PRODIGAL DAUGHTER

* 1 *

It has been a long time—far too long, in my opinion—and in my absence it seems all the world has changed. The city I remember from my childhood is no more.

Oh, the buildings are still there. The people go about their miserable, day-to-day lives as if nothing ominous lurks just beneath the surface. They do not know—can never know—the truth of what became of their world in the days following the ultimate sacrifice of their greatest savior. In the midst of that unspeakable tragedy, I promised the mysteries of the past would remain just as they were. Though sometimes I regret that promise.

Even so, I know beyond all doubt I must honor his last wish.

Idly stroking freshly washed red hair draped over a smooth shoulder, I stare out the window. The city is facing its latest challenge: a heavy downpour has been pounding St. Canard for hours. Not that the rain troubles me. I'm actually quite happy with the way things have worked out… though deep down I know quite well my reasoning is superficial.

"Goz? You have time for a chat?"

I don't need to turn to see my old friend in the doorway, but I do anyway. In one hand two glasses are perched, in the other a bottle of wine. Not cheap wine. This particular friend will spare no expense this day. "Time? I'm afraid time is one luxury I can't afford." I smile a sly smile before turning away. "But for you, I'll make an exception."

A long silence follows, and then the sound of the glasses as they are set on the nightstand by the bed, followed by the pop of the cork as it is unlodged. And then the wine is poured and our glasses clinked together in a toast that remains unspoken and we drink to old memories and days long past, gone but never forgotten.

A second round is poured and downed before my friend finally gains the courage to ask the question. "Will you stay?"

"I'm not sure."

It is no wonder it took so long to ask. There are others in St. Canard longing for the day that hope returns. Few know hope's true name, but my friend believes it to be me. The reasoning is sound, far more sound than my own regarding the cover of the rain.

Someone who has yet to truly make a name, to forge her own legend in the backdrop of a legend long since passed, has no need of any cover. The shadows are wasted on me. Unless I take up the mantle promised to me, if I so wish it. A mantle I have not yet made my own.

My friend is one of four in the city aware of my past, and the connections forged.

Still, it takes courage to ask such a simple question. If I stay it means that everything changes for these people.

Again.

I for one am not so eager to force change upon anyone, let alone myself.

Since his passing, I hold no true connections to this city or its people. I have only my friends, those long gone and those who refuse to let go of the past. But not even an entire bottle of wine would give me the courage to ask friends to turn their backs on their home.

What can I say? The truth is I don't have their courage. Not when it comes to connections. I find it too easy to turn my back. I did so for seven long years as the world I left behind fell to the shadows that were once held at bay by someone of far greater courage than myself. I could say that it was the promise that kept me away, but I would be kidding myself.

"Be honest, Goz. What brought you back?"

"I wish I knew," I reply calmly, and watch as more wine is poured, first for myself, then for my friend.

"Not courage?"

I snort. "If it were courage I would have taken up the mantle on the day he died."

"Loyalty then."

"Not likely. There's no one in this city deserving of that."

"Not your friends?"

"You know me better. If any of you were in mortal danger I would come in a heartbeat. That's not exactly the issue here."

"No, I suppose not."

But the damage is done. Our conversation ends, and we drink in silence until the wine is gone. Soon after my friend departs. I am alone. I'm used to being alone.

For a time I ponder the city below me in silence. Then I take up my black cloak and drape it over my shoulders. As I pull up the hood and open the window, letting in the wind and the rain, I breathe in the scent of the rain, drawing upon the inner courage I once left behind. Then I step out onto the balcony and into the night.

* 2 *

My father is buried beneath a massive stone statue of himself in the heart of St. Canard Cemetery. The headstone is marked with a simple passage: "Here lies Darkwing Duck. A Champion. A Hero. A Friend. May his memory be our strength and our courage."

I touch the plaque, my fingers meticulously tracing the name.

