"Ah, the Audubon Bay," Drake smiled, the family's rickety lemon hugging the curves of the rocky road that lead them around back cliffs of St. Canard, bypassing the rest of the city. The road clearly wasn't designed for the main populace, as one side clung to the bare, rocky foundation of St. Canard and the other was the rough, jagged coast of the Bay, but it got them around the congestion and traffic of the cramped downtown. "St. Canard used to have a booming tourist industry, you know," the mallard smiled at Gosalyn, who was packed safely in the passenger seat next to him.

Gosalyn was a spunky, spirited, fiery fifteen-year-old. Her dandelion-gold downy duckling feathers had never fully grown out, probably due to the stresses the girl had been through in her short-lived childhood, but had simply evolved into a beautiful and soft coat sprinkled with freckles when she spent too much time in the sun. As much as Drake adored them, however, her downy feathers were always a point of major frustration for the young girl, but her father had assured her that he too was an "ugly duckling" when he was a kid, and provided what little proof he could of his copper-brown feathers and winged stripes, not to mention his comically over-sized bill and feet. Comforted, she had turned her attention instead to her strawberry blonde hair, wondering if she should dye it back to its original scarlet. Drake often wished she would get it cut at least, or pin it back to keep her bangs out of her eyes, but the most she ever did with it was a sloppy ponytail, so he had silently accepted the compromise long ago.

Drake continued, motioning out the window to Gosalyn's side to the water that stretched out around them. "And it's easy to see why. That fresh ocean air, those crystal-clear waters, the noble Audubon Bridge standing high and proud above this calm, warm and life-filled bay like a monument of industry and growth between all masses of living creatures!"

Smiling, Gosalyn rolled her window down, sticking her head outside to catch a glimpse of the bridge far behind them. She took a deep breath of the fresh air, and gagged when the sea salt stung her nose and the stench of the rotting seaweed and trash that covered the coastline slapped her senses.

"Bleh," she gagged, rolling the window back up and plugging her nostrils. "Sure dad, 'fresh air'."

"That's the smell of economy," Drake pointed at her, "you need to give yourself a chance to get appropriately acclimated!"

Among the murky waves, a crab wrestled with a tin can, scaring away a seagull with a six-pack plastic wrap around its neck, who coughed up a tuna can. Out of which flopped a sardine, whom the crab snatched up before it could wiggle its way to the water. Gosalyn gagged again, turning away from the window. St. Canard had certainly changed since her father had last been there.

But they had both changed as well. Drake was older, more aged, but Gosalyn never knew him when he was young, so she never really noticed. As for herself, Gosalyn used to be a small, too small for her age, firecracker of a little girl. Her hair was a more scarlet red than it was presently, her feathers were just as golden, and she loved wearing shoes but hated wearing pants, and since she was just a kid, Drake never made her. Shoes helped protect her premature feet, and pants irritated her sensitive tail. Unfortunately for Drake's ever empty wallet, she kept the habit of wearing sneakers, but he'd rather her wear them while out doing her daring deeds than handling them barefooted. He knew how irritating foot injuries were, and earnestly prayed he would never had to live with a bed-ridden or crutch-condemned Gosalyn.

Over the last five years they had both learned to make things last, and each had a few favorite possessions to themselves. Drake always kept his atrociously 90's white and blue plastic windbreaker wherever he went, and used to have his own collection of polo shirts to wear underneath until Gosalyn started stealing them. Then he focused more on graphic tees they could both stand to wear, and cheaply replace. Gosalyn herself wasn't caught without her dad's old St. Canard High letterman jacket. The white and purple design swallowed her when she first started wearing it, and she asked every day if she could, but for her 13th birthday, when she could actually fit into it halfway properly, Drake officially gave it to her. The jacket was the only piece of St. Canard that had lasted.

