Chapter 1

The first breaths of the coming sunrise peeking over the horizon bathed the city street in an ambient haze of purples and blues. A lithe figure ran soundlessly down a suburban street lined with darkened windows and sleeping inhabitants. Without breaking his stride, he leapt, caught the top of a fence, and flung himself effortlessly into the yard it enclosed. Grabbing the lowest branch of a tree he'd come to know every inch of, he hoisted himself up through the boughs as he'd done since he was a small child; he was fairly sure he could do this in the pitch-black of night, so accustomed was he to breaking back into his own home.

He balanced on the end of the longest branch and fumbled blindly until his hand found the bottom of the window. Ever so gently, he raised the window about a foot and a half, then eased himself through the opening, coming to rest softly on the bed beneath the window. He breathed a sigh of relief, silently grateful for having returned in one piece and completely undetected. When he turned to close the window, he nearly jumped out of his skin when the lights in the room flipped on, momentarily blinding him after having spent the entire night in near-darkness.

"Jesus Christ!" he cried in a startled voice, snapping back around with a wild look, blinking hard in the bright light.

An older duck glared at him flatly, holding a steaming mug of coffee.

"I was going to offer you some coffee," the older duck said, raising an eyebrow. "But after an entrance like that, I'd say you're already wide awake."

"Geez, Gramps, you scared me," the younger figure dressed in black muttered, sinking into a sitting position on the bed.

"Until you've waited all night for your teenage grandson to come home, you don't know a damn thing about fear," the older duck told him as he handed his grandson a cup of coffee, then poured one for himself from a thermos on the desk beside the bed. The older duck took a seat in the chair across from him. "Jack, you lied to me."

"I can explain," Jack protested, using the mug of coffee to warm his freezing hands. "I was up here studying for my chemistry exam. Honest to God, I was."

"How many people study chemistry while running around in the city in the middle of night dressed in black?" his grandfather snapped back at him. He reached over and yanked the black knit hat from his grandson's head. "Dammit, Jack. You look like a criminal in that getup!"

"It's a disguise, Gramps, it's all I had!"

"I think the bigger question is why my only grandson is out in the middle of night to begin with, let alone what he's wearing." The older duck sighed and threw the hat on the bed next to Jack. "I feel like I've been talking to a brick wall all these years, Jack. Nothing I can say can make you stop this idiotic game."

"It's not a game," Jack responded somewhat darkly, looking his grandfather straight in the eye. "It wasn't a game when you were Darkwing Duck. It wasn't a game when Mom was Quiverwing Quack. And it's not a game to me, either."

At the mention of those two names, the older duck cringed noticeably. "Let's not get into this now."

"Then when? Sooner or later, we'll have to." Jack stood up and began pulling off the black sweater to reveal a black t-shirt underneath. His grandfather caught a glimpse of crimson on his upper arm, and shot out of his chair.

"Are you hurt? You're hurt. Jesus, Jack, you're hurt!"

"Relax. Just scraped my arm up a little, that's all," Jack said reservedly as he began to gather his chemistry textbooks and put them in his bag. An arm shot out, grabbed him, and began to drag him towards the bathroom. Jack protested loudly, "You've got to be kidding me! It's barely big enough for a band-aid!"

"My eyes aren't what they used to be, kid. Let's get it under the light and let you prove it to me," the older duck countered in an ornery tone.

"You got a few bumps and bruises when you were out there patrolling the streets. I don't see what the four alarm fire is about," the teenaged duck whined. Under the bright lights of the bathroom, he could see it most definitely was big enough for a band-aid, and might very well qualify for the status of needing a stitch. The older duck shot Jack a look.

Jack simpered a bit. "Guess I couldn't see it too well in the dark, huh Gramps?"

Silently, they got to work cleaning the wound and binding it up. When they were finished, Jack rolled his sleeve back down as his grandfather caught sight of the two of them in the mirror hanging over the sink, and his heart skipped a beat as it always did when he realized how like his daughter Jack looked. Drake Mallard might have once been Darkwing Duck, but he hadn't held that title in a decade, and he could see his age clearly when compared to the nineteen year old duck standing next to him. The dichotomy never ceased to amaze him; though not a drop of his blood ran in Jack's veins, they were so much alike in every other way that Drake marveled in their not being related. Jack had Gosalyn's eyes; her beak; her obstinate stance and willful tone of speech; but he had Drake's stubbornness and tenacity. Drake supposed that had, indirectly, come from him. Being a parent was more than just DNA, after all.

