Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Despite living there her whole life; Gosalyn always preferred St. Canard at night than during the day. The city lights stood out more, the colors were deeper and more vibrant, like neon in a way. The city felt more alive, more lived in, more freeing in the cover of the night sky and silver moonlight. The sun was way too bright, too exposing, too many ways for others to notice her. To see her face.

She kept her purple hood up, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her green jacket with the calm slyness of someone who’s got too many secrets and too much “spirit”. Ugh. She hated that word sometimes.

Her grandfather used it to explain why she was passionate about obviously unjust things. Teachers would say it during meetings, all because she wanted respect. Taurus Bulba used it to talk about how interested she was in weapon mechanics, mainly her crossbow.

Drake never called her that. Reckless? Sure. But never Spirited. He understood what it was like to not be listened to at her age, both him and Launchpad did, and it was kinda sweet, in a way.

She adjusted the strap of her gear bag, her hockey stick poking out from it. Buried underneath her gear, her skates and her guards was her collapsible crossbow and a few rounds of bolts. Just in case. She was crime fighting alongside Darkwing Duck! You could never be too prepared!

Sure, no one knew her identity, but still!

The daytime made her too anxious, if she was honest. Sure the streets were rain slicked and the skies were dark with clouds, but it still felt too bright. Her red hair feathers showed even out of the hood, mainly her bangs, and she scowled at the obvious signs of her existence to the world.

She sighed, saw the skating rink in the distance, and chose to just go ahead and endure the exposure as she pushed open the door, feeling the rush of the ice cold air conditioning hit her face. She breathed in, feeling a little at ease as she moved towards the locker rooms they typically used during practice.

Finally, she tugged down her hood, fully exposing her red feathers and the choppy ponytail she typically pulled them into. Plopping her gear bag onto the bench beside her, she unzipped her green jacket and threw off her purple hoodie, showing the long sleeve purple shirt with her hockey number on it.

The rink was mostly empty this late at night—just the faint buzz of the overhead lights and the low hum of the cooling system beneath the ice. Her skates carved the surface with crisp, practiced precision, each push and turn slicing through the cold air like punctuation marks in a language only she spoke.

She didn’t need music. The rhythm was already in her head: the scrape, the glide, the sharp stop and pivot. The cold bit at her feathers and she welcomed it, something real and honest against the heat curling in her chest.

She was fine.

She was.

She skated faster.

Each lap blurred into the next, until she was nothing but motion—purple and green streaking against white. Her breath came in short bursts, fogging the air before vanishing like everything else that did.

She hated how quiet her brain got when she was out here. Because when the noise faded, the thoughts came creeping back in.

Drake’s worried frown when she stayed out too late.
Launchpad’s half-panicked, half-relieved grin when she walked through the door like nothing happened.
The way both of them hovered—awkward, protective, like they didn’t quite know what to be to her but couldn’t help trying anyway.

And she hated that it worked.

She didn’t want to think of them like that. Didn’t want that soft, dangerous word sitting in the back of her throat like a live grenade: Dad.

She had one of those already.
Once.

He’d left when she was seven. Didn’t even leave a note, just… gone. Her mom held everything together until she couldn’t, and Gosalyn learned real fast that “family” was a thing you had to fight to keep—and sometimes you still lost.

Then Grandpa disappeared too. Another mission, another experiment gone wrong, another dimension swallowing up the only family she had left.

Gee, thanks, Bulba. Real solid move.
Way to orphan your goddaughter and leave her with a duck in purple spandex.

She slammed the puck against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot across the empty rink.

“Not mad,” she muttered, even though she was. “Not mad, not mad, not—”

The next shot cracked against the boards so hard it bounced back toward her, and she let it. The impact rattled her stick, her shoulders, her bones, and somehow it still wasn’t enough.

She skated again, circling the rink faster this time, eyes stinging from the wind.

Drake would probably say she was overdoing it. LP would bring her a smoothie and tell her to “take a load off, kiddo.” Both would look at her like she was something fragile.

And that was the part that scared her most.

Because a part of her—one she didn’t want to name—liked that.

She caught the puck again, slower now, her chest heaving. Her reflection in the glass looked smaller than she expected. A blur of motion, exhaustion, and something she didn’t recognize staring back.

She didn’t know if it was relief or guilt that made her whisper,

“I don’t need another dad.”

Her voice cracked anyway.

The echo didn’t argue.

The sound of skates scraping against ice echoed through the empty rink—sharp, rhythmic, and just a little too aggressive. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered occasionally, making the whole place feel like it couldn’t quite decide whether to stay awake or shut down for the night. Gosalyn didn’t care. The rink was hers right now—hers and the biting cold, the puck clattering against the boards, and the ache in her legs that meant she didn’t have to think.

She sped up, slicing through the ice with brutal precision, her stick snapping forward in clean arcs. The puck slammed into the boards and rebounded—she caught it again, pivoted, swung harder. The noise cracked like thunder through the emptiness. Her breath came out in short, visible bursts. The burn in her chest felt good. Familiar. Easier than feelings.

She muttered under her breath, “Come on. Just one more.”

Then another. And another.

The next hit was so loud it rattled the glass.

“Gosalyn Waddlemeyer!”

Her whole body tensed at the sound of her full name—sharp, incredulous, parental.

“Seriously?” she groaned, spinning around to see Drake Mallard standing at the edge of the rink. No mask, no cape, no dramatic purple flourish—just a dad in a button-up shirt, sneakers, and that look. The one that meant busted.

He had his hands on his hips, one eyebrow raised, looking every bit the exasperated father trying to wrangle his feral daughter out of a caffeine-fueled meltdown.

“Please,” he said, gesturing wildly toward the ice. “Please stop trying to destroy city property! I don’t want to explain to the Parks Department why there’s a you-shaped hole in the boards again!”

Gosalyn scowled, pulling her stick close. “Ugh! Drake!”

“Don’t you ‘Ugh, Drake’ me, young lady! Do you know how many voicemails I’ve gotten from your coach this week?”

“…Two?”

“Five!” he snapped. “And three from your teachers, one from the principal, and one from Launchpad that just said ‘Oops, my bad.’”

She groaned loudly, dragging her skates along the ice as she glided closer to him. “What’s he doing telling on me?! I thought LP was on my side!”

“He is! That’s the problem! You keep sending him to the parent meetings instead of me!”

Her eyes widened in mock offense. “Well maybe if you weren’t too busy with your double life,” she said, flapping one hand in air quotes, “you could actually go!”

Drake threw up his hands. “You’re lucky the teachers think he’s your uncle! Do you have any idea how confusing it is when he shows up and starts talking about how proud he is of your ‘crime-fighting potential’?”

Gosalyn barked a laugh. “What, he’s not wrong!”

“That’s not the point! They think we’re insane!”

“They’re not wrong either.”

He gave her a look. “Gosalyn.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Nerds. You and Launchpad are both total Darkwing Duck nerds. You realize that, right?”

Drake crossed his arms, looking personally offended. “Excuse me, I am not a nerd.”

“Drake, you literally have framed autographs from a fictional superhero.”

“Historical memorabilia!”

“You quote him during dinner!”

“His lines are iconic!”

“NERD!”

He sputtered for a second, then pointed dramatically. “I’m your guardian, you can’t call me a nerd!”

“Watch me!”

There was a pause—then, despite herself, she started to laugh. Loud, real, the kind of laugh that cracked through her tough exterior and echoed around the empty rink. Drake relaxed instantly, shoulders dropping as he smiled.

“Feel better?” he asked softly.

She stopped skating, standing there in the middle of the rink, her stick resting against her shoulder. For a moment, the anger melted away, replaced by something quieter—something that made her chest ache.

“Yeah,” she said finally, voice small but steady. “A little.”

He nodded, hands slipping into his pockets as he stepped closer to the barrier. “Good. Next time you need to blow off steam, maybe try a punching bag instead of city property, huh?”

She snorted. “No promises.”

“I’ll take it,” he said with a sigh, then smirked. “Come on, kiddo. Launchpad’s waiting in the car. He bought donuts.”

Her eyes flicked up, lips twitching. “Chocolate-glazed?”

“Obviously. He’s terrified of disappointing you.”

She grinned and started skating toward the exit, slowing down just long enough to glance at him. “Hey, Drake?”

“Yeah?”

“…You’re still a nerd.”

He let out a long, resigned sigh. “Yeah. I know.”

She laughed again—lighter this time—as she stepped off the ice, her skates clicking against the tile. Drake held the door open for her, shaking his head, muttering something about “parenthood not being in the superhero manual.”

But the smile stayed.

Because for all her wild energy, sharp retorts, and “ugh, Drake” attitude—she was his kid. And honestly? He wouldn’t have her any other way.

Chapter Text

The next morning came way too soon.

Drake’s car rattled a little as it pulled up to the curb outside St. Canard High, the radio humming with faint static because the cassette player had eaten yet another mix tape. Gosalyn sat slouched in the passenger seat, hoodie half-zipped, earbuds dangling around her neck. Her skates were jammed halfway out of her backpack—because of course they were—and the faint scent of hockey gear lingered even with the windows cracked open.

Drake leaned forward slightly, squinting through the windshield at the chaos of morning drop-off. Kids crossing at the last second, parents honking, teachers waving traffic along like exhausted air-traffic controllers.

He cleared his throat. “Alright, kiddo. New day. Fresh start. Let’s maybe try not to cause an international incident before homeroom, yeah?”

Gosalyn grinned, already reaching for the door handle. “No promises.”

He gave her the look—equal parts stern and fond. “I mean it, Gosalyn. Please don’t shoot anyone.”

She froze halfway out the door, one foot on the pavement. “That’s your version of ‘make good choices,’ isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Works better than when I say ‘be safe.’ You never listen to that one.”

“Yeah, because it’s boring,” she shot back, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. “You gotta work on your motivational speeches, Drake. You’re losing your touch.”

“Hey! I am renowned for my speeches.”

“Sure you are.” She smirked, already backing away. “Now go hang out with your boyfriend. Later, Drake!”

His jaw dropped. “Launchpad is not my boyfriend!”

But she was already halfway across the courtyard, calling over her shoulder, “Tell him that! He made you matching keychains!”

“I—They’re souvenir keychains!” Drake sputtered, hands flailing. “We fought a robot vulture! It was a bonding experience!”

Gosalyn laughed all the way to the front steps. She was still grinning when she realized—oh no—the bell was about to ring.

“Crap, crap, crap—”

She bolted through the double doors, weaving between clusters of students like she was in a combat simulation. The hallways of St. Canard High were a battlefield all their own: backpacks swinging like wrecking balls, kids standing right in the middle of the corridor like they had nowhere else to exist.

“MOVE!” she barked, dodging around a trio of gossiping girls who jumped as she darted past. “Why are hallways so freakin’ tiny?!”

Someone yelled, “Watch it, Waddlemeyer!”

“Tell your face to watch it!” she yelled back, leaping over a dropped notebook like it was an obstacle course.

Her sneakers squeaked on the tile as she slid into her locker, snatched the right textbook (probably), and slammed it shut in one smooth motion. The bell rang a split second later. She grinned to herself—made it.

Barely.

Out in the parking lot, Drake watched through the windshield as she disappeared into the crowd. His hand hovered over the car key for a second before he sighed and smiled to himself.

“‘Go hang out with your boyfriend,’” he muttered. “She’s lucky she’s cute.”

Then his phone buzzed.

[Launchpad: ☺️ hey drake! you wanna grab coffee before patrol?? i got the new foam duck caps!!! ☕️🦆💜]

Drake groaned, dropped his forehead against the steering wheel, and muttered, “…Everyone in this city is determined to ruin my reputation.”

But he texted back sure anyway.