Now that she was older and taller, the jacket fit well, long enough for her and loose enough for all kinds of crazy antics. Because Gosalyn was obsessed with sports, a passion Drake actively supported, she was strong, stronger than most teens her age and size, but was short for most gooses, now just under her father in height. He was confident she would surpass him one day, even if just by a little, and certainly in more ways than height. Gosalyn was strong minded and strong willed, but utterly adored her father. The "terrible teens" had never really struck her, or had yet to, and the two were a team almost stronger than their own wills when combined. Certainly no intellectual-student like her father, Gosalyn had struggled in school, despite Drake's best home-schooling efforts, but excelled in strength of character and merits. At the end of the day, and though he had seen his daughter grow tremendously in the last five years, she still had a lot of growing and discovering to do, and Drake was ecstatic to walk with her through it.

Part of him just wished her favorite jacket would last as well, but he had his doubts. The thing had been in tatters for a while.

"Still," she piped up with a smile, kicking her sneakers against the dashboard, which earned her a pointed look from her father, "it sure was nice of old Headmaster Mc-Stiff-Lip to not saddle you with the bill for all that damage! Those snotty brats can survive a day or two without their oh-so-precious trophies shoved down their throats."

With a sigh, Drake steered the car off the expressway, the tires bumping along the gravel driveway that lead into the "Possum Bottom Trailer Park". Gosalyn, eyeing the weathered possum on the welcome sign, yelped when the creature turned quite suddenly and glared at her before scampering away and flopped rather unceremoniously onto the dead grass around the sign, missing the mostly dead bushes.

"Sure it was," Drake bit back, "instead he just fired me, turned the home-owners association against us, and got us run out of town…" Pulling up to the front office, he stomped on the emergency break and turned to Gosalyn with his hands on hips, "that's all."

She offered a bashful smile.

"Well," clicking his seat belt free, Drake dug around under the seat for his wallet, "might as well mark Spoonerville off the map."

With a roll of her green eyes, Gosalyn waited for her dad to leave the car before kicking the glove box in front of her. The latch sprung open and their over-sized and wrinkled atlas exploded free.

"I saw that," Drake warned, heading to the office building at the front gate to check in and rent a lot, assuming the place would be standing long enough for him to make it inside.

"Sorry!" called Gosalyn, wrestling the map open and swimming around its folds to find Spoonerville. With the red marker she snatched from the glove box, she scribbled generously over the city, writing "Rikoshay Puck Vs. Trophy Case" across it, finishing the notation with a skull and cross bones. Sitting back, the springs in her seat squeaking, Gosalyn's eyes roamed back and forth across the map, which was almost completely covered with various cities, the reasons they left, and the dotted lines connecting to them. They left Sabre Way because of the "Pumpkin Patch Incident." Utah Straights thanks to the "Pizzeria Funzone Fire." Salt Springs after the "Mad Cow Epidemic," which, she had noted underneath, had NOTHING to do with them. The only untouched piece in the whole map was St. Canard and Duckburg, and Gosalyn traced their path to their new home, circling it.

Drake returned not long after that and drove to an empty lot near the back of the park. St. Canard certainly didn't have much room to spare, but the "back" of the city, which was on the opposite side of the city as the Audubon Bay Bridge, was a little more openly spaced. The rocky terrain and unsteady foundation, seeing that the opening of the Bay pounded against the shore and wore away at the rocks, wasn't fit for the taller skyscrapers in downtown. Instead, its scenic view had always been utilized for the tourist and nature-orientated side of the economy, and though the economic crash had almost completely killed the industry, dirty and weather-worn trailer-parks like "Possum Bottom Trailer Park" hinted at a thriving heritage, with its few pine trees for the aesthetic, gravel driveways and dead grass, and muddy, sandy coastline. It wasn't the most disgusting place they had ever lived, and Gosalyn had to admit, she had never really known this side of the city had even existed.

"Gosalyn! Come help me get the trailer unhitched!"

"Coming," the teen called back, excitedly scribbling "Home of Darkwing Duck" on the map next to St. Canard. Stretching the map out before her, she grinned at her handiwork. St. Canard was where it had all started, and she was more excited than she'd ever let her dad know to be back –

Suddenly, a loud metal clatter sounded from outside and Gosalyn blinked. Crumbling the map back up and shoving it into the glove box, which she kicked closed, she hurried outside and followed her dad's irritated mutters. He was knelt by the driver's side of the trailer, trying to secure a loose panel back over the power connectors.

"You know what Dad," Gosalyn retied the letterman around her waist as she watched Drake over his shoulder beat the panel back into place with his fists, "I've got a good feeling about this place! I think this may be… the one!"

