THE COVER OF NIGHT

* 1 *

I find myself gazing down over Audubon Bay, atop the tower Dad once used as his base of operations. My heart is pounding, to say the least.

Charles is just a few paces behind me. He has followed me all over the tower since we emerged from the hidden stairwell below, a stairwell that I'm pretty sure hadn't existed back when Dad was still alive. At the very least he kept it damn well hidden. The old lion keeps just enough distance that I can't turn around and wallop him a few times for good measure. It would feel pretty damn good to be able to punch something. I need to find some semblance of comfort from this swell in my chest that's crushing my heart.

There was a time when it was nearly impossible to separate me from my father and his work. If Darkwing Duck was on the prowl I knew about it. I got into some deep trouble. Sometimes it's amazes me I came through it all without so much as a broken bone. It's pretty freaking remarkable if you ask me. There were a number of times I should have been dead, but here I am.

As I got a bit older Dad convinced me that if I was truly interested in following in his footsteps, I had to grow up. I was just too immature to play the crime-fighting game. Stay in school, get solid grades, and train my butt off. I had to set aside any crazy notions, bury the personas of Quiverwing Quack, Pretty Poison, and all the others that I had dared to consider laying claim to during my time trying to follow in his footsteps.

I'd believed I could fly, but the truth is, I'd only floundered. I wasn't ready.

With the decision made I carefully eased myself out of his shadow. I'd even spent a few months being only as daring as one could be flipping to the ten o'clock news to watch her crime-fighting father duke it out with the Megavolts and the Quackerjacks and the Liquidators and the Steelbeaks of the criminal world.

I'd done exactly what Dad asked, and all the while he was sticking his neck out for Johnny Public, most of whom didn't understand that he was more than an egotistical vigilante in mask and cape. He was a loving and devoted father as well. He was a mentor and a friend. Above all he was the doorway to my future, and dead or alive I was going to be damn sure to make him proud someday.

Even if I lost focus on my goals somewhere along the way.

With a sigh I trudge over to the ledge and stare down into the bay's churning waters. A stiff breeze at my back would probably be enough to push me over the edge. I'm probably high enough up that if I wasn't killed in the fall I would be injured badly enough that I would drown before anyone could get to me.

I've seen a man fall from such heights before during a trip overseas a couple years back. He was up maybe a little higher up than I am now. I was backpacking through a particularly rough mountain terrain more than a week from actual civilization. He had been ahead of me on a particularly challenging ledge, probably only a couple feet from the cliff just above him when the rope to his safety harness snapped. No, there was no water beneath him, just a plethora of jagged rocks. Needless to say he made quite the mess at the end of his long drop.

"May I ask what's on your mind, Gosalyn?"

I ignore the lion as I continued to gaze down into the bay. Once I'd seen Dad fly a glider over the bay from this very spot. He'd been trying to get the drop on F.O.W.L. agents who had been building WMD's in a warehouse in St. Canard's industrial district on the East End. He'd been worried the Thunderquack would be too noticeable, and the Ratcatcher would be too slow. Hang-gliding over the bay and through the towering pillars of concrete proved a more than adequate tactic in his pursuit of Steelbeak and his Egg Men goons.

Darkwing Duck had proven time and again throughout his life that he was nothing if not resourceful. I smile, twirling lock of red hair with a lazy finger. Darkwing Duck… resourceful. Yeah, that's a ridiculously accurate description.

"Gosalyn…"

I turn and move past him without a word, back across the rooftop. Through a hatch hidden beneath some conveniently placed shingles, I drop down onto the winding metal stairs leading to Darkwing's old lair. Charles falls silent as he chases after me. Soon we are standing in the empty chamber. He keeps his distance, watching with interest as I take in my surroundings.

