Darkwing Duck: The Webfoot Chronicles
My Kingdom For a Double-Plait Bolt!

by RL Kelly

A/N: Megavolt can be very hard to write.

Act II, part one

Megavolt sat with his legs crossed in front of him, one elbow propped on the corresponding knee, and stifled a yawn. Double-plait bolts were incredibly hard to find in St. Canard, it turned out. Making matters worse, when he went back to his original notes for the tower's blueprints, he found that he'd made note of that fact and even underlined it. Twice. And circled it in red. And then written "FIND SUBSTITUTE."

Of course, hardship bred determination and so in the end his resolve had just doubled; he'd come to realize that there was no substitute for the good old four-and-a-quarter double-plait bolt and he would not hear of anyone besmirching its reputation.

Therefore, after an exhaustive search from one end of St. Canard to the other, Megavolt had finally procured all five hundred of the bolts he needed.

Or so he'd thought. He'd spent the day scouring hardware stores, examining structures, and prying bolts out of various constructs throughout the city and he was certain he had not only obtained another forty-four in addition to the four hundred and fifty-six he'd picked up that morning, but had also picked up an extra just to be totally positive that he had more than enough.

That last one had been especially hard to get, in fact. Why was there that stupid saying about taking candy from a baby? Taking things from babies, it turned out, was a lot harder than that saying would have you believe. The less said about it, the better.

Whatever the situation, he'd gathered all the fruits of his labours and headed up to the rooftop for some peace and quiet so that he could count the bolts and be totally sure he had the right number. And after trying four times, and getting through the whole pile only once, he'd come up short.

He had an idea it was that pigeon's fault. It was definitely the pigeon's fault that he'd had to count four times, that was for sure. Megavolt didn't know what had attracted the dumb bird to his head in the first place, but once it had decided to perch on his hat, it wouldn't be dissuaded. No amount of shouting, threatening, or bribery would get it to leave him alone; he'd even tried distracting it, but it hadn't seemed to believe him when he'd said he'd seen a very beautiful lady pigeon on the next roof over.

In any case, he'd finally gotten rid of it - no need for details, but the statues in St. Canard had one less pigeon to worry about - and was settling down to try and give the whole pile a good, solid counting as it deserved. Because it wasn't possible - not after the entire day he'd had - that he only had four hundred and ninety-nine.

It just was not possible, and he was going to prove it, if he had to count the bolts until the sun came up. He glared at them, and shook a finger at the pile before him. "Okay, fellas. I'm warning you before we even get started: I'm a tough guy and you don't wanna mess with me. So there'd better be five hundred of you guys, if you know what's good for ya! Otherwise..." He looked around to find something suitable to threaten with; there was nothing at hand, and he didn't really know yet what bolts were afraid of anyway. "Well, I don't know yet, but trust me, you won't like it! And it'll probably involve medieval water torture!" That sounded good. No one liked medieval water torture.

"Are you sure he's up there?"

Darkwing gripped his binoculars tightly and scanned the rooftop. He couldn't see anyone right now, but he was certain that the random electrical output he'd seen coming from this building was a clue to be acted on.

Except that they'd been halfway down the block when he'd seen the flashes, and now that they were closer, there was no movement or light... just a subtle smell of ozone. He held the binoculars ever tighter, and refocused his attention.

Something caught his eye, and he hastily repositioned the binoculars to center on it; he was just in time to see that it was a pigeon. The bird lit on something and disappeared from view. Disappointed, Darkwing brought the binoculars down from his face. "I really thought," he began, but was interrupted by a loud ZAP and a squawk from the rooftop. He and Launchpad both looked up quickly, to see an electrical display that culminated with a very charred-looking bird flying away in a frenzy.

Darkwing narrowed his eyes and smiled. "He's there."

Launchpad nodded, his eyes still skyward. "Poor pigeon."

"The pigeon is nothing compared to what he'll do to the rest of the city if we don't stop him, LP," Darkwing countered. He started to raise the binoculars again, then changed his mind. He had all the proof he needed that Megavolt was on that rooftop; now was the time for action, not observation.

"So what's the plan?"

"The plan is simple." Darkwing gave the building a quick glance; it wasn't too high, only about four or so stories tall. "I'll scale the wall and take him by surprise on the roof. Once I'm up there, I'll take him down quickly using my advantage of stealth." He turned back to Launchpad. "Your job, LP, is to run back-up as needed. Anything can happen with Megavolt, so you watch here and wait for a signal. If I need you, I'll come to the edge of the roof and wave my hand - not once; not twice; but thrice." He emphasized each word with a raised finger. "Three hand waves means you come up and distract him. I'll pretend to be out for the count and while he's focusing on you I'll turn the tables on him."

"Using stealth?" asked Launchpad.

Darkwing raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out if he was being mocked. "Yes. Stealth." He withdrew his gas gun and set about loading it with a grappling hook. "Any questions?" he asked, only slightly distracted.

