Trying to make a name for yourself a superhero was way too much like trying to make a name for yourself as an actor, Dra—er, Darkwing Duck had determined.

All crimes were big crimes when you were looking for your next big break, you never got as much recognition as you deserved, your name was always misspelled or mispronounced in the media, and everyone always knew the name of the bigger, established star.

In this case, Gizmoduck.

And also in this case, thanks to that infernal mechanical menace's interference in his first few big successful rounds of crime stopping, everyone thought that Darkwing Duck was Gizmoduck's sidekick.

To Darkwing Duck, the term 'sidekick' was too reminiscent of the times he saw 'understudy' beside his name. Well, not Darkwing Duck's name, per se, but… Never mind, that was in the past and not important.

What was important was this train traveling from St. Canard and headed to Duckburg. Darkwing wasn't sure at all what exactly the cargo was, but when large birds of prey carry suspicious boxes while following the train, he had a feeling it was important.

Especially because, according to the information he had gathered, the incarcerated crime boss of St. Canard, Tarus Bulba, had a large trained vulture as a pet.

Also according to the information he had gathered, Bulba was still running his crime ring in the big house.

Darkwing knew that this would be his big break… Saving the train's cargo, and likely the crew as well, ensuring it all arrived safely in Duckburg. Stopping Bulba's reign of terror for good. And Gizmoduck was nowhere to be seen… Hadn't been for a few days, actually. While this should have pleased Darkwing to no end, he was miffed that the jewelry store thieves he had stopped and hand-delivered to the police station ended up with zero press and only a small mention of his deeds in the paper.

Named only as Gizmoduck's plucky assistant.

There wasn't even a picture.

And who even reads the newspaper anymore?

From the tree he was in, Darkwing dropped onto the top of a train car, nearly losing his balance and ultimately landed on his tailfeathers.

At least the baddies (and the media, which could be the same thing) weren't around to see that…

He hoped.

He quickly determined which car held Bulba's target. It was hard to ignore the armed military guards.

That piqued Darkwing's interest considerably. Whatever it was, it had to be dangerous. Or valuable. Or both. A weapon of some sort, maybe.

He dropped down onto the end of the car directly across from the guards, cape fluttering in the wind.

"Gentlemen!" Darkwing called grandly. "I do not mean to alarm you, but I suspect that what you are guarding is in danger of being stolen by Tarus Bulba. But never fear, for I, Darkwing Duck, will ensure that will not happen!"

The guards exchanged a look, and then sinister grins.

"Are you sure about that?" One asked.

"Yeah, how do you know you haven't already failed, Dorkwing?" The other chimed in.

Darkwing felt the blood drain from his face.

Or he could have just announced his presence to two of Bulba's men posing as guards. That could happen, too.

As they approached to cross over to Darkwing's car, he leapt over them, landing on the car with the cargo. He forced open the door and locked it, leaving the two fake guards to hammer away on the door.

Panting slightly and trying to come up with a new plan, Darkwing looked up at the cargo. Yeah, it was definitely a weapon…

In the dark, he squinted at writing on the side of the control panel.

"The Waddlemeyer Ramrod…" He whispered. "What does it do? And why does Bulba want it?"

"That's for Bulba to know, and you to find out."

Darkwing whirled around, shoulders slumping as he realized he wasn't alone.

"Ah, phooey," He sighed.

Suddenly, an explosion ripped a hole in the top of the train car, and a tall ram grabbed hold of Darkwing, throwing him as if he weighed nothing out of the hole.

Darkwing landed on top of the remains of the roof, pushing himself to his feet, trying to gasp for breath as the ram was now joined by the two fake guards.

"Looks like we've got Gizmoduck's little sidekick," The ram said gleefully.

Darkwing sneered. "I. Am. Not. A. Sidekick!"

Years of training in stage fighting had helped him many times since he donned the cape, mask, and fedora of his childhood hero, but when it was three-to-one in cases like this, Darkwing was always painfully reminded of one thing:

In stage fighting, you're not actually trying to hurt the people you're fighting. You're just acting.

