#bro its 1 am im sleep deprived dont @ me this is all gonna make sense later i think

[vetlan]

Summary: There's a certain thrill to this, her feathers bristling as a chill runs through her. It almost takes her back to her youth. Almost. Neither of them is a young duck, but from the sharp glint in the masked mallard's eye, she can tell they're sharing the same thought: age has only brought them closer to their prime, not further from it.

Notes: See, I wish I could explain this, but all I have is the flint inside my head and also "haha wouldn't it be funny if" mindset. My writing style can be best described as "I don't know where this is going but I like it". Is the ending totally rushed? Yes. I sat down to write this all in one go but then work called and said I had to be in there in the morning, and I do like my sleep.

Characters: Launchpad McQuack, Bentina Beakley, Jim Starling, Drake Mallard, Your Suspension of Disbelief Please I Beg You

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Although she wouldn't say that she and Launchpad were the closest of friends, she had still developed a soft spot for the chauffeur and how he brightened the kid's days, and so his presence was genuinely missed the more and more time he spent in St. Canard.

The stories he told when he came back, however, almost made it worthwhile.

It all started with a movie set.

Needing to confide in the loss of an idol, but not wanting to burden the kids with the heavy subject, he jumped on the chance to talk to her, Mrs. Beakley offering her ear upon seeing the pensive look on the usually jovial duck. Everything that happened that day, he let out in a nervous and even slightly guilty ramble that at first, she didn't understand… until he got to the part with the breaking and entering into Scrooge's movie studio.

But he assured her that things worked out! So she let him continue, her glare only slightly disappointed… until it softened into a sympathetic furrow of her brows.

It was a bittersweet story, admittedly, wherein Launchpad got to meet with a childhood idol only to learn that sometimes, meeting your heroes only shows you their flaws, and how you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. Yet, through that, he managed to find a genuine friend in the shape of one such Drake Mallard, and she couldn't help but poke fun at the young man, ever one to get a crush on every passing pretty face -- let alone one that shared his niche interests. He bumbled through his words, assuring her it wasn't like that, and they shared a comfortable laugh, the weight off his shoulders now.

And just like that, this story was tucked into a mental manila folder, dated and put away in the tidy office that she imagined her mindscape to be.

A corner of it stuck out, wouldn't let her close the drawer.

Bentina picked at it from time to time, trying to find what wouldn't let her put it to rest, a crossroads puzzle drawn out when she already knew the words. 

(Declared missing, assumed dead, never found.)

She let it be. It wasn't her story to unfold.

The next one came as filler to a bigger story, but it captivated her nonetheless. Launchpad rattled off excitedly about fighting villains side by side with Darkwing Duck, about how scared he'd been but yet how cool it all was, and Bentina was almost jealous, but she's had enough excitement to last her a lifetime. No, what got her attention was the mention of a child in the middle of all of this, and eventually, under her prying, he confessed to all the things she had already figured out. Yes, yes, Drake was Darkwing Duck. 

What she cared about was that his friend Drake had taken a young girl under his literal and metaphorical wing until the girl's grandfather could be found. It was nice and all but was he equipped to care for a child.

No, Launchpad didn't have much of a choice in the matter, he was going to take her to Darkwing Duck, and she was gonna give everyone there a masterclass on childcare and welfare. They might be well-meaning, but a diet of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches paired with hamburgers and fries isn't a diet a child should grow on, and from her past experiences with free agents, they aren't the perfect role models for self-care.

She tried not to acknowledge the thankful sag of Darkwing's shoulders as a smile threatened to tickle her beak, just as she tried not to see another little girl in Gosalyn's place, and how she doesn't want another to repeat her mistakes. 

To protect, but not to smother. To teach, but not to scar.

(She was all too familiar with taking on parenthood unprepared.)

This memory, too, is filed away fondly, even if the bulk of its annexes means that again, her drawer won't close shut. Old habits die hard, she was a director once, and with the sight of someone so positively green with nothing but bravado and want to do good propelling them forward she couldn't stop herself from looking over his shoulder, pointing him in the right direction.

