A/N: For PharaohInk because I kept thinking about Quackerjack after their first prompt. Then I found a sequel (of sorts) to the song "Toyland" and this was the result. "Please Take Me Back Toyland" is by Nat King Cole.

Thank you, Pharaoh, for all that you are and all you have done for me. I wish you only good things and I hope you enjoy this final chapter featuring your favorite character.

Seeing it.

God, it gutted him.

His hard work. His dreams. His future.

Locked up.

Rotting from the inside out.

And wasn't that just the perfect metaphor for his life?

Some part of Quackerjack was surprised that his shop was still here. Sure, he'd kept it maintained through the years in some deluded fantasy that he'd return to the toy-making game, but this place was prime real estate. He'd half expected someone to have come along, realize it wasn't in use — even though it was still owned and paid for — and convert it into some candle store or one of those fancy shops with all the expensive hand-made soaps that supposedly did wonders.

But his name — his real name — was still on the lease in some stuffy downtown building. And he'd continued to pay rent on the place every month, even hiring a landscaping company to maintain the outside. So, Toyland was still technically taken care of, and he was able to put some distance between himself and his failed dreams.

He palmed the key which Negaduck had produced before dismissing him from the clearing in the mountains.

"I don't wanna hear that I dragged you out here for nothing," the Masked Menace had snarled. He'd then produced the key from some recess of his dark cape and slapped it into Quackerjack's palm. "Stop being so pathetic with the damn thing and figure out what you want to do with it." He'd turned on his heel and disappeared into the forest.

Negaduck had paid all of the Fearsome Four in one way or another for their work on defeating F.O.W.L.. He'd even paid Steelbeak by allowing him to walk away with his life.

Now, Quackerjack didn't know what the others had gotten; Negaduck had pulled them aside individually to pay them, claiming he didn't want the others to know and get jealous of the others form of mayment. But Quackerjack's was so personal. How had Negaduck even known about Toyland?

Quackerjack wasn't sure if his payment was the key he'd long since lost, or the swift kick in the pants to do something about it. After all, what good was an empty storefront on a busy street if there was nothing inside?

There he went again, being all poetic and drawing parallels between the store and his own life. Or whatever.

Negaduck's words swirling through his head, Quackerjack straightened and walked up to the door. Turned the key in the lock. And pushed inside.

The little bell still tinkled as the door swung open, hinges squeaking in protest of being used for the first time in years. Decades, even.

Quackerjack sneezed as the dust was kicked up, a cloud materializing in front of him. The shop was musty. His wooden shelves didn't gleam anymore. Long-forgotten toys stood atop old displays covered in a blanket of dust. The counter with the old fashioned cash registers where he'd almost shared a kiss with Claire about twenty years ago was still intact, but sat as an imposing oblong shadow. Menacing rather than welcoming.

Inhaling, sure dust particles were lining his lungs as he did so, Quackerjack stepped fully inside and shut the door behind him, his feet kicking up more dust clouds as he went.

If not for the obvious signs of neglect, the store would still look to be in use. He wondered how many youngsters over the years had wandered by and wanted to come in. To explore the wonders of real physical toys and test the limits of their imaginations. And how many had been disappointed to read the ominous "CLOSED" sign on the door.

How many minds had he not been able to mold? How many thousands of toys had he not been able to share?

Head spinning furiously with all the missed opportunities, he turned around, unable to face his wasted potential. Turned his back on the shop — these metaphors were really hitting close to home today — and faced the street.

The video game store across the way was still there, still garish and tacky, now with the words "GameStop" alight in neon white and red atop the doors.

Quackerjack had never used neon. He thought it was too gimmicky. He preferred hand-painted signs and good old fashioned Edison lightbulbs. Maybe he'd never been as current or up to date as his competitors when it came to advertising, but he had delivered quality, something his customers had known. Hell, it was something you could feel when you stepped across the threshold of this shop. A mausoleum to days gone by. To artisans and quality craftsmanship. To having pride in what you produced because it wasn't just about making a living, it was about the history of your trade.

Should Toyland stay there? In the past?

Or should he press on into the future?

Try again?

Even with GameStop across the way? Still making all that money. Still influencing the young minds of today, encouraging them not to think for themselves or invent worlds of their own, but explore preexisting programmed ideas.

"Stop being so pathetic with the damn thing and figure out what you want to do with it."

Loathe as Quackerjack was to admit it, Negaduck was right. He needed to make a decision. Either let this shop — and everything he used to have and be — go, or use it to jump start a new phase of his life.

Quackerjack stood looking out the window of Toyland, the ominous lyrics still painted above the doorway, and watched the bustle of the street well into the night.