Drake sighed as he stared at the clock in the bathroom. "You had to do it today, didn't you?" he said softly, not looking at Jack. "Today, of all days, you had to do it."

Comprehension dawned on Jack and the irritated expression fell from his face. "I – I didn't realize it, Gramps. I'm sorry. Really, I am."

"Don't feed me any more lies, kid. Not today," Drake shot back gruffly, exiting the bathroom and making his limping way downstairs. Jack leaned on the doorway of the bathroom, watching Drake descend the steps.

"Wasn't lying that time, old man," Jack whispered.

The sun now shone boldly over the perfectly manicured lawns and the neat rows of houses. Drake barely noticed it as he began to mix up pancake batter, knowing that even though he sometimes got so mad at Jack he felt he could throttle the boy, he'd never send him off to class on an empty stomach. He felt, if nothing else, he owed it to Gosalyn.

Ten years ago today, Drake had been left without a daughter or a son-in-law and Jack had been left parentless. Ten years ago today, both of their worlds had imploded in a single, horrifying moment.

Drake stirred the batter angrily, his thoughts far away from the safe, bright suburban kitchen. The memories were still there. They would always be there. Every second of that night would be etched in his mind for the rest of his life. They came to him in his nightmares, they invaded his daytime thoughts, but for all the time he'd spent with the memories, they got no easier to bear.

"You want some help with that?" a voice called behind him. Startled, Drake dropped the mixing spoon. Jack shrugged and smiled a little. "You seem to be getting more on the counter and walls than the griddle, Gramps."

That smile. Every time Drake saw that smile, the image of a little red-headed girl came to him, and he couldn't help but smile back. "Help an old mallard out, eh Jack? Get the plates."

Jack dutifully set the table and dug in with relish when Drake set a plate of food in front of him. Drake sipped coffee and watched him. Jesus, that kid can eat, he thought to himself.

"What's the difference between a mixture and a chemical compound?" Drake asked suddenly.

Jack chewed thoughtfully for a moment before answering, "The constituents of a mixture can be separated by filtering, magnetic force or evaporation, but a chemical compound can only be separated by a chemical reaction." He beamed, a bit of syrup dripping on his left cheek.

"That was an easy one. Give me the name of an inorganic compound."

"Simple. Ammonia."

"Formula?"

"NH3."

"Boiling point?"

"Negative 33.34 degrees Celsius."

"Not bad. You might pass that test yet," Drake said with a satisfied smirk.

"I told you I studied." He shrugged. "College is a good cover. I'm almost glad you made me go."

Drake slammed his mug on the tabletop, startling Jack enough to make him drop his fork. "College is a good cover for what?" Drake growled.

"N-Nothing, Gramps."

Drake sighed. "You're going to make me lose you too, Jack. You're all I've got. You're going to make me go through that again?"

"I'm always careful," Jack said, not looking Drake in the eye as he knew his grandfather could spot bullshit from a mile away. He played with his napkin absent-mindedly. "And I never bust big criminals like you and Mom used to."

"Only because there aren't any more. The only good thing that came out of that night ten years ago is that we got them all at once." Drake shut his eyes. He remembered waking up in a hospital room, waking up to the knowledge that he'd walk with a cane for the rest of his life, waking up to never again being able to see out of his left eye, waking up to the knowledge that he'd come full circle – pain, casts, and a nine year old orphan staring at him and trying not to burst into terrified sobs. He stood up slowly, grabbing for his cane to steady himself, and put his mug in the sink. "After everything we've been through, I can't see why you'd want to continue the cycle."

Jack shook his head, trying to make sense of his thoughts. "It's just inside of me, Gramps. It always has been. I have to do it. You understood that about Mom. You somehow justified it about your own days as Darkwing. Why can't you do the same for me?"

"And look where it got us," Drake answered grimly. "I'm half blind. I'm been lugging this cane around with me for a decade like an old man. I wake up some mornings in so much pain I'm convinced I'm finally dying. You grew up without a mother or a father. Just for once, I'd like to try normalcy."

"Our family doesn't do normal," Jack said, grabbing his plate and putting it into the sink next to Drake's coffee mug.

"If I'd tried it, we'd still be a complete family," Drake said quietly, looking out the window behind the sink. Jack put his arm around him.