Drake scoffed, turning the panel around backwards and trying to jam it into place. "That's what you said about Spoonerville! And Jackal Point, and Highcrest, and Steamboat City, and look at how those ended."

Rearing her foot back suddenly, Gosalyn kicked the panel, denting a large hole in the center but bending it to the hole so it didn't fall off anymore. Her dad, however, quacked loudly in fright.

"Uh – hmhmm," he cleared his throat and stood, "thank you."

Gosalyn watched him stand, dust his hands off, and move to the hitch keeping the trailer connected to the car. She followed eagerly, gesturing excitedly with her hands. "But I mean it, Dad! St. Canard feels different! This is where it all started, yah know. The lights, the cameras, the action! This is the home of Darkwing –!"

"ENOUGH!" Drake screamed suddenly, bolting upright from where he knelt by the hitch and glaring down at her. "Darkwing Duck was a television character that I played on television! He wasn't real! And before you go and argue, 'oh, but he was a hero, and we're supposed to look up to our heroes!', well guess what sister, he wasn't that either!" Stopping for breath, Drake jammed himself back onto the ground, strangling the hitch release lever with both hands and giving it a few good yanks. "And I - I might add - am no hero either, despite what your impromptu hockey attacks might lead you to think!" His previous tugs failing, Drake scooted back and gave a few full-body yanks on the lever. "If I was, I'd be able to keep a job… for more than a few months… we wouldn't be moving… to a new city a dozen... times a year… I wouldn't be on the run... from debt collectors… and you would have had a normal childhood!" When his grip slipped, Drake tumbled backwards across the gravel with a grunt and sat up with an angry snap. "Sonofa - A little help? Please?!"

Face tight, Gosalyn marched over and kicked the handle, the thing popping loose and dropping the trailer, which landed in the rubble with a cloud of loose bolts and nuts. One of the front tires snapped off and caught Drake right in the abdomen, tossing him back off his recently regained footing and back onto the gravel.

"Dad!" Gosalyn yelped, running over. "Are you okay? I told you to get that tire tightened! It's going to kill you one of these days!"

Drake didn't reply, just sat quietly and rolled the tire from his lap. The weariness in his face softened the edge of Gosalyn's own temper, and she dropped her hands from her hips, offering one to Drake. Blue eyes flicked up at it briefly, before Drake sighed and dusted off his windbreaker.

"Oh," he took Gosalyn's offered hand and allowed her to pull him to his feet, "I'm sorry Gosalyn. But," they rolled the tire back to the trailer, Drake shouldering it so she could fit the thing back onto the axle, "Darkwing was a long time ago." With a small grunt, the mallard dropped the trailer onto the wheel, leaning against it and smoothing back his head feathers. Gosalyn, still sitting on her knees by the tire, watched him expectantly. "Please, Gos, can't we just once let the past stay in the past? Especially here? At least until we get settled in?"

"Sure, Dad," she muttered, pulling herself up and around him towards the back of the trailer. At the door, while Drake kicked the wooden stoppers under the tires, she paused on the steps and turned to him. "But, why?"

"Gosalyn-"

"I mean, I know we've always had to keep it on the down low-"

"Gosalyn-!"

"But - you've never told me why!"

"Gos-!"

"I deserve to know-!"

"Because!" Drake snapped, throwing the wooden brakes onto the ground. Wrapping his arms around himself as if to catch his own anger before it escaped, the mallard took a deep breath and blew it out through his nose. Once he was a little more composed, he aimed guilty blue eyes up at Gosalyn. "Because that was Boxer, and Eisenhower Park, and the west coast and the north coast, and everywhere else other than St. Canard. This is where is happened, Gosalyn, this city, these streets. Right here."

"But what happened?!" Pleaded the teen, dropping off the steps and closer to her dad. "Dad, tell me what-!"

"Not now, Gosalyn!"

"But Dad-!"

"ENOUGH!" Drake cried, advancing on Gosalyn with a sharp glare. "Discussion is closed! You will NEVER know the truth, so help me-!"

