Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a headline.   

“Live outside the state-of-the-art Ducklair Foundation, awaiting the newly appointed Chief Executive Officer of the Ducklair Enterprise, Mr. Solomon Hicks.”   

Huey paused his reading and perked up at the screen, pondering where he might have heard the name. But the afternoon wave had made his head sluggish, he would rather pick up his handbook and reread the ‘Junior Woodchuck: Rules and Guide’ for the third time. It was one of those lazy Sundays when adventures and mysteries were on the back burner.  

“I think I heard his name before–,” Dewey murmured next to Huey. His eyes closed and his head slumped at the top of the couch, positively melting with lethargy. 

“Oh, I remember now,” Huey muttered, his voice muffled behind the pages of ‘Guides on Surviving a Landslide’. “He was mentioned in the paper as an up-and-coming president for the company whose genius founder disappeared years ago. Nine years, to be exact.”  

Dewey sprang from his slump like an eager marionette, eyes shining with renewed interest. “Ohhh! Did he make cool things like nanobots or laser guns? Maybe a super flying jet?!”  

Dewey’s hands flew in the excitement, nearly hitting Louie in the face. Louie swatted the offending hand in annoyance and glanced at the live coverage, snorting. 

“Eh,” he shrugged. “Looks like another start-up.”    

“Start-up!” Webby, who had been casually stalking into the room, suddenly exploded from behind the couch. It startled the triplets so badly that Huey almost hyperventilated. “Ducklair is one of the most mysterious and richest families in the world! Of course, it is nothing compared to your– erm –our family, but I have a separate board just for them.”   

“Warn a duck next time, would you, Webby?” Louie complained, shifting grumpily on the couch as Webby slipped in between Dewey and Huey. Webby flashed him a sheepish smile which made Louie roll his eyes. 

“What else?” Dewey whispered excitedly. 

Scrooge, who had been listening in the background, harrumphed from his armchair. “But nothing. He might have had an empire with his contraptions but t’was a waste. He left no one to run his company and now it’s in ruins. Just looked at what happened to the tower–gone!”   

“You mean the Ducklair Tower?” Della asked, upon entering the room. On her arms were stacks of snacks and sweets and Penumbra, trailing behind, was carrying liters of soda. “I was surprised it was replaced by a park. Does Everett still own the land? The last time I visited the area was under the administration of SVA….MP?”   

“The Society for the Valorization of Duckburg Monuments manages sites that have historical significance, similar to the program from New Quackmore.” Huey turned his attention to Della, closing his handbook with a snap. “If the tower had historical value, we sure don’t know how it could happen.”   

“Ducklair Enterprise has been making its presence known after the disastrous moon-vasion. Despite the damages from the unexpected alien attack, which halted some of its operations, they were able to resume building the Ducklair Foundation as soon as possible.”   

Louie scooted closer to Dewey to make space for Della and Penumbra. Della snatched one of the popcorn bowls and passed the rest of the snacks around, popping popcorn into her mouth as she said, “Huh. Another mystery of the Ducklair clan.”   

“Oh my gosh! New lore!” Webby squealed like a strangled turkey. She jumped off the couch to update her board, but Louie's hand immediately wrapped around her shoulder, stopping her.    

“Guys, remember movie night?” Louie reminded, sensing they would go off the rails again, and gestured pointedly on the screen with his phone. “Anyone?”   

“Yeah – enough about Ducklair, it’s movie night! We need to show Penumbra how to have fun while sitting –”   

“Which I doubt.”   

“And why is it so much better than exploring the secrets of a lost Incan treasury,” Dewey nodded thoughtfully, arms akimbo, though the slight downturn of his mouth hinted at his true feelings.   

“Oh, lad. You should’ve seen the map in the study. If we fly to Peru today, we’ll stumble upon the entrance to the temple with nary an effort!”   

“When you say treasury?” Louie baited with a smirk. Webby let out a ‘woohoo!’ in the background, yelling, “Secret Inca temple!”   

“Wait! Guys–we promised Uncle Donald no adventuring every Sunday,” Huey cried out, which prompted a series of groans from everyone.   

“The new CEO of the company was a mystery until three months ago when new information emerged from a one-on-one interview with veteran journalist Ms. Lyla Lay. Although the interview answered the common question, questions about his relation to the owner, Everett Ducklair, remained unknown.”    

“That’s boring! No offense to Uncle Donald, but adventuring is in our blood,” Dewey relayed with dramatic fervor, his arms swinging wide open.   

Della sighed, deciding to stop the brothers from escalating the situation. After all, she owed her brother some peace, even if she wanted to explore the lost treasure just as badly . Parenting first! Or something similar Donald had quoted.  

“Dewey,” Della started, “we did promise your uncle to rest for one day every week. He’s not stopping us from adventuring, and if any of our trips somehow extend throughout the week, no one will stop us and will tell us to go home. Our adventure will always continue.”   

“I’m sure Uncle Scrooge agreed to this, right, Uncle?” Scrooge scowled in irritation, choosing to watch the TV rather than answer his niece.    