"We're a family, Gramps. We're doing fine," he whispered.

"I don't want you making the same mistakes I did. Jack, if I lost you too – "

"You're not going to lose me," Jack answered defiantly, wiping his hands on a damp towel and throwing his bookbag over his shoulder. "Look, I won't go out tonight. I promise. Ok?" Drake didn't answer. Jack sighed and hugged Drake with one arm. "I gotta get to class. See you this afternoon." With that, he was gone and Drake was alone with his thoughts.

Jack had insisted on commuting to St. Canard University instead of living on campus; Drake knew his grandson felt he had to keep an eye on him, which made him feel like even more of a geezer than his sixty year old body already did. Knowing Jack was out on the streets at night, and knowing he couldn't protect his grandson like he could have when he was Darkwing Duck, kept him up waiting all of the nights Jack was away.

Childhood hadn't been easy for Jack; Drake knew that. Even if Gosalyn and Thad hadn't been killed, it still wouldn't have been a normal childhood. Drake gained some measure of comfort knowing that at the very least, Gosalyn had felt what Drake had all those years ago every time Jack begged Gosalyn to let him go along on one of her capers. As the years went on and Gosalyn had come into own in the ways of crimefighting, Drake had taken more and more of a backseat. So many injuries and knocks over the years had aged him faster than a normal duck should, so Drake had no choice but to take a less active role than he had in previous years. Oddly, he found he didn't mind too much; Gosalyn knew what she was doing and could handle most things on her own. Though he would have preferred Gosalyn have a regular job, he'd known it wasn't in her nature. It never had been.

That's why they'd gotten along so well.

In the first few weeks after his parents' death, Jack had barely spoken a word. He wasn't told much more than he needed to know – his parents died in an accident – and the shock of losing his parents seemed to numb the small boy for some time. Seeing his grandfather suddenly reduced to someone who needed help with everything from eating to dressing himself in the weeks after the accident hadn't been easy to digest, either; Jack had always known him to be strong, agile, and independent. It was almost gruesome to see his grandfather helpless. It felt like his world had collapsed completely.

Drake healed – as much as he was going to, anyway – and life resumed as much as it possibly could. Due to the very public nature of The Accident, as Jack and Drake had come to call it, St. Canard had finally learned Darkwing's true identity. Jack knew even as a small child that it was a definite no-no to so much as breathe a word of Darkwing Duck's true identity, so having Drake's name and unmasked picture splashed across the headlines had been surreal for the boy. What was most disturbing about it was that Drake didn't seem to care, or even take much interest in his sudden fame. Drake knew, rightly, that his days as a masked avenger were over. He physically couldn't pull it off anymore, and after losing Gosalyn, most of the fight in him was gone anyway. Drake was awarded custody of Jack and raised him as best he could – sent him to school, helped with his homework, took him to movies, even wrestled with him if he was having a moment of being pain-free. Jack loved Drake as much as he loved his parents, but Drake could never be a father to him; Jack remembered too much of his former life for that to happen.

Drake had been approached many times over the years to tell his story, to write it down, to make it into a movie, or at the very least do a few interviews, but the duck who'd always been his own best publicist found he couldn't so much as string a sentence together when it came to describing or justifying the life he'd led. As soon as everyone was interested, Drake lost all interest. It wasn't because his head wasn't full of thoughts, emotions and memories of his life as Darkwing Duck; it was simply too painful to share with anyone.

For ten years, he'd had to live with the knowledge that he'd inadvertently caused his own daughter's death.

Every time this thought came to him in such stark terms, Drake felt like vomiting. It was his secret, one that he'd had to bear alone, the one that ate him alive as he was trapped in the body that still held the scars of that horrific night. If it hadn't been for Jack, Drake wouldn't – couldn't – have borne it. He would have done away with himself ten years ago without an ounce of apprehension.

Someday, he'd have to tell Jack the truth.

Someday, Jack would want answers.

When that happened, Drake's day of reckoning would have come, perhaps long overdue but a karmic debt to be paid all the same. Jack would find out his secret. And Jack would hate Drake with every fiber of his being. But at least the reality would have been told and Drake could go to his grave with the knowledge that he'd given Jack the rarest gift in the world – the gift of the pure, unbridled, ugly, torturous truth.

What a thing to inherit, Drake thought dismally to himself.