Goaslyn stared, and once the shock passed, her face hardened into a scowl. Ponytail flicking behind her, the teen pivoted on her heel and leaped up the steps and into the trailer. Drake watched her go, released another breath through his nose, and turned around to scoop up the tangled brakes. As he straightened, the door behind him squeaked open and slammed shut with a clatter, and Gosalyn stomped down the steps with her letterman around her shoulders and Ankle Killer, her old skateboard, under her arm. Plugging the spongy, tape-covered headphones into her long-outdated phone, she made a point of ignoring her father, who watched her with a scowl.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, planting his hands on his hips.

"To see if that old half-pipe is still standing," the teen replied shortly, turning away from him and turning the music blasting in her headphones up even louder.

"Gosalyn-!"

"Don't worry, if anything happens I'll just call my hero, Dork-wrong Dad, like always." With a sharp glare, she put the headphones on and crunched down the gravel driveway towards town.

Drake turned back to the trailer, rubbing the back of his head. The wooden brakes were still clutched in his hand, and he massaged the rope as his brow scowled in thought.

"Maybe this was a bad idea…" With a toss, the blocks hit the trailer and knocked a bolt loose, which sprung outwards and bounced off the back of Drake's head. Glaring at the trailer, the mallard rubbed the spot with an annoyed scowl.

The grinding of the sidewalk under her wheels was a well known sensation for the teen, and as she drifted through the city, the familiar feeling was a comfort in the lonely crowds.

It was obvious to Gosalyn that St. Canard was nowhere near the place they left, nor the sparkling city her dad remembered so fondly. But, while exploring the back streets and side alleys, she began to really piece the transformation together into the sad, travesty of a story it really was. Street-side businesses were boarded up left and right, graffiti covered the walls, weeds grew from the cracks in the sidewalks, and piles of trash and trashcans cluttered up every corner. She stopped briefly to let her eyes roam over a power line pole over-crowded with missing posters and once happy, living faces. Some were old, some were new, but the posters absolutely covered every inch of the surface, and any other nearby surface they could cling. Across the street, a dejected figure hung another, and Gosalyn watched them sadly.

"Seems like a lot of missing people for a small city," she mumbled to herself, then, hearing a whistle, turned around with a ready glare. Some hoodlum looking types were watching her from across the street, so she pressed onward, trying to ignore their glances. If she got in a fight now, she would have to call her dad for help, somehow doubting the proficiency of the local police force, and that was a humbling lesson she wasn't in the mood for.

Though she did clutch her phone more tightly in her pocket and turned her music down. Considerably.

Gosalyn was born and bred in St. Canard, just like her dad, but since they moved when she was ten, she never knew much about the city like he did, and he knew a lot. Drake was filled with a strange mixture of resentment and nostalgia for the peninsula, consumed and obsessed with its history and success while equally fixated on its collapse and decline. And the city had collapsed. Gosalyn wasn't sure why, but the truth was simple: Darkwing Duck had been an uproarious success, and rocketed St. Canard into international fame and an unequaled boom. The climb was instantaneous and drastic, and the fall when Darkwing crumbled was all the more devastating. It was an economic crash that shook the very foundation of the business structure and pedestrian system, and when the masses left and took their money with them, St. Canard became a ghost town and a complete economic failure. And it hadn't come even close to recovering, not five years later.

After a few turns, Gosalyn found herself in the old business district, filled with empty sky scrapers and dirty bus stops. Even the grass here was dried and brown, matching the rust that covered the city like acidic snow. Stopping abruptly, kicking Ankle Killer up into her hand, she stared upwards and took in the particularly pitiful sight she had wandered upon, in all its haunted glory.

Police tape surrounded the old building, which suggested some kind of law enforcement element, though the rest of the structure was untouched. The gentle scent of smoke still hung in the air, and black char marks reached upwards from the front windows and licked at the walls. High above the ground, the bulbs broken or long-since stolen, hung the old "DW STUDIOS" sign, suspended as if from a noose.

"Gee whiz," Gosalyn muttered, "no wonder this place almost burned down."

