(Author's notes: I'm very excited about starting this new project. The biggest hurdle that I feel I will have to jump over is basically world-building an entire cartoon franchise from scratch. Yes, DuckTales 2017 started the project with "Let's Get Dangerous," but it only set-up the budding hero that is Darkwing Duck and getting the trio together. It was merely the tip of the iceburg. I hope that I am able to entertain and help fans of the new Drake Mallard/Darkwing Duck, Gosalyn, and Launchpad grow to love them even more.

Thank you everyone for taking the time to check out my story.)

Darkwing Duck: Year Zero

Episode 1: Concrete Facts Part 1

Drake bent over the desk and signed yet another set of papers, not even looking at the small, tight print. He just wanted all of this to be over with. And after a few more signatures and a couple of days for the contracts to be filed and whatnot, the house would be his.

"That seems to be everything, Mr. Mallard," his realtor said with a big smile. She once more went over the checklist of things they had done and that there was nothing more to do than to wait. It was surprising just how many steps it took to buy a house.

Drake smiled, liking the idea of owning property. He hadn't really had a "home" for a long time, not since moving to Hollywood after High School. Being an actor, even a small-time one, kept him busy and moving around. After the fiasco at Scrooge McDuck's film studio, he had moved to St. Canard and expected to live there permanently, finally feeling as if he had stepped into a role he was meant for. Because there was nothing he'd rather do than to be Darkwing Duck.

However, that still hadn't meant he found a home. He had been living in a rental until about a month ago. When Launchpad McQuack and Charity Loveatte dropped into his life and asked him to help them break a two-thousand-year-old curse, he hadn't expected to be away from St. Canard for almost a month. And his landlord wasn't the patient type. When Drake had come back, there were several notes about his rent being past due and an eviction notice served. Drake was more than willing to pay the late rent and any fees that came with it, but the landlord was livid and had decided to sell the house instead of dealing with more tenants.

Rather than stay a few months longer at the rental—which Drake had a legal right to—he decided to move out and not deal with the drama. He stayed in Darkwing Tower as he searched for a place to live. Then the Fearsome Four struck the city and Drake saddled his fate with that of Gosalyn Waddlemyer.

For now, Drake still lived in Darkwing Tower—the warehouse that was connected to the Tower had a small kitchen and a shower, so it was livable—but it definitely wouldn't do as living space for three, one being a teenage girl. So Drake went to a bank and applied for a loan. Despite Drake's iffy employment history—he had been fired from the rubber ducky factory after leaving St. Canard suddenly (breaking the curse), and lost his latest job at a bakery as a delivery guy (destroyed by Quackerjack's robot)—he was approved based solely on his savings that would be a tidy down-payment on a house.

He put an offer on the first one he found in his price range. It was in a good neighborhood, out in the suburbs and had a short commute to Darkwing Tower, but it was a fixer-upper, the kind that reality shows on the TLC channel would drool over. It looked as if the owners before had started renovating and decided to stop half-way. Some things were torn down, some were almost finished, and some parts were…Drake wasn't sure. He had a little experience with home repair, mostly as a child when his mother had been single and liked to be self-reliant, but that was a long time ago.

However, he was certain that he could do a lot of the repairs himself. How hard could it be?

"Congratulations," his realtor said, holding out her hand. "I've been told that you will get the keys by Monday and then you can move in."

And just in time, too. Gosalyn's foster papers were going through the right channels, and she would be released into his care around that time as well.

"Oh, and good news," his realtor said with a smile. "My partner just sold the house right next to it to a nice family the other day. So you'll be in good company."

"Great," Drake said without commitment. Personally, it would have been nice to have an empty house next door so that nobody would notice his…uh…active night life.

His realtor had shown him the house next door. It was of a similar style, just bigger with an extra bedroom, a finished basement, and a professionally landscaped yard which made it much more expensive than the house Drake barely purchased. But he figured that even if he had to buy a few supplies and hire a handy man to do a few things, his TLC house will eventually look just as nice.

Drake said good-bye to the realtor and raced to his car. He had asked if they could sign the papers early so that he could make it to the temp agency. He was applying for several jobs—some of them sounded really great if he could get them—but in the meantime, he figured he could pick up a little money doing some temp work.