Because, well—he’d earned that coffee. And honestly, Gosalyn wasn’t the only one who needed to blow off a little steam.

~~~

Gosalyn practically crashed through the door the second the late bell finished ringing. She skidded across the floor like she’d just executed a perfect hockey stop—backpack swinging, sneakers squealing, heart pounding like a war drum.

The teacher barely glanced up. “Ms. Waddlemeyer.”

“Yup! Present! Existing! Totally punctual!” Gosalyn chirped, already tiptoeing toward her usual refuge—the back row.

“Take your seat, please,” came the tired reply.

She did, slinking low like a spy on a stealth mission. The move would’ve been flawless if not for the open desk leg that she whacked her knee on halfway through sitting.

“Ow—ow ow ow—totally fine, nothing happened,” she muttered, rubbing at it furiously before sinking into her chair like maybe, just maybe, she could melt into the floor.

The back of the classroom was her territory: quiet, unseen, blissfully detached from the chatter of everyone else who’d actually slept last night. She slumped against her seat, hood tugged up, eyes half-lidded. School was… well, school. Bland, repetitive, and absolutely nothing compared to rooftop chases and crossbow practice.

She dropped her bag onto the floor with a thud and finally glanced to her side—where the seat next to her had always been empty.

Except today, it wasn’t.

She froze.

Sitting there, cross-legged and perfectly calm, was someone new.

An avian like her—hummingbird, maybe, judging by the sleek shape of her beak and the faint hum of energy in the way she tapped her pencil against the desk. Her feathers were a pale, soft violet, but her hair—if feathers could count as hair—was a deep, curling indigo, the kind that caught light like ink on water. She had bright amber eyes, sharp and alive, framed by glasses she clearly didn’t need to see through someone as easily as she did Gosalyn.

She was the prettiest thing Gosalyn had ever seen.

“Oh no,” Gosalyn whispered under her breath before she could stop herself.

The hummingbird turned her head just slightly, curious. “What?”

“Uh—uh, nothing!” Gosalyn blurted, nearly choking on her own voice. “Just, uh, allergies!”

A small smile curved across the girl’s beak. “It’s November.”

“Yeah, uh—fall pollen. Evil stuff.”

The other girl tilted her head, studying her like a scientist examining a particularly chaotic specimen. “You’re Gosalyn, right?”

Gosalyn blinked. “You don’t know my name?”

The hummingbird chuckled softly. It wasn’t mean—it was smooth, low, the kind of laugh that felt like warm honey poured over glass. “No, I know your name. I just wanted to make sure you knew your name.”

Gosalyn stared blankly for a moment before realizing her brain had fully short-circuited. She’d hit her head sneaking in earlier, hadn’t she? Yup. That explained everything.

“R-right. Yeah. Uh. Gosalyn. Gosalyn Waddlemeyer,” she stammered, trying very hard not to trip over her own words or existence.

The hummingbird nodded approvingly. “Good. I’d hate to have to reintroduce you to yourself.”

There was that voice again—measured, melodic, like every syllable had been weighed and chosen before being spoken. It made Gosalyn’s feathers fluff involuntarily.

The girl held out a hand, her smile polite but her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Violet Sabrewing.”

Gosalyn’s brain did a full reboot. Violet. Her name was Violet.

She took the offered hand, her grip just a bit too firm, because of course she overcompensated. “Nice to—uh—meet you.”

“Likewise, Ms. Waddlemeyer,” Violet said, that teasing lilt back in her voice. “And next time, you might consider arriving without bodily injury.”

Gosalyn felt her face burn. “Yeah, well—doors are tricky, okay?”

“Mm.” Violet’s smirk widened ever so slightly. “Apparently.”

The teacher droned on about equations and syllabi, but Gosalyn didn’t hear a word. She was too busy trying to figure out if her heart had always been this loud, or if it was just trying to get Violet Sabrewing’s attention.

Somewhere in the middle of that thought, Violet quietly slid a sticky note across the desk.

In perfect handwriting, it read:

“Next time you sneak in, use the side door. Less risk of head trauma.”

Gosalyn grinned before she could stop herself.
Yeah.
She was doomed.

Gosalyn slouched in her chair, still trying to look casual, still trying not to stare at the indigo-haired hummingbird next to her. The teacher’s voice had already faded into the usual background noise of droning syllables and clicking chalk, which left her brain plenty of room to spiral.

After a few long minutes of pretending to doodle, she finally leaned sideways, keeping her voice low. “So,” she started, “never seen you before now. You new or something?”

Violet didn’t even look up from her notebook as she replied. “Technically, yes. This was the only school that would take me considering my…connections.”

That got Gosalyn’s attention. She turned her head, squinting a little. “Connections? Like, mafia-style or witness-protection style?”

Violet glanced up then, amber eyes glinting with amusement. “Neither, thankfully. Merely complicated family politics. My fathers are still looking for one that will take my sister.”

“Your sister?” Gosalyn blinked. “Why wouldn’t they take her?”

Violet hesitated—not out of secrecy, but like she was searching for the right phrasing. “She’s a… unique case,” she said finally, lowering her voice just enough that only Gosalyn could hear. “We adopted her almost six months ago. I dragged her into our home and informed my fathers—Tyrian and Indigo—that I’d acquired an older sister after being denied a younger one.”

Gosalyn stared at her for a moment, trying to process that sentence in order. “Wait. Hold up. You adopted her?”

“Mm-hmm.” Violet’s tone was as calm as if she’d said she’d picked up a new book. “She needed a family. I needed someone who could keep up. It seemed mutually beneficial.”

Gosalyn tilted her head, a small, crooked grin creeping across her beak. “You just… dragged a random person home and said, ‘Congrats, you’re family now’?”

Violet adjusted her glasses, lips twitching. “Essentially, yes.”

“That’s—” Gosalyn bit back a laugh, shaking her head. “That’s awesome. What’d your dads say?”

“One asked if she was house-trained,” Violet replied dryly. “The other started making tea before I’d finished my sentence. They’ve since resigned themselves to the chaos.”

“Sounds like good guys.”

“They are,” Violet said, softer now. “They don’t always understand the way I do things, but they never stop me from doing them.”

Something in the way she said that made Gosalyn’s grin falter just slightly—some tiny flicker of recognition sparking behind her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Sounds familiar.”

Violet turned to look at her, curious, but Gosalyn just leaned back in her chair again, twirling her pencil between her fingers like none of it mattered.

“So what’s your sister like?” she asked after a beat.

A faint smile ghosted across Violet’s beak. “Brilliant. Moody. Rebellious. Terribly bad at pretending she’s not good.”

Gosalyn laughed under her breath. “Sounds like someone I’d get along with.”

“I’m quite sure she’d say the same,” Violet replied, eyes flicking back to her notes.

The bell rang a moment later, loud and shrill. Students began to shuffle out, chairs scraping against tile.

Gosalyn should’ve stood up first—she always did—but this time she lingered just a second longer, eyes trailing after the hummingbird who was tucking her books neatly into her bag.

Violet Sabrewing. Weird. Smart. Way too composed for this place.

And—if Gosalyn was being honest—kind of fascinating.

“Hey,” Gosalyn called as Violet stepped into the aisle. “If your sister’s anything like you, tell your dads to pick this school for her too.”

Violet looked over her shoulder, that same small, knowing smile returning. “If she does, Ms. Waddlemeyer, I suspect you’ll regret it.”

“Doubt it.” Gosalyn smirked. “I like a challenge.”

Violet’s laugh was light and short—just enough to hang in the air between them. “I have no doubt.”

And just like that, she was gone down the hallway, leaving Gosalyn sitting there, wondering why her heart felt like it had just joined a roller coaster it hadn’t agreed to board.

The hallway was a warzone.

Students spilled out of every doorway, bumping shoulders, shouting greetings, slamming lockers like they were trying to summon demons. Gosalyn shoved through the crowd with the precision of a soldier who’d seen too many battles—head down, backpack half open, earbuds dangling around her neck as she muttered, “Move. Move. MOVE.”

And then, the universe decided to remind her that karma was real.

WHAM!

She slammed straight into what felt like a solid wall. Except walls didn’t grunt and smell like overused gym socks and bad cologne.

“Oh, come on,” she groaned, rubbing her forehead.

The “wall” looked down at her. Or rather, smirked down at her.

Tank Muddlefoot.

St. Canard High’s reigning heavyweight of arrogance, owner of approximately three working brain cells and the loudest laugh this side of Duckburg. His wings were crossed over his broad chest, football jersey half untucked, and his smug grin said everything she didn’t want to hear.

“Watch it, Waddlemeyer,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake superiority. “Didn’t see you down there.”

Gosalyn squinted up at him, unimpressed. “That’s ‘cause you never look down unless there’s food involved.”

A couple of kids nearby snorted. Tank’s smile tightened. “You got a big mouth for someone half my size.”

“Yeah? And you’ve got a small brain for someone twice mine,” she shot back, stepping around him—only for him to shift in her way again.

“Oh no you don’t,” Tank said, puffing up his chest like he thought he was intimidating. “Heard you got benched from the last hockey scrimmage. Guess all that talk about being ‘the best’ was just that—talk.”

She clenched her jaw, feathers bristling. Oh, I could deck this guy right now. Just one swing—

“Tank!”

The familiar voice cut through the noise like a blessing from above.

Both of them turned.

Rounding the corner at full nerd-speed, clutching a stack of books so tall it was practically a hazard, was Honker Muddlefoot.

Her best friend. Her partner in crime. Her human (well, duck) encyclopedia. The only person on earth who could keep her from doing something stupid.

He was still short—but maybe, just maybe, slightly less short than last semester.

“Honker!” Gosalyn grinned so hard it almost hurt. “My nerd! You grew!”

His beak turned pink as he adjusted his glasses. “Only—only a centimeter.”

“Still counts! You’re almost at average duckling height!”

Tank groaned. “You two are so weird.”

“Aw, what’s wrong?” Gosalyn said sweetly. “Jealous that your little brother’s brain-to-height ratio is finally overtaking yours?”

Honker winced. “Gos—maybe don’t—”

“Too late, already said it,” she replied, giving Tank her most infuriating grin.

Tank rolled his eyes, muttered something about “nerds and lost causes,” and stormed off down the hall, muttering about football practice and “how this school’s gone downhill.”

Gosalyn turned to Honker with a proud little smirk. “See? You show up, and boom—problem solved. You’re like a nerd-shaped good luck charm.”

Honker adjusted his glasses again, trying not to smile. “You really shouldn’t antagonize him.”

“I didn’t antagonize him,” she said innocently. “I won.”

He sighed the sigh of someone who’d had this conversation far too many times. “You’re going to get detention again, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Yup,” she said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “But at least I’ve got you to remind me when I am.”

He chuckled quietly as they walked down the hall together, her stride full of swagger, his full of careful steps to avoid dropping his books.

And just like that, for the first time that morning, Gosalyn Waddlemeyer felt like her day might actually turn out okay.

Chapter Text

The lunchroom was chaos. Forks clattered, trays slammed, and someone’s milk carton had already exploded in a tragic splash zone near the vending machines. Gosalyn didn’t even flinch. She’d seen worse in combat drills with Darkwing.

She balanced her tray—pizza, apple, something suspiciously gray—and slipped through the noise like she was infiltrating enemy lines. The tables were packed, clusters of laughing, shouting kids huddled together in the social hierarchy of doom.

All except one table.

The table.

The long one near the windows that everyone else avoided like it was cursed. Which, technically, it was—at least if you believed the rumors. Gosalyn Waddlemeyer and Honker Muddlefoot sat there. Every. Single. Day.

She’d never really understood why. They weren’t contagious. Sure, they’d blown up a few chemistry sets and once short-circuited the cafeteria lights, but come on. That had been educational.

She slid into her usual seat, dropping her tray with a clatter. Honker was already there, neatly arranging his food by color and nutritional value like a little duck-shaped scientist.

“Okay, Honks,” she said, leaning on her elbows, “explain to me again why everyone’s scared of us.”

He didn’t even look up from his juice box. “Statistically speaking, people tend to avoid individuals associated with chaos and combustible materials.”

“I didn’t ask for a lab report, I asked for an answer.”

“That is the answer.”

She groaned, picking up her pizza. “Ugh. Nerd logic.”

They were halfway through their usual back-and-forth when a soft voice floated down the table.

“Perhaps,” it said, “it’s because their brains are underdeveloped. Intelligence frightens them.”

Both of them turned.

At the very end of the table, in the corner by the window, sat Violet Sabrewing.

The sunlight hit her feathers just right—soft indigo hair curling around her face, violet down glowing faintly in the light, amber eyes sharp and cool like honey in a glass jar. She was sitting perfectly straight, eating a salad with surgical precision, like she was in a five-star restaurant instead of the fluorescent cafeteria of despair.

Gosalyn blinked. Once. Twice. Then forgot how to blink at all.

“Oh,” she said dumbly.

“Oh?” Honker asked, squinting at her.

“Uh—I mean, oh! Yeah! That makes sense!” she blurted, pretending she hadn’t just momentarily forgotten the entire English language.

Honker adjusted his glasses and leaned forward slightly. “And you’re a fellow intellectual, I take it?”

“Of course,” Violet replied, setting down her fork. “I’m merely forced to attend this place via legal requirements. And because Father deems it ‘beneficial’ that I partake in social interaction.”

Her voice was calm, smooth—every word placed like it had been rehearsed.

She took another delicate bite before adding, “Despite already having friends.”

Gosalyn tilted her head, curiosity overtaking her nerves. “So, where are they?”

“They have the privilege of being homeschooled,” Violet said evenly. “Due to their own…connections. And to prevent harm from happening to them.”

There was something faintly wistful in the way she said it. Something that made Gosalyn’s chest twist.

“They’re very,” Violet added with a knowing smirk, “attracted to trouble.”

Gosalyn barked a small laugh. “Heh. I know that feeling.”

Violet’s eyes flicked toward her, amused. “You do?”

Honker sighed. “She gets in trouble, I drag her out of the trouble. Success varies between the day.”

“That’s… accurate,” Gosalyn admitted with a grin.

Violet looked between them, the faintest smile curling at the edge of her beak. “Fascinating. I suppose I’ll have to observe this dynamic for myself.”

Gosalyn blinked. “Wait—observe, like… as in hang out with us?”

“Is that not what people of our age are supposed to do during these intervals?”

“Lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Gosalyn looked at Honker, who was already giving her that oh no, you’re gonna like this girl, aren’t you look.

Violet gracefully slid her tray closer.

Gosalyn’s heart did a weird flutter thing she refused to acknowledge.

“Cool,” she said, forcing casual. “Yeah, sure. Welcome to the misfit table.”

Violet smirked. “Thank you, Ms. Waddlemeyer. I do believe this will be… enlightening.”

Honker groaned softly, head in his hands. “We’re doomed.”

Gosalyn just grinned. “Nah. We’re upgraded.”

The cafeteria was its usual storm of noise—forks clattering, trays dropping, kids laughing too loud at jokes that weren’t funny. But at the far end of the room, the chaos barely touched the small corner table where two odd ducks (and one hummingbird) had built a quiet little island of their own.

Gosalyn balanced a hockey stick across her knees while stabbing at her fries with the focus of a sniper. “So,” she said, glancing at Violet across the table, “how goes the ‘Get Your Sister to Go Here Too’ plot?”

Violet, as always, sat with perfect posture, salad untouched for the moment. “Not well,” she admitted, tone calm but faintly exasperated. “They required a meeting with my fathers and my sister, and she made it… rather difficult for them once she learned what the accommodations would be like.”

Gosalyn tilted her head. “Difficult how?”

“She,” Violet began delicately, “has a tendency to reject authority. Especially when it involves rules she finds unreasonable. The uniform code, for instance. Or the concept of supervision.”

“Ah,” Gosalyn said, smirking. “So she’s awesome.”

Violet’s beak twitched upward in a tiny smile. “That is one word for it. My father Tyrian was quite upset, however. He has been… protective lately. Overly so.” She paused, glancing briefly at her untouched food. “They were both concerned about potential threats to her safety. I’ve mentioned that she’s a rather unique case, and that comes with… issues we cannot control.”

Something about the way Violet’s tone softened on we cannot control made Gosalyn stop fidgeting with her stick. There was a weight there she recognized—the same kind of unspoken worry that Drake got whenever she stayed out too late.

“Dang,” Gosalyn said quietly, leaning back in her chair. “And I thought we had it rough.”

Honker, who’d been carefully peeling the label off his juice box (a nervous habit Gosalyn had long since stopped teasing him for), looked up. “I mean, I’ve got an older brother, but it sounds like you and your sister have a way better relationship than me and mine.”

Violet blinked, momentarily taken aback by the observation. “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that.”

Honker shrugged. “It’s fine. Tank’s just… Tank. Loud. Pushy. Thinks I’m allergic to sunlight because I read too much.”

Gosalyn snorted. “He did say that once.”

Honker frowned. “You laughed.”

“It was a good line!” she defended. “Mean, but funny!”

Violet tilted her head, watching their exchange with quiet fascination. “You seem to manage well despite it. You’re remarkably tolerant.”

Honker looked down, smiling faintly. “Yeah, well… someone has to be. And you sound like you’ve got that covered for your sister too.”

Violet hesitated for a heartbeat, something flickering behind her composed expression. “Perhaps,” she said softly. “She’s—she’s important to me. More than anyone realizes. There are… aspects of her life I cannot discuss, but I would do anything to keep her safe.”

Gosalyn nodded, not pressing. “Yeah. I get that. Some people, you just—don’t let the world mess with them.”

For a moment, Violet’s gaze met hers. That same amber warmth she’d noticed on the first day was back, but this time it carried something steadier—something that felt like recognition.

“Precisely,” Violet said finally, voice low. “You do understand.”

The moment hung between them, quiet amid the cafeteria din.

Honker cleared his throat, breaking it. “So… your sister’s the rebellious type. You’re the calm one. Who’s your dads in all this?”

Violet blinked, as if realizing she’d nearly given too much away. Then she composed herself again, her feathers settling. “My fathers, Tyrian and Indigo, balance each other well. Tyrian is the more… vocal one. Indigo is the strategist. They have their differences, but their purpose is united—to protect our family.”

“Sounds nice,” Honker said.

“It is,” Violet replied, and then smiled faintly. “Even when they are overbearing.”

“Sounds like Drake,” Gosalyn muttered.

“Drake?” Violet asked.

“My guardian. Wears sweaters. Gives lectures. Worries too much. Definitely the ‘overbearing strategist’ type.”

Violet’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “Then perhaps he and my fathers would get along.”

“Ugh, don’t jinx it,” Gosalyn groaned, leaning back in her seat. “The last thing I need is a ‘Parent Alliance.’”

Honker chuckled under his breath. “At least yours would talk about rules and strategy. Mine would talk about sports and protein shakes.”

Violet tilted her head again. “Perhaps we should start our own alliance, then. One for… individuals with complicated families.”

Gosalyn grinned. “You mean cool families.”

“Troubled,” Violet corrected.

“Chaotic,” Honker added.

Gosalyn slapped the table lightly. “Perfect. The Chaotic Alliance. Membership: us.”

Violet laughed—a small, quiet sound, but real—and the three of them fell into easy conversation again, something warm threading through the noise of the cafeteria.

For the first time in a while, Gosalyn didn’t feel like the kid at the weird table.
She felt like she was exactly where she belonged.

The cafeteria had settled into that lull between chaos and digestion—the hum of chatter fading to a steady buzz of trays scraping and spoons clinking. Gosalyn lounged back in her seat, balancing a juice carton on her forehead while Honker read a science journal and Violet scrolled something on her phone with careful, precise motions.

Their lunch table had become its own weird little ecosystem. People gave them a wide berth, but honestly? Gosalyn liked it that way. No interruptions, no gossip, no nonsense. Just her nerd, a hummingbird genius, and herself—the reigning queen of detention slips.

She was in the middle of convincing Honker that chocolate milk was basically a protein shake when Violet’s phone buzzed. Once, twice, then a rapid-fire string of notifications that made her wince.

Gosalyn looked up from the carton balancing act. “Everything good, Vi?”

Violet sighed softly through her nose before unlocking her phone. Her expression didn’t shift much—still poised, still collected—but Gosalyn caught the faint twitch at the corner of her beak that meant mild irritation.

Across the table, Honker leaned forward. “Who’s texting you? You look like my mom when she finds out I’ve been on the computer past midnight.”

Violet exhaled and set her fork down with the elegance of someone trying to maintain composure in the face of absurdity. “My sister,” she said simply, typing a quick reply. “She’s… thorough.”

The phone buzzed again immediately.

Gosalyn tilted her head. “Thorough how?”

Without missing a beat, Violet read aloud in a perfectly flat tone: “Did you eat yet, Nerd? Don’t make me go Mama Bird, I will do it.”

Gosalyn nearly snorted her juice up her nose. “Mama Bird?!”

Honker chuckled behind his hand. “That’s… oddly affectionate.”

Violet rolled her eyes, thumbs flying across the screen. “Yes, sister,” she murmured under her breath as she typed, “I acquired sustenance recently. Relax.”

Gosalyn was grinning ear to ear. “So that’s your sister—the one who’s not in school yet?”

“Yes,” Violet said, finally setting the phone face down on the table. “She’s… persistent. She’s been messaging me every lunch period for the past two weeks to ensure I’m still ‘living,’ as she puts it.”

“That’s kinda sweet,” Honker said.

“It’s overprotective,” Violet corrected, though there was no real bite to her tone.

Her phone buzzed again.

Gosalyn glanced down just as the screen lit up, displaying the newest message in bold, angry caps:

VI YOU BETTER HAVE EATEN MORE THAN JUST A FEW GRAPES AND A GRANOLA BAR YA HUMMINGBIRD. I’M SERIOUS. DON’T TEST ME.

Violet’s feathers puffed slightly at the nickname before she sighed and typed, “Stop being dramatic.”

Gosalyn blinked, then broke into a laugh so loud half the table next to them looked over. “Oh my gosh! She really said that?!”

Violet arched one delicate brow. “She’s always like this. If she could, she’d have a drone follow me around with snacks.”

“That sounds… kinda cool, actually,” Gosalyn said with a smirk. “Can she make deliveries? ‘Cause I could use a snack drone.”

Honker gave her a look. “You’d weaponize it.”

“Obviously,” Gosalyn said.

Violet’s phone buzzed again, and this time the corners of her mouth twitched upward despite her best effort to look unimpressed. She read the text silently, then shook her head.

“What’s it say now?” Gosalyn asked, leaning forward like she was about to hear the next chapter in a soap opera.

Violet’s voice was dry as dust when she replied: “Don’t think I won’t shadow-step into that cafeteria, young lady. I know where you sit.”

Honker blinked. “Shadow-step?”

“Inside joke,” Violet said a little too quickly, slipping her phone back into her bag before either of them could question it further.

Gosalyn snorted, clearly unconvinced. “Sounds like she’s got a flair for the dramatic. I like her already.”

“Of course you do,” Violet muttered, poking at her salad. “You’d get along disgustingly well.”

“Aw, c’mon, Vi,” Gosalyn teased. “I’m sure I could survive meeting your sister.”

Violet gave her a sidelong glance that was equal parts fond and warning. “That’s what everyone says,” she murmured. “Until they realize she doesn’t make threats—she makes promises.”

Gosalyn’s grin only widened. “Now I really like her.”

Honker sighed, resting his head in his hand. “Please don’t form a chaos alliance with Violet’s sister. One of you is bad enough.”

“Too late,” Gosalyn said, leaning back with a smirk. “If she’s anything like Vi, we’d be unstoppable.”

Violet finally smiled—small, but genuine. “Oh, I assure you, Ms. Waddlemeyer. You have no idea.”

And just as she said it, her phone buzzed one last time.

A simple message.
❤️ Love you, Nerd. Eat something with protein.

This time, Violet didn’t roll her eyes. She just smiled quietly to herself and murmured, “Yes, sister. I’ll behave.”

Gosalyn caught the look and felt something soft twist in her chest. That kind of love—the fierce, overprotective, ‘I’d burn down the world for you’ kind—she knew what that looked like.

Maybe, she thought, they weren’t so different after all.

Chapter Text

The final bell of the day rang like a starter pistol, and Gosalyn was gone. She shot out of the school doors like a red-feathered rocket, backpack half-unzipped, earbuds bouncing against her hoodie. The crisp St. Canard air hit her face and she sighed with deep, exhausted relief.

Classes? Boring.
Lunch? Weirdly enlightening.
Homework? Already doomed.

But waiting at the curb was the best part of every day.

The familiar blue car sat at an awkward angle in the pickup lane, hazard lights blinking. And standing beside it—grinning from beak to ear, one wing waving enthusiastically—was the one and only Launchpad McQuack.

“Gossie!” he called, voice bright enough to cut through the noise of the crowd. “Hey, kiddo! Over here!”

She grinned automatically, jogging over. “Hey, LP!”

He crouched a little as she reached him, as if she were still small enough to scoop up and spin around. “How was your day, champ?!”

Gosalyn shrugged, slinging her bag into the back seat. “Eh, survived algebra, didn’t break anything. That’s a win.”

Launchpad beamed, completely sincere. “That’s awesome! Drake’s gonna be thrilled—he was so happy he didn’t get any calls from the school today!”

Gosalyn snorted, tugging her hoodie up. “Gee, wonder why.”

Launchpad blinked, starting the car. “Because you’re a good kid?”

“Because he blocked the school’s number after last week,” she muttered, buckling her seatbelt.

“Oh, yeah!” Launchpad said cheerfully, pulling out of the parking lot with the kind of confidence that made pedestrians nervous. “That too!”

Gosalyn laughed, sinking back into the seat as the city lights of St. Canard flickered past the window. There was just something about riding with LP—the smell of oil and bubblegum air freshener, the soft hum of his endless optimism—that made the whole day feel lighter.

“So,” Launchpad said, eyes on the road but smile easy, “anything exciting happen today?”

Gosalyn thought about Violet Sabrewing’s quiet smirk, her calm voice, the way she’d read those texts with fond exasperation—and the way her own heart had done that stupid flutter thing again.

She grinned to herself. “Yeah,” she said, leaning her head against the window. “You could say that.”

Launchpad chuckled. “That’s my girl. Always finding adventure—even in school.”

She smirked, eyes half-closing. “It’s a gift.”

The car rumbled through the city streets, the neon glow of St. Canard reflecting off the windshield. And as LP hummed along to some old hero-theme cassette, Gosalyn couldn’t help but smile.

For a minute, everything felt easy. Safe.
Just her and LP—the world’s most lovable crash magnet—and the sense that maybe, just maybe, today had been one of the good ones.

The afternoon had slipped into gold—the sun melting over St. Canard’s skyline as the familiar blue car hummed down the road. Gosalyn was humming to herself, boots up on the dashboard, when Launchpad’s phone buzzed on the console. The pilot blinked, scooped it up, and pressed speaker.

“Hey, DW! What’s up?” he said cheerfully.

The line crackled. Drake’s voice came through tight, serious, the tone he used when something bad was brewing. “LP, we’ve got a problem. Steelbeak’s been spotted in the city again. He’s heading toward the industrial district.”

Gosalyn sat up instantly, eyes sharp. “Steelbeak? That metal-headed chicken again?”

Launchpad’s smile faltered, feathers twitching. “Oh boy.”

“Launchpad,” Drake warned, “stay put and keep Gossie safe. I’ll handle this.”

LP’s grip tightened on the wheel. “DW, be careful, okay? He’s still mad at me for that whole laser thing.”

Gosalyn turned toward him, blinking. “Laser thing?”

Launchpad nodded gravely. “Oh yeah. The Funso’s Funzone Incident.”

Gosalyn’s eyes widened. “The one where you and Dewey almost destroyed an entire arcade?!”

“Technically,” Launchpad said, trying to sound dignified, “the arcade destroyed itself. Dewey and I were just—uh—participants in a learning experience.”

Drake sighed over the phone. “A learning experience that nearly leveled half of Duckburg.”

Gosalyn snorted. “Yeah, I heard about that one. Dewey wouldn’t shut up about how ‘heroic’ it was.”

“Oh, it was!” Launchpad said, completely earnest. “We were inside this amazing Double-O-Duck V.R. game! Dewey looked so cool in his spy gear, and I was so sure it was all part of the mission—until the walls started breaking for real and Steelbeak showed up! Big metal beak, angry glare, smelled like burnt feathers—”

“Focus, LP!” Drake’s voice crackled. “We don’t know what he’s after this time, but if he’s back in St. Canard, he’s not here for fun.”

“Right, right, sorry!” Launchpad straightened, glancing in the mirror as if Steelbeak might be tailing them already. “It’s just… y’know, last time didn’t end great between us. He still blames me for ruining his ‘Ultimate Intelligence Laser.’ I was helping!”

Gosalyn folded her arms, grinning. “You broke his laser.”

“Exactly! Mission accomplished!” Launchpad said brightly. Then, lowering his voice, “Thank you, Dewey, for telling me it wasn’t part of the game. Otherwise, we might’ve had a whole city of dumb ducks. Though…” He tapped his beak thoughtfully. “Some folks wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Launchpad,” Drake said, the sound of the Ratcatcher revving faintly in the background, “I’m heading in. Stay alert.”

“Always am!” Launchpad chirped.

Gosalyn leaned toward the phone. “Listen to your boy, Drake. He’s the sensible one.”

Drake groaned. “Don’t encourage him, Gosalyn.”

“I’m just sayin’,” she said, smirking. “If he starts monologuing again, you might need backup. Last time, you ended up handcuffed to a disco ball.”

“That was one time!”

Launchpad grinned proudly. “She’s got you there, DW.”

“Just—stay put!” Drake snapped before hanging up.

The car went quiet for a beat. Gosalyn turned to Launchpad, her smirk softening into concern. “You okay, LP?”

He gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine! Just, uh… Steelbeak and I have a bit of history, y’know? He gets touchy about lasers. And jetpacks. And door hinges.”

She raised a brow. “Door hinges?”

“It’s a long story involving Dewey, Webby, and a hamster-powered grappling hook,” he said, waving it off. “The important thing is, Drake’s got it handled.”

Outside, the car rolled past the skyline—the lights of the city flickering to life, shadows stretching long across the pavement. Gosalyn leaned against the window, eyes still bright with adrenaline. “You really think he’ll be fine?”

Launchpad smiled softly, more confident now. “Oh, DW always pulls through. He’s the hero type.” He paused, glancing at her with a wink. “And if he doesn’t, well… that’s why he’s got us.”

Gosalyn grinned, resting her chin in her hand. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s why.”

The car rumbled on into the evening, and in the faint reflection of the window, Gosalyn could see her own grin mirrored by Launchpad’s steady, unshakable one—the kind that told her no matter how wild things got, she was safe with him.

Chapter Text

The week had not been kind to Gosalyn Waddlemeyer.

For seven long days, she’d managed to dodge, deflect, and outright avoid Dewey Duck’s increasingly persistent texts. It wasn’t that she disliked him—quite the opposite. Dewey was one of her best friends, an unshakable whirlwind of enthusiasm and loyalty who’d once jumped in front of an exploding hologram for her. But lately… every message he sent came with an extra weight behind it.

“Hey Gos, wanna brainstorm a new team-up name? I was thinking something like Dynamic Duo of Destiny!”
“Morning! Just checking in! You sleep? Hydrate? Save anyone lately?”
“Okay, this is gonna sound weird but… do you think Quiverwing would ever date another hero?”

That last one had made her physically bury her face in a pillow.

She knew what was happening. Dewey had always been dramatic, but this was different—there was a shyness creeping in under the jokes, a kind of nervous energy that only came from one thing. A crush.

And Gosalyn, despite her years of outsmarting villains and surviving supervillain monologues, had absolutely no idea how to handle that.

She couldn’t hurt him, but she couldn’t return the feeling either. Dewey was family-adjacent—a brother, a partner in chaos, a headache she didn’t want to lose. So, she avoided it. She told herself she was just busy. Patrols, training, school… easy excuses.

Except it wasn’t just Dewey’s messages she was dodging anymore.

Now, it was everyone’s.

⸻

The disaster started on a quiet Wednesday evening.

Gosalyn came home late from practice, sweaty and exhausted, hoping to sink into the couch and forget algebra existed. But as soon as she stepped inside, she froze.

Launchpad was on the couch, hunched over his phone, eyes wide and pink around the edges of his beak. His expression screamed caught reading something he shouldn’t.

“Uh… hey, LP,” she said carefully. “What’cha reading?”

He jumped, nearly throwing the phone across the room. “Oh! Nothing! Definitely not something weird! Just, y’know—hero research!”

“Hero research?” Gosalyn squinted. “Since when do you read research?”

Launchpad flailed helplessly. “Okay fine, it’s, um… fanfiction.”

Her feathers stood on end. “What?!”

He hesitated, then grinned proudly. “It’s actually really good! It’s about Quiverwing Quack and Dewey Duck—they’re, uh, partners. And more!”

Before he could stop her, Gosalyn lunged, snatching the phone out of his hands.

There it was, in painfully pink font:
“Arrow to the Heart: A QuiverDew Romance.”

Her eyes skimmed the opening paragraph, and her soul died a little.

“Quiverwing Quack stood on the rooftop, her crossbow glinting in the moonlight. Dewey Duck, dashing and heroic, reached for her hand—‘We can’t hide it forever,’ he whispered—”

“Oh no. No no no no no!” She threw the phone onto the couch like it was cursed. “What is this?! Who writes this garbage?!”

Launchpad blinked. “You mean it’s not canon?”

“LP, I’m going to combust.”

⸻

By the next morning, it was everywhere.

Somehow, someone had found the story and spread it across St. Canard High’s social channels. By lunch, it had been shared hundreds of times, complete with edits of Quiverwing and Dewey standing together under a neon heart that read:

💙 #QuiverDew4Ever 💜

The first time she saw it on someone’s tablet, she nearly dropped her lunch tray.

She couldn’t even deny it—no one knew she was Quiverwing. If she said anything, people would start asking questions. Dangerous questions.

So she sat at her usual table with Honker and Violet, pretending not to hear the whispers.

“Do you think Quiverwing and Dewey are real?” someone murmured nearby.
“My cousin said her uncle saw them fighting crime together last week!”
“Oh my gosh, that’s so romantic!”

Honker glanced at Gosalyn with a knowing look. “You okay?”

She slammed her fork down. “I’m fine!”

He raised a brow. “You’re stabbing your pizza like it insulted your ancestors.”

“Because everyone’s wrong!” she hissed. “I’m not—she’s not—ugh!”

Violet looked up from her salad, curious. “Is this about that trending ‘QuiverDew’ phenomenon?”

Gosalyn froze, cheeks burning. “Wh—uh, maybe?”

Violet hummed, calmly adjusting her glasses. “I admit the fascination with celebrity pairings is strange. But I suppose people enjoy projecting their hopes onto fictional figures.”

“Right. Totally. Just… weird fandom stuff.”

Violet studied her for a moment longer, amber eyes narrowing slightly. “You seem oddly invested for someone who doesn’t care.”

Gosalyn forced a laugh, waving her hands. “Ha! Me? Care? Nope! Just… you know. Internet. Chaos.”

Violet tilted her head, half-smiling. “Of course.”

And Gosalyn’s brain decided that was the perfect moment to betray her, because Violet’s smile—calm, warm, a little curious—made her heart stutter.

⸻

Later that night, she stormed into Honker’s garage, where he was tinkering with one of her crossbow mechanisms.

“Honks,” she groaned, dropping dramatically onto the floor. “It’s everywhere. I can’t escape it. I’m living in a nightmare made of hashtags.”

He didn’t look up. “You could ignore it.”

“I can’t ignore fanfiction!” she wailed. “It’s public defamation! Of me! Or—well—not me, but, me!”

Honker adjusted his glasses, voice dry. “Technically, it’s creative writing.”

“Technically,” she said, glaring, “I’m going to explode.”

After a long silence, he asked, “So you still haven’t told Violet?”

Her feathers fluffed instantly. “Told her what?”

“That you’re Quiverwing. That you’re the one people are writing about.”

“Are you nuts? If I tell her, she’s in danger! The kind of danger you can’t just throw homework at!”

Honker set his tools down, finally looking at her. “You really like her, huh?”

Gosalyn groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I can’t! I can’t like her! She’s brilliant and graceful and normal! If anyone found out—if F.O.W.L. found out—”

He smiled faintly. “You’re protecting her.”

“I’m trying to,” she said softly.

⸻

Violet Sabrewing, for her part, was equally miserable—though she’d never admit it out loud.

She’d been thinking about Gosalyn far more than she cared to analyze. The redhead fascinated her: brash, impulsive, sharp in every way Violet wasn’t. Yet beneath that bravado, there was warmth. Loyalty. The kind of sincerity that pulled Violet’s gaze whenever Gosalyn laughed too loud or grinned too bright.

And lately, she’d been distracted. Avoidant. Nervous in a way Violet couldn’t quite decipher.

She’d tried to ask—gently, of course—but every time she did, Gosalyn brushed it off. “Just fandom drama,” she’d said, smiling too wide. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Violet didn’t push. But she noticed.

At home, she caught herself doodling little sketches of red feathers in the margins of her notes. She’d scroll past photos of Quiverwing online and think, fleetingly, that the vigilante’s stance reminded her of someone she knew. But it was impossible, of course. Quiverwing was older, taller, mysterious. Gosalyn was… well, Gosalyn.

And Violet’s heart, inconveniently, fluttered for both.

⸻

By Friday, the truth finally dropped like a bomb.

Gosalyn was scrolling through her phone during study hall, desperate to see if the fanfic had lost traction, when she saw a new post from the author:

DoubleODewFan01: “Thanks for the support! Writing helps me say what I can’t in real life. Quiverwing means a lot to me 💙💜”

Her stomach sank. “Oh no.”

Another post appeared seconds later:

“Next chapter dropping soon! It’s the big confession scene! 💥✨”

She slammed her phone shut, face burning. “Oh no, no, no—”

It all clicked. The phrasing, the tone, the details only someone who’d been there would know.

Dewey Duck had written the fanfic.

And suddenly, every unread text message felt like a thunderclap.

⸻

That night, Gosalyn sat on her bed, scrolling through the story with shaking hands. It was melodramatic, sure—Dewey was incapable of subtlety—but there was heart in it. A hero in blue, hopelessly smitten with the masked girl who never let anyone close. The ending wasn’t romantic—it was sad.

“She deserves someone brave enough to stand beside her. And maybe that’s not me. Not yet.”

Gosalyn exhaled slowly, wiping at her eyes. “Stupid emotional duck.”

For a long moment, she just sat there, staring at the glow of her phone. Then she hit the heart button.

It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was a start.

⸻

Monday came with clear skies and quieter halls. The QuiverDew buzz had finally started to fade, replaced by new gossip and other drama. Gosalyn slid into her seat beside Violet, feeling—for once—like she could breathe again.

“You seem lighter today,” Violet observed, eyes flicking toward her.

“Yeah,” Gosalyn said, smiling faintly. “Guess the storm passed.”

Violet nodded, her own lips curving into the softest hint of a smile. “You’re remarkably resilient, Gosalyn Waddlemeyer.”

Gosalyn leaned back, crossing her arms. “You have no idea.”

Violet looked at her for a beat too long, then turned back to her notes, the faintest pink tinting her cheeks.

And Gosalyn, watching her out of the corner of her eye, felt her heart ache in the best kind of way. She couldn’t tell Violet who she really was. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But as their laughter echoed softly between them, she thought—just for a moment—that maybe being herself was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

Lena hated St. Canard.

She didn’t just dislike it—she loathed it with every feather on her body. The whole city felt like it was daring you to drop your guard for one second so it could eat you alive. The fog was thicker here, the shadows darker, and every streetlight flickered like it was too scared to stay on for long. Even the air had that faint metallic tang of danger.

If Duckburg was a theme park of adventure, St. Canard was the after-hours version where the mascots carried switchblades. Not just because it’s the real life version of Gotham City.

But she wasn’t here for sightseeing.

She was here because her baby sister—the genius, calm, overly analytical hummingbird—had insisted on visiting a friend. A very specific redheaded, crossbow-wielding, chaos-magnet friend.

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer.

And Lena, who had fought sorcerers, shadows, and eldritch nightmares, somehow couldn’t win a single argument against Violet when her mind was set.

Alas, when Violet Apollonia Sabrewing got her mind set on visiting their new friend in St. Canard; Lena wasn’t able to stop her from doing it.

So here she was, walking side by side with her sister down a cracked sidewalk, muttering under her breath about crime statistics and poor urban planning while scanning every shadow like a bodyguard on high alert.

The city loomed above them—tall, narrow buildings that felt like they were leaning in just a little too close, as if eavesdropping. Duckburg’s towers were sleek and clean; St. Canard’s were tired, scarred with time and graffiti. The newer billboards tried to make it look modern, but the soul of the city was stubbornly old, refusing to scrub away its grit.

Even with the new mayor’s reforms—better patrols, safer streets, a few more working streetlights—Lena could still feel it: the pulse of something wild beneath the surface.

She tugged her scarf tighter, casting a glance toward Violet. The younger Sabrewing moved with careful precision, eyes alert but curious, like a scientist observing an unfamiliar environment. She adjusted her glasses with one hand, the other clutching her phone with W.A.N.D.A. open on screen, tracking directions to the rink.

“You know, Vi,” Lena muttered, brushing a strand of teal hair from her face, “I’m pretty sure you could’ve just video called your girlfriend instead of risking both our lives in gothic crime central.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Violet replied primly, though her voice was softer than usual. “She’s… Gosalyn. And she’s been under a great deal of stress since the incident. I would prefer to see her in person.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Strictly professional concern, right?” Lena smirked. “The way you’re talking, anyone would think you’re writing her love letters.”

Violet’s feathers flushed faintly pink under her lilac plumage. “I would never. That would be—highly impractical.”

Lena snorted. “Right. Totally impractical. Just like dragging your witch sister into a city that smells like smog and regret.”

Lena kept close, her sapphire eyes glancing at Violet, brushing teal hair feathers out of her face as she watched her little hummingbird walk ever so carefully on the sidewalk. The hockey rink was where Launchpad had told them Gosalyn would be at, and Lena made sure Violet had the appropriate clothes for entering the cold, which may have caused a slight argument over her fragility.

Lena won, obviously.

Violet didn’t dignify that with a response. She only adjusted the pale lavender scarf around her neck—the one Lena had forced her to wear after their ten-minute debate about body heat retention.

Lena’s grin widened. “See? Told you you’d need it.”

“I am not fragile,” Violet said, but she didn’t pull the scarf away.

“Didn’t say you were, Hummingbird. Just… delicate. Like a very small, very expensive vase that I’d have to murder someone for if it broke.”

“Your analogies continue to baffle me,” Violet muttered, though her tone had softened.

Lena’s expression melted into something fond as they turned a corner and the bright lights of the hockey rink came into view, glowing like a safe haven amidst the gloom. She could already hear the faint echo of skates on ice, laughter, and a familiar voice yelling something about “practice makes legends.”

Violet’s step quickened, just slightly.

Lena sighed and followed, her magic humming faintly under her feathers, just in case.

“Alright, Vi,” she said under her breath, her smirk returning. “Let’s go see your little crossbow girl.”

The moment the Sabrewing sisters stepped into the rink, the sound hit them first — the crisp shhkk! of blades carving into ice, the ricochet of pucks against the boards, and a triumphant yell that carried the unmistakable energy of someone both showing off and letting off steam.

Lena’s eyes widened slightly. “Okay, I take it back,” she muttered, folding her arms. “Maybe this is why Drake keeps stressing out about her vigilante side hustle.”

Because Gosalyn Waddlemeyer on the ice was a menace.

She tore across the rink with feral precision, every movement sharp, fast, and fearless. Her skates sliced through the ice like they had a vendetta; her stickwork was ruthless, calculated chaos in motion. Every shot slammed into the goal net like she was punishing it for existing.

“She’s…” Violet’s eyes were wide, lips parting in faint awe. “Remarkable.”

“‘Terrifying’ is the word I’d use,” Lena said dryly, but even she couldn’t hide the smirk of impressed amusement tugging at her beak. “Remind me never to get on her bad side. Girl’s basically a one-duck demolition crew.”

And then it happened.

Gosalyn glanced up mid-sprint—probably to check the clock, or maybe to see if Drake had popped in again—and her gaze landed on Violet.

The world might as well have stopped.

Her sharp, practiced focus melted instantly into pure, stunned golden retriever energy. Her stick dropped slightly. Her footing wobbled. Her mouth opened, just a little, like her brain hadn’t fully caught up with what her eyes were seeing.

“Oh no,” Lena muttered. “She’s about to—”

CRASH!

Gosalyn slammed into the boards with the comedic finality of a cartoon character, limbs flailing, helmet slightly askew, dignity shattered upon impact. The sound echoed through the rink, followed immediately by Violet gasping and darting toward the entrance like she was rushing a patient to triage.

“GOSALYN!” she cried, practically flying across the ice with surprising speed for someone in boots. “Are you injured? Did you fracture something? Concussion? Dislocation?”

Gosalyn groaned, trying to sit up and wave her off. “Vi—Vi, I’m fine, really! Thick skull! Reinforced! Uh—same with the rest of me!”

She tried to stand, slipped, and ended up awkwardly kneeling, still half-grinning through the mortification. “Seriously, no damage done. I bounce! That’s my thing!”

Violet was already crouched beside her, checking her over like a doctor ignoring her patient’s protests. Her wings fluttered anxiously as she adjusted Gosalyn’s helmet back into place. “You could have suffered a cranial impact, Gosalyn. Recklessness is not resilience.”

From the edge of the rink, Lena leaned on the railing, smirking. “Vi, Baby Bird, she’s a duck—like me, remember? We’re built for chaos. Not everyone’s made of glass and calculus like you.”

Violet shot her a flat look. “I am not made of glass.”

“Sweetheart, you’re ninety percent concern and ten percent caffeine.”

Gosalyn, still laughing, pushed herself up with her stick and gave Violet a sheepish grin. “See? Ducks bounce back! Kinda our thing. You’d be surprised what I can walk off.”

“Impressed,” Lena muttered, “and slightly terrified.”

Violet sighed, but her expression softened as she looked Gosalyn over again, just to be sure. “Please refrain from injuring yourself while I am within visual range. It is… distressing.”

Gosalyn blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in her tone. “You—uh—you got it, Wise Girl. I’ll… I’ll try to keep the dramatic crashes to a minimum.”

Lena snorted from the sidelines. “Good luck with that promise.”

Gosalyn shot her a look, then grinned sheepishly back at Violet. “But hey… at least it worked, right?”

Violet tilted her head, confused. “Worked?”

“You looked at me,” Gosalyn said with a wink, before skating away like she hadn’t just turned into a pile of flustered feathers five seconds earlier.

Lena groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh yeah. She’s gone.”

Violet blinked after her, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. “…Gone where?”

“Never mind, Baby Bird,” Lena sighed. “You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Lena’s jaw dropped as she watched Gosalyn skate off, grinning like she’d just scored a hat trick and a date in the same night. Violet, meanwhile, stood there on the sidelines—completely calm, totally oblivious, and still making mental notes about the potential physics of the collision.

Lena blinked once. Then twice.

“Oh heck no,” she muttered, feathers puffing up as she pointed an accusing finger at the departing redhead. “She is not allowed to flirt with my Baby Bird.”

Violet turned, confused. “Flirt?” she repeated, tilting her head slightly like a scientist encountering an unfamiliar term. “In what context?”

Lena froze. Oh no.

The realization hit her like a runaway truck of sisterly guilt. I forgot she’s autistic, her brain screamed. Oh saints above, I’m a terrible big sister! She needs structure and rules, not—this nonsense! Flirting is a chaos language! And she doesn’t do chaos!

Violet blinked up at her expectantly, her expression politely neutral but genuinely curious. “Lena, I fail to see why Gosalyn’s mention of visual focus constitutes a breach of boundaries. Did she say something inappropriate?”

Lena’s feathers fluffed even higher. “No, it’s—she didn’t say anything bad, Vi, she just—ugh, it’s complicated!”

Violet frowned lightly. “Define ‘complicated.’”

“Oh saints preserve me,” Lena muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “Okay, okay, um—” she looked around frantically, like the answer might be hiding under the nearest vending machine. “You know what? Call Huey. He’ll explain it better.”

Violet blinked again. “Huey?”

“Yes. Huey. Our resident fellow logical brainiac. Red cap, overly prepared, has charts for everything. He’ll… know how to put this in terms you’ll get.”

Violet pursed her beak, already pulling out her phone. “If you insist.”

Lena, meanwhile, was internally praying to every saint in the pantheon of sisterhood that this wouldn’t somehow make things worse.

“Hello, Violet!” Huey’s chipper voice came through almost immediately. “Everything okay? You sound… mildly perplexed!”

“Yes,” Violet said simply. “Lena appears to believe that Gosalyn was ‘flirting’ with me. I require clarification.”

There was a long pause on Huey’s end. “…Oh.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Uh—no! Not bad! Just—okay, let’s unpack this.” Huey’s voice immediately shifted into his trademark educator mode. “Flirting, Violet, is a form of social signaling in which one individual expresses attraction or interest toward another through words, tone, or gestures—often playfully, sometimes awkwardly. It’s… a courtship behavior, basically.”

Violet blinked. “Courtship. As in mating rituals?”

Lena slapped both hands over her face and groaned. “Vi, no, not—oh my gosh—”

Huey, ever patient, continued, “More or less, but in a socialized, non-reproductive way! It’s how people communicate affection or romantic interest without being direct about it. Sort of like testing compatibility or establishing mutual comfort.”

Violet processed that for a moment. Her feathers ruffled slightly. “So when Gosalyn smiled and winked and said she was glad I looked at her…”

“…That might be flirting,” Huey confirmed gently.

“I see.” Violet’s voice was perfectly calm, perfectly analytical. “Then she was implying attraction?”

Lena made a strangled noise. “YES, BABY BIRD, THAT’S WHAT I MEANT!”

Huey, slightly awkward but cheerful, said, “Not necessarily implying, but… yeah, probably! Though context matters! Gosalyn’s pretty expressive—she could’ve meant it platonically, too.”

Violet tilted her head. “Hmm. Then I will observe future data before drawing a conclusion.”

“Good plan,” Huey said. “Always collect your data before deciding feelings!”

Lena muttered under her breath, “Saints, they really are the Tism duo.”

“What was that?” Huey asked.

“Nothing!”

Violet looked thoughtful, scrolling through her mental notes. “Thank you, Huey. This conversation has been… enlightening.”

“Anytime!” he said brightly. “And for what it’s worth, I think Gosalyn likes you. In the… ‘possible crush’ category.”

Violet blinked. “Crush?”

Lena groaned audibly. “No. Nope. I’m out. Someone else take over. I can’t keep explaining every emotional subcategory in the dictionary.”

Huey chuckled nervously. “Uh, okay, maybe that’s another lesson for next time.”

Violet nodded seriously. “Very well. I will prepare a list of follow-up questions.”

Lena just stared at her sister, equal parts exasperated and adoring. “You’re lucky you’re adorable, Baby Bird.”

Violet smiled faintly. “That is… subjective. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Yeah,” Lena sighed, slinging an arm over her shoulders as they started walking toward the stands, “and that’s why nobody gets to flirt with you unless I vet them first.”

Violet blinked. “Vet them? Like an interview process?”

Lena smirked. “Exactly.”

“Then Gosalyn will need a résumé.”

“Oh, she’s gonna need more than that,” Lena said darkly, glaring at the ice where Gosalyn was still skating smugly. “She’s gonna need divine intervention.”

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer had faced supervillains, explosions, and the terrifying disapproval of Scrooge McDuck himself—but none of it, none of it, prepared her for this.

Because sitting in the bleachers of her hockey rink, framed by the glow of the overhead lights and the faint mist curling off the ice, was the prettiest hummingbird she had ever seen.

Violet Sabrewing.

Smart, calm, brilliant, beautiful Violet Sabrewing—who somehow made a scarf look like a royal accessory and carried herself like she belonged in a castle instead of a science lab. Her feathers caught the rink light like moonlight on glass, and her eyes—those sharp, analytical amber eyes—were following Gosalyn’s every move.

Oh saints, she’s watching me.

Gosalyn’s brain fizzled like static. Her stick fumbled for a second, the puck sliding wide of the net before she recovered, heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. She had faced Cacciatore without flinching, but one look from Violet Sabrewing and she was malfunctioning like a short-circuited robot.

And, of course, sitting right beside her like a gothic, overprotective dragon guarding her hoard, was Lena.

Lena Sabrewing—pink hair, sharp glare, ex-villain vibes radiating off her like dark magic, and the exact type of person Gosalyn really didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. Because while Violet might look like a princess, Lena looked like the witch who’d cursed half the kingdom for breathing too loud.

Yep. Terrifying.

And the worst part? They were both watching her.

Violet, sitting with perfect posture, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes soft and curious.
Lena, lounging like a bodyguard with trust issues, eyes narrowed like she was mentally cataloging Gosalyn’s crimes.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

She was crushing on a princess. A princess with a dragon for a sister.

“Keep it together, Goss,” she muttered under her breath, circling the rink. “You’ve fought mutant beagles and rogue robots. You can handle one genius hummingbird.”

Except she couldn’t. Because Violet smiled—just a small, polite, adorable smile—and Gosalyn’s brain officially exited the building.

Every ADHD neuron in her head fired at once. She had to do something. She couldn’t just skate like normal when that was happening. No, she needed to impress.

She picked up speed, slicing across the ice with a renewed burst of energy, her skates cutting perfect arcs as she launched into drills that looked effortless but absolutely weren’t. She zigzagged, pivoted, and smacked the puck against the boards so hard it ricocheted back into her stick like a boomerang.

She was showing off. Oh, she was absolutely showing off.

It wasn’t subtle—she might as well have been jousting with a neon sign over her head that read NOTICE ME, PRETTY SCIENCE PRINCESS.

And Violet noticed. Of course she did. Her feathers fluffed slightly in surprise, and Lena’s head tilted just enough to clock what was happening.

“Oh,” Lena muttered under her breath, her sapphire eyes narrowing. “Oh, heck no.”

She turned toward Violet. “She is not allowed to flirt with my Baby Bird.”

Violet blinked, genuinely perplexed. “Flirt? Why would she require a bird?”

Lena groaned internally. Right. Literal thinker. I forgot she’s a literal thinker. Saints, I’m the worst big sister.

Violet continued, totally earnest. “Gosalyn already possesses avian attributes. Acquiring another bird seems redundant.”

Lena pinched the bridge of her beak, muttering under her breath, “Huey. I need Huey. Huey can translate the Tism.”

But even while she was exasperated, Lena couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at her beak. Three months. That’s how long it had been since she’d officially adopted Violet as her little sister—three months of learning every quirk, every habit, every boundary. She’d fought monsters and shadows and survived Magica De Spell, but this? Protecting Violet’s peace? That was sacred.

She glanced back at the rink just in time to see Gosalyn pull off a flawless spin-stop, sending a spray of ice shimmering like glitter under the lights. Gosalyn pointed her stick toward the stands in mock salute—half challenge, half grin.

Lena’s smirk sharpened. “Okay, Dewey 2.0,” she muttered. “Cute, overconfident, and trying to impress my sister. I’ve seen this movie before.”

But beneath the sarcasm, there was something softer—a reluctant fondness. Gosalyn reminded her of Dewey: the same bright energy, the same chaotic bravery, the same need to be seen and admired. And, just like Dewey, she could tell that somewhere beneath all that confidence was a good heart.

Still, Lena crossed her arms and leaned closer to Violet. “Just so you know, Baby Bird, I will be vetting anyone who flirts with you.”

Violet tilted her head. “You mean… interviewing them?”

“Something like that,” Lena said, eyes still on the rink. “With more lightning bolts.”

Meanwhile, Gosalyn—completely unaware of the dragon-level threat she’d just earned—was doing another lap at double speed, heart racing, grin unstoppable.

Because the prettiest hummingbird in St. Canard was watching her skate, and for tonight, that made her feel like the hero of her own fairy tale.

Gosalyn coasted to a stop at the end of practice, cheeks flushed and adrenaline still buzzing through her veins. Her skates scraped the ice one last time before she slid toward the exit, grinning wide, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with cardio.

The rink doors creaked open, and cold air gave way to the warmer, humid air of the hall. She tugged her helmet off, shaking out her feathers and running a hand through her messy red hair—trying, and failing, to look effortlessly cool instead of “just crashed into a wall trying to impress a pretty girl.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before she saw them.

Violet Sabrewing—calm, beautiful, terrifyingly brilliant—was walking straight toward her, scarf neatly adjusted, expression somewhere between concern and calculation. And right beside her, slightly ahead even, was Lena Sabrewing.

Lena didn’t walk so much as prowl. Every step was deliberate, protective, with the sharp precision of someone ready to vaporize any threat within twenty feet. Her shadow hit first, long and dark and imposing, followed by her very unimpressed expression.

Gosalyn froze mid-untie, one skate still halfway laced. “Uh… hey.”

Violet stopped a few feet in front of her, clasping her hands behind her back with that neat little posture that made Gosalyn’s brain short-circuit. “You’re certain you’re unharmed?”

“Yeah! Totally fine! No injuries, no concussions, just—uh—bounced off the boards a little!” Gosalyn laughed, though it came out awkward and too loud. “Y’know. Normal stuff! Thick skull, flexible bones, standard duck durability package.”

Violet’s brow furrowed. “That does not sound like an endorsement of safety.”

“She’s fine,” Lena cut in, stepping just slightly forward so she was between them. She folded her arms, one hip cocked, radiating pure protective older sister energy. “She’s a duck, Baby Bird. Like me. We’re built to survive ridiculous things. The most you’re gonna do by worrying is make her combust out of embarrassment.”

“Not combust,” Gosalyn said quickly, waving her hands, “but maybe… mild spontaneous overheating. Which is fine! Totally fine.”

Violet’s gaze flicked back to her, concern still etched into every line of her face. “You did strike the boards quite hard.”

Gosalyn rubbed the back of her neck, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah, well, maybe if the boards hadn’t jumped out in front of me while I was—uh, y’know—skating…”

“While you were showing off,” Lena said flatly.

Gosalyn froze mid-laugh. “I—what?”

“Oh, please.” Lena smirked. “I’ve seen that exact move before. Same grin, same overconfidence. It’s the Dewey Duck Special. You were performing for an audience, and I think we both know who that audience was.”

Violet blinked, glancing between them. “An audience? There was no one else on the ice—unless you mean us. Were we a distraction?”

Lena pinched the bridge of her beak. “Oh, saints, Baby Bird…”

“I was just—” Gosalyn sputtered, her face heating up as she tugged her hoodie up higher around her neck. “I wasn’t— I mean, maybe I was just… you know… motivated by—uh—moral support!”

Lena shot her a look so dry it could’ve absorbed a lake.

“Moral support,” she repeated. “Right. Sure. Let’s call it that.”

Violet tilted her head. “Motivation through positive reinforcement is statistically effective,” she said matter-of-factly. “If my presence encouraged her performance, that’s hardly an issue.”

“Oh, it encouraged something,” Lena muttered, just loud enough for Gosalyn to hear.

Gosalyn choked. “LENA.”

Violet blinked again, completely unaware of the subtext. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Nope!” Lena said, clapping a hand gently on her sister’s shoulder. “You’re perfect. Stay that way.”

“Confused?”

“Innocent,” Lena corrected. “Stay innocent.”

Violet frowned slightly, clearly sensing something unsaid but unwilling to press. She turned back to Gosalyn, her tone softening. “Please be cautious next time. You have a tendency to… overexert.”

Gosalyn rubbed the back of her neck again, her grin a little shy now. “Yeah. I’ll be careful. Promise, Vi.”

Her voice dropped a little when she said it, and Violet’s eyes flickered in subtle confusion at the warmth in her tone. Lena, however, noticed everything—and her feathers puffed slightly.

“All right, lovebirds,” she said, placing herself squarely between them again. “That’s enough near-death flirting for one night. Gosalyn needs to de-ice and you, Baby Bird, need to get out of this freezer before your feathers start frosting.”

“I’m not cold,” Violet protested lightly.

“You will be,” Lena countered, steering her toward the exit with gentle insistence. “And Gosalyn, don’t think this is over. I’m keeping my eye on you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gosalyn said, laughing nervously as she unlaced her skates. “Wouldn’t dream of sneaking past the dragon.”

Lena smirked over her shoulder. “Good. Because this dragon breathes magic, not fire.”

As the sisters made their way out, Gosalyn leaned against the boards, watching Violet glance back one last time, offering a small, shy smile before following Lena out the door.

Gosalyn sighed dreamily, half to herself. “Totally worth the crash.”

From somewhere across the rink, Drake’s voice echoed faintly:
“WHAT was that noise about a crash?!”

Gosalyn groaned. “…Never mind.”

Gosalyn lingered near the exit doors of the rink, tugging at her hoodie strings and trying so hard to act natural. Totally casual. Totally not freaking out that the Sabrewing sisters—Duckburg’s smartest and scariest duo—were waiting just outside.

She stepped out into the cool night air and—yep. There they were.

Violet stood neatly, posture perfect, hands folded in front of her. She looked like she’d walked straight out of a painting: feathers a deep indigo that faded into soft violet hues near the edges, delicate curls framing her face, her golden eyes glowing like little lamps under the streetlight. And freckles. Oh, for the love of all that was holy, she had freckles scattered across her cheeks. Tiny constellations that should’ve been illegal.

And standing right beside her, towering like a gothic statue come to life, was Lena Sabrewing. Tall, cool, pink-haired, wrapped in black like a shadow that decided to develop a personality. She was giving Gosalyn the Look—the one that said I am evaluating your threat level and also your dating prospects for my baby sister.

“Oh gosh,” Gosalyn muttered under her breath. “Big scary tall older sister boss lady mama bird. Great.”

Lena smirked slightly as Gosalyn approached, and it was the kind of smirk that made you wonder if she could read minds—and if she was amused by what she found.

“Hey,” Gosalyn said, voice cracking slightly before she coughed and tried again. “Uh, hey.”

Violet’s expression softened immediately. “Hello, Gosalyn. You appear unharmed, which is a relief. Your crash into the boards looked painful.”

“Oh, nah, that was—uh—strategic!” Gosalyn lied, rubbing the back of her neck. “Part of the routine. Builds character.”

“Or concussions,” Lena said dryly.

“…Also that.”

Lena adjusted her coat, eyes flicking toward the parking lot. “Baby Bird, we need to get back to Launchpad soon so he can drive us home to Duckburg. Dad and Pops will panic if they come home and find us both gone—and not at the Manor when they call Beakley.”

Violet’s eyes twinkled. “Correction: they will panic if you’re not at the Manor. You practically live there more than our shared bedroom, sister.”

Lena scoffed, flipping a strand of teal hair over her shoulder. “I do what I want, when I want.”

“And Father calls you a cat,” Violet said simply.

“I am not a cat!” Lena protested, feathers fluffing indignantly. “I’m— I’m independent!”

“That is the same argument cats make.”

Gosalyn tried and failed to stifle a snort. Lena shot her a look. “You heard nothing, Red.”

“Didn’t hear a thing,” Gosalyn said quickly, holding up her hands. “Mum’s the word. Or, uh, cat’s the word.”

Before Lena could retort, the familiar honk-honk of an engine echoed from the street, followed by the unmistakable crunch of a curb being slightly—okay, completely—missed.

A sleek limo (with a small dent in the bumper) pulled up in front of them, and the window rolled down to reveal Launchpad’s ever-cheerful face.

“Hey, Gossie!” Launchpad called, waving energetically. “Mr. McDee asked me to take Lena and Violet home! Hi, guys!”

“Hi, Mr. McQuack,” Violet greeted politely, straightening her scarf. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. Thank you for the transportation.”

“Aw, no problem, kiddo! You Sabrewings are like family at this point! Hop in—try not to touch the dashboard, though. It’s, uh… a little on fire.”

“Of course it is,” Lena muttered, sighing as she guided Violet toward the car.

Violet paused before stepping in, turning to Gosalyn with that same gentle, curious smile that made Gosalyn’s brain temporarily blue-screen. “It was very nice seeing you again, Gosalyn. Please text when you arrive home safely.”

“Y-yeah, totally! I’ll, uh—text. And maybe… not crash next time.”

Violet’s smile grew, small but genuine. “That would be preferable.”

Lena opened the limo door, but before sliding in, she gave Gosalyn one last look—half warning, half reluctant respect. “Stay out of trouble, Crossbow.”

“No promises,” Gosalyn said, grinning despite herself.

“Didn’t think so,” Lena muttered, climbing in beside Violet as Launchpad waved from the front seat.

As the limo pulled away—with Violet giving one last polite wave through the window—Gosalyn leaned back against the wall of the rink, sighing dreamily.

“Prettiest. Hummingbird. Ever.”

Then she blinked, remembering the dragon-shaped shadow of Lena Sabrewing.

“…And scariest sister ever,” she added quickly. “Note to self: buy flowers for both.”

Chapter Text

Violet Sabrewing was not jealous of Gosalyn Waddlemeyer’s jacket.

Not even a little.

She repeated the sentence in her head like it was part of her morning affirmations—You are composed. You are rational. You are definitely not jealous of your crush’s outerwear.
But as she watched Gosalyn swagger down the hall of St. Canard High, morning light gleaming off that glossy purple-and-white letterman jacket, Violet’s internal logic system began failing catastrophically.

The bold #1 on the back shone so brightly it might as well have been a neon sign declaring: LOOK HOW COOL I AM, VI. TRY TO PRETEND YOU’RE NOT STARING.

Violet adjusted her glasses, tilting her head as if viewing a scientific anomaly. Objectively, yes, the jacket was well-made—reinforced seams, high-quality wool blend, excellent stitching along the collar.

But subjectively?
It was doing something unlawful to her ability to think.

Particularly when Gosalyn shoved her hands into the pockets with that loose-limbed confidence, jacket hem swaying at her hips like she was the protagonist in a coming-of-age movie and Violet was the background character malfunctioning in the hallway.

And then it happened.

The jacket slipped off one shoulder for half a second—just enough for Violet to imagine, with the full force of a teenage crush, what it would feel like draped around her own.

She absolutely did not let out a tiny squeak. Probably.

Her traitorous heart whispered: She looks amazing in purple.

“Yo! Babes!”

Violet jolted so hard she almost dropped her books. Gosalyn was leaning on her locker, grinning like she’d caught her doing something illegal.

Across the hallway, Honker was staring at both of them like a man watching a slow-motion disaster he was powerless to stop.

Violet blinked. “I—ah—Babes?”

“Yeah.” Gosalyn shrugged like this was the most casual decision she’d ever made. “It suits you.”

Violet’s feathers puffed so dramatically that a passing freshman tripped over their own feet.

She cleared her throat sharply. “I was contemplating the… sociocultural implications of sportswear as a grounding mechanism for adolescent identity.”

“That’s such a cute way to say you were staring at me,” Gosalyn said brightly.

Honker slapped a hand to his face.

“I was analyzing,” Violet insisted.

“Analyzing how fine I look in this thing?” Gosalyn tugged at her jacket collar with demonstrative flair. “I get it. It’s okay to admire greatness.”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t have to,” Gosalyn said, leaning closer. “Babes, your eyes were doing the sparkly thing.”

“My eyes do not— do not— sparkle,” Violet stammered.

“Sure they do,” Gosalyn hummed, grin softer now. “Only when you look at me, though.”

Honker visibly choked on air.

Violet, entirely oblivious to the flirting, merely huffed. “That is biologically improbable.”

Gosalyn winked. “Cute.”

By lunchtime, every single student in the building knew about Gosalyn’s big win from last night’s hockey game. She paced the cafeteria like a tiny celebrity—slapping hands, taking pictures, flexing for the underclassmen who screamed like she was a rockstar.

And Violet watched it all with an ache she couldn’t classify. Pride? Affection? A weird fluttering feeling in her ribcage she kept trying to ignore?

Gosalyn’s swagger was impressive, but Violet saw something softer beneath it. The way she held herself a little taller. The way her grin stretched just a bit wider.
The way she kept glancing at Violet’s table like she needed to make sure her reaction was the right one.

Violet pretended not to notice. Her brain, meanwhile, was compiling a file titled:

“Reasons Why Gosalyn Waddlemeyer Is An Unreasonable Distraction, Subsection A: Emotional Turbulence”

Later, after school, the two of them sat at their usual courtyard bench. Honker hovered nearby with the weary expression of someone babysitting two people who absolutely did not realize they were on the brink of dating.

“You coming to the game Saturday?” Gosalyn asked, casually balancing her soda on her knee.

“Of course,” Violet replied.

“Good,” Gosalyn said, tilting her head flirtatiously. “Gotta have my cheering section. You know—you bring me luck, Babes.”

Violet short-circuited.

Honker mouthed WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?! in the background.

“Luck?” Violet echoed, voice cracking.

“Yeah. You smile at me from the stands…” Gosalyn shrugged one shoulder, trying and failing to sound casual. “Makes me want to crush the other team even harder.”

Violet, entirely misunderstanding: “Ah. Positive reinforcement feedback loop.”

Gosalyn laughed, bright and delighted. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

And then their knees brushed—not by accident. Gosalyn had subtly shifted closer.

Heat flooded Violet’s face. “You are sitting very close.”

“Want me to scoot in even closer?” Gosalyn asked with a teasing lilt.

Honker dropped his backpack with a thud.

“That is unnecessary,” Violet insisted quickly, missing the flirt entirely. “Though not… unwelcome. Just surprising.”

“Got it.” Gosalyn stretched her legs out smugly. “I’ll take ‘not unwelcome.’”

That night, Violet tried to study magical quantum probability, but her notes devolved rapidly:

— Gosalyn called me Babes???
— Why.
— Why would she do that.
— Is it a nickname? A term of endearment? A concussion symptom??
— Her smile is distracting.
— Her jacket is worse.

Her phone buzzed.

hey babes u left ur notebook at lunch. bringing it tmrw.
also u better cheer loud saturday. i wanna win one for ya 😉

Violet froze.

“For… me?” she whispered, cheeks flaming.

Across town, Gosalyn lay sprawled on her bed, jacket still on, kicking her feet like a teenager in a romance movie.

“Totally doomed,” she muttered into her pillow, grinning. “I’m so, so doomed.”

Violet fell asleep imagining the warmth in Gosalyn’s eyes when she said Babes.
Gosalyn fell asleep dreaming of Violet’s little puffed feathers when she flustered.

And the jacket—purple, white, and increasingly significant—hung between them like a promise, a dare, and a confession waiting to happen.

Honker, meanwhile, texted Lena:

pls help. these two are flirting in riddles. I fear for my sanity.

Violet Sabrewing had faced eldritch magic, moral paradoxes, the occasional sleep-deprived Lena, and once—once—a toddler-fueled tea party explosion that covered her in glitter for a week.

None of that prepared her for this.

She sat at her desk, Gosalyn’s texts still on her screen, the nickname Babes replaying in her brain like a corrupted audio file.

She grabbed her phone with trembling hands and immediately opened the triplet group chat.

Violet S.:
Huebert. Llewelyn. Emergency. Immediate crisis. Possible heart failure. Uncertain. Help.

It took precisely three seconds for them to respond.

Huey:
Vi? Are you safe? Where are you? What happened??

Louie:
Did someone curse you? Is Lena possessed again? Is Webby climbing the ceiling?

Violet:
NO. SHE CALLED ME BABES AND I THINK I WANT TO WEAR HER SPORTSMAN JACKET.
IS THIS A SYMPTOM OF SOMETHING? A QUEER AWAKENING? A BRAIN FEVER?
ADVISE. QUICKLY. I THINK I AM DYING.

There was a very long pause.

Then:

Louie:
……….
Oh Wise Girl.
Sweet, tiny, autistic Wise Girl.
You are experiencing a lesbian crisis.

Huey:
Violet, your autonomic responses are consistent with romantic attraction. Deep breaths. Count to four in, six out.

Violet:
SHE CALLS ME BABES LIKE IT IS NORMAL.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN.
WHY AM I OVERHEATING.

Louie:
Because she’s flirting with you.
Aggressively.
Boldly.
Like a jock with stupidly pretty hair and emotional repression issues.

Huey:
She did directly state your eye sparkle is triggered by looking at her. That’s… overt.

Violet:
OVERT??
I MISSED OVERT???

Louie:
Vi, babes—sorry, force of habit—you could miss a marching band stampeding past you if you were thinking about quantum mechanics.
You need Lena.

Huey:
Agreed. Lena can translate emotional subtext in ways that are inaccessible to us.

Violet:
But Lena is busy. She is—

The door swung open.

In strutted Lena Sabrewing, leather jacket, boots, magic humming faintly on instinct, eyebrows raised like she already knew someone dared to distress her precious baby sister.

“Hey, baby bird. Red. Schemer.” She nodded at the screen. “What catastrophe requires the presence of the Big Sister Union?”

Violet sat frozen. Then she blurted:

“Sister, how did you realize you liked Webbigail?!”

Huey and Louie both exploded in text.

Louie:
OH HERE WE GO

Huey:
Do you need us to call the dads??

Lena blinked. Slowly. Then she leaned against Violet’s dresser with all the casual menace of someone who once fought a magical hunter and won.

“What brought this on?” she asked, though she definitely knew.

Violet clutched her phone to her chest. “Gosalyn. She—she called me Babes. And she said my eyes sparkle only when I look at her. And she sat close. Very close. On purpose. And I— I think I want to wear her sportsman jacket. I don’t understand what my body is doing. It is inconvenient.”

Lena stared at her.
Then smirked.

“Oh. You’re gone. You’re completely, catastrophically gone.”

“That is not helpful,” Violet hissed.

Lena walked over and cupped Violet’s face with gentle, warm palms. “Baby bird. When someone makes your feathers fluff up just by calling you something sweet? That’s attraction.”

“It feels like malfunction,” Violet whispered.

“Love usually does,” Lena said with a shrug. “I figured out I liked Webby when she smiled at me like I was magic instead of something broken. It felt like someone ignited a spark in my chest. You know that feeling?”

Violet went silent.

Because yes.
She did.

Every time Gosalyn laughed, something bright lit up inside her like a firecracker.

Louie sent seventeen heart emojis.

Huey sent a PDF titled “Understanding Romantic Cues for the Socially Oblivious” he absolutely made on the spot.

Lena plopped down on Violet’s bed. “Tell me exactly what she did.”

Violet inhaled like she was preparing a testimony for court. “She… leaned on my locker. And smirked. And she called me Babes multiple times. And she stated my eyes sparkle when I look at her. And she straightened her jacket collar while saying I was staring at her. And our knees touched and she did not move away. And she smelled… nice.”

Lena blinked. “Oh, she’s gone for you too.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh my sweet summer sparrow,” Lena sighed dramatically. “She is not just flirting—she’s flirting like a JOCK. Affectionately. Chaosfully. With zero subtlety.”

Louie chimed in:

Louie:
Translation: SHE’S SCREAMING “I LIKE YOU” IN JOCK LANGUAGE.

Huey:
Rephrased: her actions indicate romantic pursuit.

Violet:
ROMANTIC—
PURSUIT?!

Lena leaned forward. “Baby. She wants you. She’s trying to make you blush.”

“I thought she was testing my hue calibration!”

All three of her friends groaned in unison.

Lena placed a hand on Violet’s shoulder, voice softening. “You really like her, don’t you?”

Violet hesitated for a moment. Then nodded, tiny and fragile. “Yes. I do. Terribly.”

Louie texted Huey privately:

Louie:
$5 she cries when Gos gives her that jacket.

Huey:
Louie she absolutely will.

Violet looked up at her sister, wide-eyed. “What do I do?”

Lena grinned—sharp, proud, protective. “Simple, baby bird. You go to her game. You cheer like the world depends on it. And when she tries to flirt again?”

Violet swallowed. “Yes?”

“You flirt back.”

Violet made a soft, strangled sound reminiscent of a distressed teakettle.

Louie chimed in:

Louie:
We’ll coach you.
Huey can do literal cue cards.
I’ll manage your gay panic.

Huey added:

Huey:
We believe in you, Vi.
You’ve got this.

Violet stared at her phone, her sister, her ceiling, and finally her own trembling hands.

Then whispered:

“I… think I am ready to try.”

Across town, Gosalyn—feet kicked up, jacket still on—typed a message she totally wasn’t overthinking.

gosalyn:
hey babes. thinking of wearing the purple face paint for the game ;)
u like purple right?

Violet screamed into her pillow so loudly that Lena burst out laughing and the triplets sent celebratory emojis for five straight minutes.

And somewhere, Honker texted the exact sentiment of the entire friend group:

honker:
someone please save them from themselves.

Chapter Text

The rink was empty except for the rhythmic scrape of skates and the echo of a puck hitting the boards.

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer was in her zone—purple jersey half-zipped, helmet discarded, hair tied back just enough to keep it from her face. The cold air bit pleasantly at her feathers as she tore across the ice, pivoting hard on her left skate before slapping another perfect shot into the goal.

“Boom,” she muttered, grinning. “Still got it.”

Practice before the big game was always her favorite—quiet, controlled chaos. No crowds, no distractions, just her and the sound of motion.

Well. Usually no distractions.

Because when she glided back to center ice and turned toward the bleachers, she froze.

Someone was sitting there.

A small, composed silhouette perched neatly on the edge of the front row, her posture impeccable even under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Violet Sabrewing.

Gosalyn blinked once, then twice. “Vi?!”

The shock broke her focus. Her next stride hit the wrong edge of her skate. Her stick wobbled. And before she could process the laws of physics working against her—

WHAM!

She slammed directly into the boards with all the grace of a cartoon car crash.

“Gah—ow—boards! Why are you like this?!” she groaned, sliding down the barrier in a heap.

From the stands came a startled gasp followed by the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps on the bleachers.

“Oh stars, Gosalyn!” Violet’s voice carried across the rink, full of alarm. “Are you all right?!”

“I’m fine! Totally fine!” Gosalyn yelped, scrambling upright and pretending she meant to faceplant at forty miles an hour. She banged her stick against the ice in what she hoped was a cool recovery move. “Just… testing the durability of the boards!”

Violet had reached the edge of the rink now, feathers slightly fluffed from panic, glasses slipping down her beak. “They appear to have passed the test,” she said dryly.

Gosalyn flushed, laughing awkwardly. “Heh. Yeah. Uh—hi!”

“Hello,” Violet replied, composure returning by the second. “You startled me.”

“You startled me! You’re, like, three hours early!”

Violet blinked, adjusting her glasses. “I wished to… observe your pre-game preparation. Also, Lena insisted on accompanying me later, and I wished to—ah—avoid her current state of maternal overprotectiveness.”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Mama Bird mode again?”

Violet exhaled. “Precisely. She’s convinced the bleachers are a ‘hazardous structure’ and attempted to cast protective runes on my jacket.”

Gosalyn snorted, skating closer to the boards. “Aw, she loves you.”

“I am aware,” Violet said primly, but the faint pink at the tips of her feathers betrayed her. “Nonetheless, I desired… space.”

Gosalyn leaned on her stick, grinning. “So you came to watch me nearly break my ribs instead?”

“I assure you, that was not part of the plan,” Violet said, smoothing her hair. “Though I must admit, it was a rather dramatic entrance.”

“Yeah, well,” Gosalyn said with a sheepish laugh, rubbing her shoulder. “Guess you just have that effect on me.”

That earned her one of Violet’s soft, startled smiles—the kind that made her chest do that infuriating flutter thing again.

“I imagine you’ll recover,” Violet murmured.

“Barely,” Gosalyn said under her breath, then coughed. “Uh, I mean, totally! Wanna stick around? I was just finishing drills.”

“I’d like that,” Violet said simply. “You look… very at home out there.”

And as Gosalyn skated back toward center ice, heart still pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with hockey, she caught Violet’s reflection in the glass—sitting neatly, hands folded, eyes soft with admiration she probably didn’t even realize she was showing.

“Okay,” Gosalyn muttered to herself, smirking. “Focus. No more crashing. Not when she’s watching.”

Five seconds later, she tripped over her own puck.

From the stands, Violet’s laughter—quiet, melodic, genuine—echoed across the empty rink.

And somehow, Gosalyn decided the bruises were worth it.

The scrape of skates and Violet’s soft laugh were still echoing through the rink when the door banged open hard enough to rattle the plexiglass.

Gosalyn’s head snapped up, her stick clattering against the ice.

Of course. Of course it had to be him.

Tank Muddlefoot—St. Canard High’s walking, talking demolition derby of a duck—swaggered in like he owned the place. Broad shoulders, loud voice, that same smug grin that made Gosalyn’s feathers prickle on sight.

“Hey, Waddlemeyer!” he called, his voice bouncing off the rafters. “Didn’t know you were still on the ice. Thought I’d get in some shots before the team shows up.”

Gosalyn’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, well, rink’s occupied. Try again later.”

Tank smirked. “What, scared I’ll show you up?”

She opened her mouth with something undoubtedly explosive in mind—then she heard the faint click of Violet’s shoes on the stairs.

Her heart dropped straight to her skates.

Violet, bless her elegant little soul, was walking straight toward the boards, unbothered, composed, clutching her thermos of tea like it was a peace offering. “Good afternoon, Mr. Muddlefoot,” she said, her tone perfectly polite. “You must be Gosalyn’s teammate.”

Tank blinked. “Uh. Yeah?” He glanced at her, then frowned in that particular way of someone whose brain was working overtime. “Wait, you’re that brainy kid from chemistry, right?”

“I prefer the term ‘academically driven,’ but yes,” Violet replied with a patient smile.

Gosalyn skated over so fast she nearly left skid marks. “Vi, hey, maybe don’t stand too close to—uh—him,” she said quickly, slipping between them. “You know, just in case he forgets how to use his brakes.”

Tank rolled his eyes. “Relax, Waddlemeyer. I’m not gonna hit your little girlfriend or whatever.”

Gosalyn’s feathers bristled. “What did you just—?!”

Violet’s cheeks flared lavender. “We are not— I mean— She is not—”

“Oh, for the love of hockey,” Gosalyn muttered, gripping her stick like she was seconds away from using it for something other than sports.

Tank laughed, the sound booming and graceless. “Man, you’re still so touchy. Guess nothing’s changed.”

“Yeah? Guess you still have the reflexes of a brick,” Gosalyn shot back.

The air crackled, tension sharp enough to freeze the whole rink solid. Violet, standing awkwardly between a furious redhead and an oblivious muscle duck, attempted diplomacy. “Perhaps,” she said gently, “we could all refrain from violence for at least five minutes?”

Tank shrugged. “Sure, as long as she keeps her stick to herself.”

“Tempting,” Gosalyn growled.

“Gosalyn,” Violet said softly.

Just her name—steady, calm—was enough to pull her back. Gosalyn forced a breath through her beak, flexing her fingers on her stick. Don’t. Not when she’s here.

“Fine,” she said finally, skating back a step. “You want practice? You get half the rink. But you stay on your side. Got it?”

Tank scoffed, but he backed off, grabbing a puck from the bin. “Whatever, Waddlemeyer.”

He took off across the ice, heavy-footed and clumsy as ever. Gosalyn stayed close to the boards, eyes tracking every movement like a hawk. Tank wasn’t careful—he never was. And one stray puck in Violet’s direction would be one too many.

She muttered under her breath, “He so much as sneezes near her, I swear—”

Violet’s quiet voice cut in, amused but fond. “I appreciate the chivalry, but I assure you, I can handle myself.”

“Yeah, but I’ve seen Tank trip over his own stick and take out three people at once. I’m not risking you being number four.”

Violet’s smile softened. “Noted. Still, you needn’t fight my battles.”

Gosalyn met her gaze through the glass, green eyes fierce. “Maybe not. But I’m still not letting you get hurt in mine.”

For a moment, Violet just looked at her—eyes wide, a little breathless, and suddenly very aware that her heart was doing that ridiculous fluttering thing again.

Then Gosalyn turned back to the ice, jaw set, shoulders squared, every ounce of her focus now dedicated to ensuring that Tank Muddlefoot stayed as far away from Violet Sabrewing as physically possible.

⸻

Tank lasted exactly seven minutes before he sent a puck ricocheting off the boards in Violet’s direction. Gosalyn blocked it midair with her stick, the crack of contact echoing through the rink like thunder.

Tank froze.

Violet blinked, one hand to her chest.

And Gosalyn, standing between them, looked over her shoulder and grinned. “Told you,” she said, breathless but triumphant. “Not risking it.”

Violet exhaled, half in exasperation, half in awe. “You are utterly incorrigible.”

“Yeah,” Gosalyn said, grinning wider. “But admit it—you’re impressed.”

Violet’s answer came with a small, reluctant smile. “Terribly so.”

And if Gosalyn’s chest felt just a little lighter after that, well—she’d never admit it.

Tank smirked, resting his stick against his shoulder. “So, what’s the deal, Waddlemeyer? You think you’re too good to share the rink?”

Gosalyn’s feathers fluffed, and that competitive spark lit instantly in her eyes. “I think I’m too good for you on the rink,” she shot back, her tone carrying that dangerous mix of confidence and challenge that made Honker groan and Launchpad hide behind walls during scrimmages.

Tank barked a laugh, slapping the ice with the end of his stick. “Oh, we’re doing this again, huh? Fine. One-on-one. First to three goals.”

Violet, still standing by the boards with her thermos of tea, sighed softly—equal parts fond exasperation and mild concern. “You do realize this is precisely how concussions occur, yes?”

Gosalyn grinned at her over her shoulder. “Relax, Vi. I’ll keep it civil.” Then, turning to Tank: “Try not to cry when I win.”

Violet’s feathers prickled, her pulse jumping unexpectedly. That easy swagger, the way Gosalyn’s grin turned sharp, how she dropped into her stance like she’d been born to move on the ice—it was all… arresting. She looked so alive out there, so utterly herself.

And Violet, despite herself, could not look away.

Tank scoffed, skating back to center ice. “Get ready to eat snow, Waddlemeyer!”

“Bring it, brick wall!” Gosalyn snapped back, lowering her visor.

The puck dropped, and chaos erupted.

Tank charged forward with the subtlety of a stampede, but Gosalyn darted aside at the last second, light and agile. The sound of her skates slicing the ice was sharp, clean, beautiful. She ducked under his reach, stole the puck with a flick of her stick, and shot toward the goal in a blur of purple and white.

“Too slow, Tank!”

He spun, shouting something unintelligible and charging after her. She weaved past him effortlessly, a grin tugging at her beak, every move filled with that signature Gosalyn energy—reckless, confident, alive.

From the sidelines, Violet’s breath caught. It wasn’t just that Gosalyn was good—it was that she was fearless. Every sharp turn, every juke, every near-collision looked like a dare to the universe. The cold rink light glinted off her number—1, scrawled in bold white across purple—and Violet realized with a start that her jacket matched it perfectly.

She pressed a hand lightly to her chest, trying to calm the racing of her own heart. Saints help her, she was absolutely not supposed to find this attractive.

The first goal came easy. Gosalyn slammed the puck into the net, spinning on one skate to brake with a flourish that sent ice shavings glimmering into the air.

“Score one for the Waddlemeyer!” she whooped, grinning triumphantly.

Tank grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

Violet adjusted her glasses, hiding the flush blooming beneath her feathers. “Show-off,” she murmured, though the corner of her mouth quirked upward.

Tank reset, jaw set, charging in again. This time, he was faster—slamming his stick against hers with enough force to echo through the rink. Gosalyn grunted, shoved back, and their sticks tangled as they fought for control. The puck skittered between them, bouncing against the boards.

“Come on, Waddlemeyer!” Tank taunted. “Where’s all that talk now?”

“Right here!” Gosalyn growled, twisting, spinning, and somehow slipping under his reach again. Her stick caught the puck cleanly—another perfect move—and she darted forward, the air slicing around her.

Violet’s hands tightened on the rail. She couldn’t look away—every movement was quicksilver, her body balanced between chaos and control. Gosalyn moved like she belonged to the ice itself.

Tank lunged. Gosalyn dodged. He skidded out, barely catching himself, and the puck zipped straight into the net again.

“Two!” Gosalyn yelled, her grin wide, her breath visible in the cold air. “You still breathing, Tank?”

Tank’s feathers puffed in irritation, and Violet couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped her. Gosalyn turned at the sound, eyes locking on her—sharp green meeting molten amber.

The grin softened into something gentler.

And Violet suddenly had to look away, flustered, because oh stars above, that look was going to undo her.

Tank broke the moment with a loud yell and a determined charge. “Last goal wins!”

“Sure,” Gosalyn said, confidence radiating. “If you can catch me!”

They collided mid-ice, their sticks clashing in a flurry of motion. Tank used brute strength; Gosalyn used speed and wit. She ducked under his arm, spun, and sent the puck flying across the ice—so fast it whistled.

It hit the net with a clean, satisfying thunk.

Gosalyn raised her stick like a sword, triumphant. “Three to zero, baby!”

Tank threw up his hands. “Unbelievable! You’re like a greased lightning bolt!”

Gosalyn laughed, skating backward as she saluted him with her stick. “Don’t hate the player, hate your lack of skill!”

From the stands, Violet was trying very hard not to smile like an idiot. She failed completely.

When Gosalyn skated over, cheeks flushed from the cold, breath coming fast, and that infuriatingly charming grin plastered on her face—Violet nearly forgot how words worked.

“So?” Gosalyn said, tapping her stick against the boards. “Still think I need to watch myself out here?”

Violet exhaled slowly, adjusting her glasses in a futile attempt to hide the warmth creeping up her neck. “I… concede that you are perfectly capable.”

Gosalyn’s grin turned mischievous. “Perfectly, huh? I’ll take it.”

Violet looked away, her composure fraying at the edges. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Gosalyn said, leaning just a bit closer, “you still showed up to watch.”

Violet’s eyes flicked back to her, half a glare, half something else entirely. “For research purposes,” she said firmly.

“Sure,” Gosalyn teased, winking. “Whatever helps you sleep, Vi.”

And as she skated off, tossing her stick in the air and catching it behind her back like it was nothing, Violet Sabrewing realized—hopelessly, completely—that she was doomed.

~~~

The rink was unrecognizable on game night.

What had been quiet and echoing during practice was now a pulsing, electric storm of lights, voices, and color. The crowd filled the stands—students, parents, teammates, and the occasional mascot costume that looked like it had seen better days. Cowbells rang. Shoes stomped against the metal bleachers. The air itself seemed to vibrate.

And sitting calmly in the second row, perfectly composed despite the chaos, was Violet Sabrewing.

Her noise-canceling headphones were sleek and matte black, a rare concession to comfort over aesthetics. She’d already done a small calibration test before arriving, adjusting the dampening levels until the roar of the crowd melted into a muffled hum. It didn’t erase sound entirely—it just… filtered it.

The shrieks of the audience softened to background static, leaving her space to breathe, to think, to exist.

She folded her hands neatly in her lap, posture impeccable even as fans waved glittering banners a few rows over. She’d been early, as always, settling in before the stands had fully filled, letting herself acclimate to the lights, the vibration under her shoes, the faint smell of popcorn and coolant from the rink.

And when the players began to skate out onto the ice, her eyes found one figure immediately.

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer.

Purple and white jersey gleaming under the spotlights, number 1 emblazoned proudly across her back, ponytail sharp and determined. She was already grinning—helmet tucked under her arm, stick balanced against her shoulder. Even from here, Violet could see how her feathers fluffed slightly from excitement, that kinetic, unstoppable energy radiating off her.

Violet’s fingers twitched against her knee. It was ridiculous how easily Gosalyn could command her attention.

When Gosalyn’s eyes swept across the crowd and landed on her, Violet felt the air leave her lungs for a heartbeat. She lifted one hand, a small, graceful wave. Gosalyn’s grin widened into something warm and wild.

Then Gosalyn skated right up to the edge of the rink, leaning on her stick and grinning up at her. “You can still hear me, right, Vi?” she called out, her voice carrying easily even through the glass.

Violet’s heart gave an entirely undignified flutter. She tapped the side of her headphones with a calm little nod. “They only tune out the unnecessary noise,” she replied, her voice gentle but sure.

Gosalyn laughed, her eyes gleaming. “Guess that means I’m necessary, huh?”

Violet’s mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles. “Regrettably.”

The whistle blew somewhere behind Gosalyn, and the team gathered for the faceoff. She gave Violet one last grin before skating backward into formation, her stick tapping the ice in steady rhythm.

Violet took a slow breath and focused on the rink. The filtered quiet left her surrounded by clarity—the glide of skates slicing the ice, the muffled calls of players, the occasional sharp crack of stick meeting puck. Each sound cut through the white noise like crystal.

She could track Gosalyn’s movements easily: sharp, deliberate, impossibly fast. Every turn was an act of instinct, every pivot a burst of precision and chaos blended perfectly.

When Gosalyn intercepted the puck for the first time, Violet’s fingers tightened slightly on the railing. She didn’t cheer like the crowd did; she didn’t need to. Every part of her attention was locked on that streak of red and purple weaving through the defenders like a living spark.

She felt it—the rush of motion, the rhythm of Gosalyn’s breath, the way her shoulders moved with practiced control. There was poetry in it. And it wasn’t lost on Violet that her own heart was trying very hard to keep pace.

“Go, Gossie!” Launchpad’s voice boomed somewhere in the background, but it reached her only as a dim murmur. The crowd’s eruption when Gosalyn scored the first goal registered as little more than vibration through her shoes.

She didn’t need to hear it to feel it.

Gosalyn’s celebration was easy to read even without sound—arms raised, stick lifted high, head thrown back in unfiltered joy. Then she turned toward the stands again, scanning, searching—until she found her.

Violet, without even realizing she’d done it, gave a small, proud nod.

The answering grin Gosalyn sent her across the ice was so bright, so alive, that it made Violet’s chest ache.

⸻

As the game wore on, Violet adjusted her headphones slightly, shifting between full noise cancellation and the lighter setting that let a bit of the crowd bleed through. She liked hearing the edges of things—the scrape of the ice, the scuff of the puck, the laughter of teammates on the bench.

When Gosalyn got checked hard into the boards, Violet’s feathers bristled instinctively. Her hands twitched toward the rail before she stopped herself. Gosalyn, naturally, just popped back up like it was nothing and mouthed something cocky in the direction of her opponent that Violet couldn’t quite decipher but suspected involved some creative phrasing.

Violet exhaled slowly, her heart settling again. “She’s incorrigible,” she murmured to herself.

And yet she couldn’t help smiling.

Because when Gosalyn turned back toward the stands, giving her a little salute with the tip of her stick, Violet raised her thermos of tea in response—her own quiet version of a cheer.

The game roared on, but Violet’s world remained still and steady, focused only on one figure streaking across the ice with impossible confidence.

Every goal, every near miss, every triumphant spin drew her in further. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t waving a banner or shouting herself hoarse like the others. She didn’t have to.

Her focus was her applause.

And when the final buzzer sounded and Gosalyn skated off, flushed and glowing from victory, their eyes met again across the distance.

Gosalyn pointed her stick toward her, grin wide. “Told you I’d win one for ya, Vi!” she shouted, loud enough that Violet could catch the shape of every word.

She lowered her thermos, fighting the smile tugging at her beak. “So you did,” she murmured softly, the words lost to the crowd but meant only for her.

For the rest of the night, she didn’t take her eyes off her champion in purple and white.

The rink had quieted, but the buzz of victory still hung thick in the air. Gosalyn’s grin hadn’t left her face since the final whistle—her energy practically lighting up the cold expanse of the locker hall. She’d done it. Three goals, one near brawl, and a perfect record for the night.

And sure, yelling across the ice at the end of the game—“Told you I’d win one for ya, Vi!”—had maybe not been her smartest move.

At first, it had just been background noise, lost under the cheering. But the way the opposing team’s captain had narrowed his eyes told her she’d just handed them something they could use.

Because nothing bruised an entitled ego quite like losing to a girl half their size who celebrated for someone else.

Still, Gosalyn didn’t care. Not really. Not when Violet had given her that tiny, proud smile from the stands.

⸻

The crowd had mostly dispersed by the time Gosalyn clomped out of the locker room, duffel slung over her shoulder, hair damp from the showers and victory still humming in her chest.

Violet was waiting in the hall, as punctual and pristine as ever, her noise-canceling headphones now hanging around her neck. Her feathers had a faint lavender sheen under the fluorescent light, and she was scrolling quietly through something on her tablet—likely stats or schedules, because that’s what Violet did.

The moment Gosalyn saw her, she lit up. “Hey, Vi! You see that hat trick?!”

Violet looked up, expression as soft as it ever got in public. “I did indeed. Though I’m fairly certain the term hat trick only applies to three consecutive goals scored by the same player within a single game.”

Gosalyn blinked. “That’s… literally what I did.”

Violet tilted her head. “Ah. Then yes. I saw it.”

