Darkwing Duck: Speed Quack

The peace in St. Canard had become, to Drake Mallard's profound irritation, insufferable. The city, once a swirling vortex of dastardly deeds and daring do-gooding, had been "modernized." Sleek, silent automated security drones patrolled the skies, street crime was down by 97.4%, and the biggest menace was a rogue artisanal pretzel cart.

Darkwing Duck, the Terror That Flaps in the Night, had been reduced to the Terror That Flaps in His Living Room, muttering critiques at the evening news. His gas gun sat polished but silent on its velvet cushion. His smoke bombs were gathering dust. Launchpad, bless his loyal, dim-witted heart, was now an Uber driver for St. Canard's burgeoning tourist industry, occasionally landing his minivan in improbable places. Gosalyn, now a feisty teenager with a penchant for online gaming and a healthy dose of eye-rolling, found her father's incessant "Let's get dangerous!" pronouncements more embarrassing than inspiring.

Gosalyn: Dad, seriously? Gosalyn sighed, looking up from her tablet.

Gosalyn: That's the fifth time you've tried to 'smoke bomb' the toaster for a bagel. It just makes the house smell like burnt rubber.

Drake, a dramatic plume of non-toxic stage smoke slowly dissipating around his head, adjusted his silk dressing gown.

A hero must stay sharp, Gosalyn! Readiness is all! What if F.O.W.L. suddenly decided to kidnap the city's prize-winning petunias?

"They'd probably just use 'secure autonomous botanical transport units' now," she mumbled, then froze.

A shriek, sharper than any banshee's wail, tore through the digital calm of her game. It was the sound of the city's new "Omni-Shield" security system failing. The TV flickered to life, cutting into Drake's favorite rerun of "The Adventures of Gizmoduck."

On screen, a hulking, reptilian figure with a razor-sharp beak and a glint of genuine malice in his eyes was tearing through the freshly laid pavement of St. Canard's central plaza. It was none other than the legendary, the terrifying, the notoriously un-modernizable Steelbeak! Behind him, a squad of classic-looking F.O.W.L. goons, armed with actual ray guns, were causing glorious, unadulterated mayhem. They weren't stealing petunias; they were dismantling the new Peace Tower, piece by gleaming piece.

"Hah! Your precious Peace-Bots are no match for good old-fashioned brute force and a well-placed plasma cannon!" Steelbeak roared, tossing a smoldering drone aside like a crumpled soda can. "St. Canard has grown soft! Too clean! Too boring! It's time for a little chaos... Steelbeak style!"

Drake Mallard's eyes widened. A slow, terrifying, utterly magnificent grin spread across his face. The smoke-stained dressing gown was suddenly too civilian, too safe.

"Did you hear that, Gosalyn?" he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "He said 'boring.' He said 'chaos.' He said... he said it needed 'Steelbeak style'!"

Gosalyn, for once, wasn't rolling her eyes. A small, almost imperceptible smirk played on her lips. "He's got a point, Dad. This city has been a snooze-fest."

Drake didn't need further prompting. He burst into the hidden closet beneath the stairs, a place that hadn't seen action in years. Out came the familiar purple uniform, the flowing cape, the wide-brimmed hat. He slipped on the gas gun, the comforting weight a welcome return.

"Launchpad!" he bellowed, grabbing his phone. "Fire up the Ratcatcher! We've got a city to save, and a reputation to restore!"

Minutes later, a sputtering, roaring, dented crimson vehicle barreled down the street, trailing a cloud of exhaust that would make a dragon weep. The Ratcatcher. Its iconic siren, a mournful, off-key wail, echoed through the suddenly chaotic streets. Launchpad, looking utterly thrilled, gripped the wheel.

"It's been too long, DW!" he yelled over the engine, narrowly missing a fleeing pretzel cart. "My driving skills were getting rusty!"

