#studioofdw

“Daring duck of mystery, champion of night!

Swoops out of the shadows, Darkwing owns the night!”

“Darkwing Duck, the roaring success but short-lived cartoon series of five years ago, has been catapulted back into the spotlight today after a fire broke out at DW Studio, home and center of production for the super-hero centered series, late last night. The fire was quickly extinguished before it could spread to nearby buildings by the St. Canard fire department, and St. Canard Police Chief Oxford Bully held a news conference this afternoon to address the matter. On the spot-reporter, Beverly Bo was there…”

The television that displayed the news story was the only source of light or noise in the dark hallway it overlooked. Spoonerville Prep High School, despite its preppy students, cushy benefactors, and Flat-screen High Definition Television Screens in every corner of every hallway, frowned on spending unnecessary expenses on things like keeping the lights on after the school closed down for the day, or letting the lonely janitor enjoy some source of noise while he worked far into the night dusting the many trophies that over-flowed the expensive glass cabinets that lined every hallway, reorganized the desks, rubbed down the whiteboards, shined the computers, and lastly, mopped the floors. Pausing his work, the sleeves to his janitorial overalls pushed up over his elbows, the white feathered mallard glanced up at the screen. He pulled the spongy and tape-covered headphones off his head and produced the remote control from his pocket, turning the television’s volume up.

“Thank you for coming…” the large bull greeted the mass of reporters clumped before him in his usually dull, empty voice.

Chief Oxford Bully was an aged, tired, and unenthusiastic bull that had lost his passion and fire for cleaning up the streets of St. Canard long ago. Probably because it had become a losing battle long ago. Now, the Chief was only seen every so often on the evening news, providing an empty and defeated update to whatever hopeless story the station was currently soaking for all its worth. To those who knew St. Canard back in its golden area, the current Chief Bully was a sad, mournful sight.

It was a sight that made the mallard watching the story shift his weight uncomfortably, his thoughts wandering back to the good old days of St. Canard, when it was a waterfront wonder. Now, it was a couple dozen blocks of slums and localized crime on the brink of bankruptcy. With a shake of his head, the mallard turned his attention back to the news report.

“… The fire was quenched quickly and without incident or injury. We do have reason to believe at this time that the fire was set intentionally, and suspect arson. We currently have no suspects.”

“Chief Bully,” piped up Portia Featherly above the other reporters, getting the Chief’s attention.

Some people left in St. Canard considered it a comfort to see the same green-feathered duck’s face and voice on every news slot after all these years, but for others, her biting commentary and, frankly, unprofessional jabs and biased remarks were grating to the nerves. Clearly, Featherly was a staple to the community, providing her the perfect immunity from any executive producer that would love to get her off the air. A sharp smile on her heavily painted face, she addressed the Chief.

“It’s common knowledge at this point that DW Studio closed down five years ago amid a flurry of scandal and rumors of resentment among the cast and crew, ultimately destroying the show’s credibility and stability, and bringing its inevitable albeit abrupt cancellation…”

“Alright, Featherly,” the mallard muttered, “no one’s in line for your Emmy, honey.” Shoving the mop down into the water-filled bucket, he splashed the water over the sides. As he leaned on the mop, the bucket slipped out from under him, sending him to the floor with a sudsy splash and wet yelp.

“In light of all these turbulent times that continuously plagued the Studio and cornerstone, and only, production, do the St. Canard Police have any suspects in the investigation?”

His interest spiking, the mallard sat up quickly, bubbles popping around him.

In the back of the hallway, meanwhile, shrouded by shadow, a figure lurked around the corner, hockey mask grinning maliciously at the duck.

“No, Miss Featherly,” Chief Bully sighed, “we currently have no suspects. And I’ve never heard the rumors you have posed today about the downfall of the show, and frankly Miss Featherly, don’t find it pertinent to the investigation. The St. Canard Police department is currently attempting to make contact with the studio owner, but all efforts so far have failed….”