“Ha! See?” Gosalyn crowed, punching the air. “Genius on ice!”

“Braggart on thin ice,” Violet corrected, amusement tugging faintly at her voice.

Before Gosalyn could fire back with something witty, the air around them shifted.

The opposing team had started filing out of their locker room on the far end of the hall, muttering to each other in low tones. Half of them were still red-faced with embarrassment; the others had that simmering look that only spoiled rich kids got when their trophies were threatened.

One of them—tall, smug, hair slicked back within an inch of its life—glanced their way. “So that’s your cheerleader, huh, Waddlemeyer?” he drawled, voice thick with condescension. “Cute.”

Gosalyn’s feathers fluffed instantly. “What did you just—?”

Violet, ever the diplomat, laid a hand lightly on her arm. “Do not waste your breath on those who lack the intellect to value it.”

That—that—was the only thing that kept Gosalyn from vaulting over the bench.

Instead, she crossed her arms, glaring as the group passed. “Yeah, keep walking, hair gel!”

They sneered but didn’t reply—because at that exact moment, the door to the parking lot opened, and the sound of heavy boots echoed through the hall.

Lena Sabrewing stepped inside.

Her long, dark coat swirled with each step, blue-tinted shadows trailing faintly at her heels. The sapphire in her earrings caught the overhead light, glinting like a warning. She had that easy, dangerous confidence of someone who’d fought things far scarier than teenage hockey players.

Every single member of the opposing team froze.

Even their captain—Mr. Hair Gel himself—lost his smirk. “Uh… is that—?”

“Don’t,” one of his teammates whispered. “That’s Lena Sabrewing.”

“Who?”

“The weird one. You know, the one that—uh—people say can turn into a shadow when she’s mad.”

“…Oh.”

They scattered faster than Gosalyn could blink.

She blinked after them, then looked back at the dark-feathered figure now leaning casually against the wall. “Hey, Dragon!”

Lena exhaled through her nose, a look of long-suffering patience crossing her face. “Told you to stop calling me a Dragon, Waddlemeyer.”

Gosalyn grinned, slinging her duffel over her shoulder. “Can’t help it. You’ve got that whole ‘mystical guardian of doom’ vibe going on.”

Violet, catching up to them, adjusted her scarf with prim precision. “She refers to you by that title with… affection,” she explained delicately.

“Yeah, see?” Gosalyn said. “She gets me.”

Lena rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re all lucky I tolerate you.”

Then Gosalyn noticed the sleek black motorcycle parked outside the doors—engine still rumbling low, chrome gleaming under the parking lot lights. “Whoa.”

Lena followed her gaze and smirked. “My baby.”

“You ride that thing?” Gosalyn asked, wide-eyed.

“I have three babies,” Lena said matter-of-factly, ticking them off on her fingers. “Violet, Pink Jr., and my bike.”

Gosalyn blinked. “Pink Jr.?”

Violet sighed, already rubbing the bridge of her beak. “Her therapy cat. She found it a fitting name, considering it’s her… backup Pink.”

“Vi!” Lena exclaimed, scandalized. “Only I get to call her Pink!”

“Apologies, Sister,” Violet said smoothly, though her eyes sparkled with mischief.

Lena huffed, but the affection in it was impossible to miss. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“An objective fact,” Violet said serenely.

Gosalyn just stood there, half-laughing, half-stunned. “You two are unreal.”

“Family tends to be,” Lena replied simply, then looked at Gosalyn with a faint smirk. “You coming, or are you planning to freeze in the parking lot?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Gosalyn said quickly, though her eyes lingered on the motorcycle like it was some mythical creature. “That thing’s amazing, though.”

Lena’s smirk widened. “Touch it and it’ll bite.”

Violet sighed again. “That’s… not how machinery functions, Sister.”

“It is when I charm the engine,” Lena replied, dead serious.

Gosalyn’s eyes went wide. “You what?”

“Another time, Waddlemeyer,” Lena said, swinging a leg over the bike as Violet adjusted her scarf and climbed on behind her, graceful as ever.

The engine purred to life, glowing faintly blue at the edges like even it had absorbed some of Lena’s magic. Gosalyn stepped back, shielding her face from the blast of air as it revved.

“Try not to start another fight before next game,” Lena called over the noise.

“No promises!” Gosalyn shouted back.

Violet glanced over her shoulder just before the bike pulled away, the faintest smile curving her beak. “You played beautifully tonight, Gosalyn.”

Then the bike roared into motion, leaving only the echo of engines and the faint smell of ozone in their wake.

Gosalyn stood there, heart pounding for reasons she didn’t dare name, grinning at the fading taillights.

“Yeah,” she murmured to herself, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. “Totally doomed.”

Chapter Text

~~~

Gosalyn tried to pride herself on being calm in the face of panic. She faced all of reality about to be destroyed on her first day with Darkwing Duck. She could handle anything! Anything!

She was starting to doubt that. Because she got a text from Violet that morning in her clear, concise way she always texted in.

Vi: Gosalyn. My fathers’ wish to meet you. I am inviting you to dinner tonight. My sister’s slow burn will be joining us as well.

Gosalyn agreed, and next thing she knew her and Launchpad were on the road in his Jeep, hitting the Interstate in record time. Gosalyn looks up at him, a little confused. “LP, we’re going to see Vi and her Dads, right?”

Launchpad grins. “Yep! Address is in the GPS! She lives in Duckburg like I technically still do! Cool, right Gossie?” He said, his driving continuing to defy physics and the laws of the universe itself.

“Duckburg? Then why is she going to school in St. Canard? That’s like a two hour drive!” She exclaimed, uncrossing her wings over her chest to gesture towards the Interstate with one.

“I dunno. Maybe it’s a scholarship thing?”

“LP, she showed up this year! Not just that, Halfway through the year! That’s not normal scholarship stuff!”

Launchpad hummed happily as Gosalyn gripped the handle for dear life as he pulled onto Burch Tree Lane. Cute, quaint little townhouses stretched along the road on either side, and McDuck Manor stood out in the distance like a castle did to a kingdom. Ugh. Scrooge McDuck. King of the World at this point. He just traded the crown for a top hat and Child Endangerment. His labs were the whole reason her grandfather was gone. The whole reason she was legally considered an orphan. Again.

Launchpad slammed into the curbside, and Gosalyn sucked in a breath as she looked towards the townhouse that housed her girlfriend, her dads and her dragon- I mean older sister. Lena’s bike stood out on the driveway like a demonic Pegasus from the deepest pits of the Underworld, much like its owner.

Gosalyn leapt out of the jeep, and tried to swallow the lump of nervous anticipation crawling up her throat like an arrow of fear was flying through her heart.

Oh boy. Now or never.

Launchpad waved out the window of the definitely not supposed to be smoking blue jeep. “Bye Gossie! Have fun with your friend! I’m going to stop by Dewey’s! Love you!!”

She waved back, dragging herself up the steps to the front door and running her fingers through her hair feathers, tugging her ponytail tighter as she finally pressed the doorbell.

“I’ll get it!” A chipper voice, like if sugar and sunshine could have sounded like anything, that voice would be it. The door jerked open like an atom bomb and Gosalyn was greeted by a duckling around her age, with white feathers, blue eyes that shone with excitement in everything she locked them on, and she was pink. A pink bow around her head like a headband, puffy white sleeves with a pink skirt and purple vest with a pink ribbon tied like a fancy bow tie.

“Oh! Hi! Gosalyn! I’m Webby!” She greeted, holding her hand out towards her. Gosalyn gave a nervous half smile because wow that is so much energy in such a tiny package.

“Uh, hi?” She replied, shaking her hand as Webby gestured her to come inside. The duckling skipped down the hallway and called out towards the kitchen.

“Mr and Mr. Sabrewing! Violet’s friend is here!” She said, hopping into the kitchen as Gosalyn poked around the doorway to see two hummingbird males. One slimmer with grayish feathers, amber eyes like Violet’s, and the freckles too. That was Indigo Rayo- Sabrewing, Violet’s first dad. The other hummingbird was a tank, with a buzz cut and the same colored indigo colored hair feathers like Violet’s, that was Tyrian, he was the one cooking while his husband was helping set the table with the tiny white duckling named Webby.

“Oh!” Ty exclaimed, looking up from the pot. “One moment. Indy! Honey, can you tell Apollonia her new friend is here?” He gestured to his husband as Indy smiled towards him before turning to the staircase behind him.

“Apollonia! Your guest is here, Sweetie!” He called out, as Gosalyn stood there in the doorway, she felt something furry rubbing against her leg. She looked down and saw a white cat with striking blue eyes purring as it nuzzled against her leg.

Pink Jr. She deducted as the cat moved with the grace of an overexcited puppy that hopped onto the chair of its owner.

The thud of steps came from upstairs as Violet appeared at the top of the staircase. A tan sweater with a large collar that slipped over her shoulders as well as her collarbone with dark blue jeans and black talon coverings that looked so fitting made her feel so…normal. So composed. So..perfect.

“Evening, Gosalyn. I trust the drive wasn’t too much of a hassle?”

“Uh…Nah. LP only hit like, six mailboxes and the rumble strip is his new best friend apparently. I think the handle still has grooves from my death grip.” She shrugged, and Violet laughed ever so slightly as she practically glided down the stairs to meet her at the bottom, her shorter height being more obvious now that her talons were on the ground instead of lifted up by her shoes.

And then the light shifted.

The air went cold for a single heartbeat.
Not dangerous.
Just… watchful.

Like a dragon opening one eye.

At the top of the stairs, shadows folded open.

And Lena Sabrewing appeared.

Not walked. Not descended.
Appeared, like someone had whispered her name in the dark and she materialized out of pure spite and gothic indignation.

She stood at the landing in a long navy cardigan over a black turtleneck, sleeves pushed up, hair messy in that I-fought-a-wraith-before-bed way. Her earrings glinted silver. Her beak was set in a look of suspicion so honed it could have been used to sharpen swords.

Her sapphire eyes—those uncanny, predatory, protective eyes—locked instantly onto Gosalyn.

Not hostile.
Just… evaluating.

A dragon assessing whether the intruder near her hoard was a threat.

Violet sighed softly, the kind of sigh that meant she had anticipated this exact moment. Webby gasped happily. Pink Jr. made a tiny “mrrp” noise of welcome.

Indy didn’t even look up from the silverware as he called warmly:

“Marian! There you are!”

Everything stopped.

Everything.

Gosalyn blinked. “…Marian?”

Lena froze.
Dead still.
Like someone had pulled the emergency brake on the universe.

She descended the first stair with absolute, slow horror, feathers puffing, shoulders rising high like a threatened cat. “Pops,” she hissed, “NO. Not in front of the duck I am intimidating.”

Indy frowned mildly, so used to Lena’s dramatics they no longer registered. “But Marian is your—”

“DO NOT.” Lena snapped, pointing dramatically at him with a single claw.

Tyrian stirred his stew. “Sweetheart, your full name is beautiful. Selena Marian Sabrewing. Rolls off the tongue.”

“STOP ROLLING IT.” Lena said, physically recoiling like someone had tossed holy water on her.

Gosalyn was trying—TRYING—so hard not to laugh, but a wheeze escaped her anyway.

Lena’s eyes snapped to her like a hawk spotting prey.
Gosalyn straightened immediately.

Violet pinched the bridge of her beak. “Sister. Marian. Please.”

Lena let out a low, wounded growl.

Webby chose that exact moment to skip forward, full sunshine and glitter. “Hi Lena! My amazing wonderful best friend ever!”

Lena’s whole posture softened instantly, just for her. “Hi Pink,” she said in a long-suffering sigh, ruffling Webby’s bow. “You’ve been here for at least an hour now.”

Webby gasped. “You knew?!”

“You were humming the theme song to ‘Tales of the Brave Warrior Queen’ loud enough for the mailman to hear. And you left your grappling hook on the umbrella stand. Again.”

Webby’s gasp turned into a proud beaming smile. “She noticed!”

Gosalyn stared. “So… Marian?”

Lena bared her teeth in a thin smile. “Say it again and see what happens.”

Pink Jr. leapt onto the railing beside her, letting out a supportive chirp, clearly endorsing Lena’s intimidation campaign.

Gosalyn raised both hands. “Nope! Not touching that! Zero desire to get smited by a suburban sorceress.”

“Good,” Lena muttered. “You learn. I like that.”

Violet sighed again, walking the final few steps down until she stood beside Gosalyn, soft and steady, creating a perfect contrast to Lena’s swirling stormcloud energy.

Indy clapped his hands gently. “Now that we’re all here—Lena, Webby, Violet, Pink Jr., and Gosalyn—dinner is almost ready!”

Tyrian beamed proudly, holding a steaming ladle like a weapon. “Hope you’re hungry, kiddo. I made my award-winning triple-pepper ridge stew.”

Lena turned instantly, pointing at him. “DO NOT give her the triple-pepper until she signs the waiver.”

Gosalyn blinked. “…Waiver?”

Violet placed a calm hand on her arm. “Do not worry. He is overreacting. It is merely extremely spicy.”

“Extremely?” Gosalyn repeated.

“Unholy,” Lena corrected.

“Euphoric,” Tyrian added joyfully.

“Potentially fatal,” Webby supplied cheerfully.

Pink Jr. purred like none of this was alarming.

The Sabrewing household had officially swallowed her whole.

And Gosalyn realized—standing in the entryway, surrounded by chaos, magic, pink bows, a therapy cat, two dads, a sunshine gremlin, and a gothic dragon sister—that she was in much deeper than she had expected.

And that Violet Sabrewing, smoothing her sweater, cheeks faintly colored as she looked at her—

might just be worth every second of this madness.

“Shall we?” Violet asked softly.

Gosalyn swallowed, nodded, and stepped forward.

“Oh yeah,” she whispered. “Let’s do this.”

The moment Gosalyn stepped over the threshold into the Sabrewing living room, the atmosphere shifted.

Not dangerous.
Not tense.
Just… charged.

Pink Jr. sat primly in the center of the rug like a tiny, fluffy judge presiding over court. His tail flicked, his ice-blue eyes tracking every movement Gosalyn made with laser-focused curiosity. He looked at her, then at Violet, then back at her, then at Violet again.

Then his pupils went big.

Enormous.

As if he’d just discovered the answer to all cosmic mysteries.

He turned in place, chirped once—bright, hopeful, high-pitched—and then looked up at Violet with the raw enthusiasm of a toddler asking for a pony.

Pink Jr.’s face practically screamed:
CAN WE KEEP THE REDHEAD BABY?! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE—SHE’S SO SMALL AND LOUD AND FUN, PLEASE SAY YES!!

Gosalyn froze midway through shrugging off her jacket. “…Whoa. He’s… staring at me.”

Violet lifted Pink Jr. gently, holding him under his front legs. “He is assessing you. He tends to perform unusually intense observational tests on new individuals.”

Pink Jr. reached both paws toward Gosalyn like a judgmental, fluffy baby demanding tribute.

Lena, sprawled on the arm of the couch like a gothic gargoyle, rolled her eyes. “He likes her. Of course he likes her. He likes chaos gremlins. You and Webby ruined him.”

Pink Jr. hissed—not angrily, but in offended agreement.

Gosalyn slowly held out a hand. “He’s… cute. Kind of scary. But cute.”

Pink Jr. immediately headbutted her palm with the full force of a desperate, determined cuddle missile.

Violet blinked twice in surprise—a soft, startled sweetness in her eyes. “He does not usually accept individuals so quickly.”

Gosalyn laughed nervously. “So what, does he like… test people? Like a companion vibe?”

Lena sat straight up, feathers rising. “Oh no. Don’t ask—”

Too late.

Gosalyn tilts her head. “Wait. His name is Junior. Junior as in ‘named after someone.’ So who’s he named after?”

The room went dead quiet.

Like supernatural, spell-induced stillness.

Indy stopped stirring his tea.
Tyrian froze mid-ladle.
Violet’s feathers stiffened.
Pink Jr. paused mid-purr.

And Lena—

Lena flushed violently.

Her entire face went sapphire-red from the tips of her feathers to the edges of her ears. “NO ONE. HE’S NAMED AFTER NO ONE. RANDOM NAME. TOTALLY COMMON. VERY NORMAL.”

Webby bounced in place like she’d been waiting her entire life for this moment.

“ME!” she squealed, pointing at herself like a game show contestant who just won a million dollars. “HE’S NAMED AFTER ME! I’M THE PINK! I’M HIS OTHER MAMA!”

Pink Jr. chirped in triumphant confirmation, leaping off Violet’s arms and climbing onto Lena’s shoulder like he was planting a flag on Mount Embarrassment.

Lena groaned into her hands. “Webby, PLEASE—”

Webby hugged Lena’s arm with pure sunshine intensity. “I am Mommy Pink! You are Mommy Blue! And we are his Mamas! And Violet is his Baby! We are a FAMILY!”

Lena’s soul visibly left her body.

Violet exhaled softly through her nose. “To clarify, Pink Jr. considers us a unit of emotional security. The terminology… escalated.”

Gosalyn blinked at the trio—Lena mortified, Webby radiant, Pink Jr. triumphant, Violet serene—and tried to compute this new information.

“So he’s named after… Webby. Because… he’s white with blue eyes?”

Webby beamed proudly. “Yes! He’s the perfect combination of both of us! He looks like me and acts like Lena!”

From the couch, Pink Jr. dramatically knocked over a decorative pillow, hissed at a houseplant, and then curled into Violet’s lap like an angelic cherub.

“…Yeah, that tracks,” Gosalyn said.

Violet gently stroked the cat’s fur, her fingers soft, precise, grounding. Pink Jr. melted under her touch, purring so loudly it rattled the table. He nuzzled into her sweater, pushing his face under the long collar as if trying to burrow into his emotional support nest.

“Pink Jr. serves as a sensory regulator,” Violet explained quietly. “For all of us. He responds to dysregulation in remarkably intuitive ways.”

As if to prove her point, Pink Jr. reached out one tiny paw to tap her wrist, like yes, Baby needs calm, I am on duty.

Gosalyn watched—entranced.

Violet’s posture eased.
Her breathing steadied.
Her shoulders softened.

Pink Jr. nudged her again, then looked up at Gosalyn with a demanding “mrrrp.”

Violet tilted her head. “He wants you to sit beside me.”

Gosalyn swallowed hard. “Oh. Uh. Yeah—sure.”

She sat.

Pink Jr. immediately crawled halfway across Violet’s lap to bonk his head against Gosalyn’s arm.

Adoption confirmed.

Lena, watching with narrowed eyes from her shadow perch, muttered, “Traitor.”

Webby patted her sympathetically. “It’s okay, Mama Blue. He has enough love for all of us. Especially for Violet’s slow burn.”

Violet turned pink.

Gosalyn turned red.

Pink Jr. meowed like the tiny wingless Cupid he was.

In that moment, surrounded by Sabrewings, therapy animals, and chaotic love languages, Gosalyn fully understood:

She wasn’t dating a girl.

She was dating into a family.

A magical, chaotic, emotionally intense family that had already—without asking permission—

adopted her.

Pink Jr. crawled up her hoodie sleeve, curled into her shoulder, and purred decisively.

And Gosalyn Waddlemeyer realized she was doomed all over again.

Chapter Text

The rooftop of the Sabrewing’s townhouse was a simple concrete structure with a large boxy brick almost railing that Gosalyn and Violet were resting against, watching the stars of a clear Duckburg night before Launchpad arrives to take Gosalyn back home to St. Canard.

“I’m glad you could join us tonight for dinner, Gosalyn.” Violet said, breaking the quiet and peaceful silence of the cool deep blue night.

Gosalyn was leaning towards the edge, arms crossed and looking deep in thought before her eyes blink out of it. “Huh, oh, yeah. No problem, Vi.”

“Gosalyn, what’s troubling you? You seem, lost.” Violet asked, resting a hand on top of Gosalyn’s own. Lavender feathers meeting light brown, almost tan.

“Look, Vi. There’s something I have to tell you…” Green eyes lifted from looking down at the rough concrete edge of the rooftop, and meet a glittering sea of amber gemstones, framed by golden glasses and soft as smoke indigo curls.

“Yes?”

Gosalyn opened her beak, then shook her head, the edges of her redheaded feathers falling into her eyesight as she looked away. She bit the inside of her cheek, tasting copper on her tongue as she tried to find the best way to approach this.

“Gosalyn, I know something is bothering you. Talk to me.” She squeezed her hand gently, but Gosalyn shook her head again and pulled her hand away.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Gosalyn muttered, turning away from her. Violet sighed, and began walking away with her arms crossed and Gosalyn shot up and without thinking, her grappling arrow shot out from her wrist and wrapped around Violet’s waist.

Violet turned around and looked surprised as Gosalyn looked equally flustered and embarrassed; then she tugged on the line and spun her into her arms. Violet gripped her jacket, the purple fibers of the hockey captain’s jacket warm and soft and lined with faint white stitching that she rubbed her thumbs against.

“Oh…” She whispered, and her head jerked upwards to meet Gosalyn’s eyes. The cocky, yet extremely unsure grin on her beak, the little twitching in her green eyes, and her choppy red bangs. Gosalyn cupped her cheek with her other hand, softly brushing against the edge of her beak before kissing her. It was sweet, a little messy, very awkward, but filled with warmth and a sort of relief that a conversation just couldn’t relay.

Violet broke away, pressing her forward against hers, then after a gasp of breath, she pulled back to look into those green eyes as the pieces fell into place, especially after that grappling line. “You’re- You’re Quiverwing Quack!” She exclaimed, and Gosalyn breathed out a little sigh before pulling her in again.

“Vi. Shut up and kiss me.” She said before pulling her in for another kiss, this time it was much more sure of herself, and Violet returned with equal measure as the wind bristled against their feathers on the rooftop.

Lena came up the stairwell two at a time, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, already rehearsing the bored, singsong way she was going to say “Launchpad’s hereee” before immediately vanishing again. Rooftop errands were usually quick. Simple. Painless.

She pushed the door open.

…and immediately froze.

Gosalyn and Violet were not stargazing anymore.

They were very clearly kissing—no, not kissing, making out. Gosalyn had Violet backed up against the brick railing, one gloved hand tangled in indigo curls, the other braced at Violet’s waist like she was afraid gravity might remember its job. Violet was flushed clear to the tips of her feathers, fingers clutching Gosalyn’s jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the universe.

Lena blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Her brain made the Windows error noise.

She cleared her throat.

Loudly.

The reaction was immediate and spectacular.

They shot apart like they’d been hit with an electric current.

Gosalyn yelped—an undignified, panicked squawk—and nearly tripped over her own boots, scrambling backward while fumbling with her jacket zipper like it had personally betrayed her. Violet gasped, slapped a hand to her beak, and immediately started smoothing down the front of her dress, feathers puffed up in absolute mortification as she tugged at her collar and adjusted her shirt like maybe, if she fixed it enough, this moment would rewind itself.

“Ohmygosh—!” Violet squeaked.

“LENA—!” Gosalyn blurted at the same time, voice cracking halfway through her name.

The three of them stood there in a triangle of stunned silence, the night wind awkwardly ruffling feathers and hair.

Lena slowly raised an eyebrow.

“…Wow.”

Gosalyn swallowed. Hard.

Her brain was on fire.

Oh no. Oh no. The dragon. The dragon found me making out with her little sister. I’m dead. I’m actually dead. Drake is going to murder me. Or Lena is. Or both. Probably both.

“I—It’s not—!” Gosalyn started, immediately aborting whatever sentence that was supposed to be. She yanked her jacket straight, tugging at the hem, the collar, the sleeves—anything to look like a person who was definitely not just making out five seconds ago. “I mean—it is—but—!”

Violet, still bright purple with embarrassment, cleared her throat and tried to stand straighter, folding her hands in front of her like she was about to give a presentation instead of being caught kissing a vigilante on a rooftop. “H-Hi, Lena.”

Lena looked between them.

Then she looked at the grappling line still loosely looped around the railing.

Then back at Gosalyn.

“…So,” Lena said slowly, lips twitching despite herself, “this explains a lot.”

Gosalyn made a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a plea. “Please don’t tell Drake.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely telling Drake,” Lena replied instantly.

Gosalyn’s soul left her body.

“I mean—” Lena continued, holding up a hand as Gosalyn visibly panicked, “eventually. Maybe. After I stop laughing.”

She leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossed, a sharp grin spreading across her face. “Wow. Quiverwing Quack. Kissing my sister. On the roof. Bold move.”

Violet covered her face with both hands. “Lena—!”

“I’m kidding, Vi,” Lena said, softer now, nudging her shoulder with her elbow as she stepped closer. Her eyes flicked back to Gosalyn, expression shifting—still teasing, but not unkind. “Relax. I’m not mad.”

Gosalyn blinked. “…You’re not?”

Lena shrugged. “You look terrified enough already. Besides,” she smirked, “you could’ve done way worse.”

Gosalyn let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, shoulders slumping with relief. “Okay. Cool. Great. Awesome. Because for a second there I thought I was going to get incinerated.”

Lena snorted. “Please. If anyone’s getting roasted, it’s you—and only emotionally.”

She jerked her thumb back toward the stairwell. “Anyway. Launchpad’s here. He says something about ‘traffic’ and ‘nearly landing on a hotdog stand.’”

Gosalyn groaned. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Violet hesitated, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress again as she looked at Gosalyn, eyes still warm despite the interruption. “You… you have to go.”

“Yeah,” Gosalyn said quietly, meeting her gaze. The panic was gone now, replaced with something softer—and steadier. “But I’ll be back.”

Violet smiled, small and certain. “I know.”

Lena watched them for a moment, then turned pointedly toward the door. “I’m going to give you, like… ten seconds of plausible deniability.”

Gosalyn grinned. “You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

Lena disappeared down the stairwell.

Gosalyn and Violet shared one last quick, stolen kiss—gentle, lingering—before pulling apart again, both smiling like they’d just stepped into something terrifying and wonderful and somehow survived.

“Text me when you get home,” Violet said.

Gosalyn tapped two fingers to her forehead in a salute. “Always.”

Then she turned, heart pounding, jacket finally straightened, and headed for the stairs—leaving behind a rooftop full of stars, wind, and the unmistakable feeling that everything had just changed.

Gosalyn didn’t slow down so much as redirect.

The stairwell door slammed open as she tore down the steps, boots pounding against concrete in a frantic, echoing rhythm. Her heart was still racing—half from the kissing, half from the fact that Launchpad was here and if she didn’t move fast enough this goodbye was going to turn into a whole thing.

She burst into the main level of the townhouse like a small red missile.

“GOSALYN—!”

Webby barely had time to turn before Gosalyn skidded to a stop in front of her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pulled her into a fierce, quick hug.

“I gotta go—Launchpad’s here—don’t touch my stuff—don’t tell Drake anything embarrassing!” Gosalyn rattled off in one breath.

Webby laughed, hugging her back just as tightly. “Be safe! And text me when you get back to St. Canard!”

“Always!” Gosalyn called, already backing away.

Pink Jr. the cat chose that moment to weave directly in front of her legs, tail flicking with perfect timing. Gosalyn nearly tripped, catching herself on the wall before crouching down.

“Oh—hey, Pink,” she said, rubbing behind the cat’s ears. “Guard the place while I’m gone, okay?”

Pink Jr. responded by meowing imperiously and headbutting her hand like this was a binding contract.

“Good. I trust you.”

She popped back up and nearly collided with Tyrian Sabrewing, who stood in the hallway with his arms crossed, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his beak.

“Heading out already?” Tyrian asked mildly.

Gosalyn stiffened—just a little—before nodding. “Yeah. Launchpad’s waiting.”

Indigo appeared beside him, calm and observant as ever, eyes flicking briefly toward the stairwell… and then back to Gosalyn. There was something unreadable—but not unkind—in his expression.

“Thank you for coming to dinner,” Indigo said. “You’re welcome here anytime.”

Gosalyn swallowed, then smiled, genuine and a little crooked. “Thanks. Uh. For everything.”

Tyrian chuckled softly. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

She gave them a quick, two-finger salute. “Night, Sabrewings.”

Then she was gone again—grabbing her helmet off the hook, yanking the door open, and sprinting out into the cool night air.

The jeep was parked at the curb, engine idling, headlights casting long beams across the quiet street. Launchpad leaned against the driver’s side door, mid-story to absolutely no one.

“…and then the pigeon just stared at me like I was the problem—oh! Hey, Gosalyn!”

She slowed just enough to grin at him. “Sorry! Got held up.”

“No worries!” Launchpad said cheerfully, opening the passenger door for her. “Ready to head back to St. Canard?”

Gosalyn hopped up into the seat, slamming the door shut and finally—finally—letting herself breathe.

She glanced back at the townhouse once before pulling her helmet on, a small smile tugging at her beak.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

Launchpad revved the engine, and the jeep pulled away into the Duckburg night, carrying Gosalyn forward with a heart that felt lighter—and fuller—than it had in a long, long time.

~~~

Gosalyn snuck into the living room through the floor entrance that led to Justice Tower as Launchpad parked the jeep in the driveway. It was dark, nice and quiet, too quiet. She tugged her hood up and brushed off leftover white fur on her green jacket when the lamp snapped on and flooded her senses with light.

Squinting, she saw Drake Mallard in his pale magenta t shirt and sitting in the recliner chair like a dad who caught their kid sneaking back in way after curfew.

“Gosalyn. Dinner with Vi’s family, was it?”

“Ugh, Drake!” She groaned, blinking a few times to adjust her eyes to the light as she yanked her hood down. “Yes! It was nice, her dads were cool, and her sister named her therapy cat after her slow burn lesbian relationship! Happy now?”

“Uh huh. And this Vi. She wouldn’t happen to be Violet Sabrewing, would she? The sister in law of Scrooge McDuck’s ward, Webbigail VanderQuack?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah? So?” She scoffed, crossing her arms against her chest as she planted her feet.

“And we were going to meet her when?” He demanded, and she looked away from him, green eyes hitting the squeaky floorboard in the corner.

“Eventually.” She muttered, which was Gosalyn’s way of saying Never if she could help it.

“Gosalyn! This is a big deal! Your first time dating! As your legal guardian-“

“Technically you’re not even that, I just chose you over the system.” She grumbled under her breath as he continued unfazed.

“I have a right to meet whoever you want to date! I’m trying to be more supportive than mine were, please.” He said, and she finally met justice blue eyes with her own fierce green and saw the genuine care in them. She sighed, her muscles loosening a little bit as her jaw unclenched.

Gosalyn let the tension in her shoulders ease, just a fraction. Drake wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t lecturing. He was just… looking at her. Worried. Which somehow made it all worse.

She ran a hand through her hair, trying to shake off the urge to bolt back out the window.

“It’s not—” she started, then stopped, picking her words like stepping stones over a creek. “It’s not that I didn’t want you to meet her. I just… didn’t want to make it weird.”

Drake blinked. “Gosalyn, I named myself Darkwing Duck. I patrol the city rooftops in a purple cape. I am objectively weird.”

She snorted. “Yeah, but this is different.”

“How?” he asked, softer now.

She hesitated. The house hummed around them—the fridge clicking, the soft tick tick of the ceiling fan, the distant sound of Launchpad probably backing the jeep into a mailbox again.

She dropped into the couch, arms crossed tight like she had to hold her ribs shut to keep her heartbeat from spilling out.

“Because this is… real,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Drake didn’t move. Didn’t joke. Didn’t try to fill the air.

He just listened.

“She’s… amazing,” Gosalyn continued, staring at the coffee table like it held answers. “She listens to me. Not like—‘oh wow, what a troublemaker’ or ‘that’s so brave’ or ‘I’m sure you don’t mean to blow up the garage.’ She actually listens. She doesn’t treat me like a problem or a weapon or some kid who got caught in a superhero origin story.”

Her throat tightened.

“She looks at me like I’m just… me.”

Drake’s face softened in a way she didn’t see often—quiet, raw, the kind of soft that comes from hurting and healing at the same time.

“Gos,” he said, gentle. “You deserve that.”

She blinked hard. Looked away. “Yeah. Well. I just didn’t want to… ruin it by having you show up like—”

She gestured wildly.

“Like me?” Drake said, a helpless, crooked smile forming.

“YES,” she groaned, flopping back into the cushions dramatically. “Like you. You would interrogate her, Drake. You’d pull out charts. You’d do background checks. You’d ask her opinion on Justice Tower policy. It’d be a whole thing.”

Drake opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Considered.

“…Okay, yes, I would absolutely do all of those things,” he admitted. “But not because I want to scare her away. Because I want to understand the person who matters to you.”

Gosalyn froze.

That landed somewhere deep.

Somewhere aching.

She swallowed.

“…You mean that?”

“Of course I mean that,” Drake replied, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “I want to be in your life. Not just the parts where we’re fighting villains or arguing over curfew. The parts where you’re happy. Where you’re scared. Where you’re figuring yourself out.”

He looked at her like she was the most important thing in the room.

Because she was.

“You don’t have to handle that alone,” he said quietly.

Gosalyn exhaled, long and slow, like letting go of something heavy.

Then she nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “You can meet her.”

Drake lit up like a kid on Christmas.

“But,” she added sharply, holding up one clawed finger, “no capes. No smoke bombs. No dramatic monologues. You are going to be a normal person for once in your life.”

Drake opened his mouth to argue.

Gosalyn stared him down.

Drake deflated.

“…Fine,” he muttered.

They were quiet again. Softer silence, this time. Lived-in silence.

Then Gosalyn grinned sideways.

“Her dads really did like you, by the way.”

Drake brightened immediately. “They did?! Did they say that?? Did they—”

“Drake. I said no monologues.”

He sank back in the chair, hands over his face, but he was smiling.

Gosalyn stood, tugging her hood up again, not to hide—just to settle herself.

“I’m gonna shower,” she said. “Pink Jr. basically shed an entire cat on me.”

Drake nodded. “Okay.”

She paused on the stairs.

“…Thanks. For not being awful about this.”

Drake looked up.

“You’re my kid,” he said simply. “I’m proud of you.”

Gosalyn pretended her eyes were just adjusting to the light again.

Then she disappeared upstairs, heart full, chest steady, steps lighter than when she’d walked in.

Drake sat alone a moment longer.

Then he leaned back in the recliner.

And smiled.

Because his daughter was in love.

And she was safe.

And that was enough for tonight.

Chapter Text

Violet Sabrewing arrived at St. Canard High School ten minutes early.

This was not an accident.

Normally, Violet’s mornings were a precise ritual: arrive exactly when the bell was seven minutes away, walk the same hallway, stop at the same locker, review the same mental checklist for the day. Predictability was calming. Predictability was safe.

This morning, however, predictability had been completely sabotaged by the lingering memory of a rooftop, cold wind, a grappling line, and the way Gosalyn’s voice had sounded when she said Shut up and kiss me.

Violet was—embarrassingly—still a little giddy.

She stood at her locker with her shoulder resting against the cool metal, fingers idly twisting the combination dial without actually opening it. Her sweater was neat, her glasses polished, her bag hanging perfectly straight on one shoulder. Outwardly: composed, calm, unbothered.

Internally: a hummingbird trapped in a snow globe.

She kissed me, Violet thought for what had to be the fiftieth time since waking up. She kissed me again. On purpose.

Her feathers fluffed—just slightly—before she forcibly smoothed them down, glancing around to make sure no one had noticed. The hallway was filling with students: lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices rising into the familiar chaotic chorus of a school morning.

And then—

SLAM.

The locker next to hers rattled violently as something—or rather, someone—threw their weight against it.

Violet startled, wings twitching, heart leaping straight into her throat.

She turned just in time to see Gosalyn Waddlemeyer leaning one elbow against the locker beside her like she owned the entire hallway.

Which, functionally, she did.

Gosalyn was wearing her hockey captain jacket—purple and white, thick and unmistakable—with the number #1 stitched boldly into the back. Her gloves were clipped to her belt, her helmet hanging from her fingers, red hair feathers pulled back in a messy ponytail that screamed I woke up five minutes ago and still look amazing.

Her arms were crossed.
Her stance was relaxed.
Her grin was pure, unrepentant confidence.

The hallway… shifted.

Conversations quieted.
A few students very deliberately turned and walked the other way.
Someone near the water fountain whispered, “Oh no, it’s Waddlemeyer.”

Because Gosalyn Waddlemeyer was not just a hockey player.

She was the hockey player.

Captain of the team.
Star forward.
Known for scoring impossible goals, checking opponents into next week, and once getting a three-game suspension for defending Honker after someone called him a slur in the parking lot.

People didn’t mess with Gosalyn’s people.

And Violet Sabrewing was very clearly one of her people now.

Gosalyn tilted her head slightly, green eyes sparkling with mischief as she looked Violet up and down like she was savoring the moment.

“Vi,” she said casually.

Violet’s brain briefly blue-screened.

“Babes.”

The word landed like a spark.

Violet made a small, undignified noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak.

Gosalyn’s grin widened immediately. Oh, she noticed.

“Oh—wait,” Gosalyn continued, straightening just a bit, mock-serious. “Can I call you babes?”

Violet swallowed, her beak opening and closing once before her voice caught up with her thoughts. “I—”

Gosalyn leaned in closer, lowering her voice just enough that it felt like a secret meant only for Violet.

“Because I really wanna call you babes.”

Violet’s feathers fluffed. Fully this time.

She clutched the strap of her bag with both hands, trying—failing—to maintain composure as warmth flooded her cheeks. “Y—you may,” she managed, voice soft and breathless despite her best efforts.

Gosalyn looked victorious.

“Yes,” she whispered to herself, fist curling in a tiny, celebratory motion at her side.

Behind them, someone audibly dropped a textbook.

Honker, approaching from down the hall with his backpack slung over one shoulder, slowed to a stop mid-step. He stared at the scene: Gosalyn looming comfortably at Violet’s side, Violet looking like she might actually short-circuit, and the way Gosalyn’s body language screamed mine, don’t even think about it.

Honker’s eyes widened.

“…Oh,” he said quietly. Then, louder: “OH.”

Gosalyn glanced over her shoulder, immediately perking up. “Honks!”

Honker blinked. “You called her babes.”

Gosalyn nodded proudly. “I did.”

Honker looked at Violet. “You let her call you babes.”

Violet nodded once, very seriously, still pink. “I did.”

Honker stared between them for a moment, processing.

Then he smiled so hard it nearly split his face. “I KNEW IT.”

Gosalyn reached out and ruffled Honker’s head affectionately, the gesture protective and familiar. “You good, dude?”

“I’m great,” Honker said. “I’m thriving. This explains the vibes.”

Around them, the student body had collectively decided this was not a situation to get involved in. A pair of upperclassmen took one look at Gosalyn’s stance and immediately found somewhere else to be. A freshman whispered, “Is Violet… dating Waddlemeyer?” like he’d just witnessed a cryptid.

Violet finally opened her locker, mostly to give her hands something to do. She felt Gosalyn shift closer—not touching, but close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

Protective.
Intentional.
Warm.

“Walk you to class?” Gosalyn asked, tone light but eyes sharp, scanning the hallway out of habit.

Violet smiled, small but radiant. “I would like that.”

Gosalyn pushed off the locker, straightening to her full height, and gestured down the hall with exaggerated gallantry. “After you, babes.”

Violet’s heart did something extremely unhelpful.

As they started down the hallway together, Honker falling into step beside them, the message was unmistakable:

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer had chosen.
And St. Canard High School was officially on notice.

Honker had been vibrating with barely contained glee since the hallway moment.

He walked a half-step behind Gosalyn and Violet, hands laced behind his head, eyes glittering with the kind of joy only a best friend could feel when their long-standing suspicions were violently confirmed. Gosalyn’s arm wasn’t around Violet—yet—but her body was angled just enough to box her in protectively as they moved through the hall. It was subtle. Instinctive. Extremely Gosalyn.

Honker clocked it immediately.

“So,” he began, voice light and innocent in the way that absolutely promised danger, “how long were you planning on not telling me that you finally asked her out?”

Gosalyn didn’t even look at him. “Define ‘finally.’”

Honker snorted. “Weeks. Literal weeks. You’ve been doing that thing where you pretend you’re not staring at her and then trip over absolutely nothing.”

Violet flushed again, feathers puffing reflexively. “I—That only happened twice.”

“Three times,” Honker corrected. “Once in the library. Once near the vending machines. And once when Gosalyn walked into a door because you smiled at her.”

Gosalyn groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I was distracted.”

“Uh-huh.” Honker leaned forward, grinning. “Distracted by your girlfriend.”

Violet made a tiny startled noise. “I—!”

Gosalyn stopped walking.

She turned slowly, one eyebrow lifting as she looked between Honker and Violet. “Girlfriend?”

Honker froze.

Violet froze harder.

The hallway collectively leaned in.

Violet swallowed, fingers twisting in the strap of her bag. “I—I mean—we didn’t explicitly define—”

Gosalyn’s grin spread, slow and bright and absolutely lethal. “Vi.”

“Yes?”

“…Do you wanna be my girlfriend?”

Violet’s brain briefly left the building.

She nodded. Immediately. Vigorously. “Yes.”

Gosalyn pumped one fist under her breath. “YES.”

Honker gagged loudly. “I hate this. I love this. I hate how long it took. I love that it finally happened.”

Gosalyn slung an arm around Honker’s shoulders and ruffled his head. “You’re just mad I didn’t tell you first.”

“I am devastated,” Honker said. “I had bets going.”

They rounded the corner—

—and Honker’s smile dropped instantly.

Tank Muddlefoot stood at the end of the hall like a walking detention slip.

Big. Broad. Shoulders like a linebacker. Arms crossed. That familiar smug look already loading into place like a bad cutscene. He took one look at Honker and cracked his knuckles.

Honker sighed. Deeply. Exhaustedly.

“…Tank,” he said, already bracing himself. “Can we skip the tail-kicking today? Because I have a lot going on and—”

“Nope,” Tank said cheerfully.

And then he lunged.

Honker yelped and bolted.

“HEY—!” Gosalyn barked, instantly moving, reflexes snapping on like a switch. She shoved Violet gently but firmly behind her with one arm. “Vi, stay back—!”

“I’M NOT DONE WITH YOU, NERD!” Tank roared as Honker sprinted down the hall, weaving between startled students.

“I SAID I WAS BUSY TODAY!” Honker shouted back, skidding around a corner. “ALSO YOU’RE WALKING PROOF THAT EVOLUTION HAS A SENSE OF HUMOR!”

“Oh no,” Gosalyn muttered, already chasing after them. “Oh no, he’s become the worst version of me.”

Violet blinked. “The… worst version?”

“He’s got my mouth,” Gosalyn said grimly, “and none of my muscle mass.”

Tank nearly grabbed Honker’s backpack. Honker ducked, tripped over his own feet, and barely scrambled away as Tank slammed a fist into a locker hard enough to dent it.

“HEY!” Gosalyn snapped, skidding to a stop between them. “Back. OFF.”

Tank straightened, towering over her. “Stay outta this, Waddlemeyer. This is family business.”

Gosalyn planted her boots, shoulders squaring, eyes sharp. “Then maybe don’t try to hospitalize him in a school hallway.”

Honker peeked out from behind her shoulder. “Yeah! What she said! Also your haircut sucks!”

“HONKER,” Gosalyn hissed without turning. “STOP TALKING.”

Violet stepped forward before Gosalyn could stop her.

“Please,” Violet said, voice calm but firm, wings tucked tight to her sides. “This is unnecessary. You’re disrupting the learning environment.”

Tank blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then laughed. “What’s this? You bring backup now, Honk?”

Gosalyn moved instantly, one arm coming out to shield Violet without even thinking. Her voice dropped, dangerous and low. “Hey. Eyes on me. She doesn’t belong in this.”

Violet looked up at her, startled—but not scared.

Tank’s grin widened. “Wow. You serious about the hummingbird, huh?”

Gosalyn stepped closer, chin lifting. “Dead serious.”

The tension snapped tight.

Students had fully stopped pretending not to watch.

Tank rolled his shoulders. “You gonna hit me?”

Gosalyn smiled. It wasn’t friendly. “I don’t need to.”

Honker tugged on her jacket sleeve urgently. “Gos. Gos. Do not murder him. I am asking as your friend and also as someone who doesn’t want you expelled.”

Tank scoffed. “Figures. You always hiding behind someone.”

Honker bristled. “Says the guy who peaked in middle school.”

Tank snarled and stepped forward—

—and a teacher’s voice thundered down the hallway.

“TANK MUDDLEFOOT.”

Everyone froze.

Tank visibly deflated.

The teacher marched over, glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Detention. Now.”

Tank opened his beak. Thought better of it. “Whatever,” he muttered, stomping away.

The hallway slowly exhaled.

Honker sagged with relief. “Wow. I survived. Again.”

Gosalyn turned on him instantly. “You are unbelievable.”

Honker grinned sheepishly. “But you love me.”

She sighed, then pulled him into a quick, fierce hug. “Yeah. I do.”

Violet smiled softly at the sight, heart warm and steady as Gosalyn finally turned back to her, all the sharp edges softening immediately.

“You okay?” Gosalyn asked quietly.

Violet nodded. “I am. Thank you for protecting me.”

Gosalyn’s ears warmed. “Always.”

Honker smirked. “Wow. She said always.”

Gosalyn groaned. “I am never living this down.”

But as they walked to class together—Honker limping slightly, Gosalyn hovering protectively, Violet glowing—

it was very clear:

They were already a unit.

And anyone who tried to mess with that?

Was going to have a very bad day.

Chapter Text

The Tower of Justice stood out like righteousness as Gosalyn came up the elevator with excitement in her steps. She kissed the girl of her dreams, Freaking Violet Sabrewing, and Launchpad’s best friend no longer wanted her romantically!

BEST LIFE EVER!!

She popped out and WANDA’s voice chirped out despite her tone being sarcastic most days. “Evening Quiverwing.”

“Sup Wanda! Where’s the boyfriends?” She asked, throwing her hockey bag to the floor as she slid into the swivel chair.

“Right here Kiddo! Get out of my chair!” Drake called out as him and Launchpad came up behind her. Launchpad had grease smudging on his beak and looked a little disheveled, Ratcatcher maintenance again, seemed like.

Gosalyn rolled her eyes as she hopped out and Drake took her spot at the central computer.

“Alright team! Gosalyn, go get your suit on and-“

“And be ready in ten blah blah Drake. Just make sure it’s the right district this time!” She called out as she pulled up the cased mannequin where her suit was attached.

The blackish purple with the hooded cape with the purple over-shirt with long sleeves and thick gloves for better protection against her trick shots with her bow mid air. The boots were extra grippy for better control on rooftops and they were silent footfalls for maximum sneakiness.

She slipped it on as quickly as possible and then grabbed her medium off pink colored metal belt, quiver stocked full of her arrows and her collapsible bow of the same color. She slammed her purple domino mask on over her face and then pulled her hood over her head to hide her red hair feathers to conceal her identity better than Drake even tended to even attempt.

“Alright DW! Quiverwing reporting for duty! Let me guess, Patrol tonight?” She suggested; and Darkwing chuckled at her dry optimism.

“Not tonight kiddo, we’ve been getting intel from SHUSH that Steelbeak and his new accomplice; a swan by the name of the Lady in Pink, are making moves after these three containers in the name of FOWL and pure villainy!” He announced, and Launchpad nodded earnestly as always.

“Yeah! Steelbeak is no good! And whoever this lady is? She’s definitely no good either, right DW?”

“Right, Buddy. Okay, Wanda, can you locate where our first container is supposed to be at? We need to find them before FOWL gets there greedy talons on them!”

“Of course Darkwing, as if that’s all I’m useful for,” Wanda snarked, as her feeds pulled up the location of the first container. The Glass Building in the Beaks District. Not its official name, but it’s where Mark Beaks has all his stuff placed and so it’s the Beaks District.

The Glass Building loomed over the Beaks District like a glowing monument to ego and questionable tech ethics. Half its floors were lit in shifting neon gradients, changing color every few seconds like the entire skyscraper was trying to show off. Typical Mark Beaks: it wasn’t a building, it was a flex.

The elevator doors whooshed open and Gosalyn stepped out with her hood up, her boots silent on the polished floor. Her mask tightened around her eyes, sensors flickering on with that faint violet shimmer she loved. Everything smelled like dust, cold air-conditioning, and that weird sterile scent all high-tech labs had — like batteries dipped in mouthwash.

“Wanda,” she murmured, tapping the communicator on her glove, “give me a layout.”

A holographic map flickered to life over her wrist. Wanda’s voice echoed in her earpiece, dry as ever. “Third floor. Security grid minimal. Mark Beaks apparently spent the budget for proper defenses on self-branding and drone DJ equipment.”

“Yeah, sounds right,” Gosalyn said with a smirk. Beaks really was a menace. And not in a fun villain way — in a “please stop posting motivational crypto rants at 3AM” way.

Darkwing and Launchpad were a floor above, scanning another wing. But this part was hers. She wanted it that way — especially tonight. She needed something to channel her adrenaline after that moment. The moment her entire chest detonated into fireworks because Violet Sabrewing said she liked her too.

Even now, Gosalyn’s heart fluttered. Girlfriend. She had a girlfriend. Violet Sabrewing. Violet Sabrewing, whose brain ran on the world’s most fascinating software. Violet Sabrewing, who tilted her head like a baby owl when confused and made Gosalyn want to melt into the floor in joy.

Focus. Focus. Hero things. No swooning.

She checked the readout on her quiver. Fully stocked. Explosive tips, foam tips, grappling hooks, two flare arrows, one net arrow, and — she rolled her eyes — one trick arrow Drake insisted on adding that launched confetti and produced a Darkwing Duck autograph card. Why. Why did that exist.

Gosalyn slipped into a run, gliding along the wall before flipping over a laser grid that flickered lazily, like it wasn’t even trying. The Glass Building hallways were empty this late at night, lights dimmed to a cool bluish tone. Screens on the walls played looping ads of Mark Beaks promoting something called “Beaks Boost™,” which appeared to be vitamin gummies with the vague promise of “unlocking your inner mogul.” Whatever that meant.

She reached the vault door.

Container ALPHA should’ve been behind it.

The vault was sleek silver metal, with a biometric lock shaped like Beaks’ own face. It scanned facial data, and if the person wasn’t “cool enough,” it would alarm. Gosalyn had watched Drake fail the scan earlier and deliver a dramatic monologue about how “dangerously handsome vigilantes should ABSOLUTELY count as cool.”

She took a breath, cracked her knuckles, and pulled out a circular device. One of her favorites — a magnetic lock disruptor.

Before she could plant it, a shadow moved.

Then another.

And then a voice cut through the hallway:

“Well, well, well… look what we’ve got here.”

Gosalyn froze.

Steelbeak stepped out from behind a pillar, metal beak illuminated by the neon reflections bouncing down the hall. He wore that stupid smug grin — the one that silently said he definitely thought he looked cooler than he actually did. His red tie swayed as he swaggered toward her, broad shoulders rolling.

And beside him?

A tall swan in a rose-pink trench coat, blonde feathers shimmering under the lights. Her eyes were hidden behind sleek tinted lenses, and she carried herself like someone who’d walked out of a high-fashion villain catalog. Every move was smooth, elegant, lethal.

“The Lady in Pink,” Wanda whispered in Gosalyn’s ear. “Her file is classified. SHUSH only gave me her codename and a warning: she’s extremely dangerous and extremely dramatic.”

Great. Just what Gosalyn needed — two theater majors with weapons.

Steelbeak cracked his knuckles. “Darkwing Duck ain’t here, kid. Looks like you’re all on your own tonight.”

Gosalyn smirked, slipping into a fighting stance, her bow unfolding with a satisfying metallic snap.

“Oh, good,” she said. “I wanted to work off some steam.”

The Lady in Pink tilted her head, voice silky as she spoke. “Quiverwing Quack. The child vigilante.” She said child like it was an insult and an inconvenience. “Your interference ends here.”

“You talk like you have insurance,” Gosalyn shot back. “Do villains get dental? You’re gonna need it.”

Steelbeak bristled. “HEY—!”

But before he could finish, a distant voice crackled through her earpiece:

“—Kiddo? Kiddo, do NOT engage without backup — we’re on our way—”

“Already engaging!” Gosalyn announced cheerfully.

Steelbeak lunged.

Gosalyn vaulted backward over his arm, firing a foam arrow into the ground. It exploded into a thick, sticky purple mass that glued Steelbeak’s feet together. He stumbled, cursing loudly as she flipped onto a catwalk rail for higher ground.

The Lady in Pink moved faster.

With a flick of her wrist, a pink energy whip ignited, slicing the air with a sizzling crack. Gosalyn dodged it by inches, sparks raining as the whip split the railing beside her clean in half.

Okay.
Yeah.
She was dangerous.

Gosalyn grinned behind her mask.

Perfect.

“I was hoping for a challenge.”

With a leap, she drew an explosive arrow and fired — sparks flying as it hit the floor, bursting into a shockwave that forced the swan to skid backward.

Steelbeak roared, ripping himself free of the foam. “Get back here, ya purple pest!”

Gosalyn laughed.

Her heart raced, her blood sang, and for the first time all day her brain wasn’t full of soft hummingbird romance fluttering around inside it — it was sharp, focused, alive.

“Come on, Steelbeak!” she taunted. “Quiverwing’s in a really good mood tonight. Let’s dance!”

And somewhere between dodging energy whips and flipping across beams, her thoughts drifted back — just for a moment — to Violet smiling up at her.

To the study date.

To the soft “I… like you too.”

Yeah.

Life was good.

Villains?
Bring it on.

The vault door blew open in a controlled burst of white-blue light just as Gosalyn backflipped away from another slice of the Lady in Pink’s whip.

The hallway echoed with a triumphant voice:

“BEHOLD! Justice arrives ON SCHEDULE!”

Darkwing Duck posed in the smoking doorway, cape billowing despite the complete lack of wind. Launchpad skidded in behind him, goggles askew, carrying a fire extinguisher he absolutely did not need. Wanda’s avatar flickered on a nearby screen with a sarcastic eyebrow raise.

And in Drake’s hands?

Container ALPHA.
Secure.
Untouched.
Glowing with ominous narrative importance.

Gosalyn whooped. “YES! That’s my boyfriends!”

Launchpad beamed. “We did it! Darkwing grabbed the thingy and I only knocked over THREE experimental servers!”