Scrooge was about to make a sharp remark when he caught a black-tinted car pulled up on the screen, his focus shifted to observing the new head of the company. The upstart had been requesting to meet up with him to buy back Everett’s investments and liquidated properties under McDuck Enterprises. Scrooge was pleasantly surprised when he reviewed his proposal. He usually let Bradford handle anything remotely business-related, but he couldn't hand off this responsibility, knowing he was dealing with cohorts of Ducklair. Though they didn't meet face to face and only made a video conference once, he knew not to underestimate the younger duck.    

“Is that Uncle Donald?” Dewey wondered. It was hard to recognize him without his usual white hat and black sailor outfit.   

“Hmm, yeah,” Louie said distractedly, frowning at his phone when posts of ‘hot topics’ about the new ‘CEO: Solomon Hicks!’ started popping up. Louie turned his device off and pocketed it in his jacket. “He informed us, when was it? If forgot. Anyway, he was hired as a driver for a billionaire. I thought it was under Uncle Scrooge’s since the rest were enemies of Uncle Scrooge . It’s an easy mistake to make.”    

“Good for him,” Della's face curled in fondness. “I… should probably find a job, too.”   

“Mom, it’s fine. You just came back from the moon. There’s no need to rush things.”   

Della cast a quick smile to Huey, going back to the TV, where she saw her brother opening the back seat of the car. A female duck with long blond hair pinned in multiple buns was the first to step out. She mouthed a quick thank you to him before gathering the security detail. She was followed by a tall male duck, towering over the female duck and her brother. His strawberry blond hair and thick sideburns flashed in the onslaught of photographers.    

His face wore a benevolent smile, seemingly the type to be happy in the presence of the media. Della, with her sharp, assessing eyes, peered into the tightness of his grin, the subtle twitch of his eyebrow, and the hollowness in his stride. The duck then gave a sharp nod to Donald, who solemnly nodded back. A moment's pause between them, a silent conversation amid the sea of chaos, before her brother jumped back into the driver's seat and drove off.    

It was a bizarre exchange; however, it wasn't notable enough to analyze. Della blinked as she felt Penumbra nudging her side, raising an eyebrow, and looking pointedly at the screen.    

Della clapped her hands twice, abruptly announcing, “Come on, let’s start the movie! Even if Donald's not here, we need to keep our promise. Capiche?”   

The triplets shared a look before Huey said, “Dibs on ‘Eternal Moonlight.’”   

“What? That’s–no. Really, Huey?”   

“It fits the theme! I researched the best moon-themed movie we could watch. It’s also the highest-rated movie this season. At least I try to be accommodating, Louie. Unlike some people.”   

Louie sputtered indignantly, “On what earth do you think Penu–”   

Dewey cut off rudely, “What about ‘Darkwing Duck the Movie? It was released recently.” Louie growled at his brother for the interruption.   

“Dewey, you already chose the movie last week. It’s not fair if you pick the movie again.”  

Dewey sent a scathing glare at his red-clad brother before ranting how ‘uninteresting’ his suggestions were. Louie, momentarily sidetracked by the rude interruption, nodded in agreement and declared that he should pick the movie, which was quickly shot down by both older brothers. If Huey’s recommendation was dull, Louie’s was downright atrocious.   

Unnoticed by the bickering brothers, Webby silently crawled out of the sibling-sandwich, snatched the remote to change the channel to one of the available streaming services, and typed in ‘The Betelgeuse War’.   

Della felt a grin stretch and turned to Penumbra to share her amusement. But what she saw was an alien who was instantly enamored by the colorful opening scene of the movie.   

“Webby!” the triplets collectively shouted.   

“What? It’s informative, it’s not boring, and the character has depth. It has three sequels, all amazing–as impossible as it is–and it is about space…And the moon. Penumbra will love it, and we will geek over the characters. Now, enjoy the movie and shove off!”  

“Atta, lassie,” Scrooge chuckled.  

The curtains slowly slid over the windows, leaving the room in a dark. Della glanced by the door and saw Mrs. Beakley adjusting the switch. She smiled in thanks before settling on the couch. It had been years since she last watched the first installment of ‘The Betelgeuse War.’ If Webby was right, then she’d enjoy the rest of the series. Her honorary niece would certainly be asked to join the exclusive club of the Betelgeuse she founded with her brother.  

Penumbra would be a very nice addition.  

Something was bubbling under the surface.    

The heat was contradictory to the chill of her lab. Despite this, Gandra didn't opt for something comfortable, instead, she wore her usual tank top and a pair of baggy jeans. Not that it bothered her, but working on her project was making her second guess if she should bring a nice jacket–something cozy but wouldn't clash with her style.  

A knock on the lab door startled her out of her thoughts, caused the holographic window film to fall away, and revealed a duck in her late twenties.  “Hey, Gandra, grabbing lunch?” the duck asked through the smooth line of the intercom.  

Gandra put down her soldering iron and removed her goggles. She glanced at the door where Dr. Dendron was standing and pushed a button to open it. With a soft whir, the door slid open as she invited her in.  