Frowning, the teen removed her headphones and – after checking each way for the prying eyes of the law – ducked under the police tape and tiptoed her way to one of the windows, which was black with smoke but still intact. "Rats," she growled, spotting the front double doors instead. Thankfully, the firemen had smashed the lock to get into the burning building, and no one had cared enough to repair it. Slipping inside, careful to keep herself clean of ash, Gosalyn kept pressed against the entrance, letting her eyes adjust to the new world of darkness and the smell of dust and smoke and melted plastic. The front of the studio, past the reception's desk and lobby, was like a jungle, filled with old relics and skeletons of lighting cranes, camera jigs, and spare lights. Light fixtures stood tall and empty, boo-mic stands were stacked in piles, and chairs and various pieces of equipment filled the place, casting odd angles and crocked shadows back and forth across the old tile floor.

"Keen gear," smiled Gosalyn, pulling her cell phone from her pocket for a light and tucking Killer under her other arm. Extravagant double doors opened up into the main studio space, and Gosalyn aimed her small light around after pushing herself clear of the doors.

The cave was large and empty, and filled with similar skeletons like the lobby outside, only three times their size. Catwalk bridges were suspended far above her head, a skylight window stretched the length of the building, the further half of which was covered by a hanging tarp that blocked the filtered sunlight, rolling camera mounts slept where they stood, and piles and piles of props and costumes were shoved into the back corners. Immediately, she recognized the first set as Darkwing Tower, secret base of Darkwing Duck in the Audubon Bay Bridge. Giving a small squeal, Gosalyn ran onto the set and quickly began to touch absolutely everything.

"There's the windows that over-look St. Canard," she pointed, "and there's the windows that over-look Duckburg! Ah! The trap door that lead to the secret underwater entrance! All the super computers Darkwing used to build gadgets and analyze evidence! And the garage lift that the Ratcatcher was parked on!" She set Killer down near the platform and scaled it, which was about eight feet tall, round, and covered with dust. Once on top, she took hold of the old musty sheet and threw it aside, revealing what slept underneath. There, glinting slightly in the thin sunlight, sat the Ratcatcher, still coiled and ready to pounce like a slumbering tiger. The teen made quick work of dusting it off and climbing on board. Hands on the clutch and brakes, she turned the old wheel, growling and roaring in place of the dormant engine.

"I am the newest vigilante on the scene!" she declared. "I am the thrilling, rejuvenating reboot that reassures the retired audiences! The rehash hero that chases down the criminals, stops the snooper, thwarts the thieves, and keeps St. Canard safe! I am – uh…" frowning, Gosalyn sat back, rubbing her bill. "I am Darkwing Duckling? Violent Violet? The Quackinator?" With a shrug, Gosalyn leaped off the bike and jumped off the platform. "Well, whatever."

"Costumes!" she cried suddenly, rushing to the costume racks in the corner and kicking up a cloud of dust with her sneakers. "Megavolt's battery hat! Buthroot's bushy wig! Quackerjack's jester hat! Hey," scowled the girl, stepping away from the collection, "where's Darkwing?" After tearing every piece off the rack and tossing them behind her, she growled and crossed her arms with a small huff. "Well that's just great! Star of the show and you don't even leave any of his costume pieces laying around? Hmm," heading back to the center of the set, she tapped her bill. "If I was Dad, where would I want my costume pieces, being the star of the show, to be?"

As she paced around, Gosalyn leaned on one of the set walls. Suddenly, the thin plaster crumbled at her touch and dumped her through the wall and onto the dusty floor on the other side. The hallway she found herself in was totally dark, and her phone flew from her hand, cutting and circling through the dusty cloud and clattering down the hallway and into the darkness.

"Oops," the teen coughed, waving the dust cloud clear and sitting up, kicking her feet free from the rubble. Spotting her phone, she huffed and stood, looking wearily around.

This hallway was still and quiet, completely untouched by the smoke and movement of the firemen from a few days ago, or the light from the sunlight outside. The air was dead, and the dust cloud Gosalyn had kicked up quickly fell heavily back to the floor, joining the thick layer of dust already coating the wood. Gosalyn sneezed and tiptoed down the hall and snatched her phone. As she lifted it and looked around, something muted but shining glinted, and her eyes snapped there.

The hallway was lined with doors, on each of which was a dusty silver plaque. Gosalyn stepped closer and wiped the first one clean, discovering a name underneath.