“Two,” Wanda corrected dryly. “But one was expensive enough to count twice.”

Steelbeak’s jaw dropped, metal beak clinking. “WHAT—?! How did—?! We were RIGHT HERE!”

Darkwing winked at him with smarmy superhero confidence. “Never underestimate the stealth of a master crimefighter—”

“You crashed through the ventilation ducts,” Wanda deadpanned.

“—who strategically descends through ventilation ducts,” Darkwing corrected, clearing his throat. “Point is! This container is safe, Steelbeak! Thanks to the terror that flaps in the night!”

Steelbeak’s eye twitched.

“I HATE that guy.”

The Lady in Pink smoothed her feathers, elegance unbothered. Her tinted lenses glinted as she regarded Darkwing, then Steelbeak, then Gosalyn perched like a gargoyle on the broken catwalk rail.

“Darling,” she said, voice warm honey poured over sharp knives, “hatred without comprehension is sloppy. Learn your enemies. Study them. Know their weaknesses intimately.”

She tapped one polished talon to her beak.

“Otherwise you will always lose to… that,” she finished, gesturing vaguely at Darkwing’s heroic pose, which had somehow gotten more dramatic.

Darkwing flourished the container like he was presenting a prize on a game show. “Yes! Bask in the frustration of villainy, evildoers!”

Steelbeak snarled. “I AM BASKING. I’M BASKING VERY HARD.”

Gosalyn cackled and vaulted off the railing, landing in a neat slide beside Launchpad.

“Okay, DW,” she said, flicking dust off her gloves, “container secured, bad guys stalled, ego inflated. What’s next?”

Drake snapped his cape dramatically. “Next? We vanish into the night with righteous efficiency!”

And then the floor groaned loudly.

Followed by a large section of ceiling collapsing because Launchpad had leaned on the wrong wall panel.

“Oops,” LP winced.

The villains stared.

Darkwing coughed. “A–as I was saying! VANISH INTO THE NIGHT!”

Launchpad grabbed him, Gosalyn grabbed the container, and the trio sprinted for the exit as sprinklers activated and hologram ads started glitching in Mark Beaks’ voice:
“SECURITY BREACH! SECURITY BREACH! BUY BEAKS BOOST™!”

Behind them, Steelbeak pointed furiously at their retreating forms.

“THIS AIN’T OVER! I SWEAR I’M GONNA—!”

The Lady in Pink placed a gentle wing on his shoulder.

“Steelbeak, darling,” she sighed, “stop shouting. They already won this round. And shouting makes your neck veins bulge.”

Steelbeak grumbled something extremely unheroic.

She adjusted her pink coat.

“Come. We regroup. We recalibrate. And next time? We make them sweat.”

Her whip crackled once and dissolved in a swirl of rose-colored sparks.

Steelbeak cracked his knuckles. “Yeah… yeah, okay. But seriously I hate that guy.”

“I know,” she replied, patting his arm. “But if you learned half as much as you complained, you’d be unstoppable.”

“HEY—!”

Together, the villains disappeared into the shadows.

Above them, sirens blared.

And outside the building, the Good Guy Trio whooped into the night, first container in hand, ready for whatever came next.

Justice?
Delivered.

Morale?
High.

Darkwing’s ego?
Astronomical.

All in all?
A perfect start.

Chapter Text

The next mission pinged in with a chime that sounded way too cheerful for the amount of chaos the trio had just survived.

Drake brought the container onto the Tower’s central table like it was the Holy Grail, cape swirling. Wanda immediately scanned it with a grid of blue holographic lines.

“Container ALPHA secured,” she announced. “Congratulations, team. Now tracking the next one—”

The map zoomed out, blinked twice, then marked a blinking purple dot over a section of St. Canard labeled in loopy cartoonish font:

THE DAIRY DISTRICT

Wanda paused.

“…Seriously?” she asked, voice flat as roadkill. “We have an entire district dedicated to milk?”

Launchpad perked. “Oh yeah! They’ve got a museum entirely about cheese! I crashed into it once. Or twice. But mostly once!”

Gosalyn cackled, already pulling up her phone inside her sleeve.

“Dewey’s never gonna believe this.”

Drake snapped around. “Kiddo—no texting during briefing!”

Too late.

Gosalyn was already typing at rapid-fire ADHD speed:

Gosalyn: BROOOO YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE WHAT DISTRICT THE NEXT CONTAINER IS IN
Gosalyn: THE. DAIRY. DISTRICT.
Gosalyn: A WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD FOR CHEESE. WHY. HOW. WHO APPROVED THIS.
Gosalyn: ALSO I THINK I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND
Gosalyn: AAAA OKAY HERO TIME BYE

A second later Dewey replied with predictable dramatic force:

Dewey: WHAT DO YOU MEAN A GIRLFRIEND
Dewey: AND WHY ARE THERE COW STATUES ON MY MAP

Gosalyn snorted so loudly Launchpad jumped.

Drake turned, cape flaring. “Gosalyn Waddlemeyer! Hero rule number seven: NO LIVEBLOGGING DURING MISSIONS.”

Gosalyn hid the phone behind her back. “Wasn’t liveblogging! Was tactical emotional support.”

“Tactical—?!” Drake sputtered. “This is a covert operation!”

“DW,” Wanda interrupted, “you’re wearing a cape the size of a family car. There is nothing covert about you.”

Launchpad tried to put an encouraging hand on Drake’s shoulder. “Hey, DW, I think Gos—uh—Quiver’s just really excited tonight! Lots of good things happening, ya know? Girlfriends! Adventure! Dairy products!”

Gosalyn grinned. “Aw LP, look at you! Learning the hero lingo and the gossip.”

Launchpad beamed. “I’m learning! Also I’m really happy my best friend is getting along with you, G—Qu—uh—Quiverwing. Almost slipped. Whoops.”

Drake exhaled a very long, very dramatic sigh. “Okay. Fine. Fine. Team. Let’s focus. Wanda—coordinates?”

Wanda brought up the map zoomed onto the Dairy District:

A sprawling complex of old factories, refrigerated warehouses, neon milk bottle signs, and a giant cow mascot fountain that spit milk into a basin.

It was somehow both majestic and horrifying.

“The second container,” Wanda continued, “is located inside a temperature-controlled storage facility known as The Moo-seum Annex.”

Gosalyn wheezed. “We’re fighting villains in a cow pun building. This is peak hero life.”

Launchpad saluted. “Justice comes in all flavors! Including dairy!”

Drake jabbed a finger forward. “Alright team! TO THE RATC—”

A loud explosion sounded from the garage.

Followed by smoke.

Drake’s eye twitched. “Launchpad…”

Launchpad winced. “I might’ve… accidentally turned on the milk-frother engine instead of the ignition?”

“Why do we HAVE a milk-frother engine?!” Gosalyn exclaimed.

“Drake thought it’d be thematic!” Wanda interjected with deep exasperation.

“BECAUSE IT WAS FOR A COFFEE-THEMED STAKEOUT!” Drake shouted, throwing his cape over his face.

Gosalyn clapped both hands to her mask in delight. “We are the most embarrassing superhero team alive.”

“Kiddo,” Drake replied, recovering into a noble pose, “it is called panache.”

“It’s called cringe,” she argued.

Launchpad raised a wing. “Hey! I like our cringe!”

Wanda let out a beepy sigh. “Container BETA. Moo-seum Annex. Dairy District. Can we PLEASE go before the villains get there first?”

Drake nodded. “Right! To the Ratcatcher!”

They ran.

Drake tripped on his cape.

Launchpad caught him.

Gosalyn texted Dewey again mid-sprint:

Gosalyn: BRO WE’RE GOING TO A PUN COW MUSEUM
Gosalyn: HERO LIFE IS AMAZING
Gosalyn: also I wanna hold Vi’s hand
Gosalyn: OKAY REALLY GOING NOW BYE

Dewey responded instantly:

Dewey: HOLD HER HAND YOU FOOL

The trio mounted the Ratcatcher.

Launchpad revved the engine.

The bike sputtered.

Released a frothy white puff of… milk foam.

Drake screamed into his mask.

Launchpad apologized profusely.

Gosalyn laughed so hard she nearly fell off the back seat.

And the Good Guy Trio blasted off toward the Dairy District—half heroic force of justice, half chaos gremlins embarrassing themselves across the cityscape.

It was perfect.

The Ratcatcher zoomed toward the Dairy District—well, chugged toward it, really, because the milk-frother engine kept sputtering like it had lactose intolerance. Drake was muttering dramatic curses under his breath, Launchpad was trying to reassure the bike like it was a nervous horse, and Gosalyn?

Gosalyn was texting.

Because of course she was.

She flicked open her messages and immediately sent the chaos:

Gosalyn: YOU GOOD PRETTYBOY???
Gosalyn: I KNOW YOU’RE AWAKE IT’S 9PM AND YOU’RE YOU
Gosalyn: ALSO
Gosalyn: DO YOU HAVE ANY NEW MYSTERIOUS DREAM GIRLS YET
Gosalyn: OR IS IT STILL JUST THAT TALL SHADOWY FLUTE GIRL FROM CHAPTER SIX

The typing bubbles appeared instantly.

Dewey did not disappoint.

Dewey: I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR READING THAT FANFIC
Dewey: NEVER
Dewey: but also
Dewey: no new dream girls
Dewey: YET
Dewey: (thank you for checking Crossbow)
Dewey: (but also die)

Gosalyn grinned so hard her mask crinkled.

Gosalyn: WOOOWWWW SO RUDE
Gosalyn: AND YOU CALL YOURSELF A ROMANTIC
Gosalyn: anyway
Gosalyn: you proud of me?
Gosalyn: I made a MOVE today
Gosalyn: and Vi FLUFFED
Gosalyn: like FUH-LOOF FOOMP
Gosalyn: like a baby bird discovering sunlight and panic
Gosalyn: my tiny autistic teacup is SO CUTE WHAT DO I DO

The reply came in a flurry:

Dewey: Crossbow.
Dewey: You are doing better with your Vi
Dewey: than my sister is doing with her Goth
Dewey: WHICH IS EMBARRASSING FOR EVERYONE INVOLVED
Dewey: PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY
Dewey: HOLD HER HAND TOMORROW
Dewey: DO IT FOR THE MCFREAKING NATION

Gosalyn nearly snorted milk foam out her nose.

“Everything alright back there, kid?” Launchpad called over the engine sputtering.

“Yep!” Gosalyn shouted back. “Dewey’s being Dewey!”

Darkwing twisted slightly in the front seat. “If PrettyBoy is distracting you, turn that phone OFF. Hero rule number—”

“Drake,” Wanda cut in through the speakers, “you get distracted by your own reflection on mission windows.”

“That was ONE TIME.”

“It was seven.”

Gosalyn laughed and typed one more message:

Gosalyn: PRETTYBOY I’M SORRY BUT I’M NEVER LETTING YOU LIVE THAT FANFIC DOWN
Gosalyn: also if Vi becomes my girlfriend before Webby admits she’s in love with Lena
Gosalyn: I’m never letting HER live that down either
Gosalyn: bye loser love u

Dewey instantly fired back:

Dewey: I HATE YOU SO MUCH
Dewey: (and also I love u too but shut up)
Dewey: GO GET YOUR COW CONTAINER HERO

Gosalyn pocketed her phone, grin still stretching ear to ear beneath her mask.

The Ratcatcher took a sharp turn, the neon cow mascot of the Dairy District coming into view, milk-spouting fountain glowing like a lactose-powered beacon of destiny.

Gosalyn cracked her knuckles.

“Let’s go get this container,” she said. “And then tomorrow?

I’m holding her hand.”

Drake groaned.

Launchpad cheered.

Wanda sighed.

And Dewey, miles away in Duckburg, dramatically fainted onto a pile of pillows because his friend was having a better love life than half the family.

Justice: incoming.
Milk: unavoidable.
Chaos: guaranteed.

The Moo-seum Annex smelled like a tragic combination of refrigerated air, old cheese samples, and industrial bleach. Giant cow mascots stared down from the rafters with dead-eyed enthusiasm. The trio crept through the narrow aisles of antique dairy equipment, past displays labeled “Historic Butter Churn No. 3” and “Milk Carton Evolution Through the Ages.”

Gosalyn whispered, “I swear if we get ambushed by a villain inside a cheese factory—”

A distant clunk echoed through the chamber.

Launchpad winced. “Okay, but that might’ve been me.”

Before Gosalyn could reply, Wanda chimed in their ears:

“Container BETA located. Twenty feet ahead. Left of the ‘World’s Largest Dairy Whisk.’…Which is a sentence I never thought I would say.”

Drake struck a dramatic pose—behind a glass case of vintage butter molds.

“Team! Prepare for a righteous retrieval!”

Gosalyn gave him a thumbs-up. “Don’t break the display this time.”

He absolutely broke the display this time.

Glass shattered, alarms blared, cow animatronics turned to face them with terrifyingly slow mechanical moos.

And sitting atop a pedestal, glowing softly with containment locks:

Container BETA.

Gosalyn grabbed it just as a spotlight beamed down.

And a voice she already regretted hearing echoed through the dairy-scented darkness:

“Well, well, well… the pint-sized pest strikes again.”

Steelbeak sauntered out from behind a cow statue, brushing cheese dust off his suit. The Lady in Pink followed him, whip coiled neatly at her hip, heels clicking sharply across the tile.

But tonight?

Her eyes were on Gosalyn.

Directly.

Studying.

Measuring.

The kind of stare that made Gosalyn’s feathers bristle beneath her mask.

Steelbeak pointed dramatically. “Give us the container, Quiverwing!”

The Lady in Pink laid a wing lightly on his arm. “Steelbeak, darling… don’t rush. Observe her first.”

Drake blocked Gosalyn instinctively with an arm. “Back off, villains! We got what we came for.”

The swan ignored him.

Her gaze didn’t drift.

Not once.

Her voice purred, soft but razor-edged:

“Quiverwing… or should I say… not your first choice of name, hmm?”

Gosalyn froze.

Darkwing and Launchpad both snapped their heads toward her.

She felt her heart hit the floor.

Because nobody knew that.

Nobody except her, Drake, Launchpad, and… Dewey, who’d bullied her out of “Quicksilver” because “bro, that sounds like a brand of surf shorts.”

Her pulse hammered. Her grip on the container tightened.

“How—” she swallowed, forcing confidence into her voice, “—how do you know that?”

The Lady in Pink smiled slowly. “Heroes leave footprints in the world… even the ones who try to reinvent themselves.”

Drake growled. “What does that mean?!”

“Oh, nothing,” she said airily, as if discussing weather and not Gosalyn’s entire identity. “Just that your little protégé is not the mystery she thinks she is.”

Gosalyn’s feathers prickled.

Launchpad stepped forward protectively. “Hey! Don’t talk to the kid like that!”

Steelbeak groaned loudly. “CAN WE PLEASE just grab the container and go?!”

Gosalyn fired a foam arrow at his feet without breaking eye contact with the swan. Steelbeak stumbled, yelling as purple foam trapped him in a sticky puddle.

The Lady in Pink didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Her eyes glimmered behind those tinted lenses.

“Quiverwing,” she said gently, like she enjoyed how much it rattled the girl, “you should ask yourself why SHUSH has files on names you’ve never spoken aloud.”

Gosalyn’s stomach dropped.

Darkwing stepped between them, cape flaring. “Enough! You don’t get to unsettle my sidekick with cryptic villain nonsense!”

She tilted her head. “If she’s going to play in the big leagues, Darkwing, she needs to know—people are watching her. People who remember the girl she used to be.”

Gosalyn’s throat went dry.

Who the heck was this lady?

Why did she speak like she’d watched Gosalyn from the shadows? Why did she sound like she knew Quiverwing wasn’t the first version of her hero identity? Why did she—

The whip snapped.

It scorched the ground inches from Gosalyn’s boots.

“Next time,” the Lady in Pink said, “we won’t be so polite.”

She grabbed Steelbeak by the collar and yanked him free just as the foam hardened. “Darling, stop flailing. It’s embarrassing.”

“I’M NOT FLAILING—!” he flailed.

Pink light burst around them, curling like smoke.

And they vanished.

The dairy displays stopped shaking.

The cow animatronics mooed one last time, then powered down.

Gosalyn stood frozen in the middle of it all, clutching Container BETA so tightly her gloves creaked.

Drake turned to her immediately. “Kiddo… are you okay?”

Launchpad touched her shoulder. “You look kinda pale. Well—pal-er.”

Gosalyn swallowed hard.

Then forced a shaky grin.

“Y-Yeah. I’m fine. Just villain trash talk. Y’know. Classic stuff.”

But inside?

Her stomach twisted.

Because the Lady in Pink shouldn’t know anything about Gosalyn Waddlemeyer, much less Quicksilver, the name she scribbled in old notebooks before Dewey’s intervention.

So how did she?

And why did it feel like this was only the start of something much bigger?

Gosalyn steadied her heart and held up the container.

“Let’s get BETA back home.”

But her mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

If the Lady in Pink knew her past names…

What else did she know?

The third container’s coordinates led them straight into the heart of St. Canard’s financial district—towering skyscrapers, gold-plated signage, marble fountains, and enough security cameras to make even SHUSH blush. Wanda projected the blueprints above the Ratcatcher as the trio parked in a shadowed alley behind the First National Bank of St. Canard.

“Alright, team,” Wanda announced, tone clipped and unimpressed. “Container GAMMA is stored in a sub-basement vault two levels beneath the main banking floor. The vault is protected by an obsolete but still functional series of… oh for the love of circuits—booby traps.”

Gosalyn’s eyes widened. “Booby traps? Like, Indiana Jones? Tomb Raider? Legend of the Hidden Temple??”

Drake placed one hand over his heart. “Kiddo… tonight? We enter the most sacred of spaces for a hero—”

Launchpad guessed, “—a tax filing center?”

“—a dramatic death maze designed to shame lesser crimefighters!”

Gosalyn groaned. “Oh boy.”

Wanda zoomed in on the map. “Expect pressure plates, motion sensors, heat-triggered turrets, possibly a giant rolling object—really, someone at this bank was compensating for something.”

With a flick of his cape, Darkwing Duck marched toward the employee entrance, which was sealed by a security pad and thick steel door.

Gosalyn prepared to hack the keypad.

Drake put a hand on her shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Watch and learn, my young ward. There is only one way to bypass a high-security lock.”

He struck a pose.

A heroic, stupid pose.

“Oh no,” Gosalyn whispered.

Launchpad gasped, excited. “He’s gonna do it.”

Drake cleared his throat and dramatically whispered:

“Moonwalk bypass.”

And then—

He moonwalked.

Across the security pad.

His heel lightly tapped it.

The pad sparked, pinged, then powered down entirely with a sad little beep.

The door unlocked.

Wanda sounded betrayed. “HOW?!”

Gosalyn gaped. “Are you kidding me?!”

Drake spun into a finishing flourish. “The panache, Wanda. The flair. The movement. Security systems are powerless against style.”

Launchpad clapped like a proud kindergarten teacher. “That was BEAUTIFUL!”

Gosalyn shook her head. “I hate that this works for him.”

They entered the sub-basement stairwell—cold, dark, lit only by flickering bulbs. Wanda guided them through the twists until they reached a concrete wall with an old metal sign:

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
IF YOU DIE, IT’S NOT OUR FAULT

“That’s so comforting,” Gosalyn muttered.

The floor sank slightly beneath them.

A stone slab slid open.

A low rumble echoed.

And a massive boulder—yes, a full movie-style boulder—rolled into view.

Gosalyn’s soul left her body.

“Oh COME ON, why does a BANK have this?!”

Drake’s eyes sparkled with pure theatrical joy.

“It’s TRAP TIME!”

He snapped his cape dramatically, then—

Moonwalked away from the boulder.

Sideways.

Perfectly timed.

The boulder missed him by inches and crashed into a wall behind them, rattling dust from the ceiling.

Gosalyn screamed. Launchpad screamed. Wanda screamed digitally.

Drake winked. “Children, please. I have panache.”

They moved deeper into the booby-trapped labyrinth. Pressure plates launched darts that Drake jazz-handed out of the way of. Heat sensors activated laser grids that he shimmied through like he was auditioning for a rhythm game. At one point, flamethrowers erupted from the walls, and he slid backward doing the full Michael Jackson “Billie Jean” routine.

Gosalyn stared in disbelief. “Are you—are you literally dancing your way through a deadly obstacle course?!”

Without missing a beat he replied, “Crimefighting is an art form, my dear Quiverwing!”

Launchpad nearly tripped over a tripwire and apologized to it.

By the time they reached the final chamber, Gosalyn was certain Drake had lost at least three brain cells but gained ten levels in dramatic nonsense.

The vault door was enormous—gold, engraved with layers of circuitry and bank logos, guarded by a pedestal-mounted laser turret.

Wanda quickly sabotaged the turret from afar. “You’re welcome. One less thing to accidentally explode.”

Drake stepped up to the vault. “Now, to prove once again that skill, grace, and impeccable style—”

“DW,” Gosalyn said, lifting a single arrow, “I can literally hack the lock with this EMP—”

He held up a wing. “No. Let Daddy work.”

Launchpad whispered, “Oh boy, he’s in theater-boy mode.”

Drake cracked his knuckles, tapped his foot once—then moonwalked toward the vault.

A small pressure tile clicked beneath one foot.

The vault hissed.

Then opened.

Launchpad gasped. “IT WORKED AGAIN.”

Gosalyn threw her hands in the air. “I refuse to believe the universe is real.”

Drake struck a victorious pose. “And that is why one must never underestimate the power of panache!”

Inside, resting on a velvet pedestal, was—

Container GAMMA.

The final piece.

Before they could grab it, shadows flickered.

A cold voice cut the air:

“Well.”

The Lady in Pink stepped out from behind the vault, Steelbeak at her shoulder.

“You made it further than I expected, little Quiverwing.”

Steelbeak cracked his neck. “Okay, seriously?! How do they KEEP beating us here?!”

Launchpad shrugged sympathetically. “We used a dance move.”

Steelbeak stared. “A DANCE—?!”

But the Lady in Pink ignored him.

Her eyes were on Gosalyn again.

Too focused.

Too knowing.

“I wonder…” she murmured, taking a step closer, “…if your mother taught you that name. Or if you chose it after you lost the first one.”

Gosalyn’s heart dropped to her shoes.

Darkwing stepped protectively in front of her.

“That’s enough! You don’t touch her identity! You don’t touch her past!”

The swan smiled.

Sharp.

Cold.

“I don’t have to touch it, Darkwing. I already know it.”

Steelbeak blinked. “Uh—Pink? You wanna explain—?”

“Not yet, darling,” she murmured. “Mysteries are more fun when they simmer.”

Gosalyn’s feathers tingled.

What did she know?
How did she know?
And why did she sound like she’d been waiting for Gosalyn long before tonight?

The Lady in Pink tilted her head, voice lowering:

“Enjoy your little win, Quiverwing. You won’t have many more.”

Her whip cracked.

Pink sparks exploded.

And the villains vanished.

Leaving Gosalyn clutching Container GAMMA with shaking hands, Darkwing and Launchpad flanking her protectively.

Even Wanda’s voice softened on comms. “…Kid? You okay?”

Gosalyn tightened her grip, jaw set.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Just—thinking.”

But her heart pounded.

Because the Lady in Pink didn’t just know her hero alias.

She knew Quicksilver.

She knew the name Gosalyn tried to bury.

And Gosalyn had a feeling—

This wasn’t the end of that mystery.

It was the beginning.

Chapter Text

“All was quiet in St. Canard. All quiet that is, except for the Roaring Inferno engulfing the McDuck Enterprises Biometric Laboratory!”

“Luckily, Darkwing Duck was ready to save the day! His sidekick; WingWing, and their fearless leader, Quicksilver Quiverwing!”

“My gorgeous boyfriend is in there! We have to save him! Come on!” Quicksilver announced. They followed their fearless leader into the path of the flames, but Quicksilver felt not the burning of the flames, but the burning of the desire to save her one true love.”

“Darkwing tried to open the door. “Ah! Too hot!” As Quicksilver saw the vent above and veloci-shot upwards to open the vent. Our heroes crawled up and then crashed out into the center of the flames. “Oh no! What’re going to do, Fearless Leader?” As Quicksilver saw a water fountain and put out the flames with her famous Quick-shot! The team cheered as the flames were defeated, but Quicksilver had her eyes on a different prize. “Look! It’s the door to my Boyfriend’s very important studio office!” Inside the very important office was Quicksilver’s one true love. They embrace, looking into each other’s eyes with the spark of justice and something more and-“

“Launchpad. What is this?” Gosalyn asked him, cringing away from the screen as LP leaned towards it with interest.

“Only the coolest thing ever! Someone wrote fanfiction, about us! Me, you, and DW! Isn’t this great, Gossie?” He said as she clicked the mouse over the tag and saw the profile picture.

“Dewey.” She groaned.

~~~

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer stalked through the hallways, one hand in the pocket of her purple varsity jacket and her hockey bag slung over her shoulder as she scrolled through the newest chapter of Dewey’s fanfic on her phone in the other.

Looking up, she found Violet by her locker and sighed almost immediately, like a weight had been instantly lifted from her shoulders. She shoved her phone in her pocket and slid up next to her, practically shoulder checking the locker next to her.

“Morning Babes.” She grinned, and the lavender hummingbird turned to look at her while organizing her books by alphabetical order.

“Good morning, Gosalyn.” Her amber eyes studied her for a moment before she continued speaking. “Are you alright? You look stressed this morning.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just, ugh, fanfiction.” She huffed, arms crossed as she glanced away from Violet, who hummed thoughtfully for her to continue.

“Dewey’s fanfic. I mean, the stuff he’s having them do? Not scientifically possible! None! And the boyfriend thing-“ She started, only for the sudden slamming of Violet’s locker to cut her off and she jolts.

“Boyfriend? I request elaboration. Immediately.” Violet stated, her normally warm eyes turning a little cold towards her and Gosalyn felt the same chill she gets when she sees Lena rising up her spine.

“Look, he just, ships himself with Quiverwing. Nothing too crazy. He hasn’t done anything more than that, I promise, Vi.” She said, quickly and carefully as the warmth returned to Violet’s face as she processed everything.

“Understood. How do you feel about this, then? You’re the one involved in this.” She asked, books tucked in her arms as Gosalyn looked a bit surprised.

“Why are you calm about this? Vi! You’re my girlfriend! Wouldn’t this bother you? Even a little bit?” She argued, and Violet just smiled.

“It would, if I was dating Quiverwing Quack. But I’m not. Because I’m dating the currently undefeated youngest hockey captain in St. Canard.” She reminded, her smile sliding into a sly grin as Gosalyn blinked at her, the brown feathers around her cheeks practically turning as red as her hair.

“Vi. Babes,” She breathed out, the stress seeming to melt away from her by Violet’s mere presence. Violet gave her a softer smile and backed away.

“I’ll see you at lunch.”

Gosalyn had exactly three classes before lunch.

She did not make it through one without hearing about the stupid fanfic.

It followed her through the halls like a bad smell.

“…I’m just saying, Quiverwing Quack totally has a thing for guys—”

“No way, did you read the new chapter? She literally calls him ‘my gorgeous boyfriend.’”

“Who even is Quiverwing dating? She’s like the only hero in the city without a confirmed—”

Gosalyn slammed her locker shut hard enough to rattle the vents.

“UNBELIEVABLE.”

She yanked her helmet out, jammed it under her arm, and stalked down the hall, jaw clenched so tight it actually hurt. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—no doubt another comment notification—and she refused to check it on principle.

As she rounded the corner, she nearly ran straight into Honker.

He was leaning against the wall, sipping from a juice box, absolutely vibrating with poorly contained joy.

“Oh my gosh,” he said, grinning ear to ear, “have you heard? Apparently Quiverwing Quack has a boyfriend.”

Gosalyn stopped dead.

She stared at him.

Slowly, dangerously, she pointed a finger at his chest.
“Honks.”

“Yes?” he replied, still smiling.

“You,” she said, voice low, “are supposed to be on my side.”

Honker lost it.

He bent forward, wheezing with laughter, clutching his juice box like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I’m sorry—” snrk “—it’s just—everyone’s losing their minds over it! They’re acting like this is the greatest romantic mystery of our generation!”

“It is NOT funny!” Gosalyn hissed, grabbing his collar and shaking him once for emphasis. “They’re debating my love life like it’s some kinda reality show!”

“Correction,” Honker said, adjusting his glasses, still grinning. “They’re debating Quiverwing Quack’s love life. You’re just… mysteriously unavailable for comment.”

She dropped him with a groan. “Ughhh. I hate everything.”

“Well,” Honker added cheerfully, “if it helps, Dewey just updated again.”

Her soul left her body.

“He WHAT.”

“Oh yeah,” Honker said. “There’s apparently a dramatic rooftop confession now. With lightning.”

“LIGHTNING IS NOT ROMANTIC,” Gosalyn snapped. “IT’S A SAFETY HAZARD.”

She stormed off before he could say another word, muttering darkly under her breath about grounding certain nephews into the next century.

By lunch, the cafeteria was worse.

Every table buzzed with speculation. Names were being thrown around. Theories. Charts. Someone had drawn hearts around a badly sketched Quiverwing Quack on a napkin.

Gosalyn collapsed onto the bench beside Violet, burying her face in her arms.

“I am going to scream,” she muffled.

Violet calmly slid her lunch tray closer and took a bite of her sandwich. “The public discourse is rather loud today.”

“They won’t shut up about it!” Gosalyn groaned. “Apparently you save a city a few dozen times and suddenly everyone thinks they’re entitled to know who you’re kissing.”

Violet hummed thoughtfully. “From a strategic standpoint, it’s actually quite useful.”

Gosalyn lifted her head, squinting at her. “Explain.”

“Well,” Violet said, entirely too pleased, “the city believes Quiverwing Quack is romantically interested in men. That removes suspicion from any female acquaintances she may have.”

She paused, amber eyes flicking knowingly toward Gosalyn.

“And,” she continued, “if no one suspects Quiverwing of being interested in women, then no one traces that interest back to me.”

She smiled sweetly and took another bite.

Gosalyn stared at her.

“…You’re enjoying this.”

“I wouldn’t say enjoying,” Violet replied. “More… appreciating the cover.”

Gosalyn slumped back down with a groan. “I don’t get it. He knows it’s me. Dewey knows Quiverwing is me. So why is he still writing this junk?!”

“Because,” Violet said gently, “Dewey Duck has no sense of self-preservation.”

“…Fair.”

“And,” Violet added, leaning closer, voice softer now, “because it’s fiction. It doesn’t change what’s real.”

She nudged Gosalyn’s knee under the table. Just once.

“You’re still my girlfriend,” Violet said, eyes warm and steady. “Undefeated. Infuriatingly heroic. Very real.”

Gosalyn’s scowl cracked.

“…Okay,” she muttered, cheeks warming. “But if he gives me a tragic breakup arc, I’m stealing his laptop.”

Violet smiled.

~~~

Gosalyn didn’t bother slamming the hatch when she dropped into the lair—but she did land harder than necessary.

The cavern hummed with familiar life: consoles glowing, cables snaking across the floor, the low whirr of WANDA’s processing core as she hovered near the worktable. Three matte-black containers sat under her scanners, half-open, glowing faintly with residual energy signatures.

On the main monitor, Drake stood with his cape draped over one shoulder, arms crossed, jaw set in that way that meant he was listening very carefully and not liking what he was hearing.

Fenton’s face filled the screen.

“—so, in theory,” Fenton was saying, adjusting his notes, “if we integrate the containers’ tech with the RamRod’s dimensional infrastructure and power the whole system using the Key, we could generate rifts stable enough to traverse. Not just jump universes—navigate them.”

Gosalyn slowed to a stop.

“…Navigate,” she echoed quietly.

Fenton nodded. “Specifically, we could search for a single, continuous temporal signature. A person. Your grandfather.”

Her breath caught despite herself.

“But,” Fenton continued, and the word dropped like a weight, “the original blueprints for that system were lost in the explosion. Completely destabilized the prototype. The data cores fried. Which means—”

“Back to square one,” Gosalyn finished flatly.

Silence followed.

WANDA’s voice filled the gap, calm and sympathetic. “It is statistically discouraging, yes. However, discouragement does not equate to impossibility.”

Fenton leaned closer to the camera. “Gosalyn—hey. We’re not stopping. Just because they blew up the plans doesn’t mean the idea is gone. We’ll rebuild. Reverse-engineer what we can. I promise.”

She swallowed, fists curling at her sides.

“I know,” she said. And she meant it. That almost made it worse.

Drake glanced back at her, something unreadable crossing his face. “Thanks, Fenton,” he said quietly. “We’ll regroup and call you.”

“Anytime,” Fenton replied. “And Gosalyn? You’re not alone in this. Okay?”

She nodded once.

The screen went dark.

For a moment, the lair felt too big. Too quiet.

Drake cleared his throat. “So,” he said, deliberately casual, “you want to go set up your sparring bag before patrol?”

Gosalyn didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

She turned and headed toward where she kept her suit, movements sharp and practiced. The suit went on in efficient pieces—boots, gloves, hood—muscle memory taking over where emotions threatened to spill. By the time she clipped the belt closed and grabbed her quiver, Quiverwing Quack stood where Gosalyn Waddlemeyer had been.

Drake watched her go, then sank into the chair at the main console with a long, tired sigh.

He leaned back, pinched the bridge of his beak, and let himself feel it for exactly three seconds.

The loss.
The danger.
The weight of being responsible for a kid who should never have to carry this much.

Then—

Every monitor in the lair flickered.

Purple bled into hot pink.

Drake’s head snapped up. “WANDA?”

“I am detecting an unauthorized override,” WANDA said, tone sharpening. “Encryption level: highly sophisticated. Signature—”

The screens fully resolved.

A stylized rose bloomed across them, petals unfurling in neon pink. A swan’s silhouette leaned casually into frame, one gloved finger tapping the glass as if she could feel it.

“Well hello, Darkwing,” purred The Lady in Pink. “Did you miss me?”

Drake straightened, cape flaring as he rose. “I was hoping you’d stay gone.”

Gosalyn poked her head around in her full suit, mask and all, and joined his side in a matter of seconds. “Lady in Pink. Clever, hacking into the system.”

“Quiverwing! Just the little Firecracker I wanted to see! I was hoping you and your mentor would be willing to negotiate with me about getting the containers?” She smiled, black eyes locking onto the smaller archer.

“Sorry Lady, but you’re sore outta luck. We don’t negotiate with Villains. Ever.” Gosalyn said, a confident grin creeping up her beak.

“Oh. Really? Not even a little? Shame, that’s not what the little BlueBird told me.” Pink sighed, and before either Gosalyn or Drake could ask who Bluebird was, it answered with a very familiar scream.

“CROSSBOW!!!”

Gosalyn shot up so fast it almost knocked Drake out of his chair. “PrettyBoy! What have you done, Pink?!” Her eyes narrowed at the villainess, full of fury and fear for him.

“Oh? So you do care. Excellent. Bring me the three containers by 9:00. Or you’ll never see that gorgeous boyfriend of yours again…”

“CROSSBOW!!! HELP!!!”

The feed cuts out, and WANDA’s screens turn back to purple. Gosalyn grips the edge of the desk to keep her hands from shaking. The Lady in Pink has Dewey.

Gosalyn didn’t realize she was shaking until Drake put a hand on her shoulder.

“Kid,” he said quietly.

She sucked in a sharp breath and straightened, jaw locking into place. “She took Dewey.”

“Yes,” Drake said. “And she wants the containers.”

Gosalyn’s fingers curled into fists. Her voice came out steady anyway. “She thinks she can use him to make us hand them over.”

Drake turned fully toward her now. “And she’s right that it puts us in a bind.”

WANDA’s hologram flickered closer, data streams already racing behind her. “Correction: the situation is highly constrained, but not binary. Compliance is not the only statistically viable outcome.”

Gosalyn looked up at her. “You can track the signal?”

“I can attempt to,” WANDA replied. “However, The Lady in Pink’s encryption is adaptive. Each second that passes reduces the probability of a clean trace.”

Drake didn’t hesitate. “Do it.”

WANDA’s core brightened. “Initiating.”

The lair filled with the sound of rapid computation. Lines of pink and purple code clashed across the main screen, WANDA’s calm voice narrating as she worked.

“Signal routed through three false relays… no, four. She is deliberately baiting pursuit.”

Gosalyn paced once, then stopped. “She said nine o’clock.”

“That gives us—” Drake checked the clock instinctively “—just under three hours.”

Gosalyn turned back to the console, eyes burning. “Then we don’t give her the containers.”

Drake raised a brow. “Kid—”

“We don’t,” she repeated, fierce now. “Those things are dangerous. You said it yourself. If she gets them—”

“She won’t,” Drake said firmly. “But Dewey—”

“I know,” Gosalyn snapped, then immediately winced. She took another breath. “I know. I’m not saying we abandon him. I’m saying we don’t play her game.”

Silence hung between them.

Then Drake nodded, slow and deliberate. “Okay. Pitch it.”

Gosalyn stepped closer to the console, mind already racing. “She wants us scared. Emotional. Rushing in with exactly what she asked for. So we do the opposite.”

She glanced at WANDA. “You said she called Dewey ‘the BlueBird.’”

“Correct,” WANDA said. “This suggests prior observation. Likely she has been monitoring him for some time.”

Gosalyn’s beak tightened. “He talks. A lot.”

Drake huffed despite himself. “You’re saying she knows he’s important to you.”

“She thinks she does,” Gosalyn said. “But she doesn’t know how.”

Drake leaned back, arms crossing. “Meaning?”

Meaning,” Gosalyn said slowly, “she thinks Dewey is leverage. A hostage. A bargaining chip.”

Her eyes lifted, sharp and dangerous.

“But Dewey Duck does not stay a hostage.”

WANDA paused mid-calculation. “…I concur.”

Drake blinked. “You have a plan that involves letting a twelve-year-old improvise inside a villain’s lair?”

Gosalyn didn’t smile. “I have a plan that involves trusting him to do what he always does.”

Drake studied her for a long moment. Not Quiverwing. Gosalyn.

The kid who’d already lost too much.
The hero who kept choosing the city anyway.

Finally, he sighed. “You really are your grandfather’s granddaughter.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Lucky me.”

WANDA’s voice sharpened. “I have partial coordinates. She is mobile, but favoring abandoned industrial zones near the docks.”

Drake straightened. “That narrows it.”

Gosalyn was already moving, checking her arrows, tightening her gloves. “Then we split the difference.”

Drake frowned. “Explain that part.”

She met his eyes. “You keep the containers secure and make it look like we’re scrambling. I go after Dewey.”

“That’s not splitting the difference,” Drake said flatly. “That’s you going in alone.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m going in first.”

A beat.

Then Drake smiled grimly. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

“Good,” she said, pulling her hood fully into place. “Means you’ll follow.”

WANDA’s projection hovered closer to Gosalyn. “For the record,” she said softly, “your emotional response is within acceptable parameters. You are not compromised.”

Gosalyn glanced at her. “…Thanks, WANDA.”

Drake activated the launch sequence, the platform beginning to rise. “Alright, Quiverwing.”

The night air rushed in.

“Let’s go get the Bluebird.”

~~~

Dewey had decided—somewhere between being dragged down three flights of metal stairs and strapped flat onto something that looked like it had been designed by a supervillain with a personal vendetta against dignity—that tonight was officially the worst night of his life.

The tickle-table hummed beneath him, all smooth metal and glowing magenta circuitry, restraints snug around his wrists, ankles, and waist. Above him, mounted on a jointed mechanical arm, hovered the device itself: a single gloved hand, fingers twitching faintly as if impatient.

“Ohhh, nope,” Dewey said breathlessly, craning his neck to stare at it. “No no no no no. That thing is haunted. I can feel it.”

The Lady in Pink circled him slowly, heels clicking against the floor, her expression indulgent—fond, even—in the way one might look at a very talkative puppy.

“You really should try to relax,” she purred. “Stress makes this so much worse.”

“I am being extremely relaxed,” Dewey lied. “I am the picture of chill. You should untie me and let me demonstrate.”

She laughed softly and gestured to one of the FOWL Eggheads at a nearby console. “Explain to our guest what happens next.”

The Egghead cleared his throat. “The table’s sensors register involuntary muscular response. Laughter increases sensitivity. The more you struggle, the more… effective it becomes.”

Dewey’s eyes went wide.

“…You built a feedback loop?”

Pink smiled. “I did.”

Dewey swallowed hard. “Coolcoolcoolcoolcool—hey so just to put this out there, my family will come for me.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Pink replied lightly. “In fact—”

She tapped a control.

The room’s main monitor flickered to life, resolving into the image of the hideout’s exterior just as two familiar figures landed on the platform outside.

Darkwing Duck straightened, cape snapping in the artificial wind. Beside him, Quiverwing Quack stood rigid, bow already in hand, eyes locked on the entrance like she might burn through it by sheer force of will.

Dewey sucked in a breath. “Oh thank thank THANK—”

Pink leaned closer to him, voice velvet-soft. “Showtime.”

⸻

The doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss.

Darkwing stepped forward first, posture controlled, eyes scanning the room. “Lady in Pink,” he said evenly. “Release the hostage. This doesn’t end the way you think it does.”

Quiverwing didn’t say a word.

She didn’t need to.

Her gaze was already searching—counting exits, cameras, henchmen, distances. Then she saw the table.

She froze.

“Crossbow!” Dewey shouted the second he spotted her, relief crashing through him so hard it almost hurt. “Hey! Hi! Over here! Little tied up but I’m okay—mostly—”

Pink lifted a hand. “Ah-ah. No sudden movements.”

Quiverwing’s jaw clenched. “Where. Is. He.”

Pink gestured lazily to the monitor.

One of the Eggheads tapped a control.

The camera feed shifted, zooming in on Dewey strapped to the table, the hovering hand lowering just an inch closer.

Quiverwing’s breath hitched.

Darkwing stiffened. “You said you wanted the containers.”

“And I still do,” Pink replied pleasantly. “All three. Then the boy walks free.”

Dewey strained against his restraints. “HEY! NO! Absolutely not! Crossbow, don’t you dare—”

The hand twitched.

Pink didn’t even look at him. “Activate it.”

The Egghead hesitated for exactly half a second.

The hand descended.

Dewey lost it.

“NO NO NO WAIT NO—” he shrieked, voice cracking instantly. “OKAY I’M SORRY I’M SORRY I TAKE IT BACK—CROSSBOW GIVE THEM TO HER GIVE THEM TO HER RIGHT NOW—”

Quiverwing surged forward a step, eyes blazing.

“STOP!” she snapped.

Pink raised a finger.

The hand froze, hovering just barely above Dewey’s side.

The room went dead silent except for Dewey’s frantic breathing.

Pink turned, satisfied. “See? Much more cooperative.”

Quiverwing’s hands were shaking now as she reached into the briefcase and slid it across the floor. “You let him go,” she said, voice low and deadly. “Now.”

Pink nodded to an Egghead. “The remote.”

The Egghead swallowed and slid the controller across the floor in return.

Pink bent down—and caught it before it reached Quiverwing.

She straightened, tucking it neatly into her coat. “Oh, darling. I never said who would hold it.”

Quiverwing snarled and nearly lunged.

Pink’s eyes flashed. “Careful.”

She tapped a button.

The tickle-table powered down with a soft whine. The hand retracted.

Dewey sagged in his restraints, gasping. “…I hate you,” he muttered weakly.

Pink smiled. “I get that a lot.”

Quiverwing pointed an arrow straight at her. “Let. Him. Go.”

“In a moment,” Pink replied. “First—my prize.”

She snapped open the briefcase.

Inside sat… two containers.

Silence.

Pink blinked once.

Slowly, she looked up.

Quiverwing was smiling. Not her heroic grin. The other one.

“You’re missing something,” Gosalyn said.

She reached behind her back and lifted the third container into view, holding it delicately between her fingers.

“I figured,” she continued lightly, “since you like pressure tactics so much, I’d bring a little leverage of my own.”

Pink’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

Gosalyn tilted her head. “Try me.”

Pink raised the remote. “You drop it, I reactivate the table. And I won’t be merciful this time.”

Dewey’s head snapped up. “Crossbow! Don’t—!”

Pink’s gaze flicked between them—and then, with sudden interest, she laughed.

“Oh,” she said slowly. “Oh my.”

Her smile turned knowing. Sharp.

“So that’s it.”

Gosalyn stiffened. “What are you talking about.”

Pink’s eyes gleamed. “I wondered why you were so… invested.” She glanced toward the monitor still showing Dewey. “But now it makes sense.”

She leaned forward, voice dripping amusement. “You and the Bluebird. How romantic.”

Dewey choked. “WHAT—NO—WAIT—”

Gosalyn’s face went nuclear.

“That is NOT—” she started, then stopped, teeth grinding. “You’ve been reading things you shouldn’t.”

Pink’s grin widened. “Oh, I read everything.”

Darkwing groaned quietly. “Of course you did.”

Pink lifted the remote slightly. “So here’s how this ends. You hand over the container. I keep my toys. And perhaps I’ll be kind enough to let your… boyfriend walk out on his own two feet.”

Gosalyn’s grip tightened on the container.

Her voice was ice. “You touch him again, and I smash this thing so hard it takes half your lab with it.”

The standoff locked into place.

Dewey looked between them, heart hammering.

“…Okay,” he said weakly. “Just saying. This is way more intense than the fic.”

Pink’s smile didn’t falter.

If anything, it softened—widened—like she’d just been handed the final missing piece of a puzzle.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she crooned, eyes never leaving Gosalyn, “of course you’d deny it. Heroes always do. Especially when someone they care about is strapped to a very persuasive piece of machinery.”

Gosalyn’s grip on the container tightened until her knuckles went white. “I’m not denying anything because there’s nothing to deny.”

Pink arched a brow. “Is that so?”

Dewey twisted his head as much as the restraints allowed, panic overriding all sense of timing. “Y–YEAH! Exactly! Besties! Platonic! Super not a thing! And also—” he blurted, words tumbling over each other, “—CROSSBOW DOESN’T EVEN LIKE GUYS ANYWAY!”

The room froze.

Dead. Silent.

Then—

“PRETTYBOY.”

Gosalyn whirled on him, eyes blazing so hot they might’ve melted steel. “I AM GOING TO HIT YOU AFTER I SAVE YOU, YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT.”

“I’M SORRY!” Dewey yelped, immediately. “I PANICKED! THERE WAS A HAND!”

“There is still a hand!” she snapped.

Darkwing cleared his throat loudly, stepping half a pace forward like a referee trying to stop a fight before it got bloody. “Alright, everyone take a breath—”

On the outside, his posture was steady. Controlled. Heroic.

On the inside?

OHNOOHNOOHNO THAT IS MY BOYFRIEND’S BEST FRIEND STRAPPED TO A TABLE DESIGNED BY A MONSTER WITH A DEGREE AND A GRUDGE. HOW AM I GOING TO EXPLAIN THIS TO LAUNCHPAD. HOW DO I EVEN START THAT CONVERSATION.

Pink watched the exchange with open delight.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, tapping the remote against her palm, “that was… enlightening.”

Her gaze slid back to Dewey. “So the heroic archer doesn’t like men. How fascinating.”

She turned her attention fully to Gosalyn now, head tilting, eyes sharp. “Which means my original assumption was incorrect.”

Gosalyn’s stomach dropped.

Pink smiled slowly. “There’s a woman, then.”

Dewey’s eyes went wide. “WAIT—”

“Is there not?” Pink continued lightly. “Someone else you’re protecting. Someone you’re far more careful about keeping out of the spotlight.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Perhaps I should pay her a visit.”

Something in Gosalyn snapped.

The container hit the floor behind her—not dropped, but deliberately set down—as she stepped forward, arrow already nocked without her even realizing she’d done it.

Her voice came out low. Shaking.

“You don’t say her name.”

Pink blinked, surprised—just for a fraction of a second.

“You don’t think about her,” Gosalyn continued, every word edged with fury. “You don’t look in her direction. You don’t breathe near her.”

Darkwing felt his blood run cold.

“Kid,” he said quietly. “Easy.”

But Gosalyn wasn’t looking at him.

Pink studied her now with new interest. “Ah,” she murmured. “There it is.”

Dewey struggled against the restraints. “Crossbow—Gos—please—she’s bluffing—”

Pink laughed softly. “Am I?”

Her thumb hovered over the remote again.

That was it.

Gosalyn moved.

The arrow buried itself in the console beside the tickle-table with a sharp crack, sparks exploding as the system shorted. The hovering hand spasmed and froze midair, power flickering out completely.

Pink hissed, jumping back. “You reckless little—!”

“I warned you,” Gosalyn said, breathing hard, eyes locked on her. “You threaten me all you want. You threaten my city. You threaten him.”

She jabbed the arrow tip toward Dewey.

“But you do not threaten her.”

For the first time since this began, Pink looked genuinely wary.

Darkwing didn’t waste the moment.

“NOW,” he barked.

Smoke pellets hit the ground, the room filling instantly with thick purple haze. Darkwing surged forward, cape snapping as he vaulted toward Dewey’s table.

Pink shouted orders, Eggheads scrambling, alarms blaring—but it was already chaos.

Through the smoke, Gosalyn moved like lightning, scooping up the third container with one hand as she sprinted for Dewey.

“I’M REALLY SORRY ABOUT THE ‘DON’T LIKE GUYS’ THING,” Dewey shouted hoarsely as Darkwing worked on the restraints. “I PANICKED A LOT!”

“YOU’RE APOLOGIZING TO THE WRONG PERSON,” Gosalyn yelled back.

Darkwing finally snapped the last restraint free. “Everyone alive? Great! Let’s go!”

Pink’s voice cut through the smoke, sharp and furious. “This isn’t over, Quiverwing!”

Gosalyn glanced back once, eyes burning. “No,” she said. “It’s not.”

Then she grabbed Dewey’s arm and ran.

The Ratcatcher tore through the night like a bat out of hell, engines whining as it skimmed low over the rooftops. Wind whipped past the open side hatch, carrying the city’s lights in streaks of gold and white beneath them.

Only once the hideout was well behind them did Darkwing ease off the throttle.

“Status check,” he called over the engine noise. “Everyone still in one piece?”

Dewey, slumped on the bench with his helmet crooked and feathers still ruffled, raised a shaky thumb. “Physically? Yes. Emotionally? I will never recover.”

Gosalyn turned on him.

Without warning, she smacked him square in the shoulder.

“OW!” Dewey yelped. “WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!”

“That,” Gosalyn snapped, “was for outing me in front of a supervillain with a psychological warfare kink.”

“I SAID I WAS SORRY!” he protested. “There was a hand, Gos!”

She stared at him for half a second longer, chest still heaving—

Then she grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him into a hug.

Dewey froze.

Gosalyn held on tight, forehead pressed briefly against his shoulder, grip fierce like she was making sure he was really there. Her voice came out rough and quiet.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Dewey swallowed. Slowly, carefully, he hugged her back with one arm, the other still sore.

“…Okay,” he said softly. “Deal.”

Darkwing looked away and pretended very hard to adjust a gauge.

A beat passed.

Then Gosalyn pulled back, swiping at her eyes and immediately scowling again. “And for the record? You ever call me ‘Crossbow’ while you’re being tortured again, I’m revoking nickname privileges.”

“Worth it,” Dewey muttered, then winced when she flicked his beak.

Darkwing cleared his throat. “Alright. Debrief.”

He set the matte-black container down between them, the faint energy glow pulsing steadily. “We recovered one. FOWL escaped with the other two.”

Gosalyn exhaled sharply. “Figures.”

“But,” Darkwing continued, tone firm, “they didn’t get this one. Which means they don’t have a complete set.”

WANDA’s voice chimed in from the cockpit speakers. “Incomplete containment arrays increase the probability of catastrophic failure by approximately seventy-three percent.”

Dewey blinked. “So… good for us, bad for them?”

“Very bad for them,” WANDA confirmed.

Darkwing nodded. “Which buys us time.”

Gosalyn leaned back against the hull, finally letting the adrenaline drain out of her system. The city rushed past below them, familiar and safe in a way it hadn’t felt for hours.

Dewey glanced between her and Darkwing, rubbing the back of his neck.

“…So,” he ventured, hesitant. “About the fic—”

“No,” Gosalyn said immediately.

“I just—”

“Nope.”

“I think we can all agree—”

“PrettyBoy,” she warned, deadpan. “I was strapped into emotional distress five minutes ago.”

Darkwing added without looking back, “This is not the time, Dewford.”

“…Right,” Dewey said quickly. “Later. Much later. Possibly never.”

Gosalyn sighed, then nudged his foot lightly with her boot. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean. Horribly traumatized, but… yeah.”

She gave a small, genuine smile. “Good.”

The Ratcatcher banked toward the horizon, carrying them home—bruised, rattled, and very much not done with whatever war FOWL thought it was starting.

Behind them, far out of sight, The Lady in Pink was already rewriting her plans.

And this time, she knew exactly where to aim.

Chapter Text

The lair was quieter than usual.

Darkwing Duck—Drake Mallard, technically, but his cowl was on so the panic brain felt safer—stood at the main console with three monitors glowing in front of him. On one screen was a paused frame from an old Darkwing Duck episode. On another was a corkboard-style digital map of St. Canard with red pins marking disappearances. On the third was a grainy headshot of an actor Drake had grown up idolizing.

Launchpad hovered nearby with a tablet, brow furrowed so hard it looked like it hurt.

“Okay,” LP said slowly, scrolling. “So that’s three cast members we know are unaccounted for, two who moved off-grid years ago, one who’s definitely retired in Florida, and—”

“And the remaining three,” Drake finished quietly, arms folded tight. “Gone. No social media, no public appearances, no sightings. Just… missing.”

Launchpad’s smile—the easy, sunny one he usually wore like armor—flickered.

“That’s… probably not great, huh.”

Drake didn’t answer. His jaw was tight. Those actors weren’t just names to him. They were the reason he’d put on a mask in the first place. The reason Darkwing Duck had gone from a show to a promise.

Before either of them could spiral further, the hidden elevator clanked.

Then—

“OKAY FIRST OF ALL—”

The lair door burst open and Gosalyn Waddlemeyer stormed in like a hurricane in hockey pads.

Helmet under one arm. Stick slung over her shoulder. Cheeks flushed from the cold. Eyes bright with uncontainable energy.

“—DO YOU KNOW HOW UNFAIR IT IS THAT MY GIRLFRIEND IS BOTH BEAUTIFUL AND SMART AND CAN QUOTE LITERALLY EVERY LINE FROM ‘THE PRINCESS BRIDE’—”

Launchpad lit up instantly. “Hey, Gossie!”

Gosalyn beamed. “Heyyy LP!” She tossed her helmet onto the couch, skidded across the floor in her socks, and immediately grabbed a soda from the mini-fridge. “Okay, so, Vi came to practice today, right? And she brought snacks. Like, homemade snacks. Who does that???”

Drake blinked. Once. Twice.

“She brought… snacks.”

“YES,” Gosalyn said emphatically, popping the tab and flopping backward over a chair so she was hanging upside down. “And not, like, normal snacks. They were themed. Themed, Drake. Star-shaped orange slices. STAR-SHAPED.”

Launchpad put a hand over his heart. “That’s true love.”

“I KNOW,” Gosalyn said, pointing at him. “THANK you.”

Drake rubbed his temple. “…How was practice?”

“Oh, we destroyed,” she said casually. “Coach said my slap shot’s getting scary. Vi said it was ‘impressive but concerning,’ which is basically a marriage proposal.”

Launchpad choked on his laugh.

Drake made a noise somewhere between a cough and a malfunctioning engine.

“I—okay,” Drake said carefully, turning away from the monitors. “That’s… great. I’m glad. Really.”

Gosalyn squinted at him. Then at the screens. Then back at him.

“…You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?” Drake asked too fast.

“The brood-y silence thing,” she said, upright now, narrowing her eyes. “You do it when you’re stressed. LP does the sad puppy thing. See?” She gestured. Launchpad was indeed frowning at his tablet like it had personally betrayed him.

LP perked up. “Oh! Uh—nope! Just… thinkin’!”

Gosalyn crossed her arms. “Spill.”

Drake hesitated.

This was the part he was still learning—how much to tell her, when to stop, how not to dump the weight of the world on a fourteen-year-old who’d already lost too much.

But Gosalyn waited. Patient. Expectant. Still smiling, but softer now.

“We’re… looking into something,” Drake said finally. “From the show. Some people we knew. They’re missing.”

Gosalyn’s smile dimmed—but she didn’t panic.

“…Okay,” she said slowly. “That’s not great. But you’re handling it, right?”

Launchpad nodded a little too enthusiastically. “Oh yeah! We’re on it. Super on it.”

She studied them for a long moment.

Then shrugged.

“Well,” she said, grabbing her stick again and heading for the locker bench, “that sucks. But you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Drake felt something twist in his chest at the absolute faith in her voice.

She kicked off her skates, then paused mid-unlace like she’d remembered something very important.

“OH ALSO,” she added, spinning around, eyes lighting back up, “Vi held my hand in public today.”

Launchpad gasped. “No way!”

“Yes way!”

Drake froze.

“…Public,” he repeated faintly.

“Yup!” Gosalyn said proudly. “Didn’t even hesitate. Just—boom. Hand. Interlocked fingers. I think my brain short-circuited for a full minute.”

Launchpad grinned so wide it was practically blinding. “That’s awesome, Gossie.”

Drake swallowed, then nodded. “I’m… I’m really happy for you.”

She softened at that. Walked over. Leaned her head briefly against his arm.

“Thanks,” she said. “I like… not hiding anymore. It’s nice.”

Drake carefully placed a hand on her shoulder. Just resting there. Not gripping. Not hovering.

“You don’t ever have to hide here,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him, expression unreadable for half a second—then smirked.

“Good,” she said. “Because Vi’s coming over on Friday and if you embarrass me I will never forgive you.”

Launchpad raised a hand. “I make a great first impression!”

“No you don’t,” Gosalyn and Drake said simultaneously.

They paused. Looked at each other.

Then all three burst out laughing.

Gosalyn grabbed her helmet, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the stairs.

“Night, nerds,” she said fondly. “Love you.”

She didn’t say Dad.

But she didn’t have to.

As the door closed behind her, the lair felt warmer. Louder. Alive.

Launchpad sighed happily. “Kid’s doin’ good.”

Drake watched the stairs long after she was gone.

“…Yeah,” he said softly. “She really is.”

The laughter faded.

Not all at once—just slowly enough that Drake didn’t notice the exact moment it stopped. The lair lights hummed softly. One of the monitors flickered as it slipped into sleep mode. Somewhere deep in the tower, a pipe knocked, metal contracting as the night cooled.

Launchpad stretched. “I’m gonna—uh—check the perimeter,” he said, already halfway to the stairs. He paused, glanced back. “You okay, DW?”

Drake nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

Launchpad hesitated, then gave him a thumbs-up and disappeared.

The lair was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Drake stayed where he was, hands braced on the console, head bowed just enough that the brim of the cowl shadowed his eyes. He breathed in. Out. Counted it like W.A.N.D.A. had once suggested during a particularly bad night.

Didn’t help.

Because now—now that Gosalyn was safe upstairs, laughing about star-shaped orange slices and interlocked fingers—his brain had decided it was the perfect time to remember everything that could have gone wrong.

Everything that almost had.

He closed his eyes.

And suddenly it wasn’t the lair anymore.

It was Taurus Bulba’s building—too clean, too bright, all glass and polished steel. The echo of his boots on the floor. Dewey talking too fast. Launchpad grinning like this was just another fun night out.

And then—

A shadow moving where it shouldn’t.

A child running.

So small.

So fast.

So terrified.

Drake’s chest tightened.

He remembered the first clear look he’d gotten of her: helmet too big, jacket patched and worn, eyes sharp and furious and absolutely done with being dismissed. A kid breaking into a skyscraper because no one else would listen.

Because no one else believed her.

He remembered thinking—this is not my problem.

The thought hit him now like a punch to the ribs.

What if I’d listened to that voice?

What if he’d stayed on the rooftops, sulking about Mayor Owlson and his spotless crime statistics?

What if he hadn’t followed her?

The memory shifted, sharpened.

Bulba filling the doorway—huge, looming, all muscle and rage and wounded pride. A bull in every sense of the word. Horns scraping the ceiling when he moved too fast. That voice, smooth and booming and utterly convinced of its own righteousness.

And Gosalyn—

Cornered.

She’d been brave. Too brave. Swinging that stick, shouting about her grandfather, about the flaw in the Ramrod, about how Bulba was lying.

But bravery didn’t make her bigger.

Didn’t make her stronger.

Didn’t change the way Bulba’s shadow swallowed her whole when he advanced.

Drake’s hands curled into fists so tight his gloves creaked.

He could see it again—Bulba’s arm snapping out, impossibly fast for someone that size. The way Gosalyn had stumbled, barely keeping her feet. The sickening sound of metal bending when Bulba slammed his fist into the wall inches from her head.

A warning.

Or a promise.

If Drake had been a second slower—

If he hadn’t stepped in—

If he hadn’t shouted—

If he hadn’t been there—

His breath hitched.

He remembered Bulba grabbing for her as she ran, massive hand closing on empty air as Darkwing tackled him from the side. Remembered the sheer force of it, the way the impact rattled his bones. Remembered thinking, I can’t let him touch her.

Not once.

Not ever.

And later—later still—the Ramrod glowing, reality tearing like wet paper, villains pouring into the city, chaos everywhere—

Gosalyn standing in front of the console, hands shaking, eyes wet but determined as she made the call to destroy it.

A fourteen-year-old choosing the world over her grandfather.

Over everything she wanted.

Drake swallowed hard.

She could have died that night.

So many times.

In so many ways.

If Bulba had hit harder.
If the Ramrod had surged sooner.
If he’d hesitated.
If he’d cared more about his reputation than a scared kid in a helmet.

If he hadn’t been Darkwing Duck.

Or if he had been… less.

A quiet, broken sound escaped his throat before he could stop it.

He dragged a hand down his face and leaned more heavily on the console, forehead nearly touching the cool metal.

“She’s doing good,” he whispered to the empty lair.

Hockey practice. Girlfriend. Hand-holding in public. Laughter that filled rooms.

Alive.

Happy.

Still here.

And somewhere, deep in his chest, beneath the fear and the guilt and the endless what-ifs, something else burned just as fiercely as it had that night in Bulba’s tower.

A promise.

I was there.
I chose her.
And I’ll keep choosing her.

No matter who comes for her next.

No matter what F.O.W.L. thinks they know.

Drake straightened slowly, eyes lifting to the darkened monitor that still reflected his masked face back at him.

“Over my dead body,” Darkwing Duck said softly.

And for the first time since Gosalyn had left the room, the panic eased—just enough—for him to breathe.