Starting up his car, he saw that he had plenty of time and raced away to downtown. He had a hard time finding a parking space, but as he ran to the agency, he quickly fed the meter and put on his tie. He hated the feel of the accessory around his neck. Usually he only wore one to a job interview, but he had once played a role where all he wore was neckties. Strangely, when it was part of his role, wearing a tie wasn't so bad.

Inside the agency, Drake was quickly ushered to his agent.

"Thank you for coming in at such short notice, Mr. Mallard," his agent said, shaking hands before sitting down. "This particular job wanted someone to start right away, and because of your background in acting, I thought of you."

"I told you, I don't want to do any acting," Drake said. He thought that by going to a temp agency that he could avoid any acting gigs. Most acting jobs went through talent scouts rather than the lowly temp places that they were at.

"No. No. It's not an acting job," the agent said, smiling. He slid a pair of papers stabled together to Drake. "It's…actually a job that is hard to describe. The employer wanted someone who could work well while talking to a lot of people—public speaking basically—and could look good in front of a camera. It's not public relations, but it does involve the media."

Drake was about to decline the job offer. More than likely, his agent had something else he could take, even if it was road construction or painting houses. However, if he couldn't find a real job soon, he might have to go with flipping burgers. But then his eye caught how much they were paying per hour and his pupils stuck on the number. It definitely wasn't anywhere close to what he was paid in his heyday as an actor, but it was so much better than working at the rubber duck factory.

"I'll do it," Drake said, hardly looking at anything else on the paper.

"Great," the agent said, smiling. "Let's get you started on some paperwork, and I'll shoot them a text, and we'll get you employed before lunchtime. Now remember, your paychecks go through us, but you have to have your timecard approved by their…"

Fenton put the goggles back on and flipped the switch. For a moment, all he could see was the blackish-green screen as they booted up, but then the simple grassy meadows he had worked on and rendered last night appeared. It still had a pixel-like quality to it, but that would be fixed in the programing. He was still picking up tricks how to make things artistically realistic, but that would come in time. That wasn't the problem with this project.

He looked down, seeing his pixelated body. Not his real body, but the avatar he had made of himself. He tried to get the avatar to lift his hand. He lifted his hand in real life, hoping he didn't bang it against anything, but the avatar didn't move.

"Move, dang it," he muttered, lowering his hand and lifting it again. "Move. Mooooooove!" He was waving his hand up and down. Still, his avatar's arm didn't move with his.

The neurological connection wasn't matching up. He had been studying the connection between electronic and organic for weeks, and he still couldn't figure out how to make them one, at least on a temporary basis. If he wanted to make it permanent, that wouldn't be hard, much like the mechanical prosthetics that McDuck Enterprises made. But nobody would want to put a neuro-prosthetics in their head, especially one that would weigh over two pounds and would require part of their skull removed for it to work.

He knew that it was possible, but he couldn't do it alone. He needed help.

A lot of help.

He took off the goggles; virtual reality grass was replaced by real grass and trees with kids playing on the equipment nearby. Many of the people at the park were staring in his direction, probably from him yelling at his device. He looked down, feeling embarrassed.

"What happened, Suits? Was there a spider on your arm?"

Fenton sat up as a person plopped down right next to him, placing one foot on her knee and giving him one of her devil-may-care smirks.

"G-Gandra," Fenton stuttered, surprised that she had been so close while he had tried out the goggles one last time. "I-I didn't see you." It had been months since he had last seen her, and although she had left him her phone number after the fiasco with Mark Beaks, he hadn't been sure he could trust her. But a part of him had wanted to.

"Well, it has been a long time," Gandra said. She hardly had changed. Her jeans were a little more worse for wear, but it was the same Gandra that he had met in the electronics store. "So, you finally came around to my side of thinking? Ready to take some science to the extreme?"

Another reason for Fenton's reticence in contacting Gandra. She had a dangerous streak about her, enough that she was willing to experiment on her own body without safety guidelines. It was exciting that she had made so many impressive breakthroughs, but it made him wonder just how much she valued her own life. Did she have a reason to take such risks or was she just a risk junkie? He wanted to think the better of her, but he wasn't going to trust her to the point that someone could get hurt. Not again.