I've never stood beneath the statue. I've seen it only in pictures. I guess it does his big ego justice. Dad was never the most humble of guys. They got the pose right, too: Darkwing stands with his arms outstretched and tight fists holding his cape up menacingly. His hat is low, the brim hanging just above his bill. I can even see his spirit, the reservoir of righteous fury burning within, in the great stone duck's eyes.

I have to admit something: I don't regret missing his funeral.

To be honest, funerals aren't exactly my cup of tea. Especially state funerals filled with the pomp and circumstance and thousands of so-called mourners and dozens of self-important politicians looking to capitalize on death. Most spent their entire lives believing—or at the very least claiming—he was a menace to society. I wasn't interested in being patronized by thousands of fools who never really "got it" to begin with.

Besides, to most he was just Darkwing Duck. To some, a vigilante and a nuisance, to others, a protector and a champion of justice. And then there were some who knew him better than most. To them, he was a friend and ally. Fewer still knew he had a real name, and a family to go with it. In particular, myself, the daughter he adopted when I was only nine years old.

I would like to think I was the most precious thing he left behind. He never said so, even though his dying words were meant for me alone. I guess maybe he didn't have to.

When he died, I said goodbye to Drake Mallard in my own way. He wouldn't have wanted me caught up in the insanity of a state funeral anyway.

I moved away, and in the seven years following I never thought even once of the possibility of coming home, let alone visiting Dad's final resting place. Yet here I stand, lamenting my loss at the feet of Darkwing Duck… or rather, his statue. Somehow, just being near him gives me strength.

Even now the question lingers, unspoken, at the tip of my tongue. It's a question he couldn't answer even if he were somehow miraculously alive. I have to answer it for myself. But I'm not ready.

There is one other thing I haven't done since Dad died.

I keep my bill shut.

I'm not ready to start talking to the dead. Not yet.

* 3 *

"Gosalyn Mallard. Now this is a surprise." Two grey, steely eyes bore into me through the crack in the doorway. The voice is a familiar one, and though sincere in his surprise, I can tell it isn't a pleasant thought for old Vladimir Grizzlikof. I sigh heavily, and return his glare. "What brings you to my doorstep at such an hour?"

"I'm not even sure what brings me to this hellhole of a city," I reply. "But I suppose if there's anyone out there deserving of a visit it's you."

"It's after midnight, girl," he says slowly.

"Well, I'm a bit nocturnal, I guess."

He softens and nods slowly. "I suppose it must run in the family."

"May I come in?"

"Yes, yes. Please do."

Grizzlikof once worked side-by-side with my father. He's a massive bear of a man—literally—with a gruff personality to match. He's Russian, and if you couldn't tell by the name you'd know for certain by his deep, rich accent. I don't know him as well as Dad used to, but I know the kind of man he is. He's tough and rigid with a no-nonsense attitude, but if you peel the hardened layers away you can find a warm and gentle soul lurking somewhere beneath.

He's also one of the smartest men I've ever met. A former government agent, now retired. He and Darkwing had clashed when they met, years ago, but in time they had grown to respect one another. There was a mutual trust between them. Once they had grown accustomed to their distinct differences, together they were an unstoppable force: Darkwing Duck and Vladimir Goudenov Grizzlikof, Agent of S.H.U.S.H.

I always felt a tad bit better about Dad's dangerous work when I knew Agent Grizzlikof had his back.

"Can I offer you anything? Cup of coffee? Hot shower?" As he asks he slips the wet cloak from my shoulders.

I smile. "You do know the way to a girl's heart."

He grunts as he hangs my cloak over the radiator to dry. "Do you even have a place to stay? How long have you been in town?"

"Got in this afternoon. I was… at the Javelin this evening. With Sabrina."

Vladimir's permanent scowl deepens. "I see. And how is the girl?"

"She seemed happy."

"I see," he says again. His scowl fades and he even allows the ghost of a smile to grace his features. "That is good. She deserves to be happy."

"She lives in the Javelin, Vladimir."

"And she's well cared for. I do not control her life, Gosalyn."

"No," I mutter. "Somebody else does."