~~~

The house creaked the way it always did at night—old beams settling, pipes ticking, the wind brushing past the tower windows like it was curious but polite.

Drake stood at the bottom of the stairs for the third time in five minutes.

He hadn’t gone up.

He hadn’t gone back to the console either.

He was just… there. Listening.

Launchpad noticed immediately.

“DW,” he said gently, not even looking up from where he was setting two mugs on the kitchen counter. “She’s upstairs. Door closed. Window locked. Alarm on.”

Drake stiffened. “…You checked?”

Launchpad blinked. “Well, yeah.”

Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“She said goodnight,” LP continued, ticking it off on his fingers. “Texted Dewey, Honker, and Violet. Complained about homework. Threw a pillow at me when I reminded her about lights out.”

He smiled a little at that.

“She’s safe.”

Drake exhaled—slow, shaky, like he’d been holding his breath since sunset.

“I wasn’t—” he started, then stopped. Restarted. “I know that. I just—”

“—yeah,” Launchpad said easily. “I know.”

No judgment. No teasing. No you’re being ridiculous.

Just understanding.

He handed Drake a mug. Steam curled up between them.

“Cocoa,” LP added. “The good kind. Extra marshmallows. ‘Cause you’re doin’ the thing.”

Drake glanced down at it, then back up at Launchpad.

“…The thing.”

“The pacing,” LP said. “The staring at the stairs. The ‘what if’ face.”

Drake huffed weakly. “I don’t have a ‘what if’ face.”

Launchpad grinned. “Buddy, you absolutely do.”

They stood there for a moment, the quiet stretching comfortably between them.

“You know,” Launchpad said after a beat, leaning against the counter, “she reminds me a lot of Dewey.”

Drake blinked. “…She does?”

“Yeah!” LP said brightly. “Smart. Loud. Brave to a fault. Gets herself into trouble because she thinks no one else is gonna fix things if she doesn’t.”

He shrugged. “Difference is, Dewey had, like… a whole triplet support system. And Scrooge. And me.”

Drake’s grip tightened on the mug.

“And Gosalyn had…” He trailed off.

Launchpad’s voice softened.

“…Nobody. For a while.”

Silence again.

Then LP added, cheerful as ever, “But not anymore!”

Drake looked at him.

“She’s got you,” Launchpad said simply. “And me. And a bunch of weirdos who care about her way too much.”

A pause.

“…You know I’m gonna treat her the same way I treat Dewey, right?”

Drake’s brow furrowed. “How’s that?”

Launchpad beamed. “Like she’s my best friend who also needs snacks, encouragement, and occasional adult supervision.”

Drake snorted before he could stop himself.

“That tracks.”

Upstairs, a door creaked. Footsteps padded across the floor. Then—quiet again.

Drake’s eyes flicked to the ceiling.

Launchpad noticed.

“She’s probably just grabbing water,” he said. “Or texting. Or both.”

Drake nodded, swallowing.

“…LP?”

“Yeah, DW?”

“Thank you.”

Launchpad tilted his head. “For what?”

“For… being here,” Drake said. “For her. For me.”

LP smiled, warm and easy and completely unguarded.

“Hey,” he said. “That’s what family does.”

The word landed softly—but it stayed.

Somewhere upstairs, Gosalyn laughed at something on her phone, the sound faint but unmistakably alive.

Drake finally relaxed.

Launchpad took a sip of his cocoa, then added casually, “Also, if F.O.W.L. shows up, I already made a list.”

Drake froze. “…A list.”

“Yeah,” LP said. “Evac routes, safe houses, emergency contacts. Oh! And Dewey said he can get Scrooge involved in, like, five minutes flat.”

Drake stared.

Launchpad shrugged. “What? You weren’t the only one thinkin’ ahead.”

For a long moment, Drake just looked at him.

Then—quietly, sincerely—

“…I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Launchpad smiled, soft and fond.

“Eh,” he said. “I crash-landed in your life. Guess I’m just stickin’ around.”

~~~

The storm sewers beneath St. Canard always carried a certain stink—rust, mildew, and the sour tang of chemicals that had been dumped years ago and never washed away. Tonight, though, there was something sharper, fouler. Rage.

The echo of boots slammed against concrete as NegaDuck paced his lair, cape flaring with every violent step. Once, he had worn the crisp purple suit of a star. Once, he had the adoration of cameras, the spotlight, the roar of an audience chanting his name. Darkwing Duck! The greatest hero on screen! Jim Starling, household name!

But that was then.

The dyes had long since rotted out of his uniform, the purple leeching into the sewers until his clothes had twisted into angry reds and sickly yellows. The colors of warning, of danger. His face was twisted, beak curled into a snarl, and his eyes—oh, his eyes—burned with spirals of green and blue, hypnotic and venomous like a snake waiting to strike.

He slammed his fists against the table in the center of the room, cracking the old wood. “A movie star!” he spat, voice echoing down the tunnels. “A washed-up, spotlight-hogging, nobody in a mask! That—that impostor!—dared to steal MY legacy!”

The shadows seemed to recoil from the fury in his voice. He tore at the scraps of posters still plastered along the wall—his posters, his face, his smile painted with heroic confidence. He ripped them to shreds.

“I WAS DARKWING DUCK!” His voice cracked like thunder in the tunnels. “I was the hero! The symbol! And they threw me away! Replaced me like trash with some two-bit knockoff!” His spiraling eyes widened, madness vibrating in every syllable. “No one replaces Jim Starling! NO ONE!”

He staggered back, panting, clutching the brim of his tattered hat as though it were the only thing holding him together. Then, slowly, a grin stretched across his beak—sharp, vicious, unhinged.

“…Every hero has a weakness,” he whispered, voice dripping venom. “Even the fake ones. Even my replacement.” He let out a bark of manic laughter that scraped against the sewer walls like claws. “Because the true Darkwing Duck has none!”

He spun, arms outstretched, eyes blazing with that hypnotic, spiraling light.

“They’ll all see,” he raved, his voice rising into a scream that carried through the dripping, endless dark. “They’ll ALL see! I’ll rip him apart, tear away his mask, and show the world the fraud he really is! And when I’m finished, when I’ve ground his legacy into the muck—” His laughter broke into a high, feral cackle. “—they’ll remember the name Jim Starling! They’ll remember the TRUE Darkwing Duck!”

The cackle bounced off every wall, rattling pipes, stirring rats into frenzied scurries.

In the bowels of St. Canard, a storm was brewing—and its name was NegaDuck.

Chapter Text

The St. Canardian skyline glistened with the mistiness of the earlier rain as the sidewalks still had tiny puddles and the air smelled like fresh raindrops. The sky, a bruised purple and blue with streaks of red and gold lit up the leftover water like miniature prisms everywhere you turned, and upon this crisp evening walked One: Gosalyn Waddlemeyer and Violet Sabrewing.

The hockey star, Captain at age fourteen, sophomore, brownish feathers and wild red hair feathers pulled into a choppy ponytail and even choppier bangs, walked on the outside of the sidewalk, like any good girlfriend would do for a lady. Her purple varsity letterman jacket had been permanently claimed by her genius girlfriend and in her opinion? Violet looked way better in her colors.

Speaking of Violet; the lavender little hummingbird with curls of indigo and eyes of amber brown, walked alongside her girlfriend while she talked animatedly about some research thing that Gosalyn was only half paying attention to because seeing her eyes light up and her hands move so wild and excitable?

That was the real trophy.

“And that’s not even considering the- Gosalyn? Are you listening to me?”

“Huh? Yeah- yeah Vi I’m listening! Something about Fenton?”

“Yes! Excellent! I was saying that Mr Crackshell’s work in STEM has significantly improved once he was officially brought on board and no longer just an intern at Dr. Gearloose’s laboratories and-”

Gosalyn’s brain tuned out, not because she wasn’t interested, but because her mind was more focused on how absolutely adorable one singular hummingbird could be.

The way the streetlights made her lavender feathers glow and the light dollop of freckles on her cheeks shined like tiny jewels, only made more perfect by the golden rims of her glasses, and the pure energy in those amber eyes. She’d borrowed Gosalyn’s jacket, merely placing it over her own deep teal cardigan, that made her feathers look extra soft and fluffy, like a cat.

Vi’s a hummingbird, not a cat. Get your facts straighter than your sexuality, Waddlemeyer. Gosalyn thought to herself in frustration because who compares a hummingbird to a cat?!

Gosalyn shook her head slightly, like she could physically knock the thought loose before Violet noticed her staring again. Because she was staring. Openly. Shamelessly. Captain of the hockey team reduced to a lovesick idiot by a girl who could probably bench-press a microscope but not a shopping bag.

“Gosalyn,” Violet said again, this time with a laugh in her voice. Not annoyed. Never annoyed. That made it worse.

“Sorry,” Gosalyn admitted, grinning sheepishly. “You just… you do that thing.”

“What thing?” Violet tilted her head, curls bouncing, glasses slipping just a fraction down her beak.

“The thing where you get excited and your brain goes faster than your mouth,” Gos said. “It’s cute.”

Violet’s feathers puffed almost imperceptibly, a tell she absolutely had despite insisting otherwise. “I am discussing scientific progress,” she protested, though her tone wobbled. “This is serious.”

“Uh-huh. Deadly serious,” Gosalyn agreed, reaching over to gently hook a finger under the sleeve of her own jacket—currently Violet’s jacket—and tugging her just a bit closer. “You know what else is serious?”

Violet eyed her suspiciously. “I feel like this is a trap.”

“It’s not a trap,” Gos said. “It’s an observation. You stole my jacket.”

“I borrowed it,” Violet corrected. “You offered.”

“I allowed it,” Gosalyn said. “There’s a difference.”

Violet smiled anyway, warm and bright, the kind of smile that made Gosalyn’s chest feel too full for her ribs. “Well,” she said, snuggling into the jacket just a little more, “it’s very comfortable. And it smells like you.”

Gosalyn nearly walked straight into a lamppost.

She recovered with athletic grace—thank you very much—clearing her throat and pretending she’d totally meant to stumble like that. “Yeah? Uh. Good. I smell… heroic. And like locker room soap.”

“Mostly heroic,” Violet said, eyes sparkling.

They slowed as they reached a crosswalk, the signal flashing red. The city hummed around them—distant traffic, the soft patter of water dripping from awnings, the low murmur of voices drifting out of cafés glowing amber against the damp street. Gosalyn shifted her weight, instinctively stepping a little closer to the curb, shoulder angled protectively outward.

Violet noticed. She always did.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said softly.

“Do what?”

“The outside thing,” Violet said, gesturing vaguely. “I’m not going to get blown into traffic.”

Gosalyn shrugged, unapologetic. “Yeah, but what if the sidewalk attacks you?”

Violet laughed, a light, chiming sound, and leaned her head against Gosalyn’s shoulder. “Then I suppose I’m very lucky to have a hockey captain as my personal bodyguard.”

“Damn right you are,” Gos said, resting her chin lightly atop Violet’s curls. “Comes with perks. Like jackets. And… moral support during intense science rants.”

The light changed. Neither of them moved right away.

For just a second, with the city washed clean and glowing and Violet warm against her side, Gosalyn thought that maybe—just maybe—this was better than winning any trophy.

And she didn’t even have to understand a word about Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera to know it.

Gosalyn’s phone buzzed against her hip, sharp and insistent—twice in a row.

She sighed the second she saw the names.

“Please tell me that’s not—” Violet started.

“It’s DW and LP,” Gosalyn groaned, already knowing. “Which means Drake is pacing the tower like a stressed pigeon and calling it ‘strategizing.’”

Violet snorted before she could stop herself. “So… Patrol.”

“Unfortunately,” Gos said, thumb hovering over the screen. “FOWL’s been extra twitchy lately. Guess they sensed my vibes.”

“You mean your recklessness,” Violet teased gently.

“Same thing.”

Gosalyn slowed to a stop beneath the glow of a streetlamp, rainwater pooled around their feet like spilled starlight. She turned fully toward Violet now, hands sliding instinctively to the edges of the jacket Violet was wearing—her jacket, but honestly, that battle had been lost the second Violet put it on.

“Hey,” Gos said, softer. “You gonna be okay by yourself till your sister gets here? I can wait. Patrol can survive five minutes without their only competent member.”

Violet lifted a brow. “Only?”

“Only,” Gos confirmed without shame.

Violet smiled, fond and unbothered, and reached up to straighten Gosalyn’s crooked ponytail. “Relax. I’m not completely helpless, Gos. Lena wouldn’t let me out of her sight if I was.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t worry,” Gos muttered.

“I know,” Violet said warmly. “That’s kind of your thing.”

Gosalyn exhaled, then nodded, accepting it with visible effort. She stepped back half a pace, then paused, eyes flicking to the jacket again. A slow, crooked grin spread across her face.

“Keep it,” she said suddenly.

Violet blinked. “Keep—Gos, it’s your varsity jacket.”

“Yeah,” Gos said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal while very obviously meaning it was. “But you look better in my colors.”

Violet’s feathers puffed. Fully. No subtlety. Glasses nearly fogged.

“Oh,” she said eloquently.

Gosalyn leaned in, quick and light, pressing a kiss to Violet’s temple—warm, familiar, grounding. “Text me when you get home safe, okay? And if anything weird happens—anything—you call me.”

“I will,” Violet promised, voice still a little breathless. “Go save the city, Captain.”

Gosalyn backed away, finger-pointing playfully. “You know it.”

Then she turned, already jogging down the sidewalk, pulling her hood up as she answered the alert. Violet watched her go until the street swallowed her up—red hair, confident stride, chaos incarnate.

She glanced down at the jacket, hugging it closer around herself, smiling like she’d just been handed the universe.

“Definitely keeping this,” she murmured.

Gosalyn didn’t slow until the city blurred.

Her boots slapped wet pavement as she cut down an alley, vaulted a stack of milk crates like it was nothing, and slid beneath a half-lowered service gate with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. Neon lights and rain-glossed brick vanished behind her as she ducked into the shadows, breath steady, heart alive with that familiar hum—the shift from girlfriend to guardian, from Gos to something sharper.

She reached a nondescript door wedged between two condemned storefronts and knocked once.

Twice.

Then once more.

The door clicked, unlocked itself, and swung inward just enough for her to slip through. The city noise died instantly, replaced by the low mechanical thrum of hidden systems waking up around her.

“Access confirmed,” chimed a calm, feminine voice from somewhere overhead. “Welcome back, Quiverwing.”

“Missed you too, WANDA,” Gos muttered, tugging off her jacketless sleeves and rolling her shoulders as the elevator doors slid shut behind her.

The lift dropped—not up, not sideways, but down, plunging through layers of concrete and steel beneath St. Canard. Dim lights streaked past the glass walls as hidden tunnels revealed themselves, arteries beneath the city that only a select few even knew existed.

The elevator slowed, then surged upward again—this time shooting straight into the heart of the Audubon Bay Bridge tower.

When the doors opened, the lair unfolded around her in a sweep of polished metal, glowing monitors, and strategically controlled chaos.

“Finally,” Launchpad said from across the room, leaning against a console with his arms crossed. “I was starting to think you got distracted by—”

“Finish that sentence,” Gosalyn said flatly, not breaking stride as she walked in.

Launchpad snapped his mouth shut. “—uh, traffic.”

Darkwing stood near the central holo-table, cape draped dramatically over one shoulder like he’d been waiting for this exact lighting cue. He turned as Gos approached, beak set in a serious scowl that only made him look more theatrical.

“Gosalyn,” he said. “About time.”

“Oh good,” she replied dryly. “I was worried tonight wasn’t going to start with you being passive-aggressive.”

Darkwing huffed. “This is serious. FOWL activity has spiked across three districts in the last forty-eight hours.”

“Which is why you called me,” Gos said, hopping up onto the edge of the table. “Because you two would’ve already flown headfirst into a trap without adult supervision.”

Launchpad scratched the back of his head. “Well, when you put it like that…”

A soft hum filled the air as the lights dimmed slightly. The holo-table flickered to life, projecting a rotating three-dimensional map of St. Canard. A warehouse near the docks pulsed red.

“Attention, team,” WANDA announced smoothly, her voice carrying an undercurrent of barely restrained excitement. “Recent surveillance confirms a sighting of Steelbeak and the Lady in Pink at the following location.”

The projection zoomed in, sharpening until the building’s schematics hovered in crisp detail.

“A warehouse?” Gosalyn frowned. “That’s not exactly subtle, even for them.”

“Indeed,” WANDA replied. “Thermal scans indicate abnormal energy signatures within the structure. Probability of illegal weapons development or data exchange: seventy-eight percent.”

Darkwing leaned forward, wings folded behind his back. “Then that’s our target.”

Gosalyn’s eyes narrowed, sharp and focused now, every trace of softness from earlier neatly locked away. “Alright,” she said, sliding off the table. “What are we dealing with? Guards, traps, weird science nonsense?”

“Yes,” WANDA answered promptly. “All of the above.”

Launchpad grimaced. “Oh boy.”

Gosalyn cracked her knuckles, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth—feral, excited, alive. “Good. Let’s go ruin their night.”

Somewhere across the city, Violet Sabrewing wore Gosalyn’s jacket and waited safely under warm lights.

And Gosalyn Waddlemeyer was about to make sure it stayed that way.

The warehouse sat dead and silent at the edge of the docks, a hulking concrete box crouched beneath the sodium glow of industrial lights. Rainwater slid down corrugated metal like sweat, pooling around the trio’s boots as they approached—Darkwing first, cape billowing with practiced drama, Launchpad lumbering close behind, and Gosalyn moving light and sharp at their flank.

“Place gives me the creeps,” Launchpad muttered, peering into the darkness. “And not the fun, roller-coaster kind.”

“That’s because you don’t appreciate ambiance,” Darkwing said, activating his gas gun and striking a pose. “Stay alert. FOWL rarely abandons a nest without leaving behind a nasty surprise.”

They breached the side entrance easily. Too easily.

Inside, the warehouse was cavernous and hollow, lit only by the thin spill of moonlight through grimy skylights. Rows upon rows of crates filled the space, stacked with military precision. Gosalyn moved ahead, eyes scanning, senses prickling.

Every crate bore the same mark.

A crimson insignia. Stylized wings. A staring eye.

FOWL.

“…Yeah,” Gos said quietly. “They were definitely here.”

Darkwing examined one of the boxes, running a gloved finger along the seal. “Recently,” he agreed. “But they’ve cleared out.”

Launchpad shifted his weight, feathers ruffling. “So where’s Steelbeak? And that… pink one?”

Before anyone could answer, the air changed.

It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t even a smell. It was a sensation—like the temperature dropped a degree too fast, like invisible fingers brushing beneath feathers.

Gosalyn stiffened.

Her skin crawled.

“She was here,” Gos said suddenly, voice low and certain.

Darkwing turned. “You’re sure?”

Gos nodded, jaw tight. “The Lady in Pink. I don’t know how, but… yeah. She didn’t just pass through. She lingered.”

Launchpad swallowed. “That’s… not comforting.”

They were halfway to regrouping when a deep, resonant rumble rolled through the warehouse. The floor trembled beneath their feet.

“What was that?” Launchpad yelped.

The answer came through the windows.

Concrete cracked.

Asphalt split.

And from the heart of St. Canard, half a mile away but horrifyingly visible, vines erupted from the ground.

Thick. Twisting. Alive.

They burst upward in violent spirals, tearing through streets, wrapping around lampposts and buildings, climbing over themselves in a grotesque parody of nature. They didn’t just grow—they surged, racing skyward as if pulled by some unseen force, weaving together into a towering column of green and thorn that climbed higher and higher into the night.

The city screamed.

Car alarms blared. Lights flickered. Sirens wailed in the distance.

The trio stared, frozen.

“No,” Darkwing breathed. “That’s not possible.”

Gosalyn felt her stomach drop, a cold, hollow pit opening beneath her ribs.

“That’s… that’s BushRoot,” Launchpad said slowly, disbelief thick in his voice. “That’s his whole thing.”

“But that can’t be right,” Gos snapped, panic edging her words. “BushRoot and the Fearsome Four were RamRod constructs. TV villains. When the RamRod was shut down, they were gone—deleted. We made sure of it.”

Darkwing’s expression darkened. “Which means,” he said grimly, “someone else has those powers.”

The vines continued to rise, splitting into massive tendrils that clawed at the skyline, blotting out stars. The tower pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat.

Gosalyn couldn’t look away.

Her chest felt tight. Too tight.

Something was wrong. More wrong than it should’ve been. This wasn’t just another villain-of-the-week scenario. This felt… personal. Like a line had been crossed somewhere she couldn’t see.

Like something bad had already happened.

And she didn’t know who—or what—had paid the price.

“Alright,” she said, forcing her voice steady even as dread coiled in her gut. “We don’t have time to stand around freaking out.”

She turned toward the exit, eyes locked on the growing tower of vines. “Whatever’s doing this? We stop it. Now.”

Darkwing nodded once. “To the tower.”

As they ran, Gosalyn couldn’t shake the feeling that she was already too late.

~~~

The city was chaos. Vines weaved through the streets and spiraled up buildings in seconds, destroying everything in their path and causing heaps of destruction and damage.

Our Justice Trio lands on the rooftop of a building not yet fully claimed by the vines, and Launchpad let out a low whistle.

“Geez, we’re gonna need a lot of weed killer for this, huh DW?” He looked at his partner, and Drake seemed empowered by his effort for comedy at this hour.

“Indeed Launchpad! We have a city to save and no one does it better than The Terrors That Flap in The Night: Darkwing Duck and- WHERE DID SHE GO?!” He glanced at the spot where Quiverwing Quack was supposed to be standing, but instead found her swinging on her grappling line towards the tower, seemingly without a plan.

DW sighed. “I really wish Fenton didn’t give her that thing.”

“Come on, DW! Let’s Get Dangerous!” Launchpad shouted helpfully as he leapt down the building, using the vines as a way to leap down without technically falling.

Gosalyn swung, latching onto vine after vine, keeping a steady swing as the vines kept growing and growing, and a pit of dread kept filling in her stomach, like she knew there was more going on with this.

Gosalyn’s grip tightened as the vine beneath her lurched, thickening and twisting like a living thing deciding whether it liked her weight.

“Okay,” she muttered, adjusting mid-swing, boots skidding briefly on slick greenery. “Officially hate that they’re… warm.”

The tower loomed closer now—less a structure and more a monument of aggressive botany. Vines braided together in massive coils, thorned ridges flexing as if the whole thing were breathing. Windows of nearby buildings shattered as tendrils smashed past them, scattering glass like rain.

Gosalyn released the line and landed hard against a slanted wall of vines, knees bending to absorb the impact. She dug in with her boots and scrambled upward, muscles burning, heart hammering.

Her comm crackled.

“Gos! You are not cleared to—!” Darkwing’s voice cut out in a burst of static.

“Busy!” she barked back, firing another grappling line higher. “Try yelling after I stop the apocalypse!”

She hauled herself up again, higher and higher, the city shrinking beneath her into a blur of lights and sirens. Somewhere below, Launchpad whooped heroically and immediately followed it with an “—oops!”

Gosalyn didn’t look.

She couldn’t shake it—the feeling gnawing at the back of her skull. This wasn’t just chaos. This wasn’t random. The vines weren’t lashing out blindly; they were building. Reinforcing. Protecting something at the core.

And the closer she got, the worse it felt.

Her head throbbed. A pressure behind her eyes, sharp and wrong, like standing too close to feedback from a speaker.

She landed on a broad knot of vines that formed a sort of platform near the tower’s midpoint. For half a second, everything went still.

Then—

The vines moved.

Not growing. Not attacking.

They recoiled.

Pulled away from her boots as if burned.

Gosalyn froze.

Her boots hit a ledge hard, knees bending automatically as she released the line and rolled to absorb the impact. She popped back to her feet, eyes scanning. The air here was thick—humid, heavy with chlorophyll and something sharper underneath. Ozone. Energy.

“Okay,” she whispered. “This is officially past ‘eco-terrorism’ and straight into ‘what the hell.’”

“Quiverwing! Language! Launchpad is on the line!” Drake hissed in her ear over the comms, and Gosalyn sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Focus, Capes.” She muttered, eyes scanned the greenery, which was an eerily similar shade as her eyes, like it knew her. Or someone with her eye color.

Her mom did use to say she had her birth father’s eye color, at least, before it was her grandfather telling her that, and now all she had was the memories of those words.

…And right now, those memories felt like they were watching her back.

The pressure behind Gosalyn’s eyes spiked again—hard enough to make her stumble a step. She sucked in a sharp breath and pressed two fingers to her temple, teeth gritting.

“Nope,” she muttered. “Don’t you start doing weird psychic plant nonsense with me. I do gadgets and bad decisions, not destiny.”

The vines shuddered.

Not violently. Not angrily.

They listened.

A low vibration thrummed through the living structure beneath her boots, like a distant chord struck on an organ too large to see. Leaves curled inward, thorns retracting just enough to clear a narrow path ahead of her—an organic corridor spiraling upward toward the heart of the tower.

Gosalyn stared.

“…That’s new.”

Her comm crackled again, Darkwing’s voice strained now, urgency bleeding through the theatrics.
“Quiverwing, report! The vines are reacting to something—to you!”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Gos said quietly, eyes locked on the path. Her pulse hammered, but her feet were already moving. “They’re rolling out the red carpet. Or… green carpet. You get the idea.”

“That is not comforting,” Launchpad chimed in breathlessly. “Buddy, if you start glowing, I’m calling it.”

Gosalyn smirked despite herself. “If I start glowing, LP, you have my permission to panic.”

She stepped forward.

The moment her boot crossed into the corridor, the pressure in her head snapped—not vanished, but focused, like static suddenly resolving into signal. Images flickered at the edge of her vision: roots tearing through concrete, pain like splitting wood, something screaming without a mouth.

Gosalyn gasped and dropped to one knee.

“Gos!” Darkwing shouted.

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands clenched in the vines, fingers digging into warm, pulsing greenery as she rode out the wave. When it passed, she sucked in a steadying breath and forced herself upright.

“…I’m okay,” she said, though her voice was rough. “But this isn’t BushRoot. Not really.”

“What does that mean?” Darkwing demanded.

“It means,” Gos said slowly, dread settling cold and heavy in her gut, “someone didn’t copy him.”

She looked up the winding path, eyes narrowing with grim understanding.

“They made him.”

The corridor opened into a vast hollow near the tower’s core—an enormous chamber of interwoven roots and vines forming a ribbed dome overhead. At its center rose a thick, pulsing trunk, glowing faintly from within like a heart behind skin.

And bound to it—

Gosalyn froze.

“…No,” she whispered.

A figure was suspended within the vines, half-encased, half-embraced. Not a plant monster. Not a construct.

A duck.

Green energy threaded through their veins, roots piercing skin—not violently, but invasively, like something grafted where it didn’t belong. Their eyes were closed, brow furrowed in pain even in unconsciousness.

They were breathing.

Barely.

Gosalyn’s chest went tight, air catching painfully in her lungs.

“Oh no,” she breathed. “Oh, no, no, no…”

The vines around the figure pulsed brighter as Gos stepped closer, reacting to her presence again—softening, parting, recognizing.

Her voice shook as realization slammed home.

“They didn’t resurrect BushRoot,” she said, horror dawning fully now. “They used him as a template.”

Darkwing’s voice came through her comm, deadly serious. “Gosalyn… whose life signs am I reading?”

She swallowed hard.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But whoever they are…”

The vines tightened protectively around the unconscious duck, reacting to her distress like a living shield.

“…they’re the power source.”

Somewhere deep within the tower, something shifted—a presence stirring, aware now that it had been found.

And Gosalyn Waddlemeyer, hockey captain, girlfriend, vigilante, suddenly understood the awful truth:

Stopping this wasn’t just about fighting a villain.

It was about saving someone who had already been turned into one.

And for the first time that night, she was terrified she might not be fast enough.

The vines screamed.

Not aloud—not in any way Gosalyn could’ve explained later—but the moment the figure tore free of the trunk, the entire tower convulsed as if something fundamental had been ripped out of alignment. Roots snapped and recoiled, sap-like energy spraying in luminous green arcs that hissed when they struck stone.

Gosalyn barely had time to brace before the figure landed in front of her with a wet, cracking thud.

She skidded backward, boots scraping over slick greenery, grappling line half-raised on instinct.

Then she looked.

The duck straightened slowly, joints popping in a way joints were never supposed to pop. Vines slithered off her body like discarded skin, retracting back into the walls as if afraid of her now. What stood there wasn’t fully plant, not anymore—but not fully duck either.

Her feathers were muted brown shot through with veins of glowing green, like roots had grown where blood should be. Bark-like ridges armored her forearms and calves, splitting around joints so she could still move—too easily. Her hands ended in long, clawed fingers, nails sharpened into something predatory. And her face—

Her face was twisted into a grin that was far too wide, teeth jagged and uneven, eyes burning with a sickly, intelligent light.

She tilted her head.

“Ahhh,” she crooned, voice layered—hers and something deeper beneath it, like wind through hollow trees. “There you are.”

Gosalyn’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“…You’re not BushRoot,” Gos said, forcing the words out past the knot in her throat.

BloodRoot laughed.

It was a sharp, broken sound, like branches snapping under too much weight.

“No,” she said delightedly. “He was the prototype. A concept. A story.” She took a step forward; the vines beneath her feet curled upward eagerly, lifting her higher. “I am the correction.”

Gosalyn’s comm crackled wildly.
“Gos—multiple energy spikes! Whatever that thing is, it just—”
Darkwing’s voice cut out in a burst of static.

BloodRoot’s eyes flicked briefly toward Gosalyn’s ear, then back to her face.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said sweetly. “They can’t hear us anymore.”

The vines surged, thickening around the chamber’s edges, sealing it off. The air grew heavy, wet, alive.

Gosalyn swallowed, stance widening. “Who are you?”

For just a fraction of a second—so brief Gos almost missed it—something flickered across BloodRoot’s expression.

Pain.

Then it was gone, buried under that feral smile.

“I had a name,” she said lightly. “Once. FOWL didn’t think it was relevant.”

Her gaze sharpened, locking onto Gosalyn with predatory focus.
“But you are.”

The vines lunged.

Gosalyn fired her grappling line on reflex, yanking herself sideways as thorned tendrils slammed into the space she’d occupied a heartbeat before. She rolled, popped back to her feet, and vaulted over a rising wall of roots.

“Okay!” she shouted. “So we’re skipping the talking phase!”

BloodRoot moved impossibly fast. One moment she was across the chamber, the next she was there, arm sweeping out. A vine-whip snapped around Gosalyn’s ankle and yanked.

Gos hit the ground hard, breath punching out of her lungs. She skidded across the living floor, sparks flying as she dug her boots in.

BloodRoot loomed over her.

“Stop fighting,” she said, voice lowering, almost pleading beneath the menace. “You don’t understand what they did to me. What they can undo.”

Gosalyn kicked out, catching BloodRoot in the knee. The bark armor cracked—but immediately regenerated, vines knitting together with a wet, organic sound.

Gos scrambled to her feet, chest heaving. “FOWL doesn’t undo things,” she snapped. “They use you.”

BloodRoot’s grin sharpened. “Exactly.”

She spread her arms wide.

“They restarted the RamRod,” she said, reverent and furious all at once. “But they learned from last time. No more letting it touch reality directly—too unstable. Too… catastrophic.”

The chamber pulsed in time with her words.

“So they anchored it,” BloodRoot continued. “To us. Living conduits. Test subjects.” Her claws curled. “Supervillains they could leash.”

Gosalyn’s blood ran cold.

“The Fearsome Four,” she whispered. “You’re not constructs. You’re—”

“People,” BloodRoot snarled, control slipping for the first time. The vines around them lashed violently. “People who screamed and begged and broke while they rewrote us from the inside out.”

Silence fell—thick, suffocating.

Then BloodRoot inhaled slowly, visibly steadying herself. When she spoke again, her tone was calmer. Calculated.

“But they promised me something,” she said. “If I bring you to them… they’ll reverse it. Peel this power out of me. Let me go.”

Her eyes bored into Gosalyn’s.

“They said you know where the RamRod key is.”

Gosalyn’s hand drifted—unconsciously—to the chain beneath her suit.

The keepsake she never took off.

The key.

BloodRoot noticed.

Her pupils dilated.

“…You have it,” she breathed.

Gosalyn’s jaw tightened. “It’s not going back to them.”

The vines exploded upward in fury.

“You don’t get to decide that!” BloodRoot screamed, voice fracturing again. “You don’t know what it’s like to be trapped in your own body! To feel the RamRod screaming through your veins every second!”

“I know what it’s like to lose people to it!” Gos shot back, anger finally burning through the fear. “My grandpa died because of that thing! I’m not letting FOWL turn it back on—ever!”

BloodRoot froze.

For a heartbeat, the monster fell away.

“…Your grandfather,” she said softly.

The vines stilled, trembling.

Something ancient and furious stirred deep within the tower—responding not to anger now, but to grief.

BloodRoot looked down at her hands.

At the glowing veins.

At what she’d become.

“…Then you understand,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Why I can’t let you walk away.”

The vines surged again—harder, faster, angrier than before.

Gosalyn squared her shoulders, eyes blazing, grappling line humming as it rewound into place.

“Then I guess,” she said grimly, “we’re doing this the hard way.”

~~~

Violet was really going to hit Lena with her mace this time for being late. Especially since the city was currently being overrun by vines and other plants caused by a villain that her girlfriend was likely fighting.

She raced through an alleyway, trying to avoid being swept up in the greenery, when a familiar and strong arm locked around her middle and lifted her away from the now narrowly missed barrage of vines that would’ve definitely broken a few of her bones, but that didn’t take much, really.

“Vi! What are you still doing here? It’s dangerous out here right now, Princess!” Gosalyn shouted over the sounds of the chaos below them on her grappling line, swinging between the vines that kept trying to swat them down.

“Princess? Seriously, Gosalyn? Must you be Cliche?” Violet replied, eyebrow raised as Gosalyn gave a slight nervous smile.

“Sorry, it slipped out. But seriously Vi, you can’t be here right now-“ She started again, but a vine swatted the line and Gosalyn twisted, taking the brunt of the impact on top of an abandoned van, clutching Violet close to her chest, keeping a hand pressed against her head, fingers curling into her curls like they were drifting through smoke.

Violet took initiative immediately and dragged Gosalyn down into the inside of the van, pulling the doors shut and the two girls caught their breath for a moment.

Amber eyes looked up, glancing at Gosalyn for a moment before they rose higher, towards the general direction of the vines outside. She took a deep breath and was about to explain why she was still there when Gosalyn slammed her against the wall of the van, hand over her beak as she heard the sounds of the vines and BloodRoot calling out for her.

“This can all end if you give up the key, Otherwise your partner and his hapless sidekick won’t be lasting much longer…” The duck said, almost matter-of-factly, as the vine slithered and grew, searching for their prey.

Over the sound of her own pulse, Violet heard an ominous clattering sound like a wave of stones rolling and bouncing down the road. The noise grew and grew until it was like an avalanche all around them and the van shook with its passage.
 
She held her breath, turning her face into Gosalyn’s shoulder, trembling in terror. She hadn’t felt this vulnerable since that night of The Shadow War. Gosalyn held her tightly, giving her all the comfort that a tight embrace could afford. The horrible sound started and stopped several times, but then faded into the distance. She waited until Gos’s hand over her beak dropped before she spoke.
 
“Are you okay?” They both asked at the same time.

Violet nodded, and her eyes caught the way Gosalyn’s shoulder looked, her left one, the one with her grappling line. Dislocated, from this lighting she could see that clear as day.

“Gosalyn, you’re hurt.” She said, voice softening as her fingers grazed the joint, causing Gosalyn to hiss through her beak and forcing a grin.

“It’s- it’s nothing, Princess. Honest. Gotten worse in Hockey matches.” She quipped, and Violet gripped the injured arm.

“Do not downplay your injuries to me, Gosalyn Waddlemeyer. I know how to put it back into place.” She informed, already putting her hands into motion to help do so.

“Seriously? I- how?” Gosalyn sputtered, eyes wide behind the mask as Violet shushed her.

“Bite down, this may not be as painful as it would be for myself, but I imagine it will still be rather unpleasant. Hold still please,” She said before popping the joint back into place and Gosalyn let out a muffled scream, holding it back by biting her tongue so hard she tasted copper in her mouth.

“You- wow- huh- you continue to surprise me.” Gosalyn muttered softly, rolling her shoulders gently to regain movement in her left shoulder.

“I contain multitudes, Dearest.” She said plainly, as if referring to the weather.

Gosalyn paused. “Dearest? That’s what you’re going with, Vi?”

“It seemed fitting, considering you keep coming up with new ones every day. Shall I recount the list?” She suggested, and Gosalyn chuckled, a weak and shaky thing.

“That won’t be necessary, Princess.”

Violet glanced upwards, calculating the odds with the data she had collected, and sighed. “What’s your plan, then? You have a plan, right Gosalyn?”

“First things first,” she said seriously. “I have to get you somewhere safe. I don’t want you in the line of fire, Princess.”
 
“I can slip away while you go fight off the attacker,” Violet murmured.
 
Gosalyn shook her head. “There’s no guarantee that BloodRoot would go for me and not you. And I’m not sure how well I can defend you like this.” She sighed. “Some hero I am today.”
 
“Don’t you dare,” she growled. “You’re Quiverwing Quack! You’re Gosalyn Isla Waddlemeyer! Nothing gets you down! We just need to think, thats all.” Think indeed! How were they supposed to beat a plant villain? “Gosalyn, was there anything you noticed while you were fighting, BloodRoot, was it? Anything odd?”

Gosalyn thought, and it hit her like hockey puck against a goal. Something she was very familiar with.

“Uh, yeah! Aside from literally everything about her, she has these antennas on the top of her head that kinda looked like that’s how she was controlling the plants, like how Drake said Bushroot would do in the TV show. Since this is supposed to be a copy of his powers-“ She started, and Violet spotted Gosalyn’s bow and crossbow on the floor of the van, miraculously intact from the fall.

“If someone were to shoot the perfect shot, then she’d be powerless and the city would be saved! Gosalyn, Dearest, can I borrow your crossbow?” Violet asked, already reaching for the weapon before Gosalyn grabbed both hands in her own.

“And let you fight her?! Vi, are you insane? No way! There’s no way I’m letting my Princess fight My Battles for me! I told you I wouldn’t let you get dragged into my mess and that’s not changing one bit!” She argued, and Violet narrowed her eyes at her, amber brown meeting wild green.

“Gosalyn, I am perfectly capable of-“

“I don’t care, Vi! I am not going to let you do this!”

“Gosalyn-“

“Violet Sabrewing do not test me I swear I will-“

The clattering sound alerted them that BloodRoot was coming back. The noise grew closer and louder until the van shook. Then everything suddenly sent silent. She shivered in terror and Gosalyn wrapped her hand around hers in comfort.
 
One minute passed. Then two. After five minutes she started to wonder if the villain was gone. She eased herself into different position and accidentally jostled an open tool box on the shelf next to her. It crashed to the metal floor, making the inside of the van ring like a bell.

The top of the utility van was sliced away in a squeal of rending metal Above them stood BloodRoot, vines surrounding her like she was auditioning to be the next Poison Ivy.
 
“Give me the key, Quiverwing Quack, and I will let the girl go free,” she said in a dry, ratting hiss, reminding Violet of dead leaves blowing over stones.
 
“Go choke on sawdust,” Gosalyn cried beside Violet.
 
Bloodroot leaned over them. “You’re not at your best, I see. Why not make it easy on yourself and just hand over the Ramrod Key? Your Mentor isn’t here to protect you and I’m sure you wouldn’t want anything to happen to your little friend.”
 
“Don’t call me little,” she snarled, activating Gos’s crossbow and firing it straight into one of BloodRoot’s two antennas, knocking her backwards.

“Run, Vi!!” Gosalyn yelled, pushing Violet towards the doors before leaping through the whole in the roof.

She had nearly made it to the end of the street when she heard a cry from behind her. Gosalyn flew over her head and crashed into the wall of the shop on her right and that rumbling, avalanche sound told her that Bloodroot was coming up fast behind. She rushed to Gosalyn’s side. She lay crumpled on the ground, struggling and failing to rise on her good arm.
 
“I’m sorry, Princess,” she rasped as blood trickled from a bad cut on her scalp.
 
The sight of that dark bead rolling down her face, staining the brown feathers, made her tremble, but not with fear.
 
Violet Sabrewing trembled with rage.
 
She turned around, facing the nightmare that was barreling down on them, Gosalyn’s crossbow clenched firmly in her hands.
 
“Vi, you need to run!”
 
“No, I’m not leaving you.”
 
“But you could get killed!”
 
“So could you! Now, let me think!”
 
The plant powered duck was rushing for them, deadly and ready to strike. The thought of Gos’s injuries fueled her anger and everything became clear.
 
She ran full speed at BloodRoot, everything else disappearing except for the burn of her muscles and that last antenna. As she drew close, she fired the bolt straight through the antenna.

A clean shot.

A perfect shot.

“Listen, you overgrown flora. I apologize for whatever’s been done to you, but that does not give you an excuse to terrorize this city! And no one, and I mean no one Hurts Quiverwing Quack when I’m around! Run back to FOWL and make sure they file that in their reports.”

BloodRoot screamed.

This time it was audible.

The sound tore out of her like a gale through a shattered canopy—raw, furious, and laced with agony. The instant the bolt pierced the second antenna, the entire web of vines convulsed violently, then froze as if someone had slammed a master switch.

Green light flickered.

Faded.

Died.

The vines shriveled in seconds, collapsing into brittle husks that cracked and crumbled into ash as they hit the pavement. Buildings groaned in relief. Sirens wailed closer now, no longer drowned out by the living roar of the tower.

BloodRoot staggered backward, claws scrabbling uselessly at the ground.

“No—no, wait—!” she gasped, dropping to one knee. The bark plating split and flaked away, glowing veins dimming to dull green scars beneath her feathers. “I can still— I can fix—”

Her strength failed her completely. She collapsed face-first into the rubble, unmoving.

Silence followed.

Then—

“VI!”

Gosalyn’s voice cut through the quiet, hoarse and panicked.

Violet dropped the crossbow instantly and was at her side in a heartbeat, kneeling, hands shaking as she cradled Gosalyn’s head with careful precision.

“I’m here,” Violet said urgently. “I’m here. Stay with me.”

Gosalyn blinked, eyes unfocused for a moment before locking onto Violet’s face. Relief flooded her expression so fast it almost hurt to see.

“…You didn’t run,” she murmured.

Violet laughed breathlessly, tears welling despite herself. “Of course I didn’t run. Honestly, Gosalyn, when have I ever listened to you when you’re being stupid?”

Gosalyn huffed weakly. “Wow. Rude.”

Violet pressed her forehead gently to Gosalyn’s. “You scared me.”

“Yeah,” Gos admitted. “Me too.”

Footsteps thundered nearby.

Darkwing dropped from a nearby rooftop with a dramatic spin that he aborted halfway through when he saw Gosalyn on the ground.

“Oh no,” he said, all bravado gone. “Kid—kid, talk to me.”

“She’s conscious,” Violet snapped, surprisingly fierce. “She has a head wound and a recently relocated shoulder. Do not jostle her.”

Launchpad landed moments later, skidding to a stop. “Holy smokes—Vi?! You okay?!”

“I will be,” Violet replied tightly. “If she is.”

WANDA’s voice chimed in through Darkwing’s comm, calmer than any of them deserved.
“Emergency services are en route. Vital signs for all parties detected. Hostile botanical activity across St. Canard has ceased.”

Darkwing looked from BloodRoot’s unconscious form to Violet—still kneeling, still shielding Gosalyn with her own body—and something in his expression softened.

“…You took the shot,” he said quietly.

Violet nodded once. “She left me no other viable option.”

Darkwing inclined his head. “Remind me never to underestimate you again.”

Launchpad smiled shakily. “Yeah… remind me too.”

Gosalyn squeezed Violet’s hand weakly. “Hey, Princess?”

“Yes, Dearest?”

Gos managed a crooked grin. “You’re… terrifying when you’re mad.”

Violet sniffed, then smiled back, brushing damp curls from Gosalyn’s face. “Good. Remember that.”

Red-and-blue lights finally washed over the street as medics rushed in, voices overlapping, stretchers unfolding. As they carefully lifted Gosalyn, Violet refused to let go until a paramedic gently—but firmly—assured her she could ride along.

BloodRoot was secured next, wrapped in suppressant restraints instead of vines, her chest rising and falling steadily now. Human. Duck. Alive.

As the ambulance doors closed, Gosalyn caught Violet’s sleeve.

“…You still have my jacket?” she asked.

Violet laughed softly, eyes shining. “Of course I do.”

“Good,” Gos murmured, eyes slipping shut at last. “Because I’m never getting it back, am I?”

“Never,” Violet said, squeezing her hand. “And you’re lucky I look incredible in your colors.”

Outside, the city of St. Canard breathed again—scarred, shaken, but standing.

Chapter Text

The rink smells like ice and rubber mats and old victories.

Gosalyn is already in half her gear when Violet and Honker arrive—early, because of course Violet arrives early, and Honker arrives early because he knows better than to let her spiral alone.

The moment Gosalyn spots them in the stands, her posture changes.

Not dramatic. Not obvious.

But her shoulders square a little more.
Her jaw sets.
Her eyes sharpen.

Her nerds are here.

She skates over immediately, ignoring a shouted comment from one of her teammates.

“Gos, we’re stretching—”

“Two minutes,” she says, already unlacing one glove with her teeth.

She hops the boards like gravity personally wronged her and jogs over to where Violet is perched on the bench, bag neatly at her feet, jacket (Gos’s jacket) zipped up to her chin.

“Okay,” Gosalyn says, crouching in front of her like this is the most important briefing of the night. “Checklist.”

Violet blinks. “Checklist?”

Honker leans against the railing, arms crossed, utterly unsurprised.

“Noise-canceling headphones?” Gos asks.

Violet obediently pulls them out of her bag.

“Charged?”

“Yes.”

“Extra batteries?”

“Yes.”

“Emergency stim toy?”

Violet hesitates. “…You mean the little gear-shaped one?”

Gosalyn nods solemnly. “The good one.”

Violet produces it.

Gosalyn exhales like she’s just defused a bomb. “Good.”

Honker snorts. “She do this every game?”

“Only the important ones,” Gos says without missing a beat.

Violet’s brow furrows. “They’re all important.”

Gosalyn grins. “Exactly.”

She leans in, presses a quick kiss to Violet’s temple—fast, familiar, grounding—and rests her forehead there for just a second longer.

“Gotta check in with my good luck charm,” she murmurs.

Violet freezes.

“…Your what?”

Honker bursts out laughing. “Oh wow. You didn’t know?”

Violet looks between them. “Know what?”

Gosalyn pulls back just enough to look smug. “Congrats, Princess. You’re the team mascot.”

There’s a beat.

Then Violet’s feathers puff. Completely. Unmistakably.

“I am not a mascot.”

“You sit in the same seat every game,” Gosalyn says, counting on her fingers. “You wear my jacket. You bring snacks. And when you’re not here—” She points over her shoulder at the rink. “—we play like garbage.”

Honker nods. “Statistically significant.”

Violet stares. “You—wait—how long has this been happening?”

“Since your third game,” Honker says cheerfully. “When Gos got a hat trick and then immediately asked if you’d changed shampoo.”

Gosalyn shrugs. “Correlation.”

Violet opens her mouth. Closes it. Takes a breath.

“…I don’t know how to feel about this.”

Gosalyn grins, eyes soft. “Feel proud. You’re undefeated.”

As Gosalyn skates back onto the ice, Violet watches her go—strong stride, confident posture, tape-wrapped stick resting easy against her shoulder.

She looks unstoppable.

Which is exactly why Violet’s stomach knots.

Honker notices the moment it happens.

He leans a little closer. “You okay?”

Violet doesn’t look away from the ice. “She’s favoring her left shoulder.”

Honker winces. “…Yeah. She is.”

“And she’s playing more aggressively than usual.”

“That’s… also yeah.”

“And this team—” Violet swallows. “They’ve been penalized three times this season for dangerous hits.”

Honker sighs. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I always do,” Violet says quietly. “I’m worried someone’s going to notice how… reckless she is when she thinks she has to protect people.”

Honker glances at Gosalyn, who has just body-checked an opponent cleanly but with unmistakable emphasis.

“…Yeah,” he admits. “That’s her tell.”

Violet’s fingers twist together. “If she gets hurt and people start asking questions—”

“They won’t,” Honker says gently. “And if they do, she’s got more cover stories than a library.”

That gets a faint smile.

“…She said she’s had worse.”

Honker chuckles. “Oh, she has.”

Midway through the second period, it happens.

An opposing player slams Gosalyn hard into the boards—too hard, too fast, shoulder-first.

The crack echoes through the rink.

Violet is on her feet instantly.

Honker’s hand shoots out, steadying her. “Hey—hey. Breathe.”

Gosalyn goes down.

For half a second, the world stops.

Then she’s up again—teeth clenched, eyes blazing, shaking out her arm like it’s an inconvenience rather than a warning.

The ref blows the whistle.

The opposing player gets benched.

The crowd roars.

And Violet’s heart is pounding so hard she can feel it in her ears.

Honker exhales. “…Well.”

Violet looks at him, stricken. “She’s hurt.”

“Yeah,” Honker says. “But now?”

He gestures to the rink, where the coach is already shouting, trainers are fussing, and everyone’s eyes are on Gosalyn’s shoulder.

“…Now she’s got a very convincing explanation.”

Violet blinks.

“…Oh.”

Honker smiles grimly. “Universe has a weird sense of timing.”

Halftime.

Violet forces herself to sit. To breathe.

Honker nudges her. “Go get cocoa.”

She hesitates. “But if I leave—”

“I’ll be right here,” Honker says. “Same seat. I promise.”

She nods, still uneasy, and slips out toward the concession stand.

On the ice, Gosalyn glances up.

Scans the stands.

Doesn’t see Violet.

Her smile drops instantly.

“Where’s Violet?” she demands, skating over to the bench.

One teammate freezes. “…Who?”

“My girlfriend,” Gos snaps. “The one in my jacket.”

Another player pales. “Uh—she was here.”

Gosalyn’s jaw tightens.

“Gos,” the coach says carefully. “Sit down.”

“I need to see her.”

“Gosalyn.”

Honker waves from the stands, holding up Violet’s bag like a flag.

“She’s getting cocoa!”

Gosalyn locks eyes with him.

He mouths: Breathe.

Gosalyn exhales, hands shaking slightly as she slams her stick down once.

“Okay,” she mutters. “Okay.”

The team relaxes just a little.

“Wow,” one of them whispers. “She really is the mascot.”

They win.

Of course they win.

Gosalyn is icing her shoulder when Violet finally rushes back, cocoa abandoned somewhere in the chaos.

“I’m so sorry,” Violet blurts. “The line was—are you okay—?”

Gosalyn grins, tired but bright. “Hey. I’m good. You’re back.”

Honker clears his throat. “Honestly? This is still better than the skateboard incident.”

Violet pauses. “…Skateboard incident?”

Gosalyn whirls. “HONKS—”

Honker shrugs. “What? She dislocated the same shoulder trying to jump a stair set in seventh grade.”

“That was a controlled experiment!”

Violet stares.

“…You skateboarded.”

“Briefly,” Gos says. “Violently.”

Violet snorts despite herself, tension cracking at last.

And Gosalyn, seeing her laugh, finally lets herself relax.

Because her nerds are safe.

And for tonight?

That’s enough.

Drake Mallard arrived at the rink like a man who had felt a disturbance in the force.

He didn’t park so much as abandon the car.

“LAUNCHPAD,” he barked, slamming the door shut and already halfway to the entrance, “I knew I should’ve installed the biometric alert for ‘reckless teenage hero behavior’—”

“DW,” Launchpad said calmly, jogging after him, “it’s a hockey game.”

“A HOCKEY GAME,” Drake snapped, jabbing a finger toward the glowing rink doors, “featuring a fourteen-year-old with a partially injured shoulder, an undefeated record, and a personality disorder that treats danger like a personal challenge.”

Launchpad smiled. “That’s our kid!”

Drake stopped short, spun on him. “Do not ‘that’s our kid’ me right now.”

They burst into the rink just as the crowd erupted in cheers—final buzzer, game over.

Drake’s heart leapt straight into his throat.

“WHY are they cheering,” he hissed. “Cheering usually means someone ignored medical advice.”

On the ice, Gosalyn was skating toward the bench, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, grin wide despite the visible tension in her left shoulder.

Drake made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a strangled squawk.

“Oh NO.”

He shoved past two confused spectators, cape flaring wildly.

“GOSALYN WADDLEMEYER—”

Every head turned.

Gosalyn looked up.

Her face lit up instantly. “Oh hey, Drake!”

Drake skidded to a stop at the boards, hands gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “DO NOT ‘OH HEY’ ME. YOU GOT CHECKED.”

“It was a legal hit,” Gos said cheerfully. “Mostly.”

“YOUR SHOULDER—”

“Still attached.”

“BARELY—”

“Drake,” Violet cut in.

Drake froze.

He turned slowly.

Violet was standing right there—calm, composed, wearing Gosalyn’s varsity jacket like it belonged to her (which, in Drake’s mind, was already a separate emotional crisis). Honker stood beside her, arms crossed, expression long-suffering but alert.

Violet met Drake’s gaze without flinching.

“She is injured,” Violet said matter-of-factly. “But stabilized. Ice was applied immediately. No further aggravation since the second period.”

Drake blinked.

“…You’re wearing her jacket.”

“Yes.”

“And you are… remarkably calm.”

“I was not,” Violet said honestly. “Earlier.”

Honker nodded. “She stress-calculated the entire opposing team’s penalty history.”

Drake stared at them. Then at Gosalyn. Then back at Violet.

“…You let her keep playing.”

Gosalyn opened her beak. “Now hang on—”

Violet cut her a look that could’ve stopped a charging rhinoceros.

“She stopped when the risk outweighed the benefit,” Violet said. “And I told her—explicitly—that if she ignored her shoulder again, I would personally inform you.”

Gosalyn winced. “You didn’t have to say it like a threat.”

“I did,” Violet replied calmly. “It was effective.”

Launchpad finally caught up, breathless but smiling wide.

“Hey!” he said brightly. “Everybody looks… upright! That’s good!”

He gave Violet a thumbs-up. “You keepin’ her alive?”

Violet nodded. “So far.”

“Atta girl.”

Drake looked betrayed. “LAUNCHPAD.”

“What?” LP shrugged. “She’s clearly doing a great job.”

Drake turned back to Gosalyn, eyes sharp but worried in that unmistakable dad way. “You scared me.”

The words landed harder than any lecture.

Gosalyn’s grin softened. “…Sorry.”

Drake exhaled slowly, hands finally unclenching from the railing. “You are not invincible.”

“I know,” Gos said quietly.

“You do not get bonus points for playing through pain.”

“I know.”

“And if you ruin that shoulder—”

“I won’t,” Gos promised. “I had backup.”

Drake followed her gaze.

To Violet.
To Honker.
Standing close. Steady. Watching.

Something in his expression shifted—tension easing into reluctant acceptance.

“…Good,” he said at last. “Because clearly the universe has decided they are part of your survival plan now.”

Honker grinned. “Been that way since middle school.”

“Do NOT bring up middle school,” Gosalyn groaned.

Violet tilted her head. “Middle school?”

“NO.”

Drake sighed, rubbing his temples. “I am not ready for this conversation.”

Launchpad clapped his hands together. “So! Victory snacks?”

Gosalyn perked up immediately. “Yes.”

Violet smiled faintly. “Please.”

Drake looked between them, then shook his head with a helpless huff.

“…Fine. But afterward, medical check. And ice. And rest.”

Gosalyn leaned toward Violet, stage-whispering, “See? Totally reasonable.”

Violet squeezed her hand. “You’re grounded from recklessness for forty-eight hours.”

Gosalyn gasped. “Princess!”

Drake paused.

“…Princess?”

Launchpad burst out laughing.

And for the first time since he’d sprinted into the rink, Drake let himself smile—because his kid was hurt, but safe, and surrounded by people who noticed when she wasn’t.

And apparently?

That included a terrifyingly competent hummingbird with his jacket.

…He was going to need stronger coffee.