"Ooh, well, here's one. When I come up after the signal, how come I don't just use stealth and take Megavolt out?"

"Because I'm better at it," Darkwing answered, trying to shove as much of the feeder rope as he could down into the barrel of the gun.

Launchpad thought about this. "I can be stealthful," he said, almost petulantly.

"Stealthy," Darkwing corrected him, without looking up. He glanced at his sidekick, and sighed. "Okay okay, I know you can be stealthy, LP, but... uh... it's just that you, you're better at..." He fumbled, then hit on the perfect way to put it. "...At the direct approach! Yeah, that sounds good. I mean, we have to play to our strengths in this business."

"Well..." Launchpad paused again, and Darkwing crossed his fingers that Launchpad would buy it. He didn't have a lot of time for hand-holding at the moment, and it wasn't like it was untrue. "Guess you're right about that," Launchpad finished, now much more cheerful. "Oh, another one. Why don't I just come up with ya in the first place?"

"Because," answered Darkwing, "then we'd lose the element of surprise on your entrance. Back-up is much more useful when it's surprise back-up." Satisfied with his gun, he looked at Launchpad levelly. "You wanna take notes or anything here?"

Fortunately, Launchpad chuckled over that one, and Darkwing didn't have to explain it.

"Four hundred and ninety-seven." Megavolt moved the little bolt from the tiny pile he was counting from over to the pile of those he'd already counted, and fancied that it made a face at him as it went. He was starting to really hate these guys. Why had he ever stuck up for them earlier? "Four hundred and ninety-eight." It was very obvious the way the wind was blowing here, too. As he walked the next bolt from one pile to the other, he didn't need to count any other bolts in the pile to know he was still one short. There was only one left.

He said the words aloud anyway, in near disbelief. "Four hundred and ninety-nine." For a moment, all he could do was stare at them, the bolts, his albatross. Then he lost his temper. "You... you little Judases! We-had-a-DEAL!"

He would have lost his cool completely and just melted them down into slag if a little clunk hadn't distracted him. "Who said clunk?" he asked aloud. If it was that pigeon again...

Examination of the rooftop revealed a new presence: a large metallic spider whose head had been removed, along with four of its legs. It might have been a robot; Megavolt wasn't sure. It was clinging tenaciously to the edge of the rooftop, two legs curled under the overhang. Megavolt approached it curiously, and then noticed that someone had tied a string to it. He rolled his eyes; probably kids, they were always bullying the weak.

"Hey, little fella. What's your name?" he asked the spider, forgetting that it had no head and therefore no ears. The spider didn't answer - no surprise, given that it also had no mouth - but the string shook, and as Megavolt watched, an object began to come into view. Bit by bit, the object rose: a bit of grey at first, then the broad brim of a grey hat, and the next thing he knew he was eye-to-eye with a duck in an obnoxiously purple mask.

Darkwing saw him, and froze. They stared at one another for a moment or two, and then Darkwing grinned weakly and lifted his hat in greeting. "Heh heh... Surprise," he said in a shaky voice.

Megavolt's temper flared up. "You... you... you ROBOT ABUSER!" He exploded, sending a barrage of electrical bolts toward his enemy, who yelped and ducked back down below the edge of the roof. Megavolt yelled, "I should call the AI Society and report you!" He made it to the edge of the roof and leaned over, intending to finish the duck off right there, but Darkwing surprised him by leaping forward, onto the rooftop, and grabbing his shoulders on the way. Both he and his do-gooder enemy were thrown backwards by the momentum, and soon they were grappling hand-to-hand.

"All right then. We'll give you a call if we need any further information, or if we need you to identify a suspect." The officer rose, and reached out a hand towards Beth.

She assumed that he was offering to shake her hand and not help her up out of her chair; since she had to stand a little bit to reach his grasp, the latter would have been a little silly. "Um, okay," she said, eyeing the door. All the police she'd dealt with while giving her statement had been very nice, but she still would feel better when all this was over. "Um - am I going to have to go to court or anything like that?"

"That depends on if your employers decide to press charges," the police officer answered. "Since this is a relatively minor theft, they may not."

"Oh. No, Bindlers' prosecutes shoplifters," she said, quoting the slightly worn sign that adorned the door leading to the employees-only section of the store. She was dismayed; going to court and taking part in a trial was not only time-consuming, it was nerve-wracking. She'd be up on the stand, that kooky "Megawatt" guy would see her and know she was testifying against him, and worst of all every single person in the court room would be judging her based on her posture and body language and probaby her clothes and hairstyle to boot. "Will I have to do it?" she asked hopefully.

"Not if we don't catch the guy." The officer gave her a half-smile. "And to be honest, unless he strikes again, the chances of catching him are pretty slim."

"Really?" Beth found this even more dismaying than the idea of testifying in court. "But I gave you a description and everything!"

