surprise, it's Molly who jumps up, as if bidden to the task. Launchpad looks mortified when she quickly scoops up his empty plate along with mine.

"What are you doing?"

"I got this, LP," she says with that same bounce in her step as she always seems to have. Either she is seriously a morning person or she has Slinky in her DNA. "You've got a guest to entertain, remember?"

"I thought I wasentertaining her."

I roll my eyes as he winks at me, but I find it impossible to wipe the smirk off my bill. Molly heads for the stove and slops a more few slices of bread through the egg mixture.

"That girl. She never lets me do anything."

"You made the first batch," she scolds. "I got this."

"Wow," I say quietly as I observe the bizarre scenario unfold before my eyes. "You two sound like an old married couple."

"Woah now," Launchpad said with a laugh, holding his hands up as if he's defending himself from an accusation. "Let's not start any rumors. Becky would tan my hide if she caught anyone even joking about that."

"Becky?" I arch a brow as I study him. Could it be good ole LP has a girl after all?

"My mom," Molly says nonchalantly as she sprinkles something over the top of the uncooked side of the French toast.

"Which begs the question," I say as I fold my arms over the tabletop and lean forward, "exactly where is she and why are you staying at a bachelor pad in the dreariest city on the entire eastern seaboard?"

Molly glances over her shoulder. "Yeah. Isn't thatthe question of the decade."

"Molly's a student at St. Canard Metropolitan University," Launchpad quickly interjects.

"So I've heard." Of course I'm not buying it. I've seen a bit too much of this house to accept that response. "But what is she doing living with you? She's a fraction of your age."

"I think that's enough questions for now," Molly says as she checks the bottom side of one of the slices of bread. "This is breakfast, not the Spanish Inquisition."

She's right of course. That doesn't mean I don't plan on taking up the interrogation later, but I think I can spare Launchpad for the time being.

I smile thoughtfully at the old pilot.

"It's good to see you again, Launchpad."

"Ditto that, Goz," he replies with a twinkle in his eye.

NEXT EPISODE: AGENTS OF S.H.U.S.H.