With a huff, Drake Mallard clicked off the TV, using the bucket to stand to his feet, his overalls soaked through. “’No suspects’,” he mocked, mopping up the puddle around him, “I can name half a dozen people that would loooooooove to take a swing at that old eye sore.”

Behind Drake, the figure stepped forward, tossing a few hockey pucks into the air and catching them on the end of the hockey stick in their hands. With a small laugh, they tossed the pucks up, sending them flying at Drake.

Startled, Drake straightened, ducking with a yelp as one puck shot over his head. With another yelp, he spun the mop around and caught the second puck with the wet mop head, wiggling the wooden handle to catch the other. Picking up one of the rubber disks that had fallen to the floor, Drake studied them, eyebrows twisted. “Hockey pucks? In the middle of summer?”

Then, from the shadows that filled the other end of the hallway, the figure laughed at him.

“You’ve met your match, Darkwing Duck!” Tossing a few more pucks into the air, the figure readied to strike, their mask grinning dangerously. “Now, it’s time to meet your maker!”

Drake grinned as well. Throwing the mop around, he planted his feet in the sudsy puddle, readying his new weapon and facing the attacker. “Now so fast, you hoarse hockey hiccup! It’s over time!”

Their grin growing, the figure launched the pucks. First, Drake swung himself sideways, dodging the first two pellets, swinging the bucket around himself and catching them with a splash. Second, after putting the bucket down, he flipped into the air and around, bringing the mop down onto the projectiles. Third, and lastly, he spun the mop before himself windmill style, catching the remaining pucks and dropping them neatly and safely to the floor, on which he tossed the first two rounds.

“HAH!” he laughed at the figure, “not even your projectile puck pellets could net you this Janitor of Justice!” Standing straight, Drake performed a few more moves with the mop, ending his chorus of “hah’s” and “hee-yah’s” with a heroic pose, a last puck smacking his head from behind.

Ricocheting off Drake’s skull, the puck bounced off the glass trophy cabinet behind him, off the ceiling, off the floor, and back and forth between the two, ricocheting around the hallway with growing velocity and unpredictability. Bouncing off the mop handle Drake had moved to reflect the attack, the puck zoomed for the masked figure, who squealed and dropped to the floor. With a yelp, Drake lunged at the figure and slid to them, covering their body with his own, waiting for the onslaught to end –

Suddenly, the mallard reached above his head and caught the puck midair. He lowered it to the huddle of himself and the mask-wearing figure, turning the rubber disk over in his hand to examine it. Having deemed it harmless, Drake sat up and snapped his attention to the figure underneath him with a sharp glare, giving the mask three knocks with the rubber pellet. Blinking, it smiled innocently up at him.

“Ricochet pucks?” he frowned as the other sat up, pulling the mask from their face. “Gosalyn Julifeather Cavanary Waddlemeyer-Mallard, pleeeease tell me you didn’t use ricochet pucks inside the school!”

Her dandelion cheeks blushing, Gosalyn offered an unconvincing grin. “Grabbed it by accident?”

“At least,” Drake ran a hand down his long face, flicking his bill and standing, helping his daughter to her feet, even though Gosalyn was close to his equal in height, “we managed to avoid another major incident, unlike last time.”

Right on cue, the shiny glass cabinets, glittering gold trophies, flat-screen television screen, and even the glass covering portrait of the school’s dean all shattered at once, sending a carpet of glass fragments all over the floor. The two Mallards stared at the mess in shocked silence, their eyes bulging.

“Run?” asked Gosalyn.

“Run.” Her father replied. So they did, Gosalyn skating forward on her skates and cutting a path through the glass, opening the doors on the end of the hallway for Drake. Drake, only a half-step behind, scooped up the mop, vaulted over the glass with it, leaping off the bucket, sending a soapy splash all over the floor, and soared right through the open doors and past the cringing teenager, bouncing his way down the front steps. Checking behind them, Gosalyn slammed the door closed, grinding down the stair railing and helping her dad to his feet.

“Now where to?” she asked, Drake leading them to their lemon-yellow station wagon.

“Home, Gosalyn, back home!”

“The trailer park?”