The police officer shook his head. "These kinds of crimes don't solve themselves, and we run out of leads pretty quickly on the little one-time offenses. If he starts up a crime wave around the city we might nab him, but it's only really likely to happen if we catch him in the act or if he does something huge."

"Oh." She couldn't tell if she was relieved or just plain worried about the state of the justice system in St. Canard. No wonder the crime rate was so high and the property values were so low. "Okay. Well, as long as you have my number..."

"Right where we need it," said the officer. He nodded at her in a friendly way, and Beth read between the lines and saw that he was more than ready for her to leave. "Thanks for coming in."

"Sure," she said. She checked the clock on the wall of the station on her way out; it was nearly ten pm. She'd been there for a good three hours now, and was starving. She considered stopping off at Hamburger Hippo on her way home, but decided not to; she had leftovers in the fridge and her head was sore from the dim light in the station, so the most appealing plan was the one that got her home the quickest.

The evening was vibrant. That wasn't the right use of the adjective, but it was the only way that Beth could think of to describe it; the air seemed to almost have an electrical charge, and the whole area smelled like her vacuum cleaner when it got a short circuit. She found it oddly disconcerting, but shook it off and started home.

The problem with ending up at the police station was that it was a good deal out of her way. Bindler's was easily a fifteen-minute walk from her house, and the police station was probably another twenty minutes past that. Oh well, it would give her time with her thoughts.

And that, she realized, was something she hadn't had all day. It was only now that she had time to slow down and reflect on the day she'd had that she realized how badly she'd been wanting to reflect on it. The call from her mother had seemed to set the tone for most of it: unexpected, unwanted, and so odd that it was difficult to figure out how to deal with it. And then getting robbed - had that really happened more than 12 hours ago, now? Yet she could believe it: it felt like it had been a week ago.

Her head hurt. She rubbed her eyes - it was probably time for her to get her prescription changed for her glasses - and her thoughts slipped to the real thing she'd been wanting to think about, the face that had kept popping into her mind all the time she'd been answering questions and filling out reports and apologizing to Henny and to the upper management.

Drake Mallard. That was a nice name.

She couldn't put a real reason on why it was so nice, but she liked the sound of "Drake"; it sounded so casual and earthy. And "Mallard" was one of those last names that went with pretty much everything just perfectly. No name sounded odd when paired with "Mallard". Not even Beth (she shook her head, grinning in embarrassment; how could she have possibly said that out loud?).

Drake Mallard.

Beth wondered if she'd ever see him again. He was... interesting, as though everything about him could be seen in his face and his actions except for one part of him, one mystery that he was hiding away. She wondered what that mystery was; a tragic past maybe.

Good lord, she was creating an entire fiction over a man she'd met once, for just a few minutes! She blushed and tried to laugh at herself. It wasn't as if she was likely to see him again, so there was no reason whatsoever to wonder about him, because... because...

She really hoped she saw him again.

"Oh, Beth, stop it," she said to herself, softly. "Don't start this." She barely knew him. She didn't know him. She knew Launchpad - barely - and she had seen Launchpad's friend for maybe five minutes, once, and she didn't know anything about him. But she liked Launchpad and she didn't think he would be friends with bad people, and what harm was there in... daydreaming? Especially if she wasn't going to see him again?

She knew perfectly well what the harm was. Beth shifted her jacket from one arm to the other and sighed. The number of times she'd romanticized guys she barely knew... Fallen in love with an idea... She was actually surprised that she hadn't done that by now with Launchpad, but she seemed to have avoided it. Thank goodness. He was way out of her league.

And Drake Mallard wasn't? He hadn't even seemed to want to talk to her much of the time he was in her store. But, somehow, he still seemed approachable; he seemed so normal, so level. And more than that, there was a confidence to him - an air he radiated that just made her want to know him. She really, really wanted to know him - to be liked by him. It seemed somehow that it would make all the difference in her life.

She thought of the feeling of his fingertips on the back of her neck, as he'd tugged at the neck of her shirt. 'Your neck is perfect,' he'd said. Perfect.

No one had ever described anything about Beth as "perfect", unless you counted test scores.

She knew he hadn't meant it like that. It was an offhand comment. She was, in fact, instantly mortified that she'd actually accidentally asked Launchpad to do something so intimate as examine her skin for marks; what had she been thinking and why hadn't he just said he'd rather not? But... Perfect. She thought of it, and she felt warm.

The night was a little bit chilly, a standard for mid-September, and despite her feeling of warmth Beth shivered slightly in a breeze. It snapped her out of her revelry just in time to notice that, if she had kept walking in a straight line with her head down, she would have walked right into a man who was standing perhaps twenty feet away from her, his attention firmly focused upwards. After another quick second she realized that the man was Launchpad, and she stopped in her tracks, overcome by a reaction so strong that she wasn't sure right away exactly what emotion it was.

She decided it was some form of happiness, with a good bit of hope thrown in as well, and so she started up again. He was still looking up, but there was no harm in saying hello, right?

To be continued!