The familiar sound of dripping and trickling told her where she was even before her eyes had adjusted to the darkness surrounding her.

She checked her feet and realized that the water was only ankle-deep. This gave her an advantage, but she knew all too well that it was fallacious. Only one moment of indecision could destroy it all.

Eleanor had been here so many times. She knew the way, the course of action, the steps she had to take so this horror scenario would unfold in the way it was supposed to.

She rushed up the stairs. The squishing sound of her bare feet against the wet carpet got drowned by the water's furious answer. It grew louder with every step, but after so many years she wasn't afraid any more. At least that was what she forced herself to believe.

As always, Elmo's room tried to fight her back with all its might. Eleanor braced herself against the icy current. Every second counted. The female rat pushed away the items on the rising water surface and submerged. She plowed through the masses of water, towards the blue light. She knew by now what it was and she knew she needed to reach it. All her willpower was in her limbs, her moves a sheer act of defiance.

You won't beat me, she thought. Eleanor reached out to grasp the light bulb, but her fingers slipped off. She tried again, but grasped at nothing. The current began to force her back, her arms revolted against the exertion. The cold started to seep into her consciousness.

A bad sign. Her doubts were awaking, stretching out and writhing. Her mind was already beginning to formulate the words that would bring her efforts to an end.

"Not this time!" she said out loud. The bubbles that came out of her mouth silenced the voice in her head. Eleanor pushed her body forward once more. She would give anything. Everything!

"I. Can. Do. This!"

With the last of her strength, she wrapped her fingers around the light bulb and closed them tightly. The sensation of being hurled out of the room seized her, but she held on tight.

Her back collided with something hard, making her lose all the air in her lungs in one sharp breath. Eleanor coughed, her whole body weak from her struggle. She moved her arm – but felt no resistance. There was no pressure on her ears, no sound, no cold any more. She drew a hesitant breath and opened her eyes. The water was gone.

The light bulb still clutched to her chest, she realized that she was on the stair landing. It was still dark and Eleanor couldn't see Irma and Edmund.

But Elmo was there.

A rush of adrenaline kicked in. She left the light bulb on the wet carpet and stumbled towards him. Eleanor gave his shoulder a light push so that he came to lie on his back. His body was limp, his face grayish pale, his eyes and mouth closed.

"I'm here." She gently brushed his wet hair aside, then proceeded to briskly slap his cheeks.

"Elmo," the female rat said firmly.

No reaction.

"Elmo!" Eleanor shook his shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

His head softly swayed from side to side like a silent answer.

There it was again. The cold crept back into her, up her spine and to the back of her head. She held her fingers underneath his nose. She observed his chest. She pushed her own dripping wet hair over one shoulder and pressed her ear against his ribcage.

Nothing.

"Elmo." Her voice cracked. "Elmo, no …"

All at once, she became painfully conscious of her own heartbeat. It hammered in her chest, in her ears, in her head. Eleanor unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers and a growing lump in her throat and frantically tried to remember what she knew about CPR. She bit her bottom lip, but when she started compressing his chest she was already breaking down. She forced herself to keep a steady rhythm, but with every new push to his sternum the unresponsive boy on the floor became more and more indistinct.

Eleanor's eyes shot open.

She lay stock-still for a moment, her face damp from cold sweat. Acknowledging what had just happened, the female rat allowed the aftershock to feed her the images of Elmo's home and his lifeless body underneath her palms.

It's okay, she told herself, inhaling deeply.You know it's not real.

She was in control of the situation. Eleanor invited the dream to tell its message before letting it go. Exhale. You're safe.

Ten slow and steady breaths. She observed her bedroom while she was counting. The morning light shining through the curtains revealed her ever-thirsty ficus, a stack of books from the library that she needed to return tomorrow even though she hadn't had the time to read a single one of them and a cup of forgotten tea on her bedside table.

Eleanor didn't want to fall asleep again, and when she checked her clock she decided she could just as well get herself a fresh cup. She carefully got out of bed, put on her glasses and stretched her back and neck on her way to her small open plan kitchen.

While she was waiting for the water to boil, the female rat intuitively chose the blend that her father had always indulged in after a long day at work. Even though Eleanor had become an avid coffee drinker over the years, tea held a special place in her heart and she consumed it a lot more mindfully (except for yesterday night, she remembered with a little shame). So she took the steaming mug and stepped out on her balcony to watch the neighborhood get ready for the day.