And she alone understood the strain in his voice once he finally relents and lets her in, calls her one late Duckburd night. He knew it was true, but he couldn't be the one to say it and with a tired sigh, Beakley accepted the burden of connecting a name to the gruesome crimes that had been popping up in St. Cannard.

Jim Starling, now seen clad in a mismatched parody of his old costume, seemingly set on doing his best to tear down Darkwing Duck's reputation.

(A masked mallard has been causing havoc, and civilians only know the one.)

And just like that, the stubborn folders she'd been fascinated with for months now are pulled out and inspected, and she tells herself not to get dragged into this -- she had a mansion and multiple children to take care of, she retired. But as Launchpad himself witnessed, Bentina Beakley had to see things through.

Loose ends and open-ended questions were unacceptable.

Where has he been all this time? How was he managing to get away with his crimes? How long has he been planning this? Does he have help? What will he do after this?

But just as he resurfaced, back under the surface he went, and Bentina tried her best to swallow down her frustration when Darking was the one on the line, now left with nothing but vague footage of a lookalike in a different costume to clear his name.

(It did nothing, but he didn't give up on the city, and that too felt bittersweet.)

There was one thing, however, that she had on Darkwing Duck. Contacts. A considerable amount of them, and she wouldn't lie and say she wasn't considering sharing them if Darkwing Duck proved his worth. And learned to play nice with others.

St. Canard might have gone silent, but a caped duck dressed in yellow maiming people as he goes on a massive crime spree across various cities is very hard to miss. But where before Jim did everything in his powers to make people think he was Darkwing Duck, now he seemed almost offended by the comparison. 

You are to call him one thing if you know what's good for you: Negaduck.

A mouthful, in her opinion.

Still, there was a pattern to it, and in the morning after news would always come to find that something has been stolen by F.O.W.L. while Negaduck positively demanded their attention. There was no confirmation on if he worked for them directly, but whatever the case was, there was a connection there and she… admittedly saw it as an excuse to look into it with Scrooge's permission. 

Alone.

Much like Darkwing Duck, her hesitation stemmed not from putting herself in danger, but the precious people in her life -- a blood racing adventure is one thing, a bloodthirsty ego-maniac with a chainsaw is another. If she had her way, Negaduck would never as much as step foot in Duckburg.

But first, she'd have to find him, and all it took was following the pattern he blazed through the map, trailing right to the next city over. It was more of a sense of when he'd strike, but Bentina had a hunch for that too -- all it took was remembering who was behind the mask.

What day of the week has the biggest pay-off? At what hour is the bank full? When would it be most dramatic? Jim Starling is a showman to his core, and he can't perform without an audience.

Well, hopefully, he wouldn't mind a fan of his cutting in line.

Armed to the teeth, he looked almost cartoonishly evil, and she's not a single second off in ruining his entrance, dropkicking him away from the bank's beautiful skylights, hopefully, they could manage their fight without ruining -- ah, shots immediately fire in her direction, shattering the skylight behind her and sending the people on the inside of the bank into a panic as glass rains on them. That's a shame.

The shots don't stop, however, and the other duck's aim hones in on her as he gets back up, a pure snarl on his beak at having his big entrance ruined, and he unloads an entire clip into the wall behind which Beakley was hiding behind just to make sure she knew that he was a little upset. This doesn't calm down the screaming inside.

"You! Ruined! My! Entrance!" With every word, he sprays the wall with more bullets, storming his way over to where he saw the other duck hide, but when he turns the corner with his gun at the ready, there's no one there -- not in front of him, at least. 

A fist from behind him is headed straight for the side of his head, but the feeling of the brim of his hat brushing against something tipped him off and so he dodges down, causing Beakley to instead whiff her punch and slam her fist into the wall, but any pain from that she's quickly distracted from when the bottom of his automatic is slammed into her beak, the bigger duck stumbling back. Reactively, her hand reaches for it as she sucks a tense breath in through her pained teeth. She's had worse, and the hard glare sent his way definitely let him know so.

It seemed to frustrate him. Good.