It occurs to me if S.H.U.S.H. really intended to steel Dad's equipment after he died, it would have made more sense to connect their hidden chamber beneath the bay directly to tower, instead of having a separate entrance. It would have made for a far more convenient front if they had their front door tied directly to Darkwing Tower. Not only would it have been more easily accessible, but, considering the tower was already established as a vigilante headquarters, it would have taken much less effort on S.H.U.S.H.'s part to establish their own. I don't know what the going rate is for S.H.U.S.H. Intelligence Officers, but I know a few grade school kids who would have been more than happy to come up with that idea and all they would have asked for in return was a gold star. Something else is going on around here; these guys don't make bad decisions for the hell of it.

"We had it emptied in just a few hours," Charles says gently as he steps up to my side.

I cast him a sidelong glance. Apparently he's decided I'm actually ready to hear what he has to say. I would rather not, but from here there's really nowhere else to go. Besides, I've pretty much figured out that he was somehow responsible for getting me out of a nasty mess back at the Javelin. I guess I owe him something for that.

He continues with his hands behind his back, peering about to anything and everything there is to see—which isn't much—so long as he doesn't have to look at me. "Every nut and bolt, every motherboard, every scrap of metal we thought would be of any use to S.H.U.S.H., was swiftly disassembled and transported down below in record time. Disassembled the whole blasted lot of it, taking carefully detailed notes on how to put it all back together, just the way it was. We had a whole team of experts specifically handpicked to handle the task."

"And it's all down there."

"Not all. Just those instruments Darkwing Duck personally specified to go to the agency in the event of his death. The rest was mothballed per his instructions, to be reinstated into service upon the establishment of a unique set of criteria. Certain details of which have only just been met within the past twenty-four hours."

If my mind was swimming with questions before, now the floodgates have opened.

"Wait a second. You're telling me Dad gave you Darkwing Tower?"

There is a twinkle in Charles's eye before he turns and heads back the way we came. "To an extent. I suppose you could put it that way."

"Exactly how else would you put it?" I demand furiously. My hands ball into tight fists as I follow after him, but he doesn't seem interested in answering. Then, just as we reach the steps leading up to the hatch in the ceiling, Charles stops abruptly in his tracks and turns to face me. He lifts a weapon and points it straight at my heart. My heart leaps to my throat as I realize I've been duped. There's no escape, no salvation. He has me dead to rights.

He thumbs a switch on the remote—not a weapon after all—and behind me I hear the grinding of metal against metal. I spin about in time to see the floor shifting in the center of the large room. There's a bang of steel against stone, and suddenly the Thunderquack appears, rising from the floor like the sun at dawn.

But it's not the Thunderquack. That would be impossible. At first she looks very much like Launchpad's pride and joy. The gleam of purple and maroon armor. The sleek, aerodynamic design. Launchpad had retrofitted the old bird a couple times over the years. This particular version was nearly identical to the second refit. She was faster, stronger, and far more durable than she had been when Launchpad first assumed his role as Darkwing Duck's devoted sidekick.

Regardless of her look there was no possible way this could ever be the Thunderquack. There had been nothing salvageable in the crash that had very nearly taken Launchpad from this world.

Nonetheless, she's at the very least a solid visual reproduction.

"The Thunderquack Mach 2, Gosalyn."

"You didn't get Launchpad's approval to use his design," I say abruptly, spinning to face him. "No way in Hell he would ever accept this."

Charles arches a bushy brow over on gleaming eye. "Nor did Launchpad McQuack gain the approval of Darkwing Duck before he set out to construct the original. That is not exactly the point. As it turns out, this particular Thunderquack doesn't belong to S.H.U.S.H." I peer up at him with a frown. "She is yours Gosalyn."

Yep, whoever this clown is, he's clearly lost it.

"I think you're missing a critical detail, Chuck," I say as I put my fists to my hips and continue to glower.

"And what would that be?"

"I can't fly!" I scream up at him.

He tilts his head. "Darkwing Duck doesn't fly, Gosalyn. That's why he has a sidekick. Darkwing Duck's job is just a trifle more complex."