"Adrian Poe is not a bad man," Vladimir says. "He's done all right by me."

"It's not Poe I'm worried about."

Vladimir nods after a moment's thought. "No. I suppose not."

He gently takes me by the arm and guides me into the living room. The place is most definitely a bachelor pad. It's a studio apartment on the top floor of a five story building. Neither spacious nor tidy, though there is a certain comfort to the air, an unexpected warmth. A glass sits on the coffee table in front of the couch with a little liquid left in the bottom. The bottle next to it is a rather popular brand of vodka.

A cigar rests in the ashtray. It looks as if he had only just lit it when I knocked. It had been stubbed out. Of course. It hadn't taken him long to get to the door. That was because he hadn't been in bed.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"Just bad memories," he replies bitterly.

"I'm sorry, Vladimir."

"Nothing to apologize for. I should be thanking you. Now get moving. Down the hall, door to the right. There're clean towels on the rack. Freshen up before you catch cold."

"You don't have to do this, Vladimir."

"I know. Now get going before I have to drag you there myself."

I grin at the threat. "Oh? Sounds kinky."

He rolls his eyes. I can tell he enjoys the joke by the small smirk on his lips. Finally I give in and do as he asks.

The shower feels good. Refreshing. Yeah, I need it. Like I said, Vladimir knows how to treat the ladies.

But I didn't come to indulge, so I make it quick. I towel off and run a brush through my hair before slipping into the robe he'd given me. I guess it used to be Sabrina's. Or maybe her mother's. I can't say. Vladimir's wife has been dead for a long time now, so it doesn't seem likely. There's always the possibility Vladimir has a lady friend. Either way, I don't ask him where it came from. None of my business.

He's sitting on the couch, a glass of vodka in hand, staring off into space. He doesn't seem to realize I'm watching him from across the room. I feel sorry for the old guy. A top agent of S.H.U.S.H. once upon a time, now reduced to an unemployed, lonely bachelor. In some ways I know exactly how he feels, but then, he's experienced loss in ways I could never understand.

"Come Miss Mallard. Have a drink with me."

I blink, slightly surprised he knows I'm there. I would have thought he'd have said something sooner. Then I smile. "Only if you call me Gosalyn."

He considers, then he smiles and nods. "Of course, Gosalyn."

And so I move closer.

I don't like vodka. Still, there's a connection between us. A mutual friendship that still binds us together. We drink to painful memories. We drink to loss. We drink to might-have-beens. I can see that he still holds onto some vague sense of hope that I once left behind. It surprises me coming from one who has seen such devastation in his lifetime.

"Your father was a great man," he says after a long time.

"I know."

"The city has lost its way without him."

"I can see that."

He looks at me. "Where have you been the last seven years, Gosalyn?"

"Traveling."

He smiles. "Traveling."

"I had to see the world for myself, Vladimir. Dad protected me for a long time. I needed to see the dangers of the world without him. He wasn't there for me anymore. I needed to learn to protect myself."

"And what did you learn?"

"That I was a fool. That the world used my father and eventually killed him."

Vladimir sighs. "In a sense, that's probably true."

I gave a shake of my head as I downed the remnants of my glass. "Of course it's true. Darkwing Duck did the dirty work and got swept under the rug in the end."

"He was honored."

"Honored? How? With a state funeral and a big goddamn statue? Dammit, Vladimir, I know how he died. I was there."

"As was I. He did what he did because he had no choice."

"Sounds like coercion if you ask me."

Vladimir looks away. His tone is soft, somehow broken. "The worst of it was that he knew it was a suicide mission. He knew what had been asked of him, and he dove headfirst into the fray, no questions asked. He was determined to go out in a blaze of glory. His one regret… his only regret, was the sacrifice he was forcing you to make. He had no second thoughts."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. Of course not. It's just something I felt you needed to know."

"Well, it might surprise you, but I knew Dad better than anyone, and I already knew that. He never thought about the consequences. That doesn't make him a hero. It makes him a fool."