~~~

The ride home was… loud.

Not in the fun, music-blasting, windows-down kind of loud.

It was the parental aftermath kind of loud.

Gosalyn was slumped dramatically across the back seat of the blue car, shoulder wrapped, jacket missing (a crime, apparently), staring out the window like a tragic war hero who had been betrayed by her own command.

Drake sat rigid in the passenger seat, arms crossed so tightly they might’ve fused to his ribs, cape folded with violent restraint over his lap. His jaw had been clenched since they left the rink.

Launchpad drove.

Happily.

Like this was a perfectly normal Tuesday.

“Okay!” LP said brightly, merging onto the road. “Everybody buckled? Nobody bleeding excessively? Great night overall!”

“It was NOT a great night,” Gosalyn groaned. “I got benched, my shoulder hates me, and I was publicly humiliated by my own girlfriend.”

“You were protected by your girlfriend,” Drake corrected sharply. “There’s a difference.”

“Oh, NOW you’re on her side?!”

Drake turned slowly. Dangerously.
“Gosalyn Waddlemeyer. I am on the side of your continued existence.”

She gasped. “Wow. Harsh.”

“You played a full game with an injured shoulder.”

“I played most of a game.”

“You took a hit that made three adults flinch.”

“It was a cheap shot!”

“YOU ARE FOURTEEN.”

“AGE IS A SUGGESTION.”

Launchpad nodded along thoughtfully. “I mean, I crashed my first plane at twenty-two, so—”

“LAUNCHPAD,” Drake snapped, “THIS IS NOT HELPING.”

LP blinked. “Oh! Right. Sorry. Serious tone.”

He cleared his throat. “…But she did score twice before that hit. That was pretty impressive.”

Gosalyn perked up immediately. “SEE?!”

Drake pinched the bridge of his beak.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” he muttered.

“You don’t get paid at all,” Gos said.

“That makes it WORSE.”

The car stopped at a red light. Drake turned fully in his seat, eyes locking onto her with That Look™.

“No patrol,” he said flatly. “Not until that shoulder heals properly.”

Gosalyn sat bolt upright.

“No.”

“No patrol.”

“No!”

“No.”

“Drake, that’s— that’s CRUEL.”

“It’s MEDICAL.”

“It’s BETRAYAL.”

“You are GROUNDED from vigilantism.”

“You can’t ground a hero.”

“I absolutely can,” Drake snapped. “I am the senior masked authority in this household!”

Launchpad raised a wing. “Technically WANDA outranks all of us.”

“NOT NOW.”

Gosalyn crossed her arms, fuming. “What if something happens? What if FOWL strikes? What if—”

“—what if,” Drake cut in, voice lowering, “you get seriously hurt because you refuse to slow down?”

Silence hit the car like a dropped puck.

Gosalyn’s glare softened. Just a fraction.

“I’m fine,” she muttered.

“You weren’t,” Drake said quietly. “And I saw Violet’s face when you went down.”

That did it.

Gosalyn looked away, jaw tight.

Launchpad glanced at her in the rearview mirror, voice gentler now. “Kiddo… resting doesn’t mean you’re weak. It just means you’re smart enough to stick around.”

She sighed. “…I hate it.”

LP smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”

They pulled up to the house. Lights on. Warm. Safe.

Drake got out first, already in full logistics mode. “Ice pack. Anti-inflammatories. Shoulder brace. No hero work, no hockey, no climbing, no grappling—”

“NO GRAPPLING?!” Gosalyn yelped.

“Especially no grappling.”

“That’s literally my thing!”

Launchpad hopped out and opened the back door, offering his arm with exaggerated care. “C’mon, champ. Let’s get you inside.”

She took it without protest.

Because it was Launchpad.

“Thanks, LP,” she said quietly.

He beamed. “Anytime.”

Inside, Drake hovered like a stressed hawk while Gosalyn settled on the couch, ice pack balanced on her shoulder, grumbling into a pillow.

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered. “Benched from hockey AND hero work. Violet’s gonna think I’m reckless.”

Launchpad snorted. “Kid, she already knows that.”

Gosalyn groaned. “I’m texting her.”

Drake sighed. “Fine. Text. But no scheming.”

“No promises.”

Launchpad returned from the kitchen with cocoa—extra marshmallows, obviously—and handed one mug to Gosalyn like it was a peace offering.

She smiled despite herself. “…You’re the best.”

LP puffed up proudly. “I know.”

Drake sank into a chair, exhausted, staring at the ceiling.

“I do not get paid enough for this,” he repeated to no one.

Gosalyn glanced over at him, softened completely now.

“…Thanks,” she said. “For caring. Even when you’re annoying.”

Drake didn’t look at her. “…You’re welcome. Even when you’re impossible.”

Launchpad sipped his cocoa happily, watching them with a fond grin.

Best dad.
Best chaos buffer.
Best Launchpad.

And Gosalyn, sore and benched and loved anyway, leaned back into the couch—safe for the night, even if she hated admitting it.

The tower felt wrong without them.

Too quiet. Too still. Like it was holding its breath.

Gosalyn was bundled on the couch with a blanket she absolutely did not remember grabbing, ice pack abandoned somewhere near her shoulder, one sock half-off her foot. The lights were dimmed to that soft, late-night glow WANDA used when she decided someone was done for the day whether they admitted it or not.

“Vital signs stable,” WANDA reported calmly from the overhead speakers. “Pain levels decreasing. Fatigue levels… significant.”

“I’m fine,” Gos mumbled into the couch cushion, eyes already closed.

“You have said that,” WANDA replied, “sixteen times in the last twenty minutes. Statistically, this is a lie.”

Gosalyn huffed weakly. “Rude.”

The elevator doors slid open.

Drake stood there already in full Darkwing gear, cape adjusted, gas gun checked, mask on—but his posture was off. Stiff. Hesitant. Like he didn’t actually want to leave.

Launchpad stepped out behind him, helmet tucked under his arm, cheerful as ever. “Alright! Patrol time! WANDA, you’re on babysitting duty!”

“I am an advanced artificial intelligence,” WANDA said dryly. “Not a babysitter.”

“You are now,” LP replied brightly.

Drake cleared his throat. “WANDA. High alert. If anything—anything—changes, you contact us immediately.”

“Of course, Darkwing,” she said. Then added, “I have already initiated fourteen redundant safety protocols.”

Drake frowned. “Fourteen?”

“Sixteen,” WANDA corrected. “You interrupted me.”

Gosalyn cracked one eye open. “…You leavin’?”

Drake froze.

Launchpad glanced between them, instantly clocking the vibe, and very deliberately busied himself checking something that absolutely did not need checking.

“We have to,” Drake said carefully. “Short patrol. Just the perimeter.”

Gosalyn’s brain, currently running on fumes and pain meds and adrenaline crash, processed this very slowly.

“…’kay,” she murmured.

But her hand—traitorous, exhausted—reached out anyway, fingers curling weakly into the edge of Drake’s cape.

Not tight.

Just… there.

Drake’s heart stopped.

He looked down.

She wasn’t even fully awake. Eyes fluttering, lashes heavy, expression soft and unguarded in a way she never allowed herself when she was conscious. Her grip tightened just a little, like she was anchoring herself without thinking.

“Don’t go far,” she whispered.

Launchpad quietly turned around and pretended to inspect the elevator wall with deep fascination.

Drake swallowed.

“I—” His voice cracked. He stopped. Tried again. “…I won’t.”

Gosalyn shifted, brow furrowing slightly, her voice smaller now. Younger. “Where… Dad go?”

The word hit him like a punch to the chest.

Dad.

She didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t even seem to realize she’d said it. Her grip on the cape loosened, fingers sliding down to catch his sleeve instead.

Drake stood there, frozen between heartbeats.

Launchpad’s smile softened, just a little, but he said nothing.

Drake reached down—slow, careful—and gently covered her hand with his own.

“I’m right here,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Gosalyn sighed, the tension leaving her body all at once. She nodded faintly, already drifting. “…Okay.”

Her hand slipped free.

Drake didn’t move for a full five seconds.

Then ten.

Launchpad finally cleared his throat. “Uh. DW? City still needs savin’.”

Drake nodded stiffly. “Yes. Right. Of course.”

He straightened, mask firmly back in place—but his eyes lingered on her for just a second longer before he turned away.

“WANDA,” he said softly. “Watch her.”

“I am watching her,” WANDA replied. “Continuously. I will also alert you if she dreams about climbing anything.”

Drake grimaced. “Please do.”

The elevator doors closed.

As the lift descended, Launchpad glanced sideways at him. “You okay, buddy?”

Drake stared straight ahead. “…She called me Dad.”

Launchpad smiled gently. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t—she doesn’t—”

“DW,” LP said kindly, “you don’t have to label it.”

The elevator hummed.

“…I’m panicking,” Drake admitted.

LP patted his shoulder. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Up in the lair, Gosalyn slept.

Really slept.

The kind of deep, heavy sleep that only came when your body finally believed it was safe. Her breathing evened out, fingers twitching once before settling. The world narrowed to warmth, quiet, and the faint memory of a cape brushing her knuckles.

WANDA dimmed the lights another degree.

“Rest,” she said softly.

And somewhere deep in her tired, drifting mind, Gosalyn felt certain of only one thing:

Dad would come back.

~~~

Gosalyn surfaced from sleep the way she always did after a bad night—slowly, grudgingly, like her body was arguing with the concept of consciousness.

Everything hurt.

Not screaming pain—just the deep, bone-heavy ache of someone who’d pushed too hard and paid for it. Her left shoulder throbbed dully, wrapped and braced. Her head felt stuffed with cotton. The lair lights were low, filtered down to a soft amber meant for rest mode.

She shifted with a quiet hiss.

That was when she heard it.

Footsteps.

Soft. Careful. The kind that didn’t want to wake her.

Her half-lidded eyes barely cracked open. The room swam, shadows blurring at the edges. Her brain, still wrapped in exhaustion and painkillers, latched onto the most familiar explanation.

“…Dad?” she murmured, voice hoarse and small in a way she would absolutely deny later.

No mask. No bravado. Just a tired kid reaching for something safe.

The footsteps paused.

Then came a voice.

“Hey… kiddo.”

Warm. Low. Familiar.

It slid into her ears like muscle memory.

Gosalyn’s lips twitched in a sleepy smile. “M’up?” she asked, barely audible. Her eyes fluttered, trying to focus. “LP… already back?”

A soft chuckle answered her.

“Not yet,” the voice said gently. “They’re still out. Thought I’d check on you.”

The bedside lamp clicked on.

Light spilled across the room.

And Gosalyn finally opened her eyes properly.

At first, nothing felt wrong.

The silhouette was right—tall, broad shoulders, cape draped just so. The stance was familiar, comforting even. Her exhausted brain filled in the gaps automatically.

Drake.

He stepped closer, boots soundless against the floor. The light caught his face as he leaned into view—

—and Gosalyn froze.

Her breath caught painfully in her chest.

The mask was right.

The beak was right.

The shape of the face was right.

But the eyes—

The eyes were wrong.

They were her color.

That same sharp, wild green she’d seen in the mirror her whole life.

Only twisted.

Spirals of electric blue churned through the green like oil in water, hypnotic and wrong, pulling at her vision the longer she stared.

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs.

“…Drake?” she whispered, suddenly very awake.

The figure smiled.

It was too wide.

Too eager.

“Oh, c’mon, kid,” he said softly, voice perfect now—Drake’s cadence, his warmth, his stupid gentle concern. “You’re still half-asleep. Don’t strain yourself.”

He reached out.

Gosalyn’s body screamed danger, but exhaustion weighed her limbs down like concrete. Her fingers twitched uselessly against the blanket.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable,” he continued, tone soothing, parental. “You’ve had a rough night.”

Her vision blurred again, the spirals tugging at the edges of her thoughts. Her brain tried to reconcile the wrongness with how right the voice felt.

“M’kay…” she mumbled weakly, the word slipping out before she could stop it. “…Dad—”

She flinched, correcting herself halfway through. “…Drake.”

Something dark flickered behind those spiraled eyes.

The smile sharpened.

“That’s it,” he murmured approvingly. “Easy now.”

He slipped an arm beneath her shoulders, careful of the brace, lifting her with practiced ease. His grip was steady—strong in a way Drake’s never quite was. Gosalyn’s head lolled briefly against his chest.

He smelled wrong.

Not oil and smoke and cocoa.

Something sharper. Chemical. Old.

Her fingers curled weakly into his coat, instincts fighting through the haze. “…You’re… not wearing… the good cocoa hoodie,” she muttered, confused.

A pause.

Then a quiet laugh.

“Guess I forgot,” he said smoothly. “My mistake.”

As he carried her toward the shadows beyond the lair lights, Gosalyn’s eyes slid shut again despite herself. The world tilted. Her thoughts tangled.

Somewhere deep inside, something screamed.

But she was so tired.

And the voice was so kind.

And when you’re fourteen, hurt, and half-drugged, sometimes your brain wants safety more than truth.

Behind them, the lair remained silent.

No alarms.

No warnings.

Just the soft hum of systems unaware that something old, bitter, and furious had just walked out with the girl Darkwing Duck would burn the city down to protect.

Jim Starling—
NegaDuck—
smiled to himself as he carried his prize.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, spirals gleaming. “Daddy’s got you.”

And far above, the city slept—
utterly unaware that the worst nightmare of its so-called hero had just begun.

Chapter Text

They came back to the tower lighter than they’d left it.

Patrol had been quiet. Too quiet, honestly—but Drake found that, for once, he didn’t mind. The city below them glittered in complacent little clusters of light, blissfully unaware of how close disaster always was. No alarms. No explosions. No emergency calls that made his pulse spike.

Just rooftops. Wind. The steady hum of Launchpad’s cycle.

“I’m just sayin’,” Launchpad said, breaking the companionable silence as the tower came into view, “that was some A-plus responsible adult behavior back there.”

Drake huffed, but there was no heat in it. “It was basic medical common sense.”

“Uh-huh,” LP said, nodding sagely. “You recognized that the kid was overtired, overworked, and injured, and you made her rest.”

“She was barely conscious.”

“Still counts.”

Drake’s cape fluttered as they descended, his posture rigid in the way it always was after adrenaline faded and worry took its place. “…I don’t like leaving her alone.”

“She wasn’t alone,” Launchpad reminded him easily. “WANDA had her locked down tighter than my flight logs.”

Drake grimaced. “That is not reassuring. Your flight logs are mostly apologies.”

“Hey! Only to air traffic control.”

They touched down at the tower landing pad, engines winding down into a low, familiar whine. Drake didn’t remove his mask immediately. He stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the darkened city.

“She called me Dad,” he said suddenly.

Launchpad froze mid-disembark.

“…She what now?”

Drake turned slowly, eyes sharp behind the mask, like he was daring the universe to contradict him. “She was half-asleep. She grabbed my cape. And she asked where Dad was.”

Launchpad’s face split into the widest grin known to birdkind. “Ohohoho. Buddy.”

“I didn’t correct her,” Drake admitted, voice quieter now. “I didn’t even think. I just—answered.”

“That’s how it gets you,” LP said fondly. “One minute you’re mentoring, next minute you’re buying extra cereal ‘cause she likes the crunchy kind.”

Drake scoffed. “…She does like the crunchy kind.”

Launchpad gasped. “You know her cereal preference.”

Drake pinched the bridge of his beak. “This is spiraling.”

“It’s called parenting.”

Drake straightened, defensive reflexes kicking in. “I am not— I mean— I didn’t—”

Launchpad clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, DW. You don’t gotta label it.”

Drake hesitated.

“…Is it too late to officially adopt a fourteen-year-old?” he asked, very seriously.

Launchpad blinked.

Then laughed so hard he nearly dropped his helmet.

“Oh man,” he wheezed. “You’re gone. Absolutely gone.”

“I’m asking a logistical question,” Drake insisted. “There are forms. Agencies. I could—”

“Gosalyn Waddlemeyer Mallard,” Launchpad said, savoring it.

Drake froze.

“…That does have a ring to it,” he muttered.

They headed inside.

The elevator ride up was filled with that rare, fragile thing: peace. Drake even allowed himself to imagine it—bringing her upstairs, settling her into an actual bed instead of the couch, tucking the blanket up properly so she didn’t kick it off in her sleep and complain later.

He was already rehearsing the lecture he’d pretend he wasn’t relieved to give.

The doors slid open.

The lair greeted them with low lights and silence.

Too much silence.

Launchpad stepped out first, cheerful as ever. “Gossie? Champ? You awake?”

No answer.

Drake followed, scanning automatically—couch, side table, discarded ice pack, blanket rumpled exactly how she left it.

Empty.

His chest tightened.

“WANDA,” he said sharply. “Status update.”

There was a pause.

A fraction of a second too long.

“…Ward Gosalyn is not currently within the primary lair,” WANDA replied evenly.

Drake’s blood went cold.

“What,” he said flatly, “do you mean not currently within the lair.”

Launchpad laughed nervously. “Heh. Good one, WANDA.”

“There is no indication of humor in my statement,” WANDA said. “Her vital signs are no longer detectable by internal sensors.”

Drake was already moving.

“No alarms?” he snapped, crossing the room in long strides. “No breach notifications?”

“No systems were triggered,” WANDA said. “All protocols remain intact.”

“That’s impossible,” Drake hissed. “She didn’t walk out.”

Launchpad’s smile had vanished completely now. He crouched by the couch, eyes sharp, scanning for anything out of place.

“DW,” he said quietly. “There’s somethin’ here.”

Drake turned.

On the side table—where Gosalyn’s cocoa had been earlier—sat a single scrap of paper.

Not paper.

A parking ticket.

Old. Yellowed. Curling at the edges.

Drake picked it up with shaking fingers.

On the back, scrawled in a familiar, mocking hand, were six words.

Missed me. Old habits die hard.

Drake stared.

The world narrowed to a pinpoint.

“…No,” he whispered.

Launchpad leaned over his shoulder, reading it.

His face drained of color.

“…That’s not funny,” he said hoarsely.

Drake’s hands clenched so hard the paper crumpled. His breathing went shallow, fast—panic clawing up his spine.

“No,” he said again, louder now. “He’s dead. I saw him die.”

Jim Starling.

Blown apart in fire and ego and madness on a movie set that had been meant to be a joke—meant to be fun. The man who’d tried to kill him. The man who’d twisted everything Darkwing Duck was supposed to be.

Their idol.

Their nightmare.

Launchpad swallowed. “DW… nobody ever found a body.”

Drake squeezed his eyes shut.

Images crashed through him—spiraled eyes. False warmth. A voice wearing his skin.

“He took her,” Drake said, voice breaking for the first time. “He took my kid.”

Launchpad straightened slowly, fury burning behind his fear. “Okay,” he said, all cheer gone. “Then we get her back.”

Drake opened his eyes.

Whatever warmth had been there minutes ago was gone, burned to ash.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “We do.”

He looked at the note again.

At the location stamped faintly on the ticket.

The old sawmill district.

“WANDA,” he said, voice iron-hard. “Full alert. Track everything.”

“Already initiated,” she replied. “Darkwing—”

“If he hurts her,” Drake said, fists shaking, “I will end him.”

Launchpad put a hand on his shoulder. Steady. Solid.

“She’s tough,” he said softly. “She’s smart. She’ll hold on.”

Drake nodded once.

“She trusted me,” he whispered. “I’m not losing her.”

The tower hummed around them—unaware, unbroken.

But somewhere in the city, a man long thought dead was smiling.

And Darkwing Duck had never, in his life, been so afraid—or so furious.

~~~

Drake Mallard was not panicking.

He was concerned.

Deeply, rationally, competently concerned.

Because his fourteen-year-old ward—ward, not child, definitely not child—had been injured, sedated, left under the care of a hypercompetent artificial intelligence, and was now inexplicably missing, possibly abducted by a man who was supposed to be dead and had once tried to murder him on live television.

That was not panic.

That was… situational awareness.

He paced the lair, cape snapping with every sharp turn, mind running through possibilities faster than WANDA could display them. Exit vectors. Blind spots. Methods of bypassing security. Jim Starling had always been theatrical, but he was also methodical. He knew Drake’s habits. His rhythms. His tells.

And worse—

He knew how to pretend.

Drake’s chest tightened.

Because Jim hadn’t smashed his way in.

He hadn’t tripped alarms.

He hadn’t left chaos in his wake.

He’d walked in quietly.

Like family.

Drake stopped short, one hand braced against the console.

She’d called him Dad.

Not on purpose. Not to test him. Not even awake enough to mean it.

Just—slipped out. Soft. Trusting.

Dad, where did you go?

His throat burned.

“No,” Drake muttered, straightening sharply, as if the word itself could shove the thought away. “No, no, no. This is not—”

He wasn’t panicking.

He was reacting appropriately to the sudden removal of a minor from a secured location by a known homicidal narcissist with a grudge and a flair for psychological warfare.

That was professional concern.

His hands were shaking.

Drake clenched them into fists, nails biting into his gloves.

Jim Starling had always wanted what Drake had.

The fame.
The symbol.
The love.

And now—

Now he had taken the one thing Drake hadn’t even known he’d claimed yet.

My kid.

The words echoed in his skull, unwanted and undeniable.

“She trusted me,” Drake said under his breath, voice breaking despite his best efforts. “I left.”

He remembered the weight of her hand on his cape.

The way she’d anchored herself to him without even opening her eyes.

Don’t go far.

His vision blurred.

Drake inhaled sharply, forcing the air down, locking the fear behind layers of anger and resolve where it belonged.

Panicking wouldn’t help.

Rage, however?

Rage was useful.

“If he thinks,” Drake said quietly, eyes hardening as WANDA’s maps lit the room in red and gold, “that he gets to wear my face and take my family—”

Launchpad’s hand landed on his shoulder. Steady. Solid.

“We’ll get her back,” LP said. Not a question. A fact.

Drake nodded once.

“Yes,” he said, voice iron again. “We will.”

Because Jim Starling might be a ghost.

But Drake Mallard was very much alive.

And no one—no one—took his kid and lived to enjoy it.

~~~

The first thing Gosalyn noticed was the smell.

Burnt dust. Old oil. Ash that had soaked into concrete so deeply it would never really wash out.

Her head throbbed in slow, ugly pulses, like her skull was a drum someone had forgotten to stop hitting. Every thought came through cotton. Heavy. Delayed. When she tried to move, the world tilted sharply, nausea rolling up her throat.

“…ngh.”

That sound was hers. She realized that distantly.

Her eyes cracked open.

Floodlights snapped on.

She flinched hard enough that pain lanced through her shoulder, white-hot, stealing the breath from her lungs. A sharp noise tore out of her before she could stop it.

“Easy, easy,” a voice said, amused. Warm. Familiar in the worst possible way. “You’re safe. Ish.”

Her vision swam. Shapes resolved slowly—broken scaffolding, skeletal set walls, the hollow outlines of fake buildings meant to look real on camera. She knew this place. Knew it down to the cracks in the pavement.

The abandoned lot.

The reboot set.

Where everything had gone wrong.

She tried to sit up.

Metal bit into her wrists.

She froze.

Her arms were bound behind the chair with thick zip-ties, tight enough that her fingers tingled unpleasantly. Her ankles were secured too, the chair bolted to the ground like she was part of the scenery.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“Hey,” she rasped. Her throat was dry. “What the hell—”

A figure stepped into the light.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Coat hanging just right, cape draped like it had been practiced in a mirror a thousand times. The hat tipped forward, shadowing his face until he lifted his head—

—and her stomach dropped through the floor.

The mask was Darkwing’s.

The beak was Darkwing’s.

The stance, the posture, the confidence—it all screamed him.

But the eyes—

Her breath caught painfully.

They were green.

Her green.

Threaded through with spirals of electric blue that churned and twisted, pulling at her vision like they wanted to crawl inside her head and rearrange things.

“Oh, good,” he said pleasantly. “You’re awake. I was starting to worry the dosage was off.”

Her pulse roared in her ears.

“…Drake?” she whispered, even as every instinct she had screamed no.

The smile he gave her was wrong. Too wide. Too sharp. All teeth and delight.

“Not quite,” he said, straightening. “Though I do wear the look better than he ever did.”

He tipped his hat in a mockery of a bow.

“Call me Jim.”

The name hit her like a punch.

“No,” she said hoarsely. “You’re dead.”

Jim Starling laughed.

It echoed across the empty lot, bouncing off hollow facades and broken lights, too loud for the space. “Oh, kid,” he said, wiping at his eye like he’d heard the funniest joke in the world. “You should know by now—dramatic deaths are my brand.”

Her mind raced, sluggish but desperate, trying to connect dots through the haze of drugs and pain.

The fire.
The explosion.
Drake’s voice when he talked about it—tight, bitter, final.

“You died,” she insisted. “Everyone saw it.”

“Everyone saw what I wanted them to see,” Jim said lightly. He began to pace, boots crunching over gravel. “Smoke, fire, screaming crowds. Very cinematic. And while the world mourned or moved on, I had time to think.”

He stopped in front of her.

Leaned down until those spiraled eyes were level with hers.

“About legacy,” he murmured. “About endings. About family.”

Her skin prickled.

“…Don’t call me kid,” she said, trying to sound tougher than she felt.

Jim chuckled. “Ah. Still got some bite. That’s good.”

He straightened again, circling her like she was an exhibit. “You know, I’ve watched you for a while. You play the role beautifully. Reckless. Brilliant. Always performing, even when you swear you’re not.”

He stopped behind her.

Her shoulders tensed instinctively.

“Isla.”

The name sliced cleanly through the fog.

Her entire body went rigid.

The lot seemed to fall silent around them.

“…Don’t,” she said, voice shaking despite her best effort. “Don’t call me that.”

Jim hummed thoughtfully. “You never liked it, did you?”

Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

Nobody used that name.

Not Drake. Not Launchpad. Not Violet. She’d buried it alongside everything else her birth father had left behind, reshaped herself into someone new, someone hers.

“How do you know that name,” she demanded, panic bleeding through her anger. “Who told you?”

Jim stepped back into her line of sight, eyes glittering.

He smiled slowly.

“Oh, Isla Grace Starling,” he said, savoring every syllable, “not so bad, huh, kid?”

Her world tilted violently.

“…How do you—?”

“I have my ways,” he said smoothly. “Especially when it comes to family.”

The word hit her harder than any blow.

“…Family?” she echoed weakly.

Jim spread his arms wide, the coat flaring dramatically. “You didn’t think all that raw talent came from nowhere, did you? The instincts. The flair. The way you keep stealing the spotlight without even trying.”

He leaned in again, voice dropping, intimate and poisonous.

“You get that from me.”

Her chest constricted.

“No,” she said immediately. “That’s not—my dad is—”

“—a coward who ran,” Jim snapped, the warmth vanishing in a flash, replaced by something sharp and bitter. Then, just as quickly, the smile returned. “Whereas I stayed. I burned for this.”

She shook her head, breathing hard. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” he asked softly. “Ask yourself why he never told you. Why your precious Darkwing gets that look every time my name comes up.”

He tilted his head. “Why do you think I knew exactly how to get you out of that tower without tripping a single alarm?”

Her stomach dropped.

“…You used him,” she whispered.

Jim’s grin widened.

“I used trust,” he corrected. “Same way I always have.”

She strained against the bindings, fury cutting through the fear now. “You think this makes you my father?”

He laughed again, delighted. “Oh no. No, no, no. I don’t want to replace him.”

He crouched in front of her, eyes blazing.

“I want to prove something.”

He straightened, gesturing grandly to the ruined set around them.

“They stole my ending. They stole my face. They stole my story.” His voice rose, echoing through the hollow lot. “So I’m giving it a conclusion. One they’ll never forget.”

Her blood ran cold.

“And you,” he said, turning back to her, voice suddenly gentle again, “are going to help me finish it.”

She glared up at him, jaw clenched, heart hammering.

“You’re insane.”

Jim Starling smiled, spirals gleaming.

“Oh, Isla,” he said softly. “That’s show business.”

Somewhere far away, Drake Mallard was tearing the city apart looking for her.

And Gosalyn—Isla, whether she liked it or not—was chained at the center of her father’s unfinished story.

~~~

They didn’t hesitate.

The second WANDA finished triangulating the faint, ghostlike trail Jim Starling had left behind—scrubbed signals, dead cameras, footprints that only existed because he’d wanted them to—Drake was already pulling the cowl back into place.

“The old sawmill district,” WANDA said, projecting a map into the air. Red lines spiderwebbed outward, converging on a dark blot near the river. “Residual power signatures indicate recent activity, but no current life signs beyond baseline fauna.”

Launchpad cracked his knuckles, jaw set hard. “So he was there. Past tense.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed. “Which means he wants us somewhere else.”

They were moving before the sentence finished.

The Thunderquack roared back to life, engines screaming their defiance into the night as the city blurred beneath them. Drake stood rigid in the open hatch, cape snapping violently, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of river ahead.

“She wouldn’t be quiet,” Launchpad said, not taking his eyes off the controls. “If she was awake and there was a chance to leave a trail? She’d take it.”

“I know,” Drake said tightly. “That’s what worries me.”

The sawmill loomed out of the fog like a rotting tooth.

Once, it had been a place of industry—timber, work crews, noise. Now it was nothing but sagging beams, rusted conveyors, and the slow, constant creak of wood being eaten alive by time and moisture. The river lapped at its foundations, black and oily, reflecting the moon in broken pieces.

They landed hard.

Too hard.

Drake was off the ramp before the engines even finished winding down, boots crunching over gravel as his gaze swept the area with surgical precision.

“No heat signatures,” Launchpad said, scanning with a handheld reader. “No movement. No— hey. DW.”

Drake had stopped.

At the center of the clearing, nailed neatly into a support post, was a familiar rectangle of yellowed paper.

Another parking ticket.

This one newer. Fresh creases. Intentional.

Drake tore it free.

On the back, written in the same mocking hand:

Wrong stage.
You know where the finale is.

Below it, a crude arrow pointed southeast.

Launchpad’s feathers bristled. “He’s jerkin’ us around.”

“Yes,” Drake said, voice low and dangerous. “And escalating.”

WANDA’s voice cut in immediately. “Darkwing, I am detecting a short-range broadcast embedded within the cellulose fibers of the ticket.”

Drake flipped it over.

A tiny red light blinked once—

—and then the air in front of them shimmered.

A hologram snapped into place.

Jim Starling filled the space, larger than life, coat pristine, mask flawless, spiraled eyes gleaming with manic delight. He leaned casually against an invisible wall, arms crossed like this was a friendly check-in.

“Ah-ah,” Jim said, wagging a finger. “No need for that look, Drake. You’re supposed to miss me.”

Drake’s hands curled into fists so tight the gloves creaked.

“What did you do to her,” he said flatly.

Jim smiled. “Straight to the point. I always admired that about you. No sense of showmanship, but very efficient.”

Launchpad stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You got about three seconds to start talkin’ before I start breakin’ things.”

Jim laughed. “Oh, Launchpad. Still the loyal understudy. Don’t worry—your little firecracker is just fine. For now.”

Drake’s blood roared in his ears.

“For now,” he repeated.

Jim’s expression sharpened, delight turning razor-thin. “You see, boys, I realized something. Stories need stakes. Drama. A ticking clock.” He leaned closer to the projection, spirals pulsing faintly. “And nothing motivates a hero quite like the threat of losing their sidekick.”

Drake took a step forward. “If you touch her—”

“—I already have,” Jim interrupted smoothly. “Emotionally speaking. Though really, she did most of the work herself. Such curiosity. Such passion.” He sighed theatrically. “Just like her old man.”

Launchpad growled.

Jim straightened, suddenly all business. “Here’s how this goes. You come to the abandoned lot. You come alone—well,” he added, glancing pointedly at Launchpad, “as alone as you ever manage. No cops. No backup. No clever little contingencies.”

Drake barked a humorless laugh. “You expect me to trust you?”

Jim’s grin widened. “No. I expect you to love her.”

The hologram flickered.

Static rippled across the image—

—and suddenly, Gosalyn was there.

She was bound to a chair, shoulders tense, face pale but defiant. A bruise was blooming along her jaw, and her hair was a mess, but her eyes were sharp—locked straight onto the camera.

“DRAKE—!” she shouted.

Drake’s heart lurched violently.

“Gos—”

The image jolted as if the camera had been grabbed.

“Don’t you dare—” she snarled, fighting against the restraints. “He’s lying, don’t listen to—”

The feed cut to black.

The hologram vanished.

Silence crashed down around them like a physical blow.

Launchpad sucked in a sharp breath. “…Okay,” he said, voice shaking with barely-contained fury. “That’s it. That’s absolutely it.”

Drake stood perfectly still.

For one terrifying second, Launchpad thought he might shatter.

Then Drake exhaled.

Slow. Controlled. Deadly calm.

“He wants a show,” Drake said quietly. “A confrontation. An audience of ghosts.”

Launchpad nodded grimly. “And he picked the worst possible place.”

Drake’s gaze lifted, locking onto the distant glow of the city skyline—and beyond it, the abandoned lot where everything had gone wrong before.

“WANDA,” he said. “Prep everything. Every suit protocol. Every failsafe. I don’t care how illegal it is.”

“Already in progress,” she replied.

Launchpad placed a hand on Drake’s shoulder. “We’re gettin’ her back.”

Drake nodded once.

“Yes,” he said, voice cold as steel. “Because Jim Starling made one fatal mistake.”

His eyes burned.

“He turned this into a family matter.”

And somewhere across the city, Gosalyn Mallard dug her heels in, jaw clenched, heart pounding—not broken, not beaten.

Because she knew one thing with absolute certainty.

Darkwing Duck was coming.