A little further down the street she could see a van trying to back into a way too small parking space. Eleanor didn't have a driver's license, but even she knew that this maneuver was doomed to fail. From somewhere on the sidewalk she heard a female voice talk insistently to the driver. Undoubtedly, this was Francesca, the owner of the osteria at the corner of the street. Eleanor watched the resolute woman shoo the man out of the car with a kitchen towel and sit down behind the wheel, ignoring the irritated man's protest. Francesca reparked the van, opened the back doors of the vehicle and started carrying the crates with groceries to the restaurant.

The female rat smiled to herself. She often witnessed these everyday scenes. Her neighbors didn't take themselves too seriously, and there was no need for them to hide the small imperfections that occurred during the day. It gave her the feeling of being validated as a normal person - and of belonging somewhere.

Eleanor's apartment was located in an old cotton mill that had been turned into a housing complex some twenty years ago. Rent was still low compared to the city's average and made for a very diverse population with small family businesses and cafés that served as the residents' extended living rooms. Henry's constant jokes that she could afford something fancier were left ignored by Eleanor. She loved her neighborhood. Solidarity was strong among the people here and everybody was considered equal, regardless of their cultural or socioeconomic background. You could immerse in the lively bustle or just as well keep to yourself. You were always welcome and never bothered. The see and be seen of Uptown St. Canard was Henry's world, not hers.

Financial security and prestige weren't the reasons why Eleanor had chosen to become a lawyer. Back in high school, becoming a biologist like her father had seemed to be the most probable option. But then, unintentionally, Martin Johansson had paved the way for the career his daughter held now. While Eleanor hadn't been able to save her father from making the biggest mistake of his life, she now had the chance to make a change and help people. Professionalizing in family law was the logical consequence of her own experiences. She could relate to her clients and vice versa, which was an enormous advantage. Eleanor was dedicated and ambitious when it came to representing her clients' interests, and the success that came with it was a fulfilling acknowledgment. But at the end of the day, she was glad that she could take off her suit and her role. Because all the orderliness and accuracy that were vital in her job seemed worthless once she returned home. To her own inner chaos.

With a sigh, Eleanor went back to her bedroom. The tea cup placed next to its sibling, she took a pen and a small journal and started writing.

Elmo is drowning.

She had stopped counting just how often she had already written these words, and yet they never lost their impact. Eleanor summarized the dream and wrote down her feelings. Keeping this kind of diary had been Sylvia's – her therapist's – idea, and while it couldn't take away the horror her nightmares brought her, it helped to take them off her mind so she could function throughout the day.

Even though she always noted down her good dreams as well, the majority of what the journal contained was the same recurring one. It often haunted her in times of intense emotional stress, and whenever that was the case she tried to brace herself for the nights. Sometimes it helped, sometimes it didn't. As for tonight, she assumed it had happened because there was just too much unsettling her all at once.

The Lupasters.

Seeing Pappa.

And, especially, the anniversary of Elmo's disappearance.

Eleanor put down the pen. She glanced at the photos on her bedside table. Next to the family portrait of herself with her parents was the picture of her and Elmo that his mother had taken on graduation day. Moments before he had gone to check on his experiment.

Without ever coming back.

Nothing about the photograph gave the impression that the young man had plans to leave his old life behind. Dressed in his cap and robe, a smile played around the corners of his mouth, making his brown eyes shine. But then again, Eleanor reminded herself, you could never know what was going on inside another person's mind.

Fifteen years without a sign of her best friend. The dream had changed several times since then, with Eleanor gradually getting closer to her goal, but it hadn't been resolved yet. However, the latest progress was something she needed to discuss with Sylvia the next time she saw her.

Eleanor closed the book and finished her tea, took the cups to the dishwasher and went to take a quick shower. She decided for herself to make the best of the week. A lot of important work needed to be done and required all her attention.

And so, like every weekday morning, she put her armor on and left the past in her apartment.

The Department of Family Law was a busy workplace, quite naturally. Eleanor was used to having lots of different tasks on her agenda, but it occurred to her that there was a certain unrest building up at the office throughout the week. She supposed it had to do with the fact that the term of St. Canard County's district attorney was about to expire and speculations ran about as to who could be next. But that wasn't all there was. The rumors Henry had told her about seemed to circulate throughout the departments and soon enough, everybody had picked up something through the grapevine.