"As was my sense of purpose, L.P.!" Darkwing declared, standing dramatically in the passenger seat, cape flapping. He aimed his gas gun, then hesitated. "Wait, is this the sleep gas or the sneezing gas? Always get those two confused..."

He fired anyway. A F.O.W.L. agent sneezed violently, dropping his ray gun. Progress!

They skidded to a halt at the edge of the decimated plaza. Steelbeak, perched atop the rubble of the Peace Tower, cackled. "Look at this! The old-timers are coming out of retirement! You're quaint, duck. Adorable. But irrelevant!"

Darkwing Duck struck his signature pose, the wind (mostly from the Ratcatcher's engine) whipping his cape. The few remaining automated drones whizzed around aimlessly, confused by the sudden, analog disruption.

"Irrelevant, you say?" Darkwing's voice boomed, projecting over the din. "Perhaps St. Canard has forgotten what true danger feels like! Perhaps they've forgotten the Terror That Flaps in the Night! The chill that runs down your spine! The hero that... that!" He fumbled for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "That makes you wish you'd stayed home and polished your beak!"

He drew a smoke bomb. It fizzled, then released a disappointingly small puff. He cursed under his breath. "Blast it, these things have a shelf life!"

Steelbeak roared with laughter. "See? Washed up!"

But as the villain mocked, Drake's eyes narrowed. He was rusty, yes. But the heart of the hero, the outrageous ego, the sheer theatricality—it was all still there. He spotted Gosalyn, who had followed them, discreetly working on a hacked drone with a gleam in her eye.

"Oh, you think so, do you, Steelbeak?!" Darkwing suddenly yelled, drawing himself up to his full, magnificent height. "Because I, Darkwing Duck, am not just a hero! I'm a statement! And this city, in its sanitized slumber, has just been reminded of what it truly needs!"

He pulled out his gas gun again, a mischievous glint in his eye. He'd found the other setting, the one labeled "Confounding Agent (Mildly Irritating)." He fired a stream of pink gas right at Steelbeak.

The villain sneezed. Then he started to itch. Violently. He scratched at his back with his metal claws, squawking in frustration. "What IS this?!"

"It's the Terror of Temporary Topographical Tingle, you fiend!" Darkwing declared, striking another pose. "And now, to seal your doom!"

Suddenly, Gosalyn's hijacked drones, instead of targeting F.O.W.L., began to play upbeat jazz music and project holographic images of dancing rubber chickens onto the buildings. The F.O.W.L. agents, momentarily distracted by the absurd spectacle, were then promptly run over by Launchpad, who'd somehow managed to drive the Ratcatcher in a perfect, dizzying circle.

Steelbeak, too busy itching and yelling about "avian dermatitis," missed Drake leaping onto a discarded crane arm. With a final, dramatic flourish, Darkwing Duck swung down, snatching the Peace Tower's stolen capstone from Steelbeak's grasp. He landed perfectly, striking a heroic pose in front of the cheering (and slightly bewildered) crowd.

"Let's get dangerous!" he bellowed, the iconic phrase echoing through the plaza.

Steelbeak, defeated and still itching, was quickly rounded up by the city's actual police force, who had finally arrived. The automated drones, now playing "The Can-Can," spun harmlessly overhead.

The crowd, which had started out bewildered, erupted into cheers. Signs, hastily scrawled on cardboard, appeared: "DW IS BACK!" "MAKE ST. CANARD DANGEROUS AGAIN!"

Drake Mallard, no, Darkwing Duck, beamed. He had returned. The city was saved. The boredom was banished.

He looked out at the familiar chaos, the joyful mayhem returning to St. Canard. He adjusted his hat, then, just for emphasis, he leaned into the silence that followed the cheering.

"Darkwing Duck returns," he declared dramatically, puffing out his chest.

And then, loud and clear, echoing through the revitalized, wonderfully dangerous air of St. Canard, came the most satisfying sound of all.

"QUACK!"

SolarAtom: The Last Of Pure Energy

Vol.1 Unlocks: TBA