And Jim Starling had no idea what that really meant.

~~~

The abandoned lot was wrong.

Drake felt it the instant his boots hit cracked concrete.

No floodlights. No monologue echoing through hollow sets. No theatrical entrance timed to the second. Just wind whispering through skeletal facades and the distant groan of metal cooling after years of neglect.

Too quiet.

“Spread out,” Drake murmured, already moving. His eyes swept the ruins with ruthless precision—collapsed scaffolding, fake storefronts half-melted from the fire years ago, scorch marks like scars that never healed.

Launchpad circled the perimeter, hand hovering near his communicator. “I don’t like this, DW. He wanted us here.”

“Yes,” Drake said. “Which means he’s already moved.”

Then he saw her.

“Gos!”

She was tied to a chair near the center of the lot, ropes biting into her wrists and ankles, head slumped forward. A strip of dark fabric was cinched tight across her mouth, muffling any sound. Her eyes snapped up the moment Drake moved, wide and frantic.

Drake was at her side in seconds, hands shaking despite his control as he cut through the restraints.

“Easy,” he said urgently. “We’ve got you.”

Launchpad crouched beside them, already working on the knots at her feet. “Kiddo, you okay? You hurt?”

She shook her head violently, muffled sounds forcing their way past the gag.

“Hang on,” Drake said, fingers already tugging the fabric loose. “Hang on, Gos—”

The gag came free.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

“Guys no it’s a—”

Lights snapped on.

Steel screamed.

The ground shifted.

“—trap.”

The word barely left her mouth before massive metal bars shot up from the concrete in a perfect circle around them, slamming into place with bone-rattling force. Panels locked together overhead, snapping shut like the jaws of some enormous mechanical beast.

The cage sealed with a final, echoing clang.

Launchpad spun, slamming a fist against the bars. “Hey! HEY!”

A familiar laugh drifted through the lot, amplified and smug.

“Oh, beautiful delivery,” Jim Starling purred.

Spotlights flared again—this time illuminating him, standing comfortably outside the cage, coat pristine, mask gleaming, spiraled eyes alive with manic satisfaction.

He clapped slowly.

“Movie Star!” Jim called out brightly. “What a good understudy you are!”

Drake’s blood boiled. “Jim.”

Jim spread his arms wide, gesturing to the cage like it was a grand reveal. “Look at you. Playing house. Tucking her in. Buying her cereal.” His grin twisted. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

His gaze snapped to Gosalyn.

“My kid.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

Drake’s head whipped toward her. “…Jim is your father?!”

Gosalyn whirled on him instantly. “NOT THE TIME, DRAKE!”

Launchpad jabbed a finger through the bars. “You’re not gettin’ away with this, Mr. Starling!”

Jim laughed, delighted. “Oh, but I already have. You see, I’ve thought of everything.”

Gosalyn’s eyes narrowed. “You mean Pink thought of everything.”

For just a heartbeat, something ugly flickered across Jim’s face.

Then the smile snapped back into place—sharper than before.

“Her intel,” he said smoothly. “Sure. Useful little thing. But the ideas?” He tapped his temple. “All me.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially.

“Especially when it was so easy to snag that little key off your neck and hand it over to her.”

Gosalyn froze.

Slowly, disbelievingly, her hand crept beneath her shirt.

Her fingers brushed bare skin.

No chain.

No RamRod key.

Her breath hitched.

The shock detonated into fury in an instant.

“YOU SORRY EXCUSE OF A DEADBEAT DAD—!”

She lunged.

Launchpad barely caught her in time, wrapping his arms around her and hauling her back before she could throw herself at the bars.

“Easy, Gossie!” he said urgently. “Easy!”

She fought him for a second, teeth clenched, eyes blazing murder through the cage at Jim.

Jim only smiled wider.

“Temper,” he tsked. “You get that from me too.”

Drake stepped forward, gripping the bars so hard they groaned. “You will not touch her again.”

Jim tilted his head. “Oh, I won’t have to.”

He tapped a button on a small remote in his hand.

A digital timer appeared on a nearby screen, red numbers glowing ominously.

19:58

“I’ve rigged a bomb,” Jim said casually, like he was discussing catering. “Twenty minutes or so. Figured it’d be poetic. Same place. Same ending.”

Launchpad’s feathers fluffed in alarm. “A bomb?!”

Jim nodded, pleased. “Pink gets her key. You’re out of the way. And I get my revenge.”

He took a few steps back, adjusting his coat, savoring the moment.

“Until next time, Movie Star!”

The lights cut.

Jim vanished into the shadows, his laughter echoing long after he was gone.

The cage hummed ominously around them.

The timer ticked down.

19:42

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Gosalyn swallowed hard, voice tight but fierce.

“…Okay,” she said. “So. We’ve got twenty minutes. A bomb. A cage. And a psycho with a god complex.”

She looked up at Drake and Launchpad, jaw set.

“Good news?”

Drake met her gaze, fire blazing behind his mask.

“We’ve escaped worse.”

Launchpad grinned grimly. “And we’re doin’ it together.”

The timer kept ticking.

But none of them were giving up.

The timer glared at them in angry red numbers.

18:37

The cage hummed, vibrating faintly under Drake’s hands. He tested the bars again—reinforced alloy, layered, magnetized. Jim hadn’t just planned this. He’d savored it.

Gosalyn dragged in a breath.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I’ve got a plan.”

Drake turned instantly. “Gos—”

“I’ve been here for hours,” she snapped, eyes sharp despite the adrenaline shaking through her. “You think he can shut up? He monologued the entire time. I know how this thing works.”

Launchpad leaned in, hope flaring. “You do?”

She nodded fast. “Yeah. The cage isn’t just containment—it’s tied directly into the bomb. Power draw, fail-safes, the whole dramatic irony package.”

Drake crouched in front of her. “Tell me.”

She met his eyes, fierce and steady. “Drake. Please tell me you grabbed my bow.”

Launchpad’s hand shot up immediately. “I did! Figured you’d want a shot at him!”

He hurried to the edge of the cage, retrieving the compact crossbow from where he’d secured it, passing it through the bars with reverence like it was sacred.

Gosalyn grinned despite everything. “I love you.”

Launchpad sniffed. “Yeah, well. Let’s survive first.”

She snatched one of her bolts, eyes scanning quickly—then leaned sideways in the chair, fingers probing beneath the seat.

“There,” she muttered.

A narrow seam popped open with a quiet click, revealing a small control panel—wires, blinking lights, a diagnostic strip scrolling Jim’s smug little signature code.

Drake’s breath caught. “You found that while tied up?”

She shot him a look. “I was bored.”

16:02

Gosalyn jammed the bolt tip into the panel, levering it open wider. Sparks spit angrily.

“The cage is slaved to the bomb,” she said quickly. “Failsafe logic says if the cage goes down, the bomb should shut off.”

“Should,” Launchpad echoed.

She winced. “Yeah.”

She raised the bow, jaw clenched, eyes locked on a glowing node deep in the panel.

“Everyone ready?”

Drake positioned himself instinctively between her and the rest of the cage. “Do it.”

She fired.

The bolt struck home with a sharp crack.

The cage screamed.

Metal groaned. The bars shuddered, retracting inch by inch, sinking back into the concrete like reluctant teeth being pulled.

The roof panels slid apart.

Fresh night air rushed in.

Launchpad whooped. “All right!”

Then the timer kept ticking.

14:48

Gosalyn stared at it.

“…Oh,” she said faintly. “Oops.”

Drake didn’t hesitate.

“No time,” he barked. “Let’s go!”

Launchpad scooped Gosalyn up without argument and bolted. Drake followed, cape snapping wildly as they sprinted across the lot toward the ThunderQuack.

Behind them, warning lights flared to life across the ruined set. Sirens wailed. The ground vibrated with a rising, hungry whine.

They launched just as the explosion tore the lot apart.

Fire blossomed upward in a roaring wall of light, shockwave slamming into the ThunderQuack and throwing it sideways. Launchpad wrestled the controls, feathers flying.

“Hang on!”

The city reeled beneath them as they tore away, the blast lighting the sky orange behind their retreat.

Only when the fire shrank into the distance did Drake finally exhale.

Silence settled in the cockpit, broken only by the hum of the engines and Launchpad’s uneven breathing.

Drake turned slowly toward the back.

Gosalyn sat on the bench seat, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Soot streaked her face. Her eyes were tired—but steady.

“So,” Drake said quietly. “…he’s your father.”

She looked up immediately.

“No,” she said. Firm. Certain. “I have a father.”

She swallowed, then corrected herself, voice softening but losing none of its strength.

“Two of them.”

Launchpad blinked. “Huh?”

She met his eyes, then Drake’s.

“Their names are Launchpad McQuack and Drake Mallard.”

Launchpad made a strangled sound.

Then he broke.

Full-on, hiccupping, feather-ruffling sobs as he crossed the cockpit in two strides and pulled her into a crushing hug.

“Oh—oh kiddo—” he choked. “You can’t just—say stuff like that—”

Gosalyn hugged him back just as tightly.

Drake stood frozen.

His chest hurt.

His vision blurred.

He turned his head sharply, clearing his throat, pretending very hard to be interested in literally anything else.

“…We should,” he said hoarsely, “uh. Debrief. Later.”

Gosalyn smiled, small and tired and real.

“Yeah,” she said. “Later.”

Behind them, the city lights glimmered—scarred, shaken, but still standing.

And for the first time since Jim Starling crawled back into their lives, Drake Mallard felt something stronger than fear.

Certainty.

No one was taking his family.

Not now.
Not ever.

Chapter Text

Dewey’s knuckles hit the front door like he was trying to knock down a villain’s lair instead of a suburban house.

“GOSALYN WADDLEMEYER,” he shouted, voice echoing down the quiet St. Canard street, “OPEN UP RIGHT NOW OR I WILL BEGIN A ONE-DUCK RIOT!”

Honker stood a step behind him, holding a neatly organized folder and a tote bag like the world’s most prepared hostage negotiator.

“You can’t riot by yourself,” Honker said calmly.

Dewey spun, offended. “First of all, yes I can. Second of all—”

He jabbed a finger at the door like it had personally wronged him.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN CROSSBOW IS INJURED?!”

Honker blinked once. “She’s not a weapon.”

“She is in my heart!”

Honker sighed. “That’s… not medically relevant.”

Dewey was already banging again.

“GOS! OPEN THE DOOR! YOU HAVE FRIENDS! REMEMBER FRIENDS?! WE ARE FRIENDS! YOU CAN’T JUST DISAPPEAR AND NOT TELL YOUR BEST FRIEND YOU GOT HURT!”

He leaned in, forehead nearly touching the door.

“I STOLE A MOTORCYCLE FOR YOU!”

Honker’s eyes flicked to the curb.

Lena’s motorcycle sat there like a crime scene in waiting.

Honker didn’t even ask.

He already knew.

“…How,” he said carefully, “did you steal Lena’s motorcycle.”

Dewey puffed up. “Pink Jr. helped.”

Honker stared at him.

Dewey stared back, completely serious.

Honker nodded once. “Of course he did.”

There was a pause.

A beat of silence that stretched just long enough for Honker’s instincts to start screaming.

Then the locks clicked.

The door cracked open.

Gosalyn stood there in sweatpants that looked like they’d lost a war, her left shoulder braced and wrapped, hair a mess, eyes shadowed in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

She looked… smaller.

Not physically.

Just—like someone had taken her usual unstoppable energy and turned the volume down until it was almost gone.

Dewey’s mouth was still open mid-yell.

It closed with an audible click.

“Hi,” Gosalyn said flatly.

Dewey’s entire face rearranged itself in real time.

Anger dissolved.
Panic rushed in.
Love hit him like a truck.

“…Hi,” he said, suddenly quiet. “Oh my gosh.”

Honker didn’t move fast. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp.

He just softened, like he always did when it was her.

“Hey, Gos,” he said gently.

Gosalyn’s gaze flicked to him and for a second—just a second—something in her expression wavered.

“Hey,” she murmured.

Dewey took one step forward, hands hovering uselessly like he didn’t know where to put them.

“Okay,” he blurted, voice cracking into a new octave. “First of all, you look like garbage.”

Gosalyn snorted weakly. “Thanks.”

“Second of all,” Dewey continued, building steam again because steam was safer than fear, “YOU HAVE AN INJURED SHOULDER AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME.”

Honker cut in, calm but firm. “Dewey.”

Dewey stopped.

Honker’s eyes were still on Gosalyn. Sharp, quiet, scanning.

He’d known her since first grade.

He knew the difference between hurt and haunted.

Dewey swallowed hard, his voice dropping again.

“…Does it hurt?”

Gosalyn shrugged—and immediately hissed, face pinching.

“Okay,” Dewey said, horrified. “So yes.”

Honker shifted his grip on the folder. “We brought your schoolwork.”

Gosalyn blinked. “You… what.”

Honker lifted the folder slightly. “Homework. Notes. Mrs. Beakley said you’re missing assignments.”

Gosalyn stared like she’d been handed a bomb.

“…Honker,” she whispered. “I got kidnapped.”

Honker nodded. “I know.”

Dewey whipped around. “YOU GOT KIDNAPPED?!”

Gosalyn winced. “Inside voice—”

“I’M SORRY,” Dewey yelped, hands flying to his beak. “I’M JUST—WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GOT KIDNAPPED?!”

Gosalyn hesitated.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the door like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Then she stepped back, opening it wider.

“…Come in,” she said quietly. “Before you wake up the whole neighborhood.”

Dewey blinked, startled like he hadn’t expected permission.

Then he practically launched himself inside.

Honker followed at a normal pace, because Honker had never once in his life sprinted into a crisis unless it was on purpose.

The house was warm, lived-in, too normal for what Gosalyn looked like.

There were throw pillows on the couch.

A blanket folded neatly over the armrest.

A bowl of cereal on the counter like someone had tried to convince her to eat and she’d gotten halfway through before forgetting how.

Dewey turned in a slow circle, eyes wide.

“This is… a house,” he said faintly.

Gosalyn leaned against the wall, arms crossed carefully so she didn’t jostle her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Drake and LP bought it. Said I needed a ‘real home.’”

Dewey stared at her.

Then stared at the couch.

Then stared at her again.

“…That is,” he said, voice wobbling, “the most dad thing I’ve ever heard.”

Gosalyn’s mouth twitched.

Not a smile.

But something close.

“Okay,” Dewey said, snapping back into motion. “Explain. Right now. What happened.”

Gosalyn dragged in a breath.

Her eyes flicked toward the window like she expected something to be watching.

Then she forced herself to look at them.

“It was… Jim,” she said.

Dewey blinked. “Jim who?”

Honker didn’t blink.

Gosalyn swallowed.

“My bio dad,” she said, voice rough. “He’s back.”

Dewey’s eyes went huge instantly.

“Oh my gosh,” he gasped, already halfway into full dramatic meltdown. “DID HE TRY TO SUE FOR CUSTODY OF YOU?!”

Gosalyn stared at him.

“…Dewey,” she said flatly, “he tried to kidnap me.”

Dewey made a strangled noise.

Honker set the folder down on the coffee table with careful precision, like he was putting away something sharp.

Gosalyn’s hands were shaking now.

“He showed up,” she said, words speeding up like if she stopped they’d catch up to her. “He pretended to be Drake. I was—half asleep and drugged and I thought it was him and then—”

Her throat closed.

Dewey’s face crumpled.

Honker moved without thinking.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

Gosalyn stiffened for half a second—

then melted.

Like she’d been holding herself together with duct tape and willpower and his arms were the first thing that made her feel like she didn’t have to.

“…Thanks, Honks,” she whispered, voice muffled against his shoulder.

Honker didn’t say anything.

He just held her tighter.

Dewey hovered, panicking, hands fluttering uselessly.

“Okay,” he said softly, almost pleading. “Okay, okay, keep going. I’m here. I’m here.”

Gosalyn pulled back just enough to breathe, wiping at her eyes angrily like she was offended by them.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” she admitted, voice cracking. “Because it’s stupid. It’s—”

“It’s not stupid,” Honker said immediately.

Dewey nodded so fast his cap nearly fell off. “Not stupid. Not stupid at all.”

Gosalyn let out a shaky breath.

Then she looked at Dewey—really looked at him.

Her boy.
Her idiot.
Her silly little theater kid duck boy.

“PrettyBoy,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Dewey straightened like he’d been summoned by title alone. “Yes.”

Gosalyn swallowed hard.

“My bio dad is…” She hesitated, like the name itself tasted like poison. “…Jim Starling.”

The air went dead.

Dewey didn’t blink.

He didn’t move.

His eyes went glassy, like his brain had just thrown up a wall of memory all at once.

The studio fire.
The heat.
The screaming.
Drake’s voice, raw and furious.
The moment Darkwing Duck stopped being a joke and became real.

Dewey’s voice came out broken.

“…Oh my gosh,” he whispered. “Crossbow—”

Gosalyn’s face twisted.

And then she broke.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t pretty.

It was just… her body giving up after holding too much fear for too long.

A sound tore out of her—half sob, half breath—and she folded forward like she couldn’t keep herself upright anymore.

Honker caught her immediately.

Dewey was there a second later, arms wrapping around both of them, squeezing like he could physically keep her from ever being taken again.

“I’m sorry,” Gosalyn choked, words tripping over themselves. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t— I didn’t want him to— I didn’t want you to—”

“Hey,” Dewey said fiercely, voice shaking. “No. No apologizing. Not allowed. You’re Crossbow. You’re— you’re my best friend.”

Honker’s voice was quiet, steady. “You’re safe right now.”

Gosalyn clung to them like a lifeline.

For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was her breathing and Dewey’s sniffles and the quiet, constant steadiness of Honker just… being there.

Then the front door opened.

Footsteps.

A familiar sigh that sounded like exhaustion wearing a trench coat.

“Hey,” Drake’s voice called.

Launchpad’s followed, softer. “Hey, kiddo.”

Gosalyn jerked slightly, wiping her face fast like she’d been caught committing a crime.

Dewey looked up.

His eyes locked onto Launchpad.

His expression was pure betrayal.

“…Thanks for telling me,” Dewey said, voice flat in a way Dewey almost never managed.

Launchpad winced. “I—”

Gosalyn’s head snapped up, glaring through watery eyes at Launchpad.

“You called him?” she demanded.

Launchpad held up both hands like he was surrendering to the world’s smallest, angriest hostage taker.

“I did,” he admitted. “Because—” He swallowed. “Because Dewey knows what it’s like to have family come back after being gone so long and not being able to—well—”

He trailed off, not sure how to finish.

Gosalyn stared at him.

Then slowly turned her gaze back to Dewey.

Something quiet and heavy passed between them.

“Your mom,” Gosalyn said softly.

Dewey’s throat bobbed.

He nodded once.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

The room went still.

Not awkward.

Not tense.

Just… real.

Drake stood in the doorway, watching them like he didn’t know where to put his hands, like he’d walked in on something sacred.

Launchpad took one careful step forward.

“You okay?” he asked Gosalyn gently.

Gosalyn’s laugh came out wet and broken.

“No,” she admitted. “But… I’m here.”

Honker squeezed her again, steady as gravity.

Dewey pressed his forehead briefly to the side of her head, like a promise.

Drake’s chest tightened.

He cleared his throat roughly and looked away, pretending to examine the hallway wall like it was suddenly fascinating.

“…Good,” he said hoarsely. “Because you’re not doing this alone.”

Gosalyn’s eyes burned.

She nodded, small and fierce.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I know.”

And for the first time since Jim Starling crawled out of the grave and tried to rewrite her life, Gosalyn believed it.

She had friends.

She had fathers.

She had a home.

And she wasn’t going anywhere.

The room was still warm with the aftermath of everything—crying and breathing and the kind of silence that only came after you survived something you weren’t sure you were going to.

Honker had migrated to the armchair like a sentry with homework. Dewey was still half-hovering near Gosalyn like if he blinked too long she might vanish again. Launchpad had gone to the kitchen because Launchpad dealt with emotional crisis the way he dealt with plane crashes: with snacks and gentle hovering.

Drake lingered in the doorway for a second too long.

He looked like he wanted to say something.

He looked like he wanted to do something.

Instead, he did what Drake Mallard always did when his feelings got too loud in his chest.

He became… extremely professional about it.

He cleared his throat, walked in, and without a word placed a manila folder on the coffee table in front of Gosalyn.

It landed with a soft thump.

Then he turned around like he’d just dropped off paperwork at a government office and immediately started walking away.

Gosalyn blinked at the folder.

Then blinked at Drake’s retreating back.

“…Drake,” she said slowly.

He didn’t stop.

“Drake,” she repeated, sharper.

He kept walking.

“DRAKE MALLARD,” she snapped, voice cracking halfway through, “GET BACK HERE.”

Launchpad made a strangled noise from the kitchen that might’ve been a laugh disguised as choking.

Honker’s eyes flicked up from his notes, watching Drake with the expression of someone witnessing a wild animal approach a human picnic.

Dewey’s head whipped around so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. “OHHHHHHHH,” he whispered, delighted and horrified at the same time. “DRAMA.”

Drake stopped.

Very slowly.

Like a man walking toward his own execution.

He turned around.

His posture was rigid. His face was perfectly neutral. His cape was draped like a shield.

“Gosalyn,” he said carefully, as if she might explode. “I—”

Gosalyn jabbed a finger at the folder. “What is that.”

Drake’s beak tightened. “A file.”

“A file,” she repeated, deadpan.

“Yes,” Drake said, stiffly.

Honker leaned back in the armchair, watching with calm interest. “You’re doing great,” he offered, tone so dry it could’ve dehydrated a lake.

Drake shot him a look that could’ve shattered glass.

Dewey leaned toward Gosalyn, whispering loudly, “This is like when a teacher hands you a test face-down and says ‘don’t panic’ and you immediately know it’s gonna ruin your life.”

Gosalyn stared at the folder like it was a trap.

It was the wrong kind of weight.

Not heavy like a weapon.

Heavy like a choice.

She glanced up at Drake again, suspicious. “…Why did you put it down like you were delivering bad news.”

Drake blinked once. “Because—” he began, then stopped, as if his brain had blue-screened. He inhaled sharply. “Because it is news.”

“Bad news?” Gosalyn pressed.

Drake’s jaw twitched. “Not… bad.”

Launchpad appeared in the doorway holding three mugs of cocoa and looking like he had just walked into a hostage situation.

“Okay!” he said brightly, voice a full octave too cheerful. “Cocoa break! Everybody drink something! Nobody commit arson in the living room!”

Dewey took a mug like it was a trophy. “I can’t promise anything,” he said, eyes sparkling.

Honker accepted his cocoa politely. “Thank you, Mr. McQuack.”

Launchpad beamed. “You’re welcome, Honker! You’re always so polite. I like you.”

Honker nodded solemnly. “I’m trying.”

Gosalyn didn’t touch the cocoa.

Her eyes were still on the folder.

The manila edge was perfectly aligned with the table. Of course it was. Drake probably measured it.

Her fingers hovered over it.

Then she grabbed it and yanked it toward her like it had insulted her personally.

“Okay,” she muttered. “Fine. Let’s see what emotional landmine you dropped in my living room.”

Drake flinched like that was an accurate assessment.

Gosalyn flipped it open.

The first page was official-looking. Too official. The kind of form that had boxes and small print and a government seal that made your stomach do weird things.

Her eyes skimmed.

And then stopped.

Her breath caught.

Because right there, in clean typed letters that looked impossibly real, was her name.

Not the name Jim had tried to shove down her throat.

Not the name that tasted like poison.

Her name.

Gosalyn.

And then—

Her stomach flipped again.

Because beneath it was the name she barely let herself say out loud.

Isla.

Not as a weapon. Not as a trap. Not as something stolen.

Just… there.

Acknowledged.

Included.

Like it belonged.

And then her eyes moved to the last line.

Waddlemeyer Mallard.

Her hands started shaking.

She didn’t realize she was crying until a drop hit the paper and blurred the ink.

“…What—” she rasped, voice catching. She cleared her throat and tried again. “…What is this.”

Drake didn’t move.

But his voice came softer than before.

“Forms,” he said.

Dewey made a sound like a kettle reaching critical mass. “FORMS?!”

Honker sat up straighter, immediately alert. “Drake.”

Launchpad’s grin was so wide it was almost dangerous. He looked like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.

Gosalyn blinked hard, trying to see through the tears.

Her eyes dropped back to the header.

PETITION FOR ADOPTION.

She stared.

Then stared harder.

Then slowly looked up at Drake like he had just told her gravity was optional.

“…You wanna adopt me?” she whispered.

Drake’s beak twitched.

He looked like he wanted to dive out the nearest window.

“Officially,” he said, very quietly.

Gosalyn’s voice cracked. “Like… legally?”

Drake nodded once.

It was small.

But it was solid.

“Yes.”

For a second, the room was completely silent.

Then Dewey exploded.

“YAAAAAAY!!!” he screamed, throwing both arms into the air like he’d just won a championship game.

Honker flinched. Launchpad laughed. Drake winced like the sound physically harmed him.

Gosalyn stared at Dewey like he was a betrayal.

“PrettyBoy,” she snapped through tears, “SHUT UP I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FEEL ABOUT THIS—”

Her voice wobbled.

Her eyes dropped to the paper again.

To her chosen name.

To the way it was written like it had always been meant to be there.

To the way it was protected by ink and law and intention.

Her mouth trembled.

“Oh who am I kidding,” she whispered.

And then she broke into the brightest, messiest grin through tears.

“YAY.”

Dewey screamed again. “YAY!!”

And somehow they said it at the exact same time, like their souls were synced by sheer chaos.

Launchpad clapped a hand over his beak, shoulders shaking, eyes shining.

Honker’s expression softened into something so gentle it almost didn’t look like him. Like he’d just watched a kid finally get something she’d needed her whole life and never asked for because asking hurt too much.

Gosalyn laughed and cried at the same time, wiping at her face with the back of her sleeve like she was mad at her own feelings.

“This is so stupid,” she choked. “This is—this is so—”

“It’s not stupid,” Honker said quietly, the same firm truth he’d given her earlier.

Dewey pointed at the paper suddenly, squinting like he was trying to decode a secret message.

“WAIT WAIT WAIT,” he blurted, voice sharp with sudden realization. “Crossbow—”

Gosalyn sniffed. “What.”

Dewey jabbed a finger at the pronoun line like he’d discovered a conspiracy.

“YOU USE THEY/THEM PRONOUNS?!”

Gosalyn froze.

Honker’s eyes narrowed immediately. Not angry. Just… protective.

Launchpad’s grin faded into a careful neutral.

Drake’s posture went tense, like he was bracing for impact.

Dewey’s eyes were wide with pure offense. “I THOUGHT THAT WAS MY THING?!”

Gosalyn blinked.

Then, despite everything, a laugh burst out of her. Wet and startled and real.

“Dewey,” she said, voice hoarse, “pronouns are not a limited-edition collectible.”

Dewey gasped. “They are in my HEART.”

Gosalyn rolled her eyes so hard it probably counted as physical therapy.

“She/they, PrettyBoy,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “Not just they/them.”

Dewey stared like this was the biggest plot twist of his life.

“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay. Respect. Still dramatic.”

Honker exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Good.”

Launchpad nodded vigorously. “Cool! Great! Love that for you! Love that for everybody!”

Drake cleared his throat, voice quiet and stiff in the way it got when he was trying not to show emotion.

“It’s… whatever you want,” he said. “We can change anything. If you don’t like the wording—”

Gosalyn shook her head hard enough her shoulder twinged and she hissed.

“Ow—” she muttered, then glared at her own body like it was disloyal. She refocused on Drake.

“No,” she said firmly. “Don’t change it.”

Drake blinked.

Gosalyn swallowed, fingers tightening on the paper like it might vanish if she let go.

“…You put my name,” she whispered.

Drake’s eyes softened behind the mask. “Of course I did.”

Her voice cracked. “You didn’t—”

“I didn’t ask permission,” Drake finished quietly, like he already knew the accusation.

Gosalyn hesitated.

Then she huffed a wet laugh.

“Yeah,” she said, voice shaking. “You didn’t.”

Drake’s beak twitched again. “I can—if you want—”

Gosalyn interrupted, louder. “No. I mean… I’m mad, but I’m not mad.”

Dewey nodded sagely, like this was a complex emotional equation. “This is the ‘I want to throw you off a roof but lovingly’ stage.”

Honker deadpanned, “That’s not a stage. That’s a felony.”

“It’s a metaphor,” Dewey insisted.

Gosalyn took another breath.

Then she looked at Drake.

Really looked.

Not Darkwing Duck.
Not the scary hero.
Not the guy who barked orders and acted like he wasn’t terrified all the time.

Just Drake.

The man who’d bought her a house.
The man who’d grounded her from hero work because he wanted her alive.
The man who’d panicked when she called him Dad and then tried to hide it behind professionalism and paperwork.

Gosalyn’s voice came out small.

“D-dad,” she tried.

Her face did something strange—like the word didn’t fit in her mouth yet, like she’d never worn it before and didn’t know if she was allowed.

Drake froze.

Gosalyn blinked fast, embarrassed and overwhelmed.

“Daaaddy—” she tried again, like she was testing the sound, and then immediately cringed. “No. That’s—ugh.”

Dewey made a strangled squeak. “I’m going to pass away.”

Honker covered his face with one hand.

Launchpad’s eyes were basically waterfalls.

Gosalyn stared at Drake, mortified.

Then she exhaled shakily and tried one more time, quieter.

“…Hi, Dad.”

Drake’s whole expression shifted.

Like something inside him unclenched for the first time in years.

His voice was barely audible.

“Hi, Gos.”

And Gosalyn’s face—

Her whole face lit up.

Pure, bright, stunned joy. Like she’d been handed something she didn’t know she was allowed to want.

She laughed through her tears, clutching the papers to her chest like armor.

“I can’t believe this,” she whispered.

Dewey launched himself forward without warning and threw his arms around her again, squeezing like he was trying to fuse them into one creature.

“WE’RE FAMILY-ING,” he sobbed dramatically. “WE’RE FAMILY-ING SO HARD RIGHT NOW.”

Gosalyn wheezed. “Dewey—air—”

Honker leaned in and added his arms to the hug anyway, because of course he did.

Launchpad joined next, because Launchpad was physically incapable of not joining a hug when it mattered.

And Drake—

Drake hovered.

For half a second.

Then he stepped forward too, awkward and stiff and terrified of doing it wrong, and placed a hand on Gosalyn’s back.

Just one hand.

But it was enough.

Gosalyn leaned into it like she’d been waiting for it her whole life.

Outside, the city kept turning.

Jim Starling was still out there.
Pink was still out there.
FOWL was still out there.

But inside that living room, wrapped in blankets and cocoa and paperwork that said she belonged somewhere—

Gosalyn Mallard breathed.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like she was bracing for the next loss.

It felt like she’d finally found something that could hold.

Chapter Text

The dark blue sky of midnight in St. Canard shone through the windows of the hangar, wooden boxes with FOWL’s insignia stamped in red littered the catwalks and edges of the building as a large tarp covering something that took up most of the room and various technicians worked on it underneath said tarp.

Steelbeak leaned against the catwalk railing, looking disinterested in the work as his partner came up next to him with her pristine white feathers glistening against the light. The Lady in Pink adjusted her beret, the color matching her rose petal pink trench-coat and white belt, and smiled at her colleague.

“They’re making good progress, but we can’t officially confirm it’s successful. Not without all three containers.” She remarked, and Steelbeak chuckled, raising an eyebrow at her with a grin.

“Don’t Dipwing Duck got that last one, anyway?” He asked, and Pink merely smirked, black eyes glancing at him.

“Oh don’t worry, I have a way to get the last container in one go, after all, thanks to our new allies, we now know Quiverwing Quack’s name, and who she would give us the container for.” The swan said, arms behind her back as Steelbeak’s face shifted into confusion.

“Who?”

The villainess walked down the catwalk, heels clicking against the metal walkway as the polished steel gleamed her reflection back at her.

“It’s about time we pay Gosalyn Waddlemeyer’s girlfriend a visit…”

~~~

Lockers slammed and chatter rose about as the student body was ecstatic about the announced Homecoming dance, and Gosalyn Waddlemeyer Mallard was ready to tear her feathers out.

Not that she didn’t like dances or anything like that, but because she was still struggling with her left shoulder and the fact that FOWL and now Jim Starling, or as LP was starting to call him, NegaDuck, was still at large.

She grumbled half formed plans under her breath, barely looking up in time before she almost slammed into Honker.

“Ah! Geez, Good Morning to you too, Gosalyn!” He groaned, adjusting his glasses as he shot her an annoyed look.

“Huh- oh. Sorry, Honks. Guess I was just-“ She sighed, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets as she shrugged. “Lost in My Own Head.”

“As per usual,” He teased, the annoyed look fading into his usual of fond exasperation at her. “So, you asked Violet yet?”

“To what?” She asked him, the two falling into step with each other as Honker gaped at her.

“To What- Gos! Have you not asked Violet to Homecoming yet?! That’s like dating Someone 101!” He exclaimed, a little shocked.

Gosalyn blinked at him. “I thought we were already going? Considering we’re dating. Plus I’ve had a lot on my plate lately, Dude.” She reminded him, and he looks at her a little sympathetically.

“Right, How’s your shoulder doing?” He asked, and she gave him a signature grin, throwing her arm around his shoulder in a gesture of showing that she was perfectly fine!

“It’s better thanks to Vi and her quick thinking! And Drake forcing me to rest. Boo.” She said, and Honker rolled his eyes at her.

“You know, for someone as reckless as you, you can be such a workaholic.” He taunted her, smirking up at her with a smile in his black eyes.

She scoffed playfully. “Low Blow, Honks. Absolute Betrayal. How dare you.”

Honker snorted, bumping her shoulder lightly with his own as they walked. “Hey, someone has to keep you grounded in reality. If it were up to you, you’d still be running around on rooftops with a half-healed wing and a concussion.”

Gosalyn grimaced. “Okay, first of all—rude. Second of all, that concussion was minor.”

“That’s what you said the last three times,” Honker shot back, though his tone softened as they approached the lockers lining the hallway. Around them, students clustered in excited groups, animatedly discussing outfits, themes, and dates. Flyers for Homecoming had been plastered over nearly every available surface, glittering letters promising A Night Under the Stars.

Gosalyn eyed one of the posters with visible suspicion. “Why does every dance theme sound like it’s trying to lure you into something?”

Honker laughed. “You say that like dances are secretly evil.”

She shrugged. “I’m just saying. Every time there’s glitter involved, something goes wrong.”

He gave her a long look. “That might just be a you problem.”

She opened her locker, rummaging through the chaotic mess inside—spare goggles, half-finished gadgets, notebooks full of scribbles and diagrams. As she searched for her history binder, her shoulder twinged again, sharp enough to make her pause. She clenched her jaw, willing it to pass.

Honker noticed immediately. “Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said a little too quickly, slamming the locker shut and slinging her bag over her good shoulder. “Just sore.”

“Gos.”

“I said I’m fine,” she insisted, forcing a grin. “Doctor said I could come back to school, didn’t he?”

Honker sighed, clearly unconvinced but smart enough not to push it further. “You know Violet’s going to see right through that, right?”

At the mention of her girlfriend, Gosalyn’s expression softened despite herself. “She always does,” she admitted. “Which is… both comforting and terrifying.”

As if summoned by the conversation, Violet appeared down the hall, walking briskly with a tablet tucked under her arm. Her eyes lit up the second she spotted Gosalyn, a warm smile spreading across her face.

“There you are,” Violet said, stopping in front of them. “I was starting to think you’d disappeared into a ventilation shaft again.”

Gosalyn grinned back. “Tempting, but no. I promised Drake I’d limit my ‘dramatic entrances’ to once a week.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “You promised Drake?”

Honker snickered. “She was heavily medicated at the time.”

Gosalyn elbowed him. “Traitor.”

Violet’s gaze flicked briefly to Gosalyn’s shoulder, sharp and assessing, before returning to her eyes. “How are you really feeling?”

Gosalyn hesitated—just a fraction of a second—but Violet caught it anyway.

“I’m good,” she said more quietly. “I swear. Just tired.”

Violet studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay. But we’re talking later.”

Gosalyn smiled, fond and resigned. “Yes, ma’am.”

Honker cleared his throat. “Well, I’m going to leave you two lovebirds to it before I’m forced to witness public displays of affection that will scar me emotionally.”

“Go,” Gosalyn waved him off. “Be free.”

As Honker disappeared into the crowd, Violet shifted closer to Gosalyn, lowering her voice. “You’ve been distracted all morning.”

“Have I?” Gosalyn tried for casual, but it didn’t quite land.

Violet hummed thoughtfully. “You have your ‘something’s wrong’ face.”

Gosalyn glanced around the bustling hallway—the laughter, the music playing faintly from someone’s phone, the bright posters advertising a night of normal teenage fun. Everything looked fine. Too fine.

“I just have a bad feeling,” she admitted. “Like things are quiet because they’re about to get loud.”

Violet’s grip tightened gently around her hand. “Then we’ll handle it. Together.”

Gosalyn squeezed back, drawing comfort from the contact. “Yeah. Together.”

Somewhere far from the noise and glitter of the school halls, under the blue sky of St. Canard, plans were already in motion—threads pulling tighter, danger inching ever closer.

And Homecoming night was fast approaching.

~~~

The mall was a mistake.

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer had known this the second Dewey burst through the sliding glass doors like he was entering the third act of a musical, arms thrown wide, sneakers squeaking against the polished tile.

“YES,” Dewey declared. “THIS is the energy.”

“This is fluorescent lighting and capitalism,” Gosalyn muttered, squinting as the brightness stabbed directly into her soul. “I don’t trust it.”

Louie, already walking backward while typing on his phone, didn’t look up. “Relax. Malls are efficient. Everything you need, centralized. Plus, there’s a food court.”

“I don’t need anything,” Gosalyn said. “I already own clothes.”

Dewey spun to face her, scandalized. “Not Homecoming clothes.”

Violet, walking slightly behind them, smiled to herself. She had one hand loosely hooked around Gosalyn’s sleeve—not tugging, just there, a quiet anchor. “I did try to warn you,” she said gently. “They seemed… determined.”

“That’s one word for it,” Gosalyn said as Dewey grabbed her wrist and hauled her toward a clothing store with too many mannequins and not enough exits.

⸻

It escalated quickly.

There were racks. Too many racks. Mirrors at unkind angles. Dewey perched on a bench like a director overseeing his magnum opus while Louie conducted a ruthless cost-benefit analysis of every outfit that emerged from the fitting room.

“Nope.”
“No.”
“That one says ‘I fell into this.’”
“That one says ‘I fight crime, but sadly.’”

Gosalyn groaned and disappeared back into the fitting room again. “I swear, if the next one doesn’t work, I’m leaving.”

“You say that every time,” Dewey called back. “And yet!”

Violet sat beside Louie, tablet in her lap, pretending to read specifications while absolutely not reading anything at all. Her focus kept drifting—toward the fitting room door, toward the sound of fabric shifting, toward the quiet awareness that Gosalyn was just on the other side of that wall.

Her tablet buzzed.

LENA:
vi. get a suit.
trust me.
you will finally get to flirt back with the jock.

Violet’s ears flushed instantly.

She typed back with careful precision.

VIOLET:
She’s not a jock.
And I can flirt.

The reply came immediately.

LENA:
you short-circuited when she smiled at you yesterday.

Violet set the tablet face-down.

⸻

“Okay,” Gosalyn’s voice came from behind the door. “This is the last one.”

The fitting room curtain slid open.

And Violet forgot how to breathe.

Gosalyn stepped out in a simple purple dress—nothing frilly, nothing impractical. It hit just above her knees, paired with her worn purple high-tops like she was daring the universe to judge her. Over it, an oversized dark jacket hung open, sleeves pushed up slightly.

And there—clear as day, no attempt to hide them—were the white bandages wrapped around her left shoulder, peeking out where the fabric dipped just enough.

She looked… unreal.

Not polished. Not transformed into someone else. Just Gosalyn, softened and sharpened at the same time. Strong. Vulnerable. Comfortable in a way that made it impossible to look away.

The mall noise faded.

Violet stared.

Dewey gasped so loudly a nearby shopper jumped. “OH MY GOD.”

Louie froze mid-sip of his drink. Slowly, reverently, he lowered it. “Huh.”

Gosalyn shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Okay, don’t make it weird.”

Dewey leapt to his feet. “MAKE IT WEIRD? GOSALYN, YOU LOOK—YOU LOOK—”

“Like you could commit arson and get away with it,” Louie finished.

Gosalyn snorted. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It absolutely is.”

She glanced toward Violet, searching her face for something—approval, teasing, anything.

Violet was still very, very still.

“Vi?” Gosalyn asked softly. “You okay?”

Violet swallowed. Her voice, when it came, was quiet and unsteady in a way it almost never was.

“You… left the bandages visible.”

Gosalyn shrugged, one shoulder lifting carefully. “Yeah. I mean. They’re part of me right now. Didn’t feel right hiding them.”

Something in Violet’s chest ached—a sharp, fond, terrifying ache.

“You look,” Violet said, choosing her words with the care of someone handling something fragile, “incredible.”

Gosalyn’s grin spread slow and genuine, green eyes lighting up. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Louie leaned closer to Dewey and murmured, “She’s done for.”

Dewey wiped at his eyes dramatically. “I’ve never been prouder.”

Violet’s tablet buzzed again.

She glanced down.

LENA:
i told you.
also louie says she passes the vibe check.

Violet smiled, small and soft and entirely undone, and reached for Gosalyn’s hand.

“Let’s get it,” she said. “Before I change my mind.”

Gosalyn squeezed back, warmth steadying her. “Together?”

“Always.”

Somewhere across the mall, a pop song started playing. Dewey hummed along. Louie started negotiating with a cashier.

And Violet, still holding Gosalyn’s hand, thought distantly that if Homecoming really was a night under the stars—

She already had her favorite constellation right here.

Chapter Text

The food court was chaos in its purest, most concentrated form.

Dewey had somehow acquired a tray with four drinks, Louie was in line arguing with a cashier about a “clearly advertised combo loophole,” Violet was comparing receipt totals with frightening intensity, and Gosalyn—now officially the proud owner of the dress—leaned against a pillar, shoulder carefully supported, watching it all unfold with the tired fondness of someone who loved these idiots deeply and would deny it under oath.

That’s when she spotted him.

Honker entered the mall like a man carrying the weight of the world on his back, backpack slung over one shoulder, tie already loosened like he’d given up on the concept of formality halfway through the day. His eyes scanned the crowd, landed on the group—

—and narrowed.

“Oh thank goodness,” he muttered, beelining straight for them.

“HONKS!” Gosalyn grinned, lifting a hand in greeting. “You survived!”

“Barely,” he said, stopping in front of her. “My parents cornered me this morning with pamphlets.”

Violet blinked. “Pamphlets.”

“They printed out articles,” Honker continued, deadpan. “About ‘the importance of social engagement during adolescence’ and ‘how dances are formative experiences.’”

Louie appeared at his side, tray-less but smug. “Classic mistake. You never let them discover the printer.”

Gosalyn winced sympathetically. “Oof. So… Homecoming pressure?”

Honker sighed and nodded. “They keep asking who I’m taking. I told them I was ‘working on it,’ which is parent-code for ‘lying.’”

Dewey slid over, immediately invested. “Why not just go with Gos?”

Honker gestured vaguely at Gosalyn, who was very clearly holding Violet’s hand.

“…Because,” he said flatly, “she has a girlfriend.”

Dewey followed his gaze. Looked at the interlocked hands. Looked back at Honker.

“Ohhhhhh,” he said, drawing it out. “Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

Gosalyn shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, Honks.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Honker said quickly. “I’m not—this isn’t a thing. I just… usually we go together, you know? Less awkward questions. Fewer expectations.”

Violet offered gently, “You don’t actually need a date.”

“I know that,” Honker said. “They don’t.”

Dewey’s eyes lit up.

“Oh,” he said. “OH.”

Everyone else felt it immediately.

“No,” Louie said, pointing at him.

“Yes,” Dewey said, pointing right back.

Gosalyn squinted. “Why do you look like that.”

Dewey grabbed Honker’s shoulders with sudden intensity. “Honker Muddlefoot. What if I told you… you were no longer out of luck.”

Honker stiffened. “Dewey.”

“What if,” Dewey continued, “you went to Homecoming with me.”

There was a beat.

Then another.

Then—

“…I’m sorry, what.”

Dewey beamed. “As friends!”

Honker stared. “No, you don’t just get to tack that on like it fixes everything.”

“It does fix everything,” Dewey insisted. “Your parents want you to have a date? Boom. Date. You don’t want romantic pressure? Boom. Zero expectations. Plus—” he gestured grandly “—I am excellent at dancing badly on purpose.”

Louie crossed his arms. “He’s not lying. It’s unsettling.”

Honker opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed his face.

“Dewey,” he said carefully, “you’re cool. You’re… a lot, but you’re cool. However—”

“As friends,” Dewey repeated, softer now. “Just two guys going to a dance, eating snacks, and judging everyone’s outfits.”

Gosalyn’s grin grew slow and dangerous. “I would pay to see that.”

Violet nodded thoughtfully. “Statistically speaking, Dewey’s enthusiasm would deflect most social pressure.”

Honker hesitated.

Then sighed.

“…They would stop asking questions.”

Dewey gasped. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a tentative, legally non-binding—”

Dewey tackled him in a hug.

“YES,” he yelled. “I KNEW IT.”

Honker yelped, nearly losing his balance. “DEWEY—PERSONAL SPACE—”

Louie smirked. “Congrats, Honker. You just agreed to chaos.”

Gosalyn laughed, warm and bright, and leaned into Violet’s side. “Told you the mall was a mistake.”

Violet smiled back, fingers lacing with hers. “Some mistakes are optimal outcomes.”

Honker straightened his glasses, watching Dewey excitedly plan “friend outfits,” and muttered, “…I’m going to regret this.”

Dewey slung an arm around his shoulders. “You’re going to love this.”

And for the first time all day, Honker smiled—small, resigned, but real.

~~~

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer was not pacing.

She was standing. Repositioning. Strategically shifting her weight from foot to foot because the concrete outside the gym was uneven. That was all. Anyone who said otherwise was lying.

The gym doors loomed in front of her, decked out in silver streamers and fairy lights that flickered softly against the evening air. A Night Under the Stars glittered across a banner above the entrance, which Gosalyn eyed with deep suspicion.

Stars. Glitter. Dancing.

Every instinct she had told her this was exactly the kind of night where something went wrong.

She tugged at the hem of her purple dress, the fabric unfamiliar against her legs, jacket hanging open the way she insisted it should. The bandages on her left shoulder were still there—clean, snug, visible. She’d thought about covering them. Briefly.

Didn’t feel right.

She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and exhaled sharply.
She was fine. Totally fine. Not at all spiraling because FOWL was still out there. Not because the Lady in Pink had looked at her once like Gosalyn was already a chess piece. Not because the RamRod was still a threat and her shoulder still ached when she moved wrong.

And definitely not because Violet hadn’t arrived yet.

A laugh drifted from inside the gym—music thumped faintly through the doors—and Gosalyn rolled her shoulders, careful of the left one. She glanced down at her shoes, scuffed purple high-tops she’d refused to give up even for Homecoming.

“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself. “You’ve fought supervillains. This is a dance.”

The low, unmistakable rev of a motorcycle engine cut through the air.

Gosalyn’s head snapped up on instinct.

Headlights swept across the parking lot as a sleek bike pulled in, chrome catching the light. It came to a smooth stop near the curb, and Gosalyn recognized it instantly.

Lena.

Of course.

Lena swung a leg off the bike with casual confidence, helmet tucked under her arm, already talking as she turned to the passenger behind her.

“—and I’m just saying, if anyone gives you trouble, I’m literally right outside,” Lena said, gesturing vaguely with her free hand. “I don’t care if it’s a dance, I will fight a teenager.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Violet replied, voice calm but fond.

Gosalyn’s breath caught.

Violet stepped off the motorcycle—and the world tilted.

She was wearing a suit.

Not stiff. Not formal in a way that swallowed her up. Tailored just right, dark and sharp, paired with a crisp shirt that caught the light when she moved. Her curls were pulled back neatly, a few soft tendrils framing her face, and she stood a little straighter than usual—still Violet, still reserved, but unmistakably confident.

Gosalyn forgot how legs worked.

“Oh,” she said. Out loud. Stupidly.

Lena glanced over, clocked Gosalyn instantly, and grinned like she’d just won something. “Told you,” she stage-whispered, leaning closer to Violet. “She’s doomed.”

“Lena,” Violet sighed, though there was color blooming across her cheeks as she turned.

And then Violet looked at Gosalyn.

Her eyes widened—just a fraction, but enough. Enough for Gosalyn to see the way Violet’s gaze flicked over the dress, the jacket, the bandages, the shoes. Enough to see her swallow.

“Oh,” Violet said softly.

Yeah. Gosalyn was doomed.

They stood there for a second, just staring at each other across the short stretch of pavement, music and laughter fading into background noise. Gosalyn’s grin crept up slowly, crooked and nervous and genuine.

“Hey,” she said. “Uh. You look—wow.”

Violet recovered first, because of course she did. She stepped closer, hands folding neatly behind her back, smile warm and unmistakably hers. “You look incredible.”

Gosalyn snorted. “You already used that one.”

“And I meant it then,” Violet replied, eyes dropping briefly to the bandages before lifting again, gentler now. “I still do.”

Something in Gosalyn’s chest eased, just a little.

Lena cleared her throat loudly. “Alright, my work here is done. I’m leaving before this gets any gayer.”

“Lena,” Violet protested, mortified.

“Text me if you need an escape,” Lena added to Gosalyn, winking. “Or if you punch someone.”

“I like her,” Gosalyn said without hesitation.

Lena laughed and swung back onto her bike, engine roaring to life. “Have fun, you two.”

As the motorcycle pulled away, the night felt quieter somehow.

Violet turned fully toward Gosalyn, close enough now that Gosalyn could see the reflection of the gym lights in her eyes. “Are you ready?” she asked.

Gosalyn glanced at the doors, at the stars glittering overhead—real and artificial alike. At the danger waiting somewhere out there, always.

Then she looked back at Violet.

“Yeah,” she said, offering her arm. “Together?”

Violet smiled and slipped her hand through it.

“Always.”

And with that, they stepped inside—unaware of just how closely the night was watching them back.

~~~

The night, against all odds, started off great.

The gym had been transformed—string lights draped from the ceiling like constellations, soft blue and silver decorations catching the light as students milled about in clusters, laughter echoing over the music. For once, it didn’t feel like a trap. Just… a dance. A normal, teenage, glitter-infested dance.

Gosalyn almost didn’t trust it.

Honker did a double take the second he spotted her.

He stopped mid-sentence, blinked, pushed his glasses up his beak—and then stared.

“…Wow,” he said. “Okay. That’s new.”

Gosalyn smirked, rocking back on her heels. “What, you’ve never seen me in formal wear?”

“I’ve seen you in suits,” Honker said, still visibly recalibrating. “Or, like. Whatever that thing was at the gala. This is—” He gestured vaguely. “A dress.”

“I know,” she said proudly. “I shocked myself too.”

Violet, standing beside her in her suit and looking unfairly composed, smiled faintly. “I’m not surprised.”

Gosalyn squinted at her. “You literally froze when you saw me.”

“I said I wasn’t surprised,” Violet amended calmly. “I didn’t say I wasn’t affected.”

Honker made a gagging noise. “You two are disgusting.”

Gosalyn grinned wider. “Anyway, LaunchDad said I’d look good in a suit, so I picked the dress out of spite.”

There was a beat.

Then—

“LaunchDad?” Honker repeated.

Violet’s head snapped toward Gosalyn. “Dad?”

Gosalyn froze.

“…Uh.”

She glanced between the two of them, suddenly very aware of how loudly the music was playing and how many people were within earshot.

“I’ve thought about calling LP that for months now,” she said, shrugging like this wasn’t a huge emotional reveal. “Fits right. Just waiting on Drake to make it official, y’know?”

Honker’s expression softened instantly. “Gos…”

Violet smiled, fond and thoughtful. “That’s really sweet.”

Gosalyn rubbed the back of her neck, ears warming. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell him yet. He’ll get weird about it.”

Violet hummed, then tilted her head slightly. “You know,” she said lightly, “Gosalyn Sabrewing doesn’t sound so bad.”

Gosalyn panicked.

“VI—NO—ABSOLUTELY NOT,” she hissed, grabbing Violet’s sleeve. “Not in case your sister is still in earshot! I do not want to die!”

Violet blinked, then laughed softly. “Lena is at home,” she assured her. “Playing with her cat. You’re fine, dearest.”

Gosalyn sagged with relief. “Oh thank—”

She paused.

Her eyes widened.

“…Babes,” she corrected quickly. “Thanks, babes.”

Honker raised an eyebrow. “You almost said something else, didn’t you.”

“Nope!” Gosalyn said immediately. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Violet gave her a look—amused, knowing, dangerously affectionate—but said nothing.

Gosalyn cleared her throat. “So! Dance floor. Before I accidentally reveal a secret identity or adopt a third dad in public.”

Honker snorted. “Honestly? On brand.”

As they moved toward the music, Gosalyn let herself relax just a little. Violet’s shoulder brushed hers, steady and warm. The lights shimmered overhead. For a moment—just one—there were no villains, no looming threats, no masks or code names.

Just a dance.

And if she maybe almost called Violet by her masked nickname in public?

Well.

She could survive that.

Probably.

The gym doors burst open like they were offended by the concept of subtlety.

Music swelled, lights flared, and several heads turned on instinct as Dewey Duck strutted inside like he was answering a spotlight only he could hear. He’d ditched his usual hoodie for the night—replaced it with a sharp blue jacket that fit just a little too well, sleeves rolled up just enough to show off confidence instead of skin. His hair was styled in that effortless way that absolutely took effort, and he moved with the loose, unbothered swagger of someone who knew he looked good and had decided to make that everyone else’s problem.

Honker, walking beside him and already regretting several life choices, muttered, “You didn’t have to enter like that.”

“Yes I did,” Dewey replied cheerfully. “It’s called presentation.”

He paused just inside the doors, taking in the room—the lights, the music, the decorations, the clusters of students dancing or hovering awkwardly at the edges. His eyes locked almost immediately on Gosalyn and Violet near the dance floor.

His grin widened.

“Oh there they are,” he said, delighted. “I was worried I’d have to cause a scene.”

“You are a scene,” Honker said.

Dewey ignored him.

He made a beeline toward them, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, one hand lifted in greeting like he was royalty acknowledging his people.

“CROSSBOW!” Dewey announced brightly.

Gosalyn turned just in time to catch him pointing finger-guns at her, grin sharp and familiar. She snorted, utterly unfazed.

“PrettyBoy,” she shot back without missing a beat.

Dewey clutched his chest theatrically. “She remembers my title.”

Violet blinked, then glanced between them. “Title?”

“It’s honorary,” Gosalyn said. “Self-appointed.”

“Earned,” Dewey corrected.

His attention snapped to Violet, eyes lighting up as if he’d just spotted something delightful.

“And SUNSHINE,” he added warmly.

Violet stared at him.

“…I beg your pardon?”

Gosalyn laughed outright. “Oh my god, you named her Sunshine?”

Dewey nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Because irony is one of my love languages.”

Violet adjusted her cuff with deliberate calm. “I am wearing black. Indoors. At night.”

“Exactly,” Dewey said, beaming. “Contrast.”

She gave him a long, flat look. “Webby warned me about you.”

“That’s fair,” he said easily. “She loves me.”

“I do not,” Violet said, then paused. “…Yet.”

Dewey gasped softly. “Progress.”

Honker hovered just behind him, hands shoved into his pockets, looking like he was considering whether fake illness would get him out of the night faster. Dewey turned slowly, eyes narrowing in thought as he took Honker in.

“And you,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re—”

Honker tensed. “No.”

“—definitely giving ‘Academic Anxiety,’” Dewey continued. “But that’s too long.”

“I am not accepting a nickname,” Honker said firmly.

Dewey squinted harder. “Hmm. Glasses McPressure? Spreadsheet? The Thinker?”

“Dewey.”

“Hold on, this is important.”

Gosalyn leaned over to Violet, smirking. “He’ll workshop it all night.”

“I can see that,” Violet murmured, watching Dewey pace in a slow circle around Honker like a shark with ADHD.

Dewey snapped his fingers. “I’ll circle back. You deserve the right one.”

Honker sighed deeply. “This is my punishment for agreeing to come.”

Dewey slung an arm around his shoulders. “Correction: this is your reward.”

Gosalyn eyed Dewey up and down, smirk tugging at her mouth. “Not gonna lie, PrettyBoy—you clean up nice.”

Dewey preened instantly. “Thank you, Crossbow. I dress for the occasion.”

Violet studied him for a moment longer, analytical gaze softening just slightly. “You do look… very presentable.”

He clasped his hands together. “High praise from Sunshine.”

She rolled her eyes. “I am revoking nickname privileges.”

“Too late,” Dewey said cheerfully. “It’s on the paperwork.”

The music shifted, bass thumping louder as a faster song kicked in. Dewey’s eyes sparkled.

“Oh. Oh this is my jam.”

Before anyone could stop him, he dragged Honker forward toward the dance floor.

“Wait—what—DEWEY—”

“Come on!” Dewey laughed. “We’re here as friends! Friends dance badly together!”

“I do not dance,” Honker protested.

“You absolutely dance,” Dewey said, already moving. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Gosalyn watched them go, shaking her head fondly. “He’s a menace.”

Violet nodded. “But… a supportive one.”

“Yeah,” Gosalyn agreed. “He’s good people.”

On the dance floor, Dewey threw himself into the music with zero shame, arms flailing just enough to make it look intentional. Honker stood stiff as a board for a full three seconds—then, reluctantly, started moving, awkward but real.

Dewey noticed immediately.

“There it is!” he cheered. “SEE? I told you!”

Honker flushed, but didn’t stop.

Gosalyn bumped Violet’s shoulder gently. “Wanna join them?”

Violet glanced at the chaos—Dewey spinning, Honker laughing despite himself—and then back at Gosalyn.

She smiled.

“In a moment,” she said. “I want to watch this.”

Gosalyn grinned, eyes warm. “Fair.”

Under the lights, with music pounding and laughter rising, Dewey Duck danced like the world wasn’t ending.

And for just a little while—

It wasn’t.

~~~

In the shadows of the warehouse, three familiar figures are in the middle of the RamRod, the Lady in Pink by the Control Panel, key turned in, the chain still hanging from it.

“Gentlemen. Your mission is to take out Darkwing Duck, and if you should fail, I will be forced to use my backup plan. Do you understand?”

The Fearsome Four grinned. “Yes, Lady.”

“Perfect.”

Chapter Text

The gym was alive.

Lights draped from the ceiling in soft, glittering arcs, like someone had tried to trap the night sky indoors. The music hit in steady waves—bass in the floorboards, laughter in the air, sneakers squeaking against polished tile as people danced like they weren’t thinking about tomorrow.

Gosalyn was trying. She really was.

She’d promised herself she’d be normal tonight. She’d promised Drake. She’d promised Violet. She’d promised her own shoulder, which was currently reminding her of its existence every time she lifted her arm too fast.

But Violet was right there.

Violet, in that suit that should’ve been illegal for a sophomore to wear without a permit. Violet, with her curls pinned back just enough to show her face and the faint flush that came and went depending on how close Gos got.

Gos could do this. She could do normal.

For at least one song.

She and Violet weren’t even dancing-dancing—more like swaying together near the edge of the crowd, where the lights weren’t as harsh and the bodies weren’t as close. Gosalyn kept her good hand at Violet’s waist, careful, and Violet’s fingers rested lightly on her jacket sleeve like she was holding on to something steady.

It was nice.

It was good.

And then Violet’s grip changed.

Not pulling away—just… tightening. Her shoulders lifted a fraction. Her eyes flicked, quick and automatic, to the strobing lights near the DJ booth. Then to the center of the dance floor where people were shouting along to lyrics. Then to the glittery banner above them that kept catching the light like a knife.

Gosalyn noticed instantly.

Because she always did.

She didn’t say anything at first. She just shifted her stance, angling her body so Violet had a little more space, like she could physically block the noise. She leaned closer, lowering her voice so it wouldn’t get swallowed by the music.

“You okay, babes?” she asked, casual on purpose.

Violet blinked like she’d been yanked back into her own body. Her gaze found Gosalyn’s again, and she gave a small nod too quickly to be convincing.

“Yes,” she said. Then corrected, honest as always. “Mostly.”

Gosalyn’s stomach tightened.

Mostly was not a word she liked. Mostly was the word right before something happens.

Violet’s fingers tapped once against Gosalyn’s sleeve—one, two, three, four—then stopped. Her breathing was still controlled, but Gos could see the work in it now, the effort behind every inhale.

The suit jacket made Violet look composed, but Violet didn’t feel composed. Gos knew that face. The one Violet got when her brain was running too fast and she was trying to keep it from showing.

Gosalyn leaned in again, trying to keep her tone light even as her paranoia started to uncoil.

“Do you wanna… step over by the bleachers?” she offered. “Less crowd. Less… whatever this is.”

Violet’s mouth twitched like she wanted to smile. She managed it, small and grateful.

“That would help,” she admitted.

Gos nodded immediately, no hesitation. “Cool. Done. We are so doing that.”

She guided Violet away from the center, slipping between clusters of students with practiced ease—half hockey captain, half bodyguard. She kept her shoulder angled outward, protective without thinking about it.

And Violet noticed.

She always noticed.

“You don’t have to do that,” Violet said softly.

Gosalyn scoffed under her breath. “Yes I do. The dance floor is hostile terrain.”

Violet let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You are ridiculous.”

“Correct,” Gos said, smug. “And alive.”

They reached the edge of the gym, near the side wall where the lights dimmed and the noise softened a little. Violet’s shoulders dropped a fraction, like her body had finally gotten permission to unclench.

But she still didn’t fully relax.

Her eyes flicked toward the hallway beyond the gym doors.

Then back to Gosalyn.

And that’s when Violet made the decision.

Not impulsively. Not nervously.

Deliberately.

“Gosalyn,” Violet said, voice steady but gentle.

Gos’s grin faded into immediate focus. “What’s up?”

Violet took a breath, the kind that started in her ribs and went all the way down, like she was bracing herself to say something important.

“I need a breather,” she said simply.

Gosalyn nodded instantly. “Okay.”

Violet continued before Gosalyn’s brain could fill the silence with worst-case scenarios.

“I’m not leaving because I’m upset,” Violet clarified, because of course she did. “And I’m not leaving because of you.”

Gosalyn’s chest loosened a tiny bit. “Okay.”

“And I’m not in danger,” Violet added, eyes intent on Gosalyn’s face. “I just need to regulate. The lights and the noise are… a lot.”

Gosalyn’s expression softened so fast it almost hurt.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Violet’s fingers slid down to Gosalyn’s hand, squeezing once—firm, grounding, like she was anchoring them both.

“I’m telling you,” Violet said, voice dropping a little lower, “because I know if I disappear without warning you’ll panic.”

Gosalyn blinked.

Then she made a face like she was going to deny it.

Then she didn’t.

“…I wouldn’t panic,” she muttered.

Violet lifted one eyebrow.

Gosalyn sighed dramatically, defeated by the truth. “Okay, I’d panic a little.”

“A lot,” Violet corrected, calm and merciless.

Gosalyn pointed at her. “Rude.”

Violet’s mouth twitched. “Accurate.”

Gosalyn tried to joke her way out of the fear curling in her gut, because that’s what she did when she was scared.

“Okay, fine,” Gos said. “I would absolutely lose my mind if you vanished. But in my defense, villains keep targeting my loved ones, and I have trauma.”

Violet’s expression softened, the teasing fading into something warmer.

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m telling you. I don’t want you to spiral in the middle of a dance.”

Gosalyn stared at her for a second like she didn’t know what to do with that kind of care.

Then her voice went quieter.

“…Thank you.”

Violet nodded once, like it was obvious. Like of course she’d do that.

Gosalyn swallowed, then forced herself back into “functional girlfriend mode.”

“Okay,” she said briskly. “Breather plan. Where are you going? Bathroom?”

Violet nodded. “Yes. The hallway restroom. It’s quieter.”