"Well, the reason I called is for a project I'm working on," Fenton said.

"A McDuck project?" Gandra asked, folding her arms and leaning back.

"No, this is a personal project of mine," Fenton said, thinking of his reason. He wanted to trust her. If something went wrong, he would never forgive himself. "I'm working on a virtual reality—"

"Game?" Gandra finished the sentence for him, knocking on his goggles with a finger. "Snore. Listen, Suits, I know you can make a lot of money in games, but I thought you weren't in it for the money. Weren't you going to change the world and make it a better place?"

Fenton lifted the goggles. "First off, I'm making enough money as is now that I'm no longer an intern. And second, this isn't a game I'm programing. It's supposed to be a multi-dimensional platform that simulates reality down to the tiniest atom. It can conform to any scenario you could possibly think of. The applications are endless, and most importantly, it will advance science to the next level. The only limits will be a person's imagination. The only problem I am facing is the neuro-link-up to the goggles that will allow a person to interface with the program with only their minds."

Gandra looked absolutely dumb-struck. "Are you serious? Fenton, what you're trying to do isn't possible. It's crazy."

"No, it's not," Fenton assured her. "I have designed the program. It's still really, really early in the testing stage, and it needs a lot of work, but the program itself is working fine on a small scale. I'm just having problems with the neuro-link-up."

"And that's the part that's impossible," Gandra said. "There's a fine line between organic and mechanic, and that line can't be crossed. It shouldn't be."

"What about prosthetics? What about artificial organs? Are you saying that those are impossible?" Fenton asked. "Or what you did to yourself? You're mixing inorganic with organic. Why is what I'm trying to do impossible?"

"Look, I'm not saying it's impossible, impossible," Gandra argued. "I'm saying that what you are doing shouldn't be done because it's reckless. Our brains are as complicated as a computer, but it runs so much slower than one. If you hook one up to even a standard laptop, you could blow someone's brains out."

"Not unless there's a buffer to prevent that," Fenton said with a smile.

"There's no way you could do that," Gandra said. Then she frowned. "Wait, don't tell me you already can do that."

"Fine, I won't," Fenton said, outwardly gloating.

"How did you do it?" Gandra asked.

"It…was kind of an accident," Fenton admitted. He explained what had happened.

Accident was right, and one that had almost killed him. When Huey had rearranged Gizmoduck's wires over a year ago and basically connected his brain to Gizmoduck's computer system so that he could direct all the applications himself, it had almost burned out his brain. That's when he had invented the buffer. And while that helped him with this project, what he was trying to do was completely different. When he is Gizmoduck, his brain only directs the computer in the suit, much like how a mouse could be plugged into the computer and direct which program was to be used. This new project would be more like plugging in a brain and running it like a program.

He was sort of glad that Gandra knew his secret. This would be so much harder trying to explain everything if she didn't know he was Gizmoduck.

"Alright, so you have that," Gandra gave him. "But why make it so immersive? Why not just run it like a regular program? People can plug in some numbers or put in a scenario, and it can run the experiment on screen as a simulation. Why make is so complicated? Isn't playing it safe more your style?"

Fenton didn't want to explain that one of his reasons was a woman lying in a coma in Duckburg General Hospital who had very little hope of waking up any time soon. He didn't trust Gandra that far.

"Because it doesn't work as well that way," Fenton said.

"Why?" Gandra asked.

"It just doesn't," Fenton said, running his hand through his hair. "Look, you know your nanites? Of course you know them. I mean, that I tried to imitate what you had done in your hands. I put in all the numbers, everything, just as you said, and ran the experiment over and over again as a simulation. And it failed every time." He thought about his little avatar burning to a crisp a few times and held back a shudder.

Somehow, Gandra had beaten those odds with her own nanites.

"Then you weren't doing it right, Suits," Gandra said, flicking his beak.

"No, I'm certain I did," Fenton said. "Once you explained what you had done, I was able to replicate your nanites."

"No way." Gandra glared at him.

"Yes way."

"Prove it."

"Uh…the program is back at the lab," Fenton explained.

"You didn't put them in your hands?"