"I heard it's called 'Black Sheep'," she heard Danilo say in the break room. He was one of Eleanor's youngest colleagues, very calm and collected, and usually not one to toss around speculations. But in this case his curiosity seemed to be piqued. "Might not be the best choice for a rehab program if you ask me."

"Yeah, it's ridiculous," Henry piped up from the coffee machine. "Kinda contradictory. If you want someone's trust, you don't give them the feeling that they're a misfit."

"Instead they could've just made up a mysterious acronym that no one can decipher." Danilo took a sip from his mug and grinned. "Or a hilarious one. Do you remember 'DOOM'?"

Henry almost spat out his coffee. Eleanor, who hadn't been listening entirely, looked him all over and asked, "Now, now, is it that bad again?"

The rooster half coughed, half laughed and answered, "It's actually drinkable." He wiped his eyes. "Don't tell me you've never heard of 'DOOM'."

"If it's an inside joke, that must've been before my time here." Eleanor rubbed her collarbone. She often caught herself doing that when she wasn't sure how to read a social situation, and Danilo and Henry exchanging amused looks didn't make it easier for her.

"That was a rehab program that caused a lot of trouble," Danilo explained. "It wasn't very successful, even after they renamed it."

"I hope they'll do it better this time," Henry said. "I'm dying to know what all the fuss is about."

Eleanor had to admit that she was curious, too, but she could save worrying about the program until they were properly informed. She had an appointment in half an hour with a new client and was expecting Dr. Hunter's call anytime soon.

The woman she was about to meet had sounded desperate on the phone. She wanted a divorce from her husband and was willing to pay extra to accelerate proceedings, but Eleanor told her that a divorce took time. The client had then insisted on seeing her as soon as possible, which the female rat had reluctantly agreed to. She didn't like being pressured and had to tell herself to not let that first impression influence her.

This proved far easier said than done. The client, Genevieve Silvestri, was an intimidating appearance. She was almost unnaturally beautiful, a Golden Retriever who lived up to the name, her fur and hair competing with each other in terms of elegance. She was perfectly dressed, manicured and made-up. The more they talked, however, it became clear that underneath the demanding, composed surface Genevieve was boiling with rage. At the very end of her story, the picture-perfect mask tore and unleashed a sob. What remained was a fragile woman. Eleanor offered her a tissue and smiled reassuringly. A moment of established trust.

"I want to see him pay," the canine said quietly, her long lashes covering her eyes. "I don't care about the money, I don't want it. I want to hurt him like he hurt me."

Eleanor was used to hearing statements like these when she was handling divorces. Hurt feelings needed to be acknowledged, but retribution was nothing she wanted to encourage her clients in. Often enough, that wasn't what they wanted to hear from her, but Eleanor stood by her conviction. Her understanding of justice was more of a restorative one.

The next day, however, that understanding was put to the test when Dr. Hunter called. The findings of the investigation confirmed what she already knew from the letter and what Henry had astutely assumed: The fire had been no accident. Eleanor had lost cases before, but never had she lost clients. At least not that way. If need be, she would still represent the family's interest should the verdict be appealed against given the new circumstances. That was beyond question. However, she could not deny that it discomforted her. She decided that it was best to seek advice on that matter.

By the end of the week, Eleanor's workload hadn't decreased in the slightest. To top it all, she ran into poor Aiden on the stairs right before the end of the day and almost sent him spiraling downwards.

"I'm okay," he assured her, for the third time already. "I shouldn't be carrying so many files at once."

"You could've used the elevator," Eleanor pointed out, still feeling embarrassed.

"It's out of service."

"Again?"

Aiden nodded. Eleanor peeked around the corner. With a soft beep, the elevator stopped and revealed a bunch of cackling lawyers. The female rat snorted contemptuously.

"They pulled your leg," she told the hummingbird.

If possible, he became even more crimson than he already was. "Oh …" He scratched his long beak and tried to shrug, which caused the files to slip from his hands yet another time. Aiden and Eleanor looked at each other and simultaneously started giggling.

"I guess I should've warned you. Not to speak ill of their department, but they have a reputation of being a bit hard on newcomers." She helped him pick up the files and took some of them in her own hands.

"It wasn't that bad." Aiden hesitantly walked after Eleanor. "I've experienced worse. I could tell you a story or two ..."

She slowed down her pace, her gaze shifting inwards, and for a moment she was thrown back to her schooldays. She knew that excuse. She had used it many times herself, just as well as she had heard it from -

"… Anyway! I'm looking forward to be working with you next week." The hummingbird realized that the female rat had stopped walking. Frowning at her blank stare he added, "Are you okay?"