“Hey, Dr. Dendron, is it noon already?” Gandra grabbed her phone from the pedestal, grinning as a series of messages popped up on her notification. She was about to open one when she caught the time. “Woah, time sure flies by.”  

“Yeah, I don’t want to disturb you with your work. I am also absorbed in my work, but since it’s almost complete. I considered asking you to join me to eat lunch in the pantry, but you look busy,” Dr. Dendron smiled hesitantly.  

Gandra blinked, pleasantly surprised by her invitation. She rarely saw the other head scientist in the company. It wasn’t because she didn’t like them. Nope! This bunch of nerds were nice and eccentric, unlike their unflappable CEO. The company was leagued better than her previous job in terms of work-life balance and generous compensation.  

Gandra occasionally met them whenever a meeting with the Department Director was scheduled. However, it was strictly business, and they had no time to catch up, as most of their projects were on time crunch.   

Gandra must have taken a while to answer, as she noticed Dr. Dendron’s smile faltered, and her shoulders slumped in awkwardness. Gandra hastily offered a jerky nod and said, “Sure, I haven't had my breakfast… or lunch, for that matter.”  

“Same here,” Dr. Dendron said in barely concealed relief. “Work just sucked you in. Next thing you know, it’s dark out, and you’re only halfway through your task.”  

Gandra hummed, her hands gathering the equipment stewed on the table. She placed all the dangerous items in their proper places and secured the cabinets of confidential experiments with another push of the button.   

“What are you getting today?” Gandra asked as they approached the door. She could hear sections of the lab shutting down, fortifying the room like a steel chamber. Once they reached the threshold, she pressed her biometrics, and the door closed firmly behind her.  

“The salmon and Caesar salad,” Dr. Dendron replied, staring at the door in subtle contemplation. “I still think it’s quite excessive.”   

“I think it's nice,” Gandra smirked as they walked down the corridor to the elevators. “None of the other labs I’ve been to are as secure as this one. You’d think they’re hiding something sinister.”   

Dr. Dendron giggled. “It certainly looks like that. You know the nature of our work; caution is a must. Even so, we’re free to discuss our works and projects.”   

Gandra challenged. “Such as?”  

“Most of the ideas and designs were provided by Mr. Hicks. He has a great number of blueprints for weapon structures as well as comprehensive theories in atom manipulation and atom modifications. It's almost out of this world–”  

“–Futuristic.” Gandra finished, coinciding with Dr. Dendron’s conclusion.   

Dr. Dendron shot her a knowing glance. “Yes, that. I imagine all our work is going to converge at one point.”  

“My work with the…Evronians spores,” Gandra raised an eyebrow at the underlying venom when the doctor said those words. “Will be shared with Dr. Einmug to create a design for a device. Once he’s finished, he’ll collaborate with Dr. Zibaldo and Dr. Sparky to complete the product.”  

“These devices? Will be produced for the military for environmental…protection?”  Dr. Dendron burst into a fit of giggles; Gandra couldn't help but give her a dirty look. “I’m a newbie, just two months in.”  

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Dendron hiccuped, sweeping a stray tear off her face. “It’s been a long time since I laughed this hard.”  

Gandra sighed; at least someone was having fun at her expense. “I’m surprised the company can employ Dr. Einmug; he’s a recluse, isn't he?”   

They turned to a fork in the hallway near the elevators and activated the lift by tapping their keycard access. While waiting for the doors to open, Gandra continued with her thoughts aloud. “Dr. Zibaldo’s nice, just a bit overzealous. I’m jealous he has an intern, as well as Dr. Sparky. Do you have one?”  

The doors opened, halting the conversation. Gandra pressed the ‘G’ button, and they ascended. “I don’t have any interns. I don’t want to have one,” Dr. Dendron replied, her eyes taut, staring at the blinking display blankly.  

Gandra bobbed her head, wishing she could put on her headphones and listen to music. It wasn't a long ride, but she could sense that they came from somewhere deep. Such secrecy was troubling. Sometimes Gandra wondered if her choice would come around and bite her in the ass.  

“It’s strange having a rat as your co-worker. No offense,” Gandra said just to fill the silence.   

“Rodents of his species developing intelligence and cognitive abilities are quite rare,” Dr. Dendron grimaced. “Achieving such a feat…”  

“It isn’t pleasant,” Gandra said, feeling her conscience pang between her ribs, heaviness building. No doubt, it would bite her to the moon and back.   

Dr. Dendron nodded solemnly. “We’ll continue with the questions after lunch,” she said as the elevator doors slid open again.   

Gandra willed herself to calm down as she followed Dr. Dendron into the department lobby. “So, I can ask anything under the sun about our work, but only within the R&D?”   

“Now you're getting it,” Dr. Dendron smiled playfully.  

Gandra and Dr. Dendron strolled in comfortable silence as they made their way through the throng of employees getting a quick lunch. They crossed a courtyard to the building where the pantry was located. When they