Gosalyn’s eyes narrowed automatically, scanning the gym doors like they were an enemy. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Violet shook her head, gentle but firm. “No. If you come, you’ll hover. And then I’ll feel guilty for needing space.”

Gosalyn winced. “Fair.”

Violet squeezed her hand again, softer this time.

“But,” Violet added, “I want you to do something for me.”

Gosalyn straightened immediately. “Anything.”

Violet’s eyes held hers. “Stay here. Keep having fun. Don’t follow me unless I ask.”

Gosalyn hesitated. Every protective instinct she had screamed at her to say no.

But Violet wasn’t asking for permission.

She was asking for trust.

Gosalyn exhaled slowly, nodding like she was forcing herself to unclench her fists.

“…Okay,” she said. “I can do that.”

Violet’s shoulders eased a little more, relief slipping through her composure.

“And,” Violet continued, practical as ever, “I will text you the moment I’m in the bathroom.”

Gosalyn pointed at her again. “Good. Excellent. Gold star. Love that.”

Violet’s lips curved. “Then I will text you again when I’m leaving.”

Gosalyn nodded fast. “Perfect. You’re perfect.”

Violet’s feathers puffed just slightly at that, cheeks coloring.

“I am not perfect,” she said automatically.

Gosalyn leaned in, close enough that Violet’s voice wouldn’t get swallowed by the music, close enough that Violet could feel her warmth.

“You are,” Gos said anyway, stubborn and sincere. “And I love you.”

Violet went still.

Not overwhelmed—just… hit. Like the words landed somewhere deep and soft.

Her voice came out quieter than before.

“…I love you too,” she said.

Gosalyn’s grin came back, but softer now. Less feral. More safe.

She pressed a quick kiss to Violet’s forehead—careful, familiar, grounding.

“Okay,” Gos said, pulling back just enough to look at her properly. “Go take your breather. I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Violet nodded, eyes warm.

“I know,” she said.

Then she hesitated, just for a second, and added:

“And Gos?”

“Yeah?”

Violet’s gaze sharpened, the scientist in her flickering back to life. “Don’t say ‘watch your back’ like you’re sending me into battle.”

Gosalyn blinked, caught.

“…I wasn’t gonna—”

Violet stared at her.

Gosalyn sighed, dramatic and defeated. “Okay, fine. I was gonna.”

Violet smiled, small and fond. “I will be fine.”

Gosalyn nodded, swallowing down the urge to follow her anyway.

“…Okay,” she said, voice rougher than she wanted. “But still. Watch your back, okay?”

Violet’s smile widened a fraction. “There it is.”

Gosalyn groaned. “I can’t help it.”

“I know,” Violet said gently. “That’s why I told you.”

She stepped backward, still holding Gosalyn’s hand until the very last second, like she didn’t want to let go first.

Then she turned and slipped out through the gym doors into the hallway.

Gosalyn stood there for a beat, watching the doors swing shut behind her.

Her chest felt too tight.

Not because she didn’t trust Violet.

Because she trusted the world even less.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket almost immediately.

VIOLET:
in bathroom. safe. breathing.

Gosalyn’s shoulders dropped like someone had cut a wire.

She typed back fast, thumbs flying.

GOSALYN:
ok good. proud of you. take your time. i’m right here.

A pause.

Then another buzz.

VIOLET:
thank you for not panicking.

Gosalyn stared at the message.

Then she snorted softly, shaking her head.

GOSALYN:
i am panicking quietly and with dignity.

Violet’s reply came almost instantly.

VIOLET:
you are neither quiet nor dignified.

Gosalyn covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself from laughing too loud.

Honker appeared at her side like he’d been summoned by her joy.

“Where’d Violet go?” he asked, scanning the room.

Gosalyn didn’t look away from her phone.

“Bathroom break,” she said. “Regulating.”

Honker’s expression softened immediately. “Oh.”

Gosalyn tucked her phone away, trying to look normal again. Trying and failing.

Honker nudged her shoulder gently—careful of the injured one. “You’re doing good.”

Gosalyn blinked at him. “What?”

Honker shrugged, awkward about sincerity. “You didn’t chase her. Old you would’ve chased her.”

Gosalyn’s mouth twitched. “Old me would’ve climbed into the ceiling vents to ‘secure the perimeter.’”

Honker nodded. “Exactly.”

Gosalyn exhaled, eyes drifting back to the gym doors.

“…I hate that my brain does that,” she admitted quietly.

Honker’s voice softened. “Yeah. But Violet knows. And she told you. That’s… trust.”

Gosalyn swallowed.

“Yeah,” she said. “Trust.”

She forced herself to turn back toward the dance floor, where Dewey was doing something that looked like interpretive dance and Honker’s future therapy bill.

The lights shimmered overhead. The music surged.

And Gosalyn stayed where she was.

Because Violet asked her to.

Because Violet trusted her.

Because Violet wasn’t disappearing.

She was taking care of herself.

And Gosalyn—hero, girlfriend, paranoid disaster—was going to learn how to let that be okay.

Even if her instincts screamed otherwise.

Even if the night was watching them back.

~~~

The city air was cold enough to sting.

St. Canard glittered below them in patches of light and shadow, the kind of skyline that looked peaceful from a distance—until you remembered what lived in the dark between the streetlamps.

Darkwing Duck moved across the rooftops like he belonged to them. Cape snapping behind him, boots landing soft and practiced. He didn’t talk much tonight.

Launchpad noticed.

He kept pace anyway, grappling line in one hand, helmet under the other arm, eyes scanning for anything that moved wrong.

“You know,” Launchpad said lightly, trying to keep the mood from tipping too far into grim, “I’m still kinda proud of us.”

Darkwing didn’t slow. “For what.”

“For letting her have a normal night,” Launchpad said. “Dance, music, teenagers bein’ teenagers. No villains. No explosions.”

Darkwing made a sound that was almost a laugh, but it died halfway out. “Don’t say it like that.”

Launchpad blinked. “Like what?”

Darkwing finally stopped, turning on the edge of a rooftop with that sharp, suspicious glare that always meant he was thinking three disasters ahead.

“Like you’re tempting the universe,” Darkwing said flatly.

Launchpad’s shoulders sank. “…Oh. Yeah. That’s fair.”

Darkwing stared out at the city again.

He could picture it too clearly—Gosalyn under glittery lights, shoulder still healing, stubbornly pretending she wasn’t tired. Violet at her side, steady as a heartbeat. Honker and Dewey doing… whatever chaos Dewey considered dancing.

It should’ve made him feel better.

Instead it made his skin itch.

Because “normal nights” didn’t last in St. Canard.

And Jim Starling was still out there.

FOWL was still out there.

Lady in Pink was still out there.

And somewhere in the back of Drake’s mind, that parking ticket note still burned like an open wound.

Missed me.

Darkwing’s jaw clenched.

Launchpad’s voice softened. “DW… you okay?”

Darkwing didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly, “No.”

Launchpad nodded like that was the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. Me neither.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

WANDA’s voice cut into their comms, calm and clinical.

“Darkwing. Launchpad. I am detecting anomalous energy readings two blocks east of your current location.”

Darkwing’s head snapped up. “Define anomalous.”

“Electromagnetic surges consistent with experimental discharge,” WANDA replied. “Localized flooding in the street grid. And multiple civilian reports of… laughter.”

Launchpad frowned. “Laughter?”

Darkwing’s eyes narrowed.

“…That’s not normal laughter,” he muttered.

WANDA continued, “The reports describe the laughter as ‘wrong,’ ‘echoing,’ and ‘like a cartoon.’”

Darkwing went still.

Launchpad went still too.

For a second, neither of them moved—because both of them had the same thought at the same time.

No.

That’s not possible.

Darkwing’s voice came out low. “WANDA… pull the footage.”

A projection flickered in the air above Darkwing’s gauntlet.

A street camera view.

Shaky, low quality.

But clear enough.

A fire hydrant exploded upward like it had been punched from inside, water geysering across the road in a violent, unnatural burst. Cars swerved. People screamed and ran.

And standing in the middle of it all—

A huge blue figure, broad-shouldered, liquid-smooth, arms crossed like he owned the street.

His head tilted slowly toward the camera.

A grin stretched across his face.

“Liquidator,” Launchpad whispered.

Darkwing’s breath caught.

“That’s—” Darkwing started.

But the camera cut to another angle.

A man in orange and yellow stumbled out of a smoking alleyway, twitching like his nerves were plugged into the power grid. His eyes were wide, unfocused. His hands jerked, fingers flexing as streetlights flickered above him.

And he spoke to the lamp post.

“Don’t you lie to me,” he hissed at it. “I know what you heard.”

Launchpad’s feathers puffed. “Megavolt.”

Darkwing’s voice went thin. “That’s a costume. That’s a—”

Another cut.

A flash of purple.

A jester’s silhouette spinning through the air, bells chiming, a grin too wide to be friendly. He landed on the hood of a parked car and bowed like he was on stage.

Then he laughed.

Not silly.

Not playful.

A laugh like someone who’d learned pain was funny because it was the only way to survive it.

Launchpad swallowed. “…Quackerjack.”

Darkwing’s face went pale under the mask.

“No,” he said, voice sharp with denial. “Those aren’t real. They’re—characters. They’re—”

The footage cut one last time.

A shadow moved behind a shattered storefront window.

A figure hunched, hair hanging like dead vines.

Fingers curled into claws that looked too long, too wrong.

And then, a sound—low, broken, animalistic—like someone trying to scream but forgetting how.

Launchpad’s heart sank.

“…BloodRoot,” he whispered.

Darkwing’s hands clenched into fists.

Because he knew those villains.

Not from crime reports.

Not from his own history.

From a TV show.

From a set.

From costumes and scripts and bad acting and nostalgia and—

A reboot that had turned into a nightmare.

Launchpad’s voice cracked. “DW…”

Darkwing turned on him so fast his cape snapped.

“No,” Darkwing said, breathing hard. “No. They’re not real.”

Launchpad stared back, eyes wide and terrified.

“…But those actors are.”

The words landed like a punch.

Darkwing froze.

Because yeah.

They were.

There had been news coverage. Interviews. Smiling faces on posters. “Behind the scenes” clips.

Then the reboot disaster.

Then missing persons reports that no one connected because nobody wanted to look too hard at the ugly truth.

Darkwing’s throat tightened.

“WANDA,” he said, voice suddenly deadly calm, “confirm identities. Facial recognition. Voice print. Anything.”

WANDA’s pause was too long.

Then—

“…Confirmed,” she said quietly. “The figures match missing individuals from the Darkwing Duck reboot production. Probability of identity match: ninety-eight percent.”

Launchpad made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut.

Darkwing’s knees went weak for half a second.

He caught himself on rage alone.

“They’re… people,” Launchpad whispered.

Darkwing stared at the footage again.

Liquidator standing tall, but there was something off—his shoulders were too tense, like his body didn’t sit right on itself. Like he was wearing strength that didn’t belong to him.

Megavolt twitching, eyes glassy, lips moving like he was hearing something no one else could.

Quackerjack grinning, but the grin looked stapled on, stretched over something broken.

BloodRoot hidden behind glass, shaking like a frightened animal.

This wasn’t villainy.

This was what happens when someone takes a person and turns them into a weapon.

Darkwing’s voice came out raw. “FOWL.”

Launchpad nodded, jaw clenched. “FOWL.”

Darkwing stepped forward, cape flaring as he moved to the edge of the rooftop.

“Okay,” he said, voice shaking with fury. “We do this carefully.”

Launchpad blinked. “Carefully?”

Darkwing snapped a look at him. “Those are victims.”

Launchpad’s expression twisted—anger, horror, grief, all tangled together. “They’re gonna try to kill us.”

“I know,” Darkwing said, voice low. “But if we hurt them… we’re doing exactly what FOWL wants.”

Launchpad swallowed hard. “…So we stop ‘em without hurtin’ ‘em.”

Darkwing’s eyes narrowed.

“Exactly.”

They launched and hit the street like a storm.

Darkwing’s smoke bomb burst against the pavement, cloaking the area in thick, choking fog.

“EVACUATE!” Darkwing shouted, voice amplified and sharp. “GET INSIDE!”

Civilians scrambled. Doors slammed. Someone screamed. Someone dropped a bag of groceries and didn’t look back.

Launchpad moved like a shield, sweeping people behind a car, wings spread wide. “Go go go! Move it!”

And through the smoke—

Liquidator stepped forward.

The fog didn’t cling to him.

It beaded off his skin like water rejecting water.

His voice was deep and rough, and it sounded like someone trying to remember how to be angry.

“You,” he rumbled.

Darkwing stepped into view, cape billowing.

“I am the terror that flaps in the night—”

Liquidator lunged.

Fast.

Too fast.

His fist slammed into the pavement where Darkwing had been, cracking concrete like it was nothing.

Darkwing rolled, came up on one knee.

“…Okay,” he muttered. “We’re skipping introductions.”

A bolt of electricity tore through the smoke.

Darkwing barely dodged, cape snapping as the current scorched past him and hit a street sign—melting it into slag.

Megavolt stood there shaking, head tilted like he was listening to the power lines.

“Buzzbuzzbuzzbuzz,” he muttered, eyes wild. “They’re talking again.”

Launchpad moved toward him carefully, hands raised.

“Hey, buddy,” Launchpad said softly. “Hey—listen. It’s Launchpad. From the set. Remember?”

Megavolt’s head jerked.

For one single second—

His eyes focused.

His mouth opened like he recognized the sound.

Then the spiral-blue glow flickered behind his pupils and he screamed.

“LIAR!”

Electricity exploded outward.

Launchpad threw himself back, barely avoiding the blast.

Darkwing’s heart dropped.

Because that was it.

That was the proof.

There was a person trapped in there.

And something else was sitting on top of them like a puppetmaster.

Quackerjack appeared out of nowhere, sliding across the ground like a dancer.

He bowed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he purred, voice sing-song and cruel, “welcome to the show!”

Darkwing spun, gas gun raised. “Stop.”

Quackerjack giggled.

“Stop?” he repeated, like the word was hilarious. “But Movie Star… you’re my favorite part!”

He lunged, and the bells on his hat chimed like warning signs.

Darkwing dodged, barely.

Quackerjack’s knife—because of course he had a knife—sliced through the air where Darkwing’s throat had been.

Launchpad yelled, “DW!”

Darkwing twisted, kicked, disarmed him—

But Quackerjack just laughed harder, like pain was applause.

BloodRoot crawled up the wall of a building, fingers digging into brick like roots.

Her eyes were wide.

Not hateful.

Terrified.

She made a sound like a whimper.

Darkwing froze, staring at her.

“…Kid?” he whispered.

Launchpad’s breath caught.

Because she wasn’t attacking.

She was hiding.

But something was making her stay there.

Making her part of this.

A shadow fell across the street.

Liquidator loomed over Darkwing, raising both arms like he meant to crush him into the ground.

Darkwing didn’t move.

He didn’t attack.

He looked up at him, voice strained.

“You don’t have to do this,” Darkwing said.

Liquidator’s face twitched.

His brows drew together.

For a second, his voice broke through—raw and human.

“…I didn’t—” he rasped.

Then the glow in his eyes pulsed, and his expression snapped back into rage.

“YES YOU DID!”

And he swung.

Launchpad tackled Darkwing out of the way at the last second, both of them rolling across wet pavement.

Darkwing’s breath came out in a harsh gasp.

Launchpad hissed, “Okay. We can’t talk them down like this.”

Darkwing stared at the Fearsome Four in the smoke and chaos.

They weren’t coordinated like a team.

They were coordinated like programming.

Every time they hesitated, every time a crack of humanity showed—

the spiral-blue flicker hit, and they snapped back into violence.

Darkwing’s voice went cold.

“…They’re being controlled.”

Launchpad’s eyes widened.

“You mean like… mind control?”

Darkwing swallowed hard.

“…Like RamRod.”

Launchpad’s face twisted with horror.

“Lady in Pink,” he whispered.

Darkwing nodded once, rage and dread tightening his chest.

Because if FOWL could do this to actors—

What could they do to anyone?

What could they do to Violet?

To Gosalyn?

Darkwing pushed himself up, cape dragging through puddles.

“WANDA,” he barked into comms. “We need a way to disable them without harming them. Something that interrupts the control signal.”

WANDA’s reply was immediate.

“Working,” she said. “However, the control signature resembles—”

She paused.

Then, quieter:

“—the same pattern detected in Jim Starling’s spiral ocular anomaly.”

Darkwing’s blood turned to ice.

Launchpad stared at him.

“DW…” he whispered. “Is Jim workin’ with FOWL?”

Darkwing’s voice came out like a growl.

“He’s not working with them,” Darkwing said.

He watched Liquidator’s fists slam into a car, watched Megavolt twitch like a puppet, watched Quackerjack grin through brokenness, watched BloodRoot shake like she was drowning in her own skin.

“He’s working for himself.”

Darkwing raised his gas gun.

Not at their heads.

At the streetlights.

He fired.

Smoke exploded upward, thick and dark, flooding the air again.

Launchpad blinked. “What’re you doing?!”

Darkwing’s eyes burned.

“Buying time,” he said. “And getting them away from civilians.”

He looked at Launchpad, voice sharp.

“Get the ThunderQuack ready. We’re not winning this on the street.”

Launchpad nodded, jaw clenched.

“On it.”

Darkwing turned back toward the Fearsome Four.

His voice rang out through the smoke, hard and commanding.

“YOU WANT DARKWING DUCK?” he shouted.

Liquidator’s head snapped toward him.

Megavolt’s eyes flashed.

Quackerjack giggled.

BloodRoot flinched.

Darkwing’s cape snapped as he stepped forward into the chaos like he was walking onto a stage.

“THEN COME AND GET ME.”

And they did.

Because they weren’t villains chasing a hero.

They were victims chasing an order.

And Darkwing Duck was about to fight the hardest kind of battle—

The kind where winning meant saving the enemy.

Chapter Text

The bathroom was quieter.

Not silent—nothing at a school dance was ever truly silent—but quieter in the way Violet needed. The bass from the gym thumped through the walls like a distant heartbeat, muffled by tile and cinderblock and a heavy door that closed with a soft click behind her.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

The air smelled like soap and cheap perfume and the faint metallic tang of the hand dryers.

Violet stood very still in front of the sinks, hands braced on the edge of the counter, shoulders squared like she could hold herself together by force of posture alone.

She exhaled.

Then inhaled again.

Slowly. Carefully. Measured.

One breath in.

Hold.

One breath out.

She could still feel the gym on her skin—too many voices, too many bodies, too many tiny social calculations happening at once. Every laugh, every sudden shout, every burst of music had been a spark against her nerves. Not painful exactly, but… loud. Loud in the way that made her brain run hot.

And she’d been doing so well.

She had been.

She’d smiled at the right times. She’d kept her shoulders relaxed. She’d danced, briefly, with Gosalyn’s hand in hers and her heartbeat in her throat.

She’d been normal.

For a little while.

Violet pressed her fingertips together—thumb to index, thumb to middle, a quiet rhythm she didn’t even think about anymore. A stim so small it looked like nothing to anyone else.

But it was everything.

She stared at her reflection.

Suit crisp. Hair neat. Eyes a little too wide.

You are okay, she told herself. You are safe. This is safe. This is just a dance.

A dance.

A normal teenage rite of passage.

In St. Canard.

Where she wasn’t supposed to be.

Her throat tightened.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Gosalyn didn’t know.

Not really.

Not the full shape of it.

Gosalyn knew Violet was “from Duckburg.”
She knew Violet had transferred schools.
She knew Violet lived with “her dads” now and that Lena visited like a hurricane with eyeliner and a motorcycle and the protective instincts of a guard dog.

But she didn’t know why Violet had ended up here.

Why Violet had crossed cities and stayed quiet about her past like it could bite.

Violet swallowed hard and looked down at her hands.

I should tell her.

The thought had been circling her for weeks, hovering at the edge of every quiet moment between them.

I should tell her before she hears it from someone else.
I should tell her because she deserves to know.
I should tell her because if we’re doing this—if we’re really doing this—then secrets aren’t fair.

But then Violet would have to say it out loud.

She would have to say: I’m in hiding.

She would have to say: I ran.

She would have to say: FOWL wanted me. They still might.

And even thinking the acronym made her stomach turn.

FOWL wasn’t just “villains.” Not like the ones Gosalyn fought in the streets—loud, theatrical, dramatic. FOWL was quiet. Patient. Strategic. They didn’t want attention.

They wanted control.

They wanted leverage.

And Violet—Violet had been leverage once.

Her fingers tightened on the counter.

She could still remember Lena’s face that night.

Not the confident smirk Lena wore like armor.

Not the swagger, the sarcasm, the “I’m fine” energy.

The other one.

The raw one.

The one Violet only ever saw when something had cut too close to the bone.

The Phantom Blot had threatened Violet’s life like it was nothing. Like Violet was a tool to move around on a board. Like she was disposable.

And Lena—

Lena had snapped.

It hadn’t been messy. It hadn’t been theatrical.

It had been fast.

Decisive.

Final.

And afterward, Lena had looked at Violet like she was trying to make sure she was still real.

Like she was trying to convince herself she hadn’t failed.

Violet’s chest tightened at the memory.

Lena killed him because she thought she lost me.

That truth sat in Violet’s bones like a stone.

It wasn’t something you forgot.

And after that, their dads had made a decision.

Not a debate.

Not a suggestion.

A decision.

We’re moving you.

We’re hiding you.

We’re keeping you safe.

And St. Canard had been the last place anyone would look for Lena Sabrewing’s baby sister.

Because why would they?

Why would FOWL assume the girl they wanted was hiding in the city where Darkwing Duck lived?

Where masked vigilantes flew around like it was normal?

Where every other night there was an explosion and a dramatic monologue?

It was too ridiculous.

Too loud.

Too obvious.

Which meant it was perfect.

Violet stared at her reflection again and forced herself to breathe.

It’s okay. Gosalyn is a superhero.

That was the rationalization her brain kept returning to like a safety rail.

Gosalyn wasn’t just a girl Violet loved.

She was Quiverwing Quack.

She was the one who leapt first and thought later. The one who ran toward danger with her teeth bared and her heart on her sleeve. The one who had stared down Jim Starling—Jim Starling—and still come out the other side.

Gosalyn was dangerous in the way Violet wished she could be.

If Violet told her the truth…

If Violet admitted she wasn’t just here for school…

Then Gosalyn would do what she always did.

She would protect.

She would turn it into a mission.

She would go after FOWL with a crossbow and a grudge and a half-healed shoulder because of course she would.

And Violet—

Violet didn’t know if she could live with that.

Not because she didn’t trust Gosalyn.

Because she trusted her too much.

Violet’s phone buzzed.

She flinched on instinct, then pulled it from her pocket.

A text notification lit the screen.

PAPA
Apollonia! Sweetie! Are you having fun and taking care of yourself? I know crowds are hard for you.

Violet’s chest went soft in a way that made her eyes sting.

She blinked rapidly, breathing in again, slower this time.

Then typed back carefully, thumbs steadying.

VIOLET:
Hi Papa. Yes. I’m okay. I stepped out for a minute to breathe. Gosalyn knows. I’m taking care of myself.

Almost immediately, another message popped up.

PAPA:
Good. I’m proud of you. Remember: you don’t have to “push through” just because everyone else can. You’re allowed to pause.

Violet stared at that for a long second.

Her throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t fear.

It was love.

She typed:

VIOLET:
Thank you, Papa. I love you.

A second later:

PAPA:
I love you too, Apollonia.

Violet’s heart squeezed.

Apollonia.

Her middle name.

The name her dads used when they were being gentle.

When they were reminding her she wasn’t alone.

When they were grounding her back into herself.

Violet’s fingers curled around the phone like it was something warm.

And then her screen lit up again.

This time, it wasn’t Papa.

It was Lena.

And Lena wasn’t gentle.

LENA:
BABY BIRD????

Violet’s eyes widened.

LENA:
YOU ALIVE??

LENA:
SEND A SIGN OF LIFE RIGHT NOW

LENA:
IF YOU GOT HURT I WILL PERSONALLY END WADDLEMEYER

Violet stared at the messages, stunned, then let out a small laugh that came out more like a shaky exhale.

“Lena…” she whispered, equal parts fond and exasperated.

More texts stacked instantly.

LENA:
I KNOW CROWDS ARE HARD

LENA:
DID YOU BRING YOUR HEADPHONES

LENA:
IS SHE LETTING YOU DRINK WATER

LENA:
I WILL FLY THERE

LENA:
I WILL FIGHT A TEENAGER I DO NOT CARE

Violet pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead.

Her ears were warm.

Her mouth was twitching.

She typed back.

VIOLET:
Lena. I am alive. I have my headphones. I drank water. Gosalyn is being respectful and attentive. Please do not commit a felony at a school dance.

The reply came so fast it was almost aggressive.

LENA:
I COMMIT FELONIES FOR YOU FOR FREE

Violet snorted softly, the sound startlingly normal in the empty bathroom.

She typed:

VIOLET:
I know. That is why I am in St. Canard.

The typing bubble appeared.

Then vanished.

Then appeared again.

Lena’s next message came slower, like she’d forced herself to breathe before sending it.

LENA:
…okay. yeah. sorry. i’m just—checking.

Violet’s expression softened completely.

Because beneath the chaos, beneath the threats and the dramatic all-caps, Lena was doing the only thing she knew how to do when she was scared.

She was guarding.

Hovering.

Refusing to let Violet disappear again.

Violet typed back, gentler.

VIOLET:
I’m okay, Marian. I promise.

She watched the message send.

And even though she couldn’t see Lena’s face, Violet could feel the way that name would land.

Marian.

Lena’s middle name.

The one their dads used when they needed her to come back down to earth.

The one Violet used when she wanted to remind her sister that she was still a person under all that armor.

The response came almost immediately.

LENA:
don’t do that. you’re gonna make me emotional.

Violet smiled faintly, eyes shining.

VIOLET:
Good. Emotions are healthy.

LENA:
NERD.

Violet’s smile widened just a little.

Then she looked back at her reflection.

Suit. Composure. Controlled breathing.

A girl trying to be normal while carrying a secret like a loaded weapon.

She let the phone rest in her hand, thumb tracing the edge of the case.

I should tell Gosalyn.

The thought returned, quieter now, but heavier.

Because Gosalyn had asked her earlier—How are you really feeling?

Because Gosalyn noticed everything.

Because Gosalyn’s paranoia wasn’t just paranoia.

It was experience.

And Violet didn’t want to be another thing Gosalyn had to “figure out” alone.

Violet took one more breath.

In.

Hold.

Out.

Then she opened her messages and typed to Gosalyn.

Not the whole truth.

Not yet.

But a thread.

A beginning.

VIOLET:
Hey. I’m in the bathroom. I’m okay. Just needed a breather. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Please don’t worry.

She stared at it for a second longer, then hit send.

Immediately, three dots appeared.

Gosalyn was typing.

Violet’s chest tightened—fondness, fear, love, all tangled together.

Then the reply came.

GOSALYN:
Okay babes. Take your time. I’m right here. And I’m watching the door like a hawk bc I am Normal and Chill™

Violet’s lips parted in a silent laugh.

Her shoulders eased.

Just a little.

Because even if she wasn’t ready to spill every secret tonight…

She wasn’t disappearing.

Not anymore.

Violet slipped her phone into her pocket, adjusted her cuffs, and let herself stand there in the quiet for one more moment—grounding, recalibrating, gathering herself like she was collecting scattered pieces back into place.

Outside the bathroom door, the dance continued.

The music thumped.

Teenagers laughed.

Glitter caught the light.

And somewhere out in the city, Darkwing Duck and Launchpad McQuack were realizing the world had gotten uglier than they remembered.

But for this moment—

Violet Sabrewing—Apollonia, Baby Bird, Sunshine against her will—stood in the safety of tile and fluorescent light and whispered the truth she could handle right now:

“Okay,” she murmured to herself.

“I can do this.”

And when she stepped back into the noise, she did it with her head up—

because Gosalyn was waiting.

Because her dads were a text away.

Because her sister was threatening violence on standby.

And because even in hiding…

Violet wasn’t alone.

~~~

Gosalyn told herself she was not pacing.

She was standing in different places. Strategically. Like a responsible person.

The gym was loud—bass thumping through the floor, laughter ricocheting off the walls, glittery lights spinning slow constellations across the ceiling. The kind of night that was supposed to be normal. The kind of night that was supposed to be safe.

Which, obviously, meant Gosalyn didn’t trust it for a second.

Her shoulder gave a dull, grumpy throb as she shifted her weight again. She adjusted the edge of her jacket, tugging it higher without covering the bandages. She’d refused to hide them. They were part of her right now.

And Violet—

Violet had said she needed a breather.

Not vanished. Not slipped away without a word. Not ghosted her like a horror movie.

She’d told her.

Because Violet was Violet. Careful. Honest. Always thinking three steps ahead.

Gosalyn had smiled and nodded like she wasn’t immediately spiraling.

“Okay, babes,” she’d said, casual as she could manage. “Take your time. Just—y’know. Watch your back, okay?”

Violet had squeezed her hand once, small and grounding. “I will.”

And then she’d gone.

That was… what, five minutes ago?

Maybe seven.

Okay, no, definitely longer than five.

Gosalyn checked the clock on the wall and instantly regretted having eyes.

She didn’t want to be that girlfriend. The hovering one. The one who couldn’t let Violet breathe without acting like the world was ending.

But the thing was—

The world did end a lot around Gosalyn Waddlemeyer.

It was kind of her brand.

She tried to focus on anything else.

Dewey was on the dance floor making a spectacle of himself on purpose—throwing his arms up, doing some kind of dramatic spin that was half interpretive dance, half “I’m auditioning for a role I invented.” Honker was nearby, stiff but smiling, like he’d been forcibly adopted by chaos and was making peace with it.

Gosalyn loved them both.

But right now her brain was stuck on one thing:

Violet is outside my line of sight.

That was it. That was the entire horror movie.

She exhaled slowly through her nose.

Trust her, she told herself. Violet asked for space. Violet communicated. Violet is not helpless.

Violet is also tiny and has fragile hummingbird bones and Gosalyn had literally fought a mutant clown last week so—

She cut that thought off so hard it practically squeaked.

Nope. No. Not doing that.

She was fine.

She was totally fine.

She was just—

Her shoulder twitched again, sharper this time, like it was reminding her that she had, in fact, been slammed into the boards like a hockey puck with feelings.

Gosalyn winced and rolled it carefully.

Okay. Maybe she wasn’t fine.

But she could be fine quietly.

She leaned against the wall near the edge of the gym, forcing her face into something neutral. Something normal. Something that said teenage girl at dance and not vigilante scanning exits for threats.

That’s when Dewey appeared beside her like a glitch in the universe.

He slid into place with a drink in hand like he’d always been there, like he’d just spawned from the drama itself.

“Hey, Crossbow,” he said, voice easy, eyes sharp in that way he got when he was pretending not to be sharp. “You good?”

Gosalyn blinked at him.

Because Dewey wasn’t asking casually.

Dewey was asking like he’d noticed the exact millisecond her brain started chewing on worst-case scenarios.

Gosalyn forced a grin.

“I’m—” she started, then stopped, because Dewey would smell a lie like a bloodhound. “Well I’m not fine, y’know. Shoulder and all.”

She shrugged with her good shoulder, trying to make it a joke.

“But it’s more of an… eh?” she finished, making a face like she was rating a mildly disappointing snack.

Dewey’s mouth twitched, half amused, half not buying it.

“An eh,” he repeated, deadpan. “That’s your official medical diagnosis?”

“Yes,” Gosalyn said instantly. “Doctor said I have Acute Eh Syndrome.”

Dewey snorted, then took a sip of his drink.

His eyes flicked—not to her shoulder, not to her dress, not to the bandages.

To the door.

To the hallway.

To the place Violet had disappeared into.

Gosalyn’s stomach dropped just a fraction.

Dewey noticed.

Of course he did.

“You’re doing the thing,” he said softly.

Gosalyn’s grin faltered. “What thing?”

“The pretending you’re not worried,” Dewey said, voice gentle but firm. “You do it with your whole face. Like you’re trying to trick the universe into not noticing you care.”

Gosalyn stared at him for a second, caught off guard by how accurate that was.

Then she scoffed, because sarcasm was safer than honesty.

“Dewey, I don’t know what you mean,” she said brightly. “I am famously chill.”

Dewey tilted his head. “You once threatened to break into SHUSH headquarters because Drake didn’t text you back for ten minutes.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“That was a government facility,” Gosalyn argued. “This is a dance.”

Dewey’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re saying you’re less likely to commit crimes at a dance.”

Gosalyn hesitated.

“…Yes,” she lied.

Dewey hummed like he didn’t believe her for one second, then bumped her shoulder gently—careful of the injured one.

“You want me to go check on Sunshine?” he offered, voice low enough no one else could hear.

Gosalyn’s heart squeezed.

Because Dewey saying it like that—Sunshine—was proof he’d already decided Violet mattered. That she was part of the circle now.

Gosalyn swallowed.

“No,” she said quickly. “She just needed a second. Crowds suck. She’s regulating.”

Dewey nodded, but his gaze stayed on her face. “And you’re trying to be normal about it.”

Gosalyn’s eyes narrowed. “I am normal about it.”

Dewey raised an eyebrow.

Gosalyn’s jaw tightened.

“…Okay,” she admitted quietly. “I’m trying.”

Dewey’s expression softened. “That counts.”

Gosalyn exhaled, shoulders slumping just a little.

“I don’t want to hover,” she muttered. “I don’t want her to think I don’t trust her.”

Dewey’s voice gentled even more. “Crossbow. You trusting her doesn’t mean you stop being you.”

Gosalyn glanced at him.

He continued, simple and sure: “You’re allowed to worry. You just gotta not let it eat you alive.”

Gosalyn stared at the hallway again.

The music kept pounding. Lights kept spinning. Teenagers kept laughing like nothing bad ever happened in St. Canard.

And Violet was still gone.

And if Violet Sabrewing was in trouble—

Then the dance was officially over.

Chapter Text

The street was a disaster.

Water surged through broken pavement like the city had sprung a leak from its own veins. A fire hydrant lay in pieces, geysering into the air in a violent white arc. The smoke Darkwing had thrown down earlier clung to everything—thick, oily, unnatural—except it didn’t cling to Liquidator at all.

It slid off him like rain off glass.

Launchpad skidded behind an overturned car, wings flared to shield a trembling civilian who’d frozen mid-run.

“Move!” he barked, voice sharp with panic. “GO!”

The civilian stumbled, then sprinted into a storefront.

Darkwing didn’t even look.

His focus was locked on the Fearsome Four.

They moved wrong.

Not like villains with personalities and ego and bad one-liners.

Like puppets.

Liquidator advanced with brute precision, shoulders too tight, jaw clenched like he was resisting something inside his own body.

Megavolt twitched and jerked, electricity snapping from his fingers in ragged bursts—his eyes wide, unfocused, like he was hearing voices in the power lines.

Quackerjack danced across the pavement, bells chiming, grin stretched too wide across a face that looked like it had forgotten what joy actually felt like.

BloodRoot clung to the side of a building, half-hidden in shadow, shaking like a cornered animal.

Darkwing ducked under another crackling bolt of electricity and came up with his gas gun raised—not at Megavolt’s face.

At the streetlight behind him.

He fired.

Smoke exploded.

Megavolt flinched, the glow in his eyes flickering—

For a heartbeat, he looked human.

He looked terrified.

Darkwing’s chest clenched.

“Hey!” Darkwing shouted, voice cutting through the chaos. “Listen to me! You don’t have to do this!”

Megavolt’s mouth opened.

Something like recognition crossed his face.

Then the spiral-blue flicker surged behind his pupils and he screamed—

“LIAR!”

Electricity detonated outward.

Launchpad threw himself down, barely avoiding the blast as it shredded the air above him.

Darkwing hit the ground hard, cape soaked in dirty street water, and for one awful second his body screamed too old for this, too tired for this, too much—

Then rage shoved him upright again.

“WANDA,” he barked into his comm. “Any progress on the control signal?”

“Minimal,” WANDA replied, voice calm but edged. “The signature is layered. It is being reinforced by an external source.”

Darkwing’s stomach dropped.

“External source,” he repeated.

“Yes,” WANDA said. “And it is approaching.”

Darkwing’s head snapped up.

The air shifted.

Not physically—nothing you could measure with a sensor.

But the fight… paused.

Liquidator’s fists lowered slightly.

Megavolt’s electricity steadied into a controlled hum.

Quackerjack stopped mid-spin, bells chiming once like punctuation.

BloodRoot pressed herself tighter against the wall, trembling harder.

Launchpad looked at Darkwing, eyes wide.

“DW,” he whispered, voice tight. “They’re… waitin’.”

Darkwing’s breath caught.

A laugh echoed through the smoke.

Not Quackerjack’s.

Not the broken kind.

A laugh that sounded practiced.

Rehearsed.

Like it had been delivered to a mirror a thousand times until it landed perfectly.

“Ahhh,” the voice purred, rich and smug. “Now this is what I’ve been missing.”

The fog parted like it had been told to.

A streetlamp flickered, then flared bright—too bright—casting a clean spotlight onto the center of the street.

And there he was.

Darkwing Duck.

Or the version of Darkwing Duck that had crawled out of a nightmare and decided to wear the costume like a trophy.

His cape fell perfectly. His hat was angled just right. His posture was stage-ready, chin lifted, arms spread slightly as if expecting applause.

His eyes gleamed spiral-blue.

Jim Starling smiled like he owned the night.

“Hello, Movie Star,” he called.

Launchpad’s feathers puffed in pure fury.

“Oh, you gotta be kiddin’ me,” he hissed.

Darkwing didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

Because the last time he’d seen Jim Starling, Jim had been burning.

And yet here he was—clean, alive, smug, and standing in the middle of the street like he’d just walked onto set.

Darkwing’s voice came out low.

“…Jim.”

Jim pressed a hand to his chest dramatically.

“Oh, the way you say it,” he sighed. “It’s like music. I missed that.”

Launchpad stepped forward, hands raised, not in surrender—ready.

“Back off,” Launchpad snapped. “This ain’t your show.”

Jim’s grin widened.

“Launchpad,” he said warmly, like greeting an old friend. “Still the loyal sidekick. Still clinging to the wrong star.”

Launchpad bristled. “I’m not a sidekick!”

Jim blinked slowly, then chuckled.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, voice dripping condescension. “Everyone’s a sidekick in someone else’s story.”

Darkwing’s jaw clenched.

“Enough,” he said.

Jim’s gaze slid back to him, gleaming.

“Enough?” he echoed, amused. “But we’re just getting to the best part.”

He turned in a slow circle, taking in the wrecked street, the water, the smoke, the Fearsome Four poised like loaded weapons.

“This is gorgeous,” Jim said, almost reverent. “Action. Stakes. Tragedy. A moral dilemma.” His eyes sparkled. “You’re trying so hard not to hurt them.”

Darkwing’s grip tightened on his gas gun.

“They’re victims,” he said flatly.

Jim’s smile sharpened.

“Exactly,” he purred. “And that makes you predictable.”

Liquidator stepped forward, cracking the pavement under his feet.

Darkwing snapped his attention back to him instantly.

“Don’t,” Darkwing warned.

Jim’s hand lifted lazily.

Liquidator stopped.

Like a dog on a leash.

Darkwing went still.

Launchpad’s voice went thin. “DW…”

Darkwing’s throat tightened.

“Control signal,” he muttered. “It’s him.”

Jim wagged a finger.

“Ohhh, close,” he said, delighted. “But no. I’m not the signal.”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming.

“I’m the conductor.”

Darkwing’s blood turned to ice.

Jim’s grin widened like he could taste it.

“And you?” Jim continued. “You’re still trying to play hero in a story that isn’t yours anymore.”

Launchpad stepped closer to Darkwing, voice low.

“Drake,” he murmured. “Don’t listen to him.”

Jim’s eyes flicked to Launchpad again, irritated for half a second that he’d interrupted the moment.

Then he smiled again—bigger, crueler.

“Actually,” Jim said brightly, “let’s talk about family.”

Darkwing froze.

Launchpad froze.

Because that wasn’t a villain line.

That was a knife.

Jim clasped his hands behind his back and paced slowly in front of them like he was on stage.

“You know,” he mused, “I used to think losing the cape was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

He stopped, tilting his head.

“But then I realized…”

He leaned in, voice dropping into something intimate and poisonous.

“You didn’t just steal my role.”

Darkwing’s jaw tightened.

Jim’s smile turned razor-sharp.

“You stole my daughter.”

Launchpad’s eyes widened so fast it was almost comical.

“…Your—?”

Darkwing’s chest tightened.

Jim’s grin widened like he’d been waiting years for that exact reaction.

“Oh,” Jim said, delighted. “He didn’t tell you?”

Launchpad looked at Darkwing, stunned.

“DW…?”

Darkwing didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Not with Megavolt twitching behind him and Quackerjack grinning like a loaded gun.

Jim chuckled softly.

“How very Drake Mallard of you,” he sighed. “Always editing the story.”

Darkwing’s voice came out low and shaking.

“Don’t,” he said.

Jim’s eyes gleamed.

“Don’t what?” he asked sweetly. “Say it?”

Darkwing’s fists clenched.

Jim tilted his head, pretending to think.

“Ohhh,” he said, like he’d just remembered something delicious.

“How’s Isla Grace doing?”

The name hit the air like a slap.

Darkwing went rigid.

Launchpad’s stomach dropped.

Because he didn’t know the name—but he knew what it did to Drake.

Drake’s entire body reacted like it had been struck.

Not rage first.

Pain.

Pure, sharp pain.

Jim smiled wider, savoring it.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That look.”

Darkwing’s voice came out like a growl.

“Her name,” he said, shaking with fury, “is Gosalyn.”

Jim laughed.

“Oh, right,” he said lightly. “Gosalyn.” He rolled the word around like it tasted bitter. “The name she chose to honor the grandfather who stayed.”

Darkwing’s eyes burned.

Jim leaned closer.

“She picked that name because she needed a father,” he whispered.

Darkwing’s breath caught.

“And you were so eager to fill the role.”

Launchpad’s wings flared.

“Hey!” he snapped. “Don’t you—”

Jim’s gaze snapped to Launchpad, sharp as a blade.

“Quiet,” he said, still smiling.

And something in his voice made the air feel heavier.

Launchpad’s mouth shut instantly—not because he was scared.

Because the Fearsome Four shifted.

Liquidator cracked his knuckles.

Megavolt’s electricity surged.

Quackerjack giggled low.

BloodRoot’s claws scraped brick.

They were responding to Jim’s tone like it was a command.

Darkwing stepped forward, cape snapping.

“You don’t get to talk about her like she’s a role,” he said, voice deadly calm.

Jim’s grin widened.

“Oh, Movie Star,” he sighed. “Everything is a role.”

He lifted one hand.

And the Fearsome Four moved.

Liquidator lunged.

Megavolt fired.

Quackerjack leapt.

Darkwing dodged instinctively, cape whipping as he threw a smoke bomb down and grabbed Launchpad’s arm, yanking him out of the path of a crackling bolt.

“LP!” he barked.

“I’m good!” Launchpad shouted back, eyes blazing. “I’m good—”

Quackerjack landed on the hood of a car between them, grinning wide.

“WELCOME BACK TO THE SHOW!” he cackled.

Darkwing aimed his gas gun—again, not at Quackerjack’s head.

At the ground.

He fired smoke.

Quackerjack staggered, coughing, bells chiming wildly.

Megavolt’s electricity tore through the smoke anyway, hitting a street sign and melting it.

Darkwing ducked, rolled, came up—

—and Jim was closer.

Too close.

Jim stepped through the chaos like it didn’t apply to him, smiling like a man walking through his own spotlight.

“You know,” Jim said conversationally, “I always wondered what it would feel like.”

Darkwing snapped his gas gun up, pointing it directly at Jim’s chest.

“Stop,” Darkwing said.

Jim didn’t flinch.

His spiraled eyes glittered.

“To watch you panic,” Jim finished softly.

Darkwing’s hands shook.

Not from fear.

From the effort of not pulling the trigger.

Because Darkwing Duck didn’t kill people.

Even when they deserved it.

Jim smiled like he could see the restraint cracking.

“Go on,” he whispered. “Do it.”

Darkwing’s voice came out low and furious.

“You want me to be you,” he said.

Jim’s grin widened.

“Yes,” he breathed.

Darkwing’s jaw clenched.

Then, slowly, he lowered the gun.

And Jim’s expression twisted—annoyed, furious, offended—because Drake refused to give him that satisfaction.

Launchpad’s voice cut in, sharp.

“Drake,” he said, urgent. “Look at me.”

Darkwing’s eyes flicked to him.

Launchpad stepped closer, wings tense, voice low and steady.

“That’s your kid,” Launchpad said. “Not his.”

Darkwing inhaled.

It hurt.

It hurt like swallowing glass.

But it grounded him.

Jim’s smile returned instantly—sharper now.

“Aww,” Jim cooed. “That’s precious.”

He leaned toward Drake again, voice silky.

“Tell me,” Jim whispered. “Does she look at you the way she used to look at me?”

Darkwing’s eyes burned.

“She never looked at you,” he said, voice like steel.

Jim’s smile flickered.

Just for a second.

Then it snapped back into place, brighter than before.

“Then let’s fix that,” Jim said cheerfully.

He raised both hands.

The spiral-blue glow pulsed outward like a wave.

The Fearsome Four jerked violently.

Liquidator roared.

Megavolt screamed.

Quackerjack laughed too loud.

BloodRoot made a sound like a sob.

And they attacked harder.

Faster.

Like the last shred of humanity inside them had been shoved down and locked away.

Launchpad’s eyes widened in horror.

“He’s makin’ it worse!” he shouted.

Darkwing’s heart dropped.

“WANDA!” he barked. “I need a disruptor NOW!”

“I am attempting—” WANDA began, then cut off sharply. “Darkwing—there is a second signal.”

Darkwing’s blood went cold.

“A second signal?” he repeated.

WANDA’s voice tightened.

“Yes. It is—”

A soft voice drifted through the comm static.

Smooth.

Silk.

Pink.

“Well done, Jim,” she purred. “Keep him occupied.”

Darkwing’s eyes widened.

Launchpad’s stomach dropped.

Jim’s grin widened like Christmas came early.

“Oh,” he sighed happily. “We’re a team now.”

Darkwing’s throat tightened.

Because in that moment, he understood:

This wasn’t just revenge.

This was coordinated.

This was a trap.

And somewhere—somewhere near the school dance, somewhere near Gosalyn and Violet—

the danger wasn’t just watching.

It was moving.

And Drake Mallard was about to learn what it felt like to be helpless—

in front of an audience.

~~~

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer Mallard kept refreshing her phone as she stalked through the hallway towards the girls bathroom, the pit in her stomach growing more and more nauseous as her thoughts spiraled.

Lady in Pink? Still at large.
Jim Starling? Knows her identity as Quiverwing.
FOWL? Still Out There.

So many enemies. And she hadn’t told Violet a thing. Sure Violet knew about Bloodroot, heck, she was the whole reason why they managed to beat her, but Gosalyn still didn’t know how to tackle the whole “Hey Vi I might have an arch nemesis now” talk.

And she definitely didn’t know how to explain the table.

She kept typing and re-typing, trying to start the conversation without overwhelming her with so much information.

Hey Vi, I know you’re taking five but-

VI. I have an arch nemesis swan named Lady in Pink and she took Dewey a while back and she has this table-

Vi I’m trying to keep you safe but I should’ve told you and-

Babes I just don’t want you to end up on her table-

Gosalyn groaned, peering up at the ceiling like it could give her the answers to the universe. How was she supposed to explain this to Violet? This was Homecoming! And here she was trying to explain her Vigilante Career to Her Girlfriend!

Sure Violet knew she was Quiverwing, but it was still hard for her to open up about what happened.

Pink. The Table. Jim. The RamRod. So much was piling up and she didn’t know where to even start.

She reached halfway to the door when her phone pinged. WANDA.

“Quiverwing. Darkwing and Launchpad are engaged in a two v five fight in the streets of St. Canard. Moving rapidly across Avian Way towards the McDuck Enterprises Building.”

“Copy That WANDA. I’ll sneak out and grab my gear.” She informed, and finally reopened Violet’s contact.

Hey Vi. Got called on duty, I should be back in time for one dance with my Princess, okay?

Three little dots appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared.

Of course, Go Save the City. Honker shall keep Dewford from destroying the building until you get back. I’m still taking a break, I was more overwhelmed than I thought.

Gods and Saints above she loved this hummingbird.

Gosalyn waited until the hallway thinned.

Homecoming traffic came in waves—girls laughing too loud, couples drifting like they owned the world, someone in the distance yelling about a spilled punch. The lights overhead were warm and soft, and the music from the gym bled through the walls in muffled thumps that felt like a heartbeat she wasn’t allowed to have.

Normal.

It was right there.

And she was walking away from it.

She slipped around the corner toward the lockers, keeping her shoulders loose like she belonged here, like she wasn’t a secret with a mask tucked into metal and hinges.

Her phone sat heavy in her hand.

Violet’s last message was still on the screen.

Of course, Go Save the City. Honker shall keep Dewford from destroying the building until you get back. I’m still taking a break, I was more overwhelmed than I thought.

Gosalyn swallowed.

Overwhelmed.

She knew that feeling. She lived in it.

She just… usually had a reason. Usually there was a villain, or a chase, or an explosion, something she could point at and go See? This is why my chest hurts. This is why I can’t breathe.

Violet didn’t have a villain.

Violet had feelings.

And Gosalyn had promised she wouldn’t make Violet carry them alone.

She’d promised.

Her locker was at the far end of the row, where the light didn’t reach as brightly and the floor always seemed to be a little colder. She crouched, keeping her body between the lock and the hallway, and spun the dial by muscle memory.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The metal door popped open with a soft groan.

Inside, folded and tucked behind textbooks and a crumpled homecoming flyer, was her suit.

Purple and black, tight and familiar. The mask. The gloves. The hood, folded down like it was sleeping.

A second life.

A second heartbeat.

Gosalyn stared at it for one long moment like it had personally betrayed her.

Because it wasn’t the suit that scared her.

It was how easy it was to reach for it.

How natural it felt.

Like the choice had already been made the second WANDA pinged her.

She pulled the suit out carefully, as if she could keep it quiet enough not to wake the part of her that wanted to scream.

Her phone buzzed again.

Not WANDA.

No emergency alert.

Just the screen lighting up from her own thumb brushing it.

Violet’s contact was still open.

Gosalyn’s beak tightened.

She typed before she could chicken out.

I’m sorry.

She stared at the words.

They looked small.

Useless.

Not enough to cover the fact that Violet was in the bathroom because she was overwhelmed, and Gosalyn was about to disappear into a different world again.

She deleted it.

Then typed again.

I’ll be back in time for our dance. Promise.

She stared at that too.

A promise she’d already made once tonight.

A promise that depended on villains cooperating.

A promise that depended on her not getting hurt.

A promise that depended on Drake not getting hurt.

A promise that depended on Lady in Pink not deciding to—

Her fingers froze.

Her stomach rolled.

The table.

The word hit her brain like a flash of cold metal.

Gosalyn sucked in a breath through her teeth and forced herself to move, because if she didn’t move now she was going to sit here on the floor with a superhero suit in her lap and cry like she was five years old again.

She shoved her phone into her jacket pocket and pulled her dress up just enough to tug the suit pants on underneath. It was awkward and stupid and she hated that she’d worn something pretty tonight because now she was fighting fabric and fear at the same time.

She yanked the top on, then the gloves, then the mask, her fingers moving faster than her thoughts could catch up.

For a second, with the mask in her hands, she hesitated.

Because once it was on, she wasn’t Gosalyn at homecoming anymore.

She was Quiverwing.

And Quiverwing didn’t get to be overwhelmed.

Quiverwing didn’t get to be a girlfriend who held hands and danced and whispered jokes in someone’s ear while the world stayed quiet.

Quiverwing got bruises.

Quiverwing got blood.

Quiverwing got hunted.

Gosalyn pressed the mask to her face anyway.

The world narrowed through the eyeholes. Her breath sounded louder. Her heartbeat steadied into something sharp.

She hated how much that steadiness felt like relief.

She reached back into the locker and grabbed her quiver strap, slinging it over her shoulder. The weight settled against her back like a familiar hand.

Then she pulled her phone back out and opened a new message thread.

DEWEY

Her fingers hovered.

Because Dewey was her friend. Her family. Her teammate.

And also a kid at homecoming who deserved to not get dragged into this.

But she didn’t have the luxury of protecting everyone the way she wanted.

She typed fast.

Dewey. Emergency. DW + Launchpad are in a fight moving down Avian Way toward McDuck Enterprises. It’s Fearsome Four but they’re being controlled. Jim Starling is there. And Lady in Pink is involved too.

She paused, then added—

Please check on Violet for me. She’s taking a break and I’m worried. Don’t freak her out, just… be near her.

Then she sent it before she could overthink it.

HONKER

Honker. DW + Launchpad are fighting Fearsome Four (controlled) near Avian Way heading toward McDuck Enterprises. Please keep an eye on Violet in the bathroom hallway. She’s overwhelmed and I had to leave. Don’t let anyone bother her.

She hit send.

Her thumb hovered over Violet’s contact again.

She didn’t know what to say.

I’m sorry I’m like this.

I’m sorry the city keeps stealing me from you.

I’m sorry you fell in love with a girl who always has one foot out the door.

Her throat tightened.

She typed anyway.

I love you.

Her finger froze over the send button.

Because if she sent it and something happened—

If she sent it and didn’t come back—

That would be Violet’s last message from her.

A stupid, perfect homecoming night ruined by a three-word goodbye.

Gosalyn swallowed hard and locked her phone screen without sending it.

Coward.

Smart.

She didn’t know which one it was.

The gym music thumped again through the wall. A cheer rose, muffled but bright, like a world she wasn’t in.

Gosalyn leaned her forehead against the locker door for half a second.

Just half a second.

Then she shut it softly.

Click.

And in the quiet between the metal closing and her footsteps starting again, she whispered into the empty hallway like Violet could somehow hear her through walls and distance and secrets.

“Just… please still be there when I get back.”

Then Quiverwing turned and ran.

Not toward the dance.

Not toward the lights.

Toward the dark.