These three goons were most definitely not acting.

Darkwing found himself ungracefully dumped onto the roof of the next car, one of the goons unlatching the car with the Waddlemeyer Ramrod, which had now somehow sprouted wings and was flying back towards St. Canard.

Darkwing groaned and rubbed his forehead.

Great. Just great.

There went a weapon into the hands of a notoriously ruthless criminal, and his big break.

Yes, one was more important than the other, he knew.

But still.

Darkwing sighed and carefully jumped off the back of the train.

At least he could figure out what exactly Bulba may be up to.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Darkwing felt like a teenager sneaking home after a night of partying as he wrestled with the stuck window of his apartment, standing on the fire escape and hoping none of his neighbors came to investigate the mysterious noises. Or, worse, call the cops.

He could kiss a secret identity good-bye if he had to explain that, yes, officer, he did live here…

He really needed to bug his landlord about getting this darn window fixed. Again. Like he hadn't already done so three times in the last month.

Finally, the window opened and Darkwing crawled in, closing the window behind him. He started to take a step away…

Only to be jerked back.

Darkwing turned around to see what grabbed him.

And… he got his cape stuck in the window. Again.

Darkwing sighed, briefly considered just taking off the cape and dealing with it in the morning, changed his mind and wrestled the window open, freed his cape, and then closed it again.

Darkwing turned on a lamp and glanced around the sorry excuse of an abode he called an apartment. It was small and cramped, one room with a kitchen on one side and what could barely be called a bathroom adjacent on the other. But it was cheap and available, and he had desperately needed something that was both. Boxes were everywhere, none truly unpacked, and the couch that doubled as his bed covered in blankets and socks, and the coffee table that doubled as his dinner table held wrappers and dishes and his laptop.

He changed out of his Darkwing uniform and into a comfy flannel shirt, then went and grabbed a bowl and filled it with cereal. He opened the threadbare fridge and then groaned and smacked his forehead on the sticky note that read 'BUY MILK!'.

He forgot the milk…

He grabbed a spoon anyways and plopped onto the couch, opening his laptop.

"Alright, Bulba," He muttered around a mouthful of dry cereal—ugh, his mouth was going to feel awful later—as he typed in 'WADDLEMEYER RAMROD' into the search engine. "What are you up to?"

He didn't find any direct results for his search, but did find several news articles immediately, all from St. Canard-based newspapers.

Apparently, this Waddlemeyer guy had died six months ago. An in-home accident, apparently. Darkwing skimmed the obituary and articles about the man's life. He had won numerous awards, had made numerous advances in technology and military-grade defense systems, was considered a good man by all. His funeral had been attended by at least ten world leaders or representatives of a nation. Was preceded in death by his wife, his son, his daughter-in-law.

His only surviving relative was a nine-year-old granddaughter named Gosalyn.

Something about this piece of information made his blood run cold and ruffled his feathers.

He went back to the results page, then amended his search terms to include Duckburg. Why was the Ramrod coming to this city?

That answer was a bit buried in a lot of useless results, but then he found one article that seemed promising.

FAMED INVENTOR'S FINAL PROJECT TO COME TO DUCKBURG.

Apparently, Waddlemeyer's Ramrod—the final project in question—was inoperable because no one except the inventor knew how to work it. The Ramrod was coming to McDuck Enterprises' research lab where renowned inventor Gyro Gearloose was supposed to determine how to make it work.

Darkwing leaned back on the couch. Bulba didn't know how to make the machine operable. But what if…

Darkwing sat up, setting down his bowl and rushing back to the closet for his costume.

Now he knew why the thought of little orphaned Gosalyn Waddlemeyer made him feel uneasy.

The last living relative of Waddlemeyer might know the code. Or maybe she didn't.

But he needed to find out for certain before Bulba did.

Even if it meant going back to his hometown, the place he swore he would never return.

"St. Canard," Darkwing muttered as he revved the engine of his motorcycle. "Here I come."

Ready or not.