"I'm not going to experiment with my own body," Fenton said, although that wasn't completely true, but he wasn't going to talk about the GizmoLenses—which was a variation of two of her inventions: the nanites and her eyebuds. "But here's where things get interesting. I plugged myself into the program through Gizmoduck, which was as close to a neuro-link as I could get, and I ran the experiment again. And in twenty-five percent of the time, they were successful."

"Then you put in the numbers wrong," Gandra insisted.

"Do you really think I would only put in the numbers once?" Fenton asked. "I checked it. I rechecked again and again. The results were different. There's something that I can't explain. Either there are variables that I haven't been able to figure out or the program runs differently when connected to a living brain."

"Or it's a bug," Gandra said. "Your data is unreliable."

"Prove it," Fenton challenged just as she did.

Gandra opened her mouth and closed it again without speaking. She thought for a while, then said, "Okay. Let me look at the program. I'm sure I can find what's wrong."

Fenton smiled. "That's what I was hoping you'd say. I feel as if I've made it as far as I could on my own."

"Why not ask Dr. Gearloose for help?" Gandra asked. She looked surprised for a moment but then casually looked away.

"He's busy with…family stuff," Fenton said with a smile. BOYD could be a handful at times, so Fenton didn't want to bother him. "Besides, his specialty is robotics and temporaltology. I think he would have the same reaction as you had if I told him."

"Well, good thing I have a little bit of an open mind," Gandra said with a smirk. "And I have an affinity with super science."
"Well, then let's go," Fenton said, grabbing Gandra's hand. He quickly dropped it, pretending it was an accident.

"Send me your address and I'll meet you there," Gandra said. "I parked in this direction." She pointed opposite of where Fenton was headed.

"Oh, it's just back at the lab. You've been there," Fenton said.

"You work on your personal projects on McDuck Property?" Gandra asked, looking nervous. "Aren't you worried about the legality of doing that? Won't McDuck own your inventions that way?"

"Er…I guess," Fenton said, not really caring. There were worse people to work for than Scrooge McDuck. Yes, he wanted to make money, but he wasn't a bad person.

"I just…think it would be a better idea to meet somewhere else," Gandra said, looking uncomfortable. "Maybe a different time, too. I actually have something planned later."

"Oh, that's fine," Fenton said. "I guess I can quickly copy the program over to a laptop and—"

"Great, that sounds good," Gandra said, backing away. "I'll text you a time and place, okay. Don't worry, I'll make sure it's not during work hours, so I'm not taking you away from Scrooge McBillionaire." Gandra had sounded strange except that last part.

"Okay. Thanks Gandra," Fenton said. When he thought about it, he started to understand Gandra's strange change in mood. She had, after all, been involved with Mark Beaks and a little corporate espionage, so it was understandable that she was nervous about going back to the money bin. If Mr. McDuck saw and recognized her, there was legal cause for him to have her arrested.

As Fenton returned to the lab—it had been his lunch break—he stewed over the fact that Gandra was still considered a criminal. But she had helped him when Mark Beaks had gone crazy. But she was the catalyst that had given Mark Beaks that power. But inside, she really was a good person.

Wasn't she?

Drake gaped as he entered the high-rise that was in downtown St. Canard. It wasn't the tallest building in the city, but it would certainly be a long ride in the elevator up to the top. Not that he was going up to the top. It was one of those office buildings that leased to several companies, as far as Drake could see from the directory just inside the foyer.

"Excuse me, sir. May I help you?" a man sitting behind a counter asked.

Drake had intended to look through the directory for his exact floor, but since he was singled out, he might as well ask for help. "Yeah, I'm here for a temp position at A Wing and an Eye, Inc. Do you know what floor I need to go to?"

The man looked down, lifting up a tablet. "You're Drake Mallard?"

"Uh…yes," Drake confirmed, confused how the man knew.

The man lifted his tablet as if comparing a photo. "Your ID checks out. You need to get out on floor fifty-three. This is your fob and your badge. The elevators won't take you up if you don't use the fob."

"Wow, the temp agency didn't tell me about the tight security," Drake said curiously.