"The bravest fool I ever worked with."

I glance away, and then I slowly move to brush a tear from my eye that simply wasn't there. I don't cry anymore. It's been seven years, in fact. I cried for weeks on end after he died, until I was all cried out. And then I decided to disappear.

I left St. Canard—and my sorrows—in the rearview mirror. I took only my anger.

I didn't bother to tell anyone else where I was going.

* 4 *

I spend my first dawn in St. Canard since I was twelve standing at the picture window in the guest room, sipping on hot coffee. Vladimir makes a pretty mean cup of joe, I have to admit. A lot better than my own. I never had much desire or need to develop a talent for making it.

I'm alone now. Vladimir left a little while ago. Probably to make a run to the supermarket. I'm uninvited company, even if I'm more than welcome here.

I was smart enough not to let myself drink too much last night. I think Vladimir understood I wasn't exactly looking for a drink. I'm not entirely sure why I came myself. I think maybe somewhere down deep I was just looking for company, and for whatever reason Vladimir seemed like a good idea. He's a man who knows how to be gentle and soft-spoken, a bit more so than the other people I know who still live in St. Canard.

To get my thoughts off my troubles, I turn on the TV. I lower myself onto the sofa and begin to flip through channels.

Soon after my blood runs cold. Slowly yet effortlessly my slender body rises from the cushions. I stare darkly at the scene unfolding. These people are living in a world my father once fought and died for, but what I see on the screen breaks my heart.

"Heartache this morning at St. Canard Plaza where a gunman opened fire…"

I tremble with a mixture of grief and fury as I watch the scene unfold before me. EMTs load occupied stretchers onto ambulances. Sheets with telltale red splotches draped over unmoving masses. People sit about in a daze as paramedics and police officers hover over them.

"…at least twelve dead…"

I ball my hands into tight fists as I stare at the screen.

"…more than twenty wounded…"

I grit my teeth and close my eyes. This is what my father left behind.

"…fighting for their lives…"

His sacrifice… meaningless.

I shut off the TV and slump deep into the couch, letting the remote drop into my lap. My vision is blurred by the tears.

I'm crying for the first time in seven years.

When I finish, I slip a note under the empty vodka bottle on the coffee table and leave. My time with Vladimir is over. At least for now. I have other things on my mind.

* 5 *

The bridge is nothing like it used to be. S.H.U.S.H. was lightning quick and highly efficient in wiping clean any hint of evidence that the caped defender of St. Canard ever operated here. I'd never known. After Dad died, I didn't have the heart to visit. Looking back now, I wonder if they would even have allowed it. They had been so quick to act, so quick to show the public that the city's masked hero had fallen at the hands of evil.

After the funeral, they pretty much washed their hands of everything Darkwing Duck. They stripped the hideout of all his computers and gadgets and even his training facilities. Now it was an empty shell, vast and dark and silent.

It occurs to me that I've seen the place just like this once before.

Another time, another place. Another treasured soul left far behind. I sigh at the memory and wonder if he remembers me.

I move up the winding stairs to the top of the tower, where I find the very best view of the city where I had grown up.

There at the balcony I lower to the floor and lean up against the wall. I can see through the railing to the city beyond. With a sigh, I place my hands behind my head and lean back, soberly watching the world at work.

The view is pretty neat during the day, but at night it's ominous and exciting, especially in the humidity of the summer season when the fog from the bay rolls across the skyline. I think I'll have to come back tonight just to have another look before I put this place behind me.

I close my eyes and breathe in the city.

Here, far from the noise where I can simply watch the skyline from a familiar vantage point, it doesn't seem so bad. Most of the buildings are the same. There are two new structures to the south, and one missing from its place near the near pier three, almost directly across from the bridge. Further in is the Javelin, the hotel casino completed mere months after my father's death… and the location of his final battle against the criminal element that built it.

The sight of the Javelin, a towering structure that looks very much like a steeple jutting up from the ground and pointing to the heavens, draws me out of a moment of calm. I grow moody all over again. In this city, there's no such thing as escape.