"Elmo Sputterspark: Megavolt," she read, an excited smile splitting her face. "Keen Gear! ... Reginald Bushroot: Bushroot … Bud Flood: Liquidator… Who knew the cast had such crazy names," she muttered, having reached the last door. Another sneeze crept up her throat and rattled free, knocking the teen a few steps backwards. Her back bumped into another door, and she turned to it, a small gasp escaping her. This door, unlike the others, was smashed inward right down the middle, the splints of wood slashed and carved into by a sharp blade, digging and tearing and ripping the grain apart.

"What the heck..." Gosalyn muttered, eyes roaming over the pile of wood and to her own feet. The dust around the door was scuffed and mixed up, with dozens of footprints covering it. The prints, however, had been trampled by her own, and she couldn't get a read from them. The teen frowned, tilted her head, and aimed her phone at the floor to snap a photo. "Why would some smash this... door?" Through the lens, something winked up at her, and Gosalyn carefully dug among the wood until her fingers hit cool metal. It was a large golden star, and among the claw marks that had shredded the face of it, was a name.

"... Dad."

Suddenly, something near the front of the building crashed and sent a shuddering echo all round the building, muffled by the shrouded hallway. Gosalyn squawked in fright, clamping a hand around her bill as she stared down the dark hall and up towards, what she assumed, was the front of the building. Her phone light only reached so far, and the remaining darkness tried to swallow it. A tremble set into her feathers and chills rippled up her spine, and Gosalyn rubbed her arms with her free hand. Then, another noise drifted near, and she frowned.

"Huh."

Tiptoeing to the edge of the hallway and back through the hole she had punctured in the thin wall, the teen followed the voices towards the lobby. A few of them were rough and burly, but one more was nasally and high-pitched. The victim was easy enough to spot as she poked her head back into the lobby, even among the twisted shadows and faded light streaming in through the windows: a tall, lanky, yellow-colored canary with over-sized glasses, wearing a wrinkled dress shirt and baggy hoodie. The bullies, well, they were nothing note-worthy. Just potential targets.

"What're you so scared of?" one of them asked, shoving the canary from behind. "I thought you liiiiiiked Dorkwing Duck!"

Gosalyn gasped excitedly, clamping her bill shut again.

"It's 'Darkwing'!" the canary argued, gulping as he was shoved again while the bullies ripped his backpack off his thin shoulders.

"Yeah, figures a nerd like you would know!" Laughing, the bullied dumped the contents on the floor, a couple others holding the canary back. A few textbooks dropped out heavily, then an inhaler, a digital camera that made a heart-wrenching snap when it hit the floor, and lastly some comic books. Which, judging by the quick flashes of unmistakable purple, were undoubtedly Darkwing Duck.

"Those were limited edition," Gosalyn noted. "Who is this kid?"

The leader of the bullies snatched up a comic book, and with a quick twist, gutted it.

"Yeeeep," purred the teen, leaning back into the shadows and looking around, "that's definitely a 'no'." The old studios were filled with junk she couldn't operate and dusty old costumes she didn't fit. Then, as she was figuring out if she could jump the Ratcatcher off its pedestal and survive to tell about it, a familiar shape of worn wood and wheels caught her eye. "Oh," she grinned, eyes sparkling, "and Dad thinks he's the only genius around."

"Put that down!" the canary outside protested, kicking and pulling his arms to get free as the bullies picked up another comic. "Those are limited edition! Please!"

"What's wrong kid," mocked the bully, waving the book in the teen's face, "is Dorkwing not coming to your rescue?"

Grabbing the pages off the ground, the bully ripped them in half and the others laughed while the teen continued to beg.

"Alright, alright," the leader finally sighed, walking back over to the taller teen, glaring up into his glasses. "You want your precious coloring books back so badly? Well then go and get them!" With a single throw, the comic books flew past the double doors and into the dark set beyond, disappearing from sight.

"No – no – no!" wheezed the teen, wriggling in the bullies' hold. "I – I – I can't!"

"Why not? You're not afraid of a little dark are you? Well, we wouldn't be pals if we didn't help you conquer that!" All at once, the bullies grabbed the protesting teen, shoved him into the dark room, and barricaded the door behind him by tying the handles together with some loose wire. From the other side, the teen cried and pleaded, his efforts muffled by the sound proofing.