"I would hope that an actor of your seniority would know how to improvise."

And that seemed to infuriate him. Even better.

"If you're looking for autographs, granny, I can't seem to find a pen…" There's a theatrical apologetic show of patting himself down, but Beakley predicts his attack from the saccharine grin on his face, a dagger brought out from his inner jacket in a sweeping arc that she pushes to the side, yet it still manages to cut the very tips of a couple of hairs loose. "But I can CARVE one right into you!"

After that, the gun he had been shooting at her with is tossed to the ground in favor of being more aggressive with his melee attacks, quick jabs that she has to doubly focus on as to not get stabbed and not cut herself while redirecting, looking for any opening to wrestle the dagger away from him.

"Flattered for the offer," she starts before ultimately kicking Negaduck back just so that she can catch her breath for a precious few moments, well aware it could mean he draws another weapon on her, "but I'll have to say no. I'm afraid I can't say I'm the biggest fan of your more recent works."

"Bah! Everyone's a critic these days!" He almost barks a laugh at that, slowly unholstering the shotgun from his back, relishing the wide-eyed look Beakley gives him as she's the one that closes the distance between them now, fists in a flurry to keep him from being able to actually use it. Both hands on the shotgun, he pushes against her, only to then pull it back towards himself when she tries to wrangle it out of his hands, patronizingly close for just a couple of seconds. "Everyone's been telling me to let go, try something new!"

There are sirens in the distance.

"Well, here I am!"

He lets go, and Beakley stumbles half a step back, not quite as much as he'd hoped, but he still tries his luck with a jumping kick to her already bruised beak -- instead, he gets the butt of the shotgun slammed into his stomach before his foot makes contact, and his years of stunt work have him performing a perfect roll as he recovers, but not without a hand at his bruised midsection, a grin still on his expression.

"I can assure you, this is not what they meant." It falters, however, when Beakley doesn't break eye contact as she tosses the shotgun off the rooftop, the masked mallard looking as if she'd tossed away one of his toys.

The sirens grow louder.

Negaduck straightens up, then, making a show of stretching his limbs and taking a little too much pleasure in how his back cracked as if reading up for a second round. Even Beakley couldn't help but roll her shoulders and wrists at that, feeling the tension pent up inside her.

The knife is back in his hands, and he's tossing it up nonchalantly in one hand, trying to read the bigger duck in front of him, gather any clues at all about who she was a person.. and coming up absolutely blank. He hasn't even seen her hanging with that actor kid, so what were her stakes? Why bother talking and entertaining him with a fight?

"What's it to you, anyway?"

(Questions. Answers.)

"You will not step foot in Duckburg."

He brings the tip of the blade to his beak, pouting with it at his lips as if deep in thought before giving her a look that let her know exactly what he was about to say.

"Or what?"

The sirens are deafening.

She throws herself at the other duck, and he has the gall to laugh, even when his own brand of martial arts blended with stuntwork starts to lag behind her skills, honed over a lifetime. There's a certain thrill to this, her feathers bristling as a chill runs through her. It almost takes her back to her youth. Almost. Neither of them is a young duck, but from the sharp glint in the masked mallard's eye, she can tell they're sharing the same thought: age has only brought them closer to their prime, not further from it.

But neither can afford to stay on the roof much louder, a helicopter approaching in the distance, law enforcement speaking on a megaphone from the bottom of the street.

Her thoughts stray for a second, and a smoke bomb is deployed. She loses sight of him --

There's a sharp cut on her feathery cheek, and she can feel them getting damp from the cut, and Beakley turns around in an instant, her hand clasping anything she can get a hold of. His cape -- 

But as when she reaches to restrain him, as the smoke dissipates, he is nowhere to be seen.

The signs of their fight are as clear as day, his discarded weapons are where they were left, yet the only thing left of him was the damned cape. A shaking fist clenches in the fabric, before ultimately Beakley forces herself to relax, and find her own means of escaping attention. She did what she set to do:

Interrupt Negaduck, interrupt F.O.W.L. 

Leave a message.

She would get her selfish answers some other time.