I grunt to myself and let my head sink to my knees, wrapping my arms about myself. My cheek rests against my shoulder as I stare off into space.

The world as I knew it had changed so completely. It might look similar, but appearances are deceiving. I learned that the hard way, years ago.

I was never foolish enough to believe Dad was invincible, but I still believed… needed to believe. I didn't want to think anything could ever separate us.

But something had.

* 6 *

No second thoughts, I decide as I step onto the elevator and punch the button.

Dad never had second thoughts. Like I told Vladimir Grizzlikof… he never thought about consequences. Heroes can't afford to think about the consequences. Not for themselves, anyway. When innocent lives are at stake, choice is irrelevant. The true hero does precisely what he has to do, even if it means sacrificing everything he has.

I don't think that way. Dad did, and in the end, it cost him everything. It cost him his life.

The elevator opens up to the twenty-seventh floor, home to the offices of the Javelin's most prominent shareholders. Before me is a wide lobby, empty in the early evening save for a familiar face of a woman.

Her name is Clovis. A long time has passed since I last saw her. I doubt she would recognize me now.

She's sitting behind a desk. Beyond her is a long corridor leading to the offices.

I take a breath and move forward.

"I'm here to see Taurus Bulba."

"Appointment?" Clovis eyes me up and down. I force myself to stay relaxed. I twirl a lock of red hair in a finger as I watch back.

"I…"

"You're from Galahouse, aren't you?"

Galahouse? My mind races, trying to see if I have any recollection of something of that nature. It takes only an instant for it to hit home. Galahouse is one of the casino's entertainment venues. They specialize in performances curtailing to a very specific audience. I make an effort to keep my embarrassment from showing.

Clovis snorts softly as she peers down her snout at me. "His preferences get younger every day." She punches a button. "Mr. Bulba? There's a young lady from Galahouse here to see you."

A voice responds. "I had no such appointment." A hard voice. Familiar and cutting. I keep all emotion from my face as I stare at the floor.

"I'm a gift," I hear myself say.

"Gift?" Bulba replies curtly.

Clovis snorts again. "And who may I ask purchased your services?"

"I'm… afraid it was an anonymous gesture."

"An anonymous gesture, eh?" Bulba grunts. "Send her in, Clovis." He hangs up before she can respond.

She peers at me for a moment. "How old are you, girl?"

"Nineteen."

"New to the job?" she asks. "I've seen several girls come by to see Mr. Bulba, but I've never seen you."

"Well, yeah. Actually… this is my first private show."

Clovis frowns. "Show? Is that what you think this is?" She laughs then and gestures off down the hall. "Move along, girly. You don't want to keep Mr. Bulba waiting."

Girly? I shake away a sharp retort and focus instead on her unexpected laughter. I don't have to think too long before I realize what is going on. She thinks I've been sent here as one of Galahouse's young newcomers. Taurus Bulba is supposed to "break me in", so to speak.

Galahouse is apparently a more… hands-on establishment than I initially thought.

Actually this works to my benefit. It gets me inside to face the man who has turned St. Canard into a cesspool of organized crime.

I realize as I approach that I'm not exactly dressed to kill. Bulba is going to expect something much more tawdry. I'm supposed to be a whore. I guess I'm going to have to improvise.

I let my dark cloak hang open. I undo the top few buttons of my blouse to expose a very generous expanse of cleavage. Far more than I'm comfortable with… but I'll survive. My hips sway from side to side as I walk.

To my surprise I first encounter a stranger as he exits one of the Javelin's many offices. Except that he's not exactly a stranger. Not to anyone who follows the news or has a pulse. Adrian Poe runs a hand through the black feathers on his head when he spots me.

"Oh… pardon me. On your way to Bulba's office, miss?"

I blink and bat my eyelashes bashfully, or at least I try to. "Well, yes, I am. Can you point me in the right direction?"