Eleanor blinked and nodded slowly, her smile returning back to her face, but more subtly this time. She helped Aiden store the files and wished him a good weekend, which he returned. Turning on her heels, she then quickly walked down the corridor to Henry's office. He opened the door before she had the chance to knock, his suitcase over his shoulder.

Grinning, he said, "Yes, ma'am? Can I help you?"

Eleanor grinned back. "Does your offer still stand?"

An hour later, they sat at "Come a Casa". Henry had offered Eleanor to pick the place, and quite naturally she had chosen the one she felt the most comfortable at. "Just like home" wasn't just the osteria's name, it was an attitude. It was family-run, opened almost four decades ago in the oldest building on the entire street. The lovingly restored whitewashed stone walls were flecked with vines and weather-beaten teal shutters. Inside, the seating area was decorated with rustic lamps, the tables laid with hand-sewn tablecloths. The vaulted arch made the place feel spacious, yet it created some nooks were you could enjoy a little more privacy.

"I'm surprised the tourists don't beat a path down their door," Henry mused, closely inspecting the atmosphere. "It looks like the perfect setting for a mafia movie."

"Sorry to disappoint you, no dark deeds are done in this place," Eleanor contradicted, her eyes on the specials menu. The zucchini flower risotto sounded delicious. "I'm a regular, like many others who come here, and I doubt that Francesca and Raffaele pay anybody for protection. They don't need it."

"What makes you so sure?" the rooster asked. The female rat just grinned, since then – as if on cue – four boisterous little rodent children stormed past their table. They ran towards the waiter, a tall mouse man with dark curly hair, and climbed him left, right and center.

"This makes me sure." Eleanor's smile grew even wider as she saw Henry's confused stare. The waiter made it to their table, the giggling pack of kids clinging to him like burs.

"Buona sera, my fiends," he said. A pair of tiny hands was trying to cover his eyes. He peeked through them. "What can I get you?"

Eleanor smiled. "Buona sera, Raffaele." She waved at the children. "Hey everyone!"

"We are Daddy's assistants!" one of the girls crowed. She was the spitting image of her father.

"Is that so?" Raffaele asked, chuckling. "Okay then, Fabiola, would you give me my notepad and pen so I can take the orders of Eleanor and …?"

"Henry," the rooster introduced himself. Fabiola, who sat on her father's hip, did as she was told before grabbing for her younger sister, who was hiding behind Raffaele's back. Meanwhile, the two boys were playing skipping rope with his tail. He calmly wrote down his guests' orders and went back to the counter, his kids in tow.

"That was impressive," Henry stated, still gazing after the family. Despite their frisky nature, the children were definitely helpful, just like Fabiola had said. She was passing on their orders to the kitchen, yelling loudly in Italian, while the other three helped their father prepare the drinks and appetizers. They were then brought to the table by a sturdy woman, who beamed when they saw them.

"Eleanor!" She kissed the rat woman's cheeks. "I haven't seen you in a while."

"It's good to see you again, Francesca. I had a lot on my plate lately."

"That's no excuse." Francesca pouted as she put down their Pinot Grigio and a small platter of antipasti. She observed Eleanor's sheepish smile and nodded towards Henry. "Is he the 'lot' on your plate?"

The rooster instantly blushed and Eleanor shook her head, chortling. "No, he's a friend and a colleague. This is Henry."

"Nice to meet you, Henry!" Francesca gave him a firm handshake, then pointed at Eleanor. "Treat her well. And by that I mean treat her to dessert."

"Gotcha." He gulped.

The female mouse nodded, obviously contented, and left. Once again, Henry was speechless, and Eleanor was sure that Francesca had just won his heart.

They clinked glasses and delved into deep conversation quickly. Eleanor was glad that she had accepted his invitation at last; Henry was good company and a great conversationalist. Their topics bounced back and forth, from vacation plans to politics to the newest movies, and only briefly touched work – which she was thankful for.

Their main courses arrived and Eleanor closed her notebook. Henry had given her the address of the coffee roasters he repeatedly raved about. In her attempt to stow the book away, her briefcase slipped to the floor, its contents scattering everywhere. He helped her pick up the clutter.

"What's this?" Henry held up an envelope. "St. Canard High School?"