When the canary started crying, the bullies began to applaud themselves. Their celebration done, they turned back to the front doors, but a booming voice swallowed them.

"Locking that boy up in a cold, dark studio? How considerate…"

Gulping, the bullies froze and looked around frantically as the booming voice began to laugh.

"After all, I am the terror that flaps in the night!" A smoke cloud kicked up suddenly, the bullies coughing and trying to wave it away. "I am the dust particle that gets in your eye!" Rising out of the smoke, a hooded figure with glowing eyes glared down at the bullies, the voice growing even louder. "I am Darkwiiiiiiiing Duck!"

Shrieking in fear, the bullies toppled over themselves to get out the front doors, screaming for help and for someone to call the police. Once they were gone and the dust slowly settled, Gosalyn sneezed.

"Bless me," she muttered, wiping her bill and and waving the dust clear of her position behind the lighting crane. Over the shoulders of an empty light fixture, Gosalyn had tied one of the old Darkwing capes, the iconic fedora on its head, and her cellphone in the empty socket providing the glowing eyes. The whole thing sat on Ankle Killer, and Gosalyn climbed up it quickly, snatching her flashlight from the empty light socket.

"Wait until I tell Dad! Oh, then again – Wha-!" Spinning, Gosalyn stared at the barricaded doors when a splitting scream sounded from behind them. The scream, after a moment of silence, dissolved into meek hiccups, and Gosalyn panted. "Gee whiz kid," she called, jumping off her invention and hurrying to them, "I almost forget you were in there!"

It didn't take long to untie the wiring, and once the doors were free, Gosalyn threw them open. The other teen pounced onto her, his arms wrapping around her neck and tackling her to the floor in a heap.

"DARKWING! SAVE ME, PLEASE!" he shrieked, hugging Gosalyn tightly.

Frowning, Gosalyn tapped the canary's head, who blinked his eyes open and turned to her.

"Hiya, champ," she waved, and the other cried out again, scrambling off and away from the redhead.

"I'm - I'm sorry!" he stammered, and Gosalyn sat up, looking the other's trembling frame over.

"Hah! Don't worry about it, kid!" scoffed the teen, waving away the other's concerns. "It's all in a day's work for-"

"MY COMICS!" shrieked the other, diving for his books and scooping them up.

"The... Avian... Avenger... You're welcome."

The other, however, was infinitely more interested in collecting his scattered books, and Gosalyn watched him for a moment. With a sigh, she pushed herself up and crawled towards the other to begin collecting the pages as well. "Here. Hey kid," as he tried to pull the pages from her hands, she tugged back on them. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah," he nodded, eyes fleeing her own quickly. "Th-th-thanks."

"You, like, need this?" Seeing his inhaler in her hand, the teen blushed brightly and snatched it from her.

"No!" he bit. Then, after turning his back on her, took a quick puff. Gosalyn nodded her head.

"Sure. Don't mention it. I'm," she stood and offered to pull the other up as well, "kind of a Darkwing fan myself."

"Really?!" With renewed vigor, the teen sprung to his feet and grabbed Gosalyn's jacket, staring into her eyes. "I've never met another fan! Well, at least not in a really long time... How long have you been watching? I own the collector's edition! Which season is your favorite?! I liked the first one, but the second had some really good-!"

"I kinda liked them all," Gosalyn giggled hesitantly, pulling herself free of his grip and backpedaling a few feet. "I guess you could say it's in the family?"

Gathering his items back in his backpack, the canary turned to her. "It is? How do you mean? You have to let me get a selfie with you!" Suddenly, the canary had one arm around Gosalyn's shoulders, flashing a quick picture of the two of them with his camera.

With a chuckle, she rubbed the spots out of her eyes when he withdrew. "Well y'see, whoever-you-are, my dad—"

"-Is going to need a very good lawyer," a gruff voice from behind the two growled, the teens spinning around with a loud scream. Three or four cops filed into the foyer after the other, all glaring down at the teens.

Smiling, the canary backed up behind her, and Gosalyn waved. "Heya, St. Canard's finest! Hehe, big fans!"