The man nodded as if he got this all the time. "This building was designed with a little added security for businesses who are working with sensitive materials or in need of a little more help in that regard. We have several lawyers that have had trouble with unhappy clients in the past. I believe that on the twenty-third floor, a software company is working on a top-secret program for the government, and somewhere between the sixty-eighth and the seventy-fourth, there are over a dozen lethal viruses that belong to a pharmacy company who are working on a cure. But that's if you believe all the rumors, which I've heard them all." The man winked.

Drake laughed, pegging this man as either one who liked to spread rumors or one who liked to put guests at ease by being helpful and friendly. "Thanks. I might have tried to go up the elevators if you hadn't talked to me."

"It happens all the time," the man said. "By the way, my name is Jay." He held out his hand.

"Drake."

They shook hands.

"Hey, good luck today," Jay said.

"Thanks." Drake went over to the elevators, which there were eight. He figured the building needed all of them, especially during quitting time. If he weren't dressed up in a suit and a tie and if his job wasn't on the fifty-third floor, he might have taken the stairs.

As he suspected, even going only to the fifty-third floor was a long ride, and by the time he had gotten off, his legs felt strange adjusting to a floor that didn't move. His first sight exiting the elevator was the logo of A Wing and an Eye, Inc., and below that a large, circular desk with a petite woman sitting behind it, a headset around one ear. She was talking into her head-set when Drake came forward and raised one finger in a "please wait a moment" gesture.

Drake did so, and when the woman finished the call, he said, "Hi, I'm here for the temp job."

"Of course," the woman said with a big smile. "I'm Judy, the receptionist. Let me call Lara and she'll go through all your duties and introduce you to Mr. Swine."

"Thank you." Drake sat down and waited as Judy answered yet another phone call, transferring it to the right person. Within time, another woman exited the elevator and went right to Drake.

"Mr. Mallard?" she asked, her arm outstretched.

"Yes. Lara?" Drake said.

"That's me." She smiled again, looking very pleased. Her eyes looked him up and down rather quickly before becoming professional. "Thank you for coming down on such short notice and starting so quickly. Mr. Swine travels around to the different offices, stays for about a month, then moves on, so we always get a temp to help out. This way." She gestured back to the elevators.

"Wow, I didn't think this was such an important position," Drake said with half a chuckle.

Another smile from Lara. "Well, everyone at A Wing and an Eye, Inc. is important, and Mr. Swine is a busy man who needs all the help he can get at this moment in time." Inside the elevator, she swiped her fob over the scanner, and pressed the button for the top floor. Seeing Drake notice, she said, "The office take up the fifty-third and the fifty-fourth floor, but all of the executive offices are up at the top. Don't worry. Before you leave, I'll get your fob switched so you have access there as well."

"Oh. Uh, so may I ask what it is I'll be doing here at A Wing and an Eye, Inc.?" Drake asked. "The temp agency said that my experience was the reason they sent me."

"Oh, and that reminds me," Lara said, her eyes wide. "Don't mention that you were ever an actor. Mr. Swine hates actors. If it comes up—which I doubt—just say that you have experience with the media. As for your duties, all you need to do is follow Mr. Swine around and do what he says. You'll answer phones, organize his schedule, make sure he eats lunch, and of course help him out with his photo shoots and his projects. I know that that's not much of an explanation, but it's the best way to describe the job."

As Drake listened, his eye brows lowered. "Wait. Answer phones? You—heh—It sounds like a secretary position."

"That's right," Lana said with a quick nod, her smile fading.

"But the job position is Executive Assistant," Drake said, looking down at the papers that the temp agency gave him.

"Executive Assistant is just a fancy title. You're basically a secretary. With a darn good wage," Lara said with a half-smile. "But don't worry, you don't have to do any kind of paper work or filing or stuff like that. Mr. Swine is really technologically forward-thinking, so most of his clerical work is digital, although he might ask you to do some editing or look over a few articles before they go to the press."

"Press?" Drake felt like he was wandering through a dark cave, feeling for the entrance with his fingers. "Who is Mr. Swine? What's his title at the company?"

"Goodness, they didn't give you any information at the temp agency, did they?" Lara asked with a shake of her head. "Mr. Swine is the CEO and owner of the company."