"Oh." Eleanor stopped in mid-movement. She thought she had gotten rid of that thing."That's the invitation to my high school reunion."

"Your reunion?" The rooster sat back on his chair. "Boy, how exciting! I loved going to mine! Everyone got drunk, praised each other to the skies just to gossip about you once you turned. Me included." He beamed. "Are you going?"

Eleanor straightened up and arched her eyebrows. "I don't know."

"Sounds like I should go instead of you. I'd certainly love to!"

"I know you would." Smiling weakly, she took the envelope from his hands. "Never mind. I don't have many fond memories of my schooldays."

"Why is that so?" He looked concerned, picking up his fork and knife.

"You just summarized it perfectly. Lots of bad blood." She shrugged. "I just don't feel like seeing all those faces again. Even though it's been fifteen years, I don't think a lot has actually changed."

"You can just ignore them. Come on, you're a lawyer, you know how to let things roll off your shoulder."

Eleanor carefully chewed the rice in her mouth, thinking. She slowly shook her head. "This is more complicated than you think. You didn't know me back then."

"True." Henry took a sip of his wine. "Is there really no one you could go along with?"

Silence fell. The room felt smaller than before, the voices surrounding her too loud, the air too thick.

"Eleanor?"

She took a deep breath. "Well, there … was someone."

"Was?"

"Elmo. My best friend." Eleanor looked up at Henry. "My only friend, I should say. A really kind boy. He had a heart of gold and a lot of innovative theories that he wanted to share with the world."

"Well, that sounds promising!" The rooster nodded. "Why don't you ask him?"

"He's missing." The female rat swallowed a forkful of risotto to weigh down the uncomfortable feeling in her throat. "Since graduation day. He never accepted his diploma. We had plans to go to the prom together, but he never picked me up."

"Wow, that's …" Henry lowered his cutlery upon seeing his colleague's crestfallen expression. "I'm so sorry."

Eleanor didn't respond, feeling unable to meet his eyes any more. She knew that he meant it, yet it was a painful reminder of what wasn't. Halfheartedly, she picked up some zucchini pieces with no intention of eating them. "I never told him how much he really meant to me. I wanted to, on prom night, but it was too late. I was such a coward." Eleanor put down her fork, her appetite gone. She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. "Elmo got bullied. We both did. Our senior year was terrible, but we found a friend in each other. He was always there for me, said all the right things at the right time. I never felt happier in my entire life. And then …"

When Elmo vanished off the face of the earth, her world came crashing down, leaving her with nothing but the agonizing pain of trying to figure out the why. And while she never found an answer, her brain created a pattern. It painted a spurious map based on her experiences and presented it to her whenever she was about to form a bond with someone. Every connection she made was as delicate as spider silk, and so she stayed in the safe center and only ventured out when she felt absolutely safe. Apart from a few friends, Eleanor was alone, always alone. Her map was a list of failures, her compass aligned to loss. And it was all her fault.

She said no more. Immersed in her memories, she neither noticed the crumpled napkin in her clenched fist nor Henry's hand on hers. It wasn't until he spoke that she became aware again of where she was.

"Eleanor … don't you think you should let go? After fifteen years?"

In all this time, no one had ever posed the question so directly. The finality of it intimidated her. "I know. I've been trying to tell myself that I should. But I can't."

"You love him." It wasn't a question, it was an ascertainment. No assessment, just the plain fact.

"Yes," Eleanor whispered. "So much."

The tablecloth was wet. Absentmindedly, she touched her cheek and quickly dried it with her napkin before excusing herself.

Henry watched her disappear through the front door, the glimpse of his colleague's vulnerable side still present at the table like a tangible thing. From across the room, Francesca stared defiantly at him. He gestured that Eleanor would be okay, but she still looked unconvinced. The next time she passed their table, she dropped something in front of him in passing. It was the dessert menu.

Outside, Eleanor settled on a bench in the small park across the street. She could hear the people sitting outside the osteria, their chattering and laughter. It was still warm, but the night was already making its presence known with a refreshing breeze. From here, she could see her balcony, the dark windows against the sunset.

That darned invitation. Eleanor should have thrown it away the moment she had spotted it in her mailbox. She had nothing to gain from the reunion. Then what had she hoped for? His name among the members of the reunion committee? An incentive to go after all, to find him there, waiting for her?