I try not to reveal my surprise to one of the hotel and casino's most notable owners. It's important to play the part of the naïve young prostitute. Adrian Poe is the wealthiest man in St. Canard. He inherited his family's fortune, built primarily on a chain of hotel casinos throughout the eastern seaboard. He announced the deal to build the Javelin in St. Canard a few months before Dad's death, and it was completed in record time, less than two years later. By that time, my father was long gone.

He smiles. There doesn't seem to be any sincerity in the smile. In fact, it seems like there is a sadness in his eyes. A sadness for me, perhaps? Or rather, the girl he thinks I am. I'm no weakling. The real me needs no pity. I deserve none and I don't want any. I show him a spirited smile after he points me on my way.

"Thank you!" I say as I continue on down the hall.

I never try to reveal I know who he is.

Bulba's double oak doors are as large and gaudy as I expect them to be. I approach after taking a deep breath. As I reach to knock, I am surprised for the second time since stepping onto the twenty-seventh floor.

One of the massive doors swings open. Beyond is a tall slender young buck with a gleam in his dark eyes. One of Bulba's henchmen? I don't recognize him.

"Shake it, toots," he crows as he ushers me in. "Mr. Bulba don't like waitin'."

Toots? I want to shoot him a glare, but instead I fake a shy smile and nod as I step through the door. The soft scarlet carpeting cushions my soundless footfalls, and I can't help wondering just how much cash Bulba forked over for such luxuries. Dirty money, without a doubt. They say that for every dime Bulba had made throughout his adult life, a dozen people had to die. I swallow hard at the thought. I remember to twirl a lock of red hair in a trembling finger for show as I peer quietly about the room. I'm supposed to be awed at everything I see here. Honestly, it's all very impressive.

"Come on in, girl," a deep voice grumbles as I stare about my surroundings. No expense spared to enjoy the lap of luxury. Sitting behind a massive oak desk is Taurus Bulba. He leers at me, and I unexpectedly miss a step as I meet his sour glare.

The last I had seen Taurus Bulba, he'd been draped in the technological wizardry of F.O.W.L. Now that I get my first look I can see much has changed since that time.

He had stayed out of the public eye in the years following Darkwing Duck's untimely demise. The heavy arsenal of weapons and the dark red armor that once covered his body has been removed, and he looks very much like his old self, before he was given his cybernetic enhancements. There are still patches of metal poking out of his flesh here and there, and his left eye has been replaced by a neural optic that shines with a red light.

"Well?" he grumbles as he leans forward at his desk.

I smile shyly, though my stomach turns at the thought of what he's expecting.

The buck closes in from behind. Warning bells go off in my head as he looms over me, but I fight back my instincts and allow him to take my cloak.

Bulba looks me up and down, his eyes linger a little longer on my chest than the rest of me. I lean forward slightly, trying to give an even more generous view. I need him as distracted as possible.

"You're what? Nineteen?"

I nod.

"Stage name?"

I consider momentarily and smile. "Daisy."

"All right. Show me the goods."

I blink. "Um… Okay. You sure you don't want to set the mood first?"

"No need. Take your shirt off."

"… Sure."

My fingers move slowly to the buttons of my blouse. This isn't exactly how I imagined my first meeting with Taurus Bulba in more than eight years.

I let the blouse slip from my shoulders to the floor. I know better than to cover my chest at this stage. I'm not watching the hungry stare I feel coming from him. I stare instead at the scarlet carpet. "All of it, bitch," he commands.

I look up then, prepared to offer him a piece of my mind.

But he's not watching me.

He's glaring at the monitor of his computer.

"All of it," he says again. "Don't make me wait."

"Uh… yeah." My fingers move to my belt buckle. I slip the accessory slowly from my waist. I am peeling my jeans from my hips when he speaks again.

"No weapon. I'm insulted."

I freeze.

I glance up just in time to see Bulba nod to his henchman.

I feel a sharp pain against the back of my head and a simultaneous flash of white in my skull.

In an instant, my entire world goes black.

NEXT EPISODE: CAGED