* 2 *

Sidekick. Sure Darkwing Duck had a sidekick, but I'm not even sure I want the job. What good is a sidekick without a hero? I haven't even hinted at taking up the reins in my father's stead, yet Charles Devareaux seems intent on pressing the issue. To say I'm a little miffed by the whole ordeal is putting it mildly.

Then again, I don't know what he could have said at the time that would have made me any more susceptible to the idea. I have other things weighing me down, both body and soul. I'm not ready to make a commitment. The city, St. Canard, will just have to continue on without me, for now. That's really all there is to it.

And maybe, just maybe, I'm irritated because deep down I always thought I'd assume Dad's role somewhere down the line. Now that the opportunity has presented itself, I'm doing what every stubborn teenage girl has ever done the moment responsibility is forcefully shoved down her gizzard: I've rebelled.

I turn over in my bed, as if the ceiling is oh so much less boring to look at than the wall, and drape my arm over my forehead as my eyes wander aimlessly. Really, how long has it been since I slept in the same bed two nights in a row? At least a year. It's been probably fourteen months since I skipped out on Antoine and his family. I stayed there for three months, which was an unusually long time for me during my seven years off the grid.

Time in which I suppose I was lucky if I was able to find a bed at all.

I feel my eyelids growing heavy. Sleep threatens to take me down, down into a dark and peaceful oblivion—save for the barrier standing like an oath between me and restful slumber. Almost a rule to my own existence, the nightmares still haunt me, refusing to release me from the torment of my tired, broken history. You'd think in seven years a girl could find a way to make some semblance of peace after facing such trials. I guess the truth is never so simple. There are just some fears that never stop chasing you, no matter how far you run.

…

"So what is it you really want to do?"

"Huh?" I peer into the darkness, but there is nothing to see. I reach out for something to steady myself, but find nothing to hold. I take a step forward and suddenly lose my balance. I tumble out into open space, dropping down, down, down… Falling toward oblivion.

But a strong arm seizes me before I reach the bottom of my despair.

And I find myself staring out into over Audubon Bay. I'm on the bridge. The city beyond seems further away than ever before… save the tower. Javelin seems to pierce the very heavens, beyond even the furthest star. My gaze lingers on it a moment too long.

"Easy there, kiddo. Watch that first step. It's a doozy."

The familiar voice, matching a familiar presence, puts me at ease. I don't see him, but I feel him nearby, as if he's standing just over my shoulder, my hero's rescued me just as he has done countless times before. Still I can't help but shudder inwardly as I stare down into the churning waters far below. A whirlpool of chaos, like liquid color unlike any I have ever seen, swirls counterclockwise far below. I had nearly fallen into it. Who knows where I might have ended up? I wrap my arms around myself and tremble against a lingering cold that I hadn't noticed before.

"Breathe easy, Goz. Breathe easy. Everything's gonna be just fine. I've got you."

I stare out into the depths of everything, so very familiar but so very alien at the same time. The water below is a chaotic nightmare, and the heavens above… even the stars are beginning to spin wildly out of control, as if the tip of the Javelin has somehow pierced the very fabric of space and opened a portal into another dimension.

I spin around and crash into my savior. He's a man who saved me more times than I can count. He saved me that very first day I ever had the privilege to know him. He saved me with his dying breath, and every single moment of our lives together, in a million little ways. His larger than life persona engulfs me in shadow as I weep freely against his breast. It's so real, so tangible. Not even the years apart could erase the memory of his touch. The warmth of his arms as he comforts me.

I peer up and I can see myself in his eyes. Everything's changed. Everything's shorter than I remember. My hair for one, with twin nubs tied back in the style of my youth. My arms, torso, and most notably my legs. The pre-growth spurt, awkward, teenage years, back when I was a ten-year-old wrecking ball with spirit to spare.

Tears fill my eyes and I crash into him again.

My guardian, my devoted protector.

"Dad," I sob into his chest.

He's draped in the familiar attire of the nighttime vigilante. The cape, mask, and hat. His usual bravado is softened by a gentle smile.

He holds me tight. I can feel his cape wrap around me, shielding me from the elements. I can even feel the slow, easy breathing and the effortless rise and fall of his chest. One thing is missing, and I can't quite put my finger on it. Doesn't matter. He is here with me and that is all I need. I don't bother saying so. I can't find the words. It doesn't matter regardless. I have no need for words. The connection, the touch. This is all I need.

He too is silent. We don't need words to convey just how gravely we have missed one another or how neither the distant we've traveled nor the passage of time can sever or weaken the bond we once forged. Our connection is that strong.

After what seems an eternity—far too short a time in the grand scheme of things, as far as I'm concerned—Darkwing takes me by the shoulders and eases my small body away from him. He studies me with somber eyes and a weary but loving eyes.

Somehow I feel trapped under that watchful gaze, as if the weight of responsibility has grown exponentially over the course of our time apart. I avert my gaze, hoping to somehow free myself of the pressured feeling.

"Goz, don't do this. Don't put a barrier between us."

"I'm not."

"You are. You've been running for seven years. You know it."

Tears fill eyes. "I don't know what you expect. I'm not the one who went away."

There is a long silence. He reaches out and lifts my chin until I am staring into his eyes. Though the image of him is blurred by my tears I can see well enough to see that he too is on the verge of crying. It's strange. For the life of me I can't recall a single moment I'd ever seen Darkwing Duck cry.

I note that I'm no longer looking up at him. I'm nineteen again, going on twenty. No longer a child, not quite an adult even in my own eyes.

At this age it seems we finally see eye-to-eye, so to speak.

His eyes slowly skim the length of me with fatherly appreciation.

"My little girl grew up. You're so beautiful, Gosalyn." He paused. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. That was never my intention."

Of course it wasn't. I don't say what I'm thinking, because in the end it wouldn't do a damn bit of good. Nothing's going to bring him back.

"I'm not asking you to follow in my footsteps. I never wanted that for you. What I wanted, my only desire, was that you would grow up happy and lead the very best life possible. That's what I wanted to give you. That's why I brought you into my own life. I didn't have that growing up, and I wanted to give you every opportunity to find it for yourself." He kissed my forehead, his voice heavy with regret. "I failed, Goz. I'm so sorry."

"I was happy for a long time," I murmur. "You didn't fail me. I never thought that."

"I wasn't there."

"I guess we both kinda lost our way."

He smiles. "One of us still has a choice. One of us can still make a difference." He draws me close and holds me for a time before his gentle words reach my ears once again. Somewhere in the back of my mind there is a familiar but distant sound I can't quite place. It doesn't shake the moment I am sharing with my father. "You were the best thing that ever happened to me. You gave me purpose when I never knew I was lost. You are my legacy, Goz, and I will be proud no matter what you decide to do with your life."

The darkness mingles with his words and I realize they are slipping away, as if time and space once again threatens to drive a wedge between us.

I can't let him go without delivering one final message.

"I love you!" I cry out.

"Gosalyn?"

The voice is so distant, so faint, that it barely reaches my ears.

I have to make sure he can hear me. I draw a breath and scream at the top of my lungs…

…

"I LOVE YOU!"

In that moment I lunge up in my bed, eyes wide as saucers, staring off into space as the words rattle on the walls.

"Goz, is everything all right? I love you, too, but you don't have to shout."

Slowly my vision begins to settle on the soft off-white walls and I begin to recognize my surroundings. I struggle to catch my breath.

I stare at Launchpad's face for a moment and blush deeply as I realize how foolish I must look. I avert my gaze and adjust me shirt and hair while he chuckles. "Dinner's on the table if you're hungry. And even if you're not, I'd certainly appreciate the company."

I look across the room to the mirror over the dresser. I guess I really don't look quite the mess as I originally feared when he'd first rolled into my room.

Hair's a bit tousled and I guess that's to be expected, but otherwise I don't look too shabby. Just a bit disoriented after the dream that had taken me as I napped. I wondered briefly how long it had been, and glancing at the clock on my nightstand I realize I've been out for nearly four hours. I hadn't even meant to take a nap, just escape into my own silent purgatory for a bit as I gathered my bearings.

"Oh, sure. I'll be there in a few."

He smiles and starts to take his leave, but I can't shake a feeling that has been troubling me since I learned I'd come into his care. I have to say something important.

"Hey, Launchpad?"

"Hmm?"

I feel myself shrinking back slightly as those gentle eyes beseech me yet again.

"Uh, thanks. For everything."

He smiles. There's not a smile on his face that doesn't seem to be the most genuine in the world. I hope he never changes.

"This is what families do for each other."

And with that, he departs, the soft, electric whir of the engine of his wheelchair lingering in his wake. My heart aches for the old, fallen pilot. Somehow he leaves me feeling both overwhelmingly loved and reeling from a stinging rebuke all at the same time.

Yeah, thanks a lot, Launchpad.

* 3 *

Night falls over St. Canard.

Somehow I find myself ascending over those shadows, scouring the rooftops that overlook the sleeping city. The world is silent. At least for the time being, anyway. I move north along a place that's been renamed in the seven years since I left. It used to be the Gallagher District, named after the first big business mogul ever to set up shop in St. Canard. It's now known simply as the Black.

I guess if you ever go through the area, it wouldn't take very long to figure out why the locals chose the new designation. It doesn't have the same business shtick that I remember. Nowadays it's nothing more than a stretch of road ruled by Taurus Bulba and his goons. From what I can tell it's pretty much a F.O.W.L.-conceived scam where the business owners and their employees are forced to pay a penance just to make a living.

One corner of each block has a small base of operations. A team of Bulba's lackeys collect tribute from the businesses on their block and report in to their base. It's an extensive network. Pick-up from the various bases probably happen multiple times during a twenty-four hour period.

At night these same corners are utilized for a pair of even more nefarious purposes: prostitution and drug trafficking. From my perch I can see it all. Girls of all ages, wrapped in tight, skimpy outfits, trade their dignity for a lump of cash. Kids on the curb swap plastic baggies for envelopes stuffed with green. Of course, there's not a single cop car to be seen.

The money never goes to support those who actually earn it. Instead it'll go toward training new girls to suck dick and line the streets with even more narcotics. Cause let's face it: once the masses get a taste for the way these things operate, there will always be a market for the criminal shtick. Money and greed begets even more money and greed. Basically, narcotics and pay-per-play street kittens are in high demand here in St. Canard.

It may sound bad, but that's not even the worst of it. You might guess that the peddling pussy and crack on the streets is a pretty nasty business to begin with, lacking of any moral code or value of life. In a city where crime skyrocketed in the aftermath of the loss of its greatest hero, it's not surprising the murder rate in St. Canard has more than tripled over the past seven years. And those are just the crimes you hear about. What about those that never made the public eye because there was no one who ever cared. Imagine your life as a street rat in the middle of the darkest city in the civilized world. No family, no friends. No one to care one way or the other if someone slips a knife between your ribs.

That's just one aspect of life on the mean streets of St. Canard these days. One of the darkest aspects. I suspect it's worse in St. Canard to spite my father. He held the criminal element at bay for so long, and this is the result of their vengeance when he at last faded into legend.

My heart aches just thinking about it. If Darkwing Duck hadn't found me, way back then, might I have followed the path of one of these unfortunate souls? I came from just the right mix: a troublesome kid with no parents, no family at all, not a smidgeon of hope that I might ever be a part of something better. No one wanted me. No one cared.

For a time I thought the streets would be my stomping grounds all my life. In the world I see now, that meant I would have to conform to the dark side, or bleed. And, for what it's worth, conforming didn't necessarily mean you didn't end up bleeding anyway.

But then, one day, Taurus Bulba's goons swiped me from the orphanage. Or at least they tried to. One thing they didn't count on was the spirit of one Gosalyn Waddlemeyer… or the grit and determination of one Darkwing Duck.

That first adventure we shared set us both on an unexpected path to a happiness we would share until the day his life was finally extinguished from this world. And once again, my own light was plunged into the deep, endless darkness known as despair.

I continue to watch the shadows as I probe the rooftops, waiting for any sign of… something. There's nothing obvious going down there. Not from this unusual perspective. The people below have no clue what it might be like staring down onto the streets where they live. They spend their lives staring up to the heavens, calling to them, daring them to be something more, something better. And, of course, there's the darkness constantly dragging them through the muck and shadow, determined to smash their dreams before the light of day might somehow find a way to slip through the cracks and breathe fresh life into the void of sorrow.

Maybe I'm being a bit philosophical. That's really not me, but I have to admit there's been a few changes in my demeanor of late. I've seen a few things, unexpected things. It's altered my perspective of the world around me, and of this city I once left behind. I don't know how it might have changed the path I will eventually follow. For now…

Somewhere below a scream pierces the night, ripping me away from my thoughts. I rush to the ledge and peer down into the darkness below. At first there is nothing. I move quickly along the edge of the rooftop, seeking the source of the scream. Another yell catches my attention.

"Get her! Get her!"

More garbled voices. My mind calculates the sounds below. At least three distinct voices, including their victim. My heart pounds relentlessly as I rush toward the commotion. I feel my blood boiling as the fury builds inside me.

There, six stories below me in the alley, three shadows loom over a sobbing girl. One moves in to do his dastardly deed. I grit my teeth and ball my hands into tight fists.

Bastards…

"No! Help me!"

Without a second though I let myself drop from the rooftop.

My cloak billows open as I fall into darkness.

I am the terror…

* 4 *

I drop on the first ruffian without a word. If there's anything the past seven years have shown me, it's the fact I lack the sense of theatrics Dad thrived upon. I grew up with all the theatrics of that little wrecking ball I was in my youth. Efficient, unstoppable, and effectively brutal. I dispatch the bastard before he realizes what is happening.

I'm moving on to the next guy before the first hits the ground. The bastard catches sight of me before I make contact. I see the shape of his mouth twist in surprise as I loom close. Using a low center of gravity to my advantage, I bring my arm up and connect with an open-palmed uppercut to his jaw. I see teeth fly and the hound stumbles backward. Somehow he manages to stay on his feet, but only for a moment. I rush toward him and lift my foot, landing a powerful kick directly to his stomach. He drops to the pavement and immediately loses whatever he'd had for dinner that night. I put him to sleep with a second kick to the side of the head.

Moving on.

I pause when I see the third assailant quickly fleeing the scene. I blink in surprise and listen to the night. There's hardly a sound. The soft pad of the thugs feet as he runs away quickly recede into the night. The first assailant groans as he tries to push himself to his feet. I can't let that happen. I'm not in any mood to have any type of conversation whatsoever with the likes of these goons. I drive my fist into the back of his head as I move over to check on the girl lying not far away.

"Miss?" I say gently as I approach.

And it occurs to me that she is not crying in the aftermath of the fright she must have received. In fact, she's not making a sound at all. She's not even moving. I approach cautiously and lean over her. It's very hard to see in the dark. A long stretch of shadows caused by distant streetlights loom over her still form, making it impossible to judge her condition, but with each passing moment the silence drives a new wedge of fear into my soul.

I pull the palmlight from my pocket and flash it over the girl.

She's young. Maybe not even as old as I am. Her skimpy clothing is a clear indicator of her "chosen" profession. The thin stretch of cloth wrapped around her bust leaves nothing to the imagination.

Nor does the oozing red liquid that's soaked into her feathers or the ragged gash of her throat, splayed from ear to ear.

I put a hand to my mouth in horror and take a step back, turning away as I stifle a cry.

Too slow.

I was too slow.

I've failed…

NEXT EPISODE: A PLAN OF ACTION