Henry was right. She was holding on to a memory. Her apartment was a museum of remembrance, Elmo lived in it without ever coming home. Although never making this a conscious decision, Eleanor had granted him a permanent place in her life and carved its way in stone. She had surrendered to her fate, whatever it brought in its wake.

It was time to go back. She wanted the evening to end on good terms. Yet still a fragment of a thought rose from her subconsciousness, two lines of one of her favorite songs that could not have been more perfect to describe her situation.

The history book on the shelf

Is always repeating itself.

You know when. Friday night, 11 pm.

You know where. Warehouse no. 14 a, subbasement no. 2, room no. 37.

They all knew that. Even Megavolt could remember without straining his memory too much. Yet it was always Negaduck they were waiting for.

Because of course they would.

As usual, the four of them had their specific ways to kill time. Quackerjack lounged on the only semi-comfortable seating accommodation, a velvet armchair that was actually Negaduck's. One leg lazily dangling from the cushion, he was busy breaking his personal paddle ball record. The persistent pop-pop-pop of the ball unnerved Megavolt, and so he tried to focus on the other members of the group. As usual, he kept his distance from the Liquidator, whose body made of water posed a considerable threat to the rodent. Instead, he approached Bushroot. Half duck and half plant, the mutant was more of a listener and thinker than his conversational partner, who loved to hear himself talk.

"Experts say that the water quality in St. Canard is excellent – a 9.5 out of 10 according to latest surveys," the canine was currently saying, reveling in Bushroot's attention.

The plant mutant nodded, not daring to interrupt the monologue as he explained to Megavolt behind a leafy hand, " He's telling me about his latest scheme to claim back the monopoly on bottled water."

A watery wagging finger appeared between them. "It's rude to whisper!"

The gesture sent Megavolt a step back, yelping."Watch what you're doing!" he snapped, brushing an invisible drop of water from his suit. "Bushroot was just translating your gibberish."

"No need to be jumpy," the Liquidator retorted grimly, followed by roaring laughter from the other side of the room.

"Jumpy!" Quackerjack snorted, dropping his toy. "I guess you just earned yourself a new nickname!" He pointed at Megavolt's jumpsuit.

The rat stared at the two villains, now both cackling. He grumbled, but was stopped by Bushroot's hand on his shoulder before he could hurl a sizzling answer at either of them.

"Let's not escalate this further," the plant mutant asked him. "Are you okay, though? You do seem somewhat agitated, if I may say so."

The sparks on Megavolt's finger died. "It's nothing," he lied, clenching his fists.

"Oh, too bad, now I lost count," Quackerjack pouted and reached for the paddle, but he had no chance to start another run. The armchair bucked him off like a horse. Now it was Megavolt's turn to giggle, but he started choking on it seconds later when Negaduck's face appeared behind the velvet.

"If I ever catch your behind on my armchair again, or anybody else's, you knobs will wish you'd never been born." His voice was as smooth as the fabric when he flopped into the armchair instead. His eyes, however, glistened with malice as he eyed each and every one of the other villains. "I would've expected a more exuberant welcome."

"Um … yay?" Quackerjack beeped from the stack of crates where he had landed.

Their leader just snorted at that.

At last, Bushroot took a tentative step forward. "Well, we've been eagerly anticipating your arrival. We had already wondered what kept you so long."

"Important things, as I already told you," Negaduck drawled. He picked at his teeth, withdrawing something they couldn't see. "Well, at least you kept the city busy while I was not around. That way, I could refine my plan without interruption."

It wasn't entirely clear, Megavolt thought, whether he meant Darkwing Duck or the other members of the Fearsome Five by that – or both. And aloud, he said, "Well, you've gathered us now. What is the plan?"

Straightening himself, the masked mallard showed them a wicked grin. "We'll take over St. Canard."

The others remained silent. They had already tried that, hadn't they? Each of them had their respective experiences, not to mention their collective defeat after their run-in with the Justice Ducks.

Negaduck seemed to know what they were thinking. "Don't fret, boys, my plot is a stroke of genius – and idiotproof! You won't mess it up this time."

Again, Megavolt found himself clenching his fists. "Oh yeah? Could you, by any chance, be a bit more precise?"

The room went silent, all heads turning towards him. The rat swallowed hard, already regretting his brash demand. He shrank in his spot as Negaduck smoothly slipped from the armchair and strode over to him.

"I'm glad you're asking, Sparky." Hot, rotten breath brushed Megavolt's face, but he didn't back away. "Because you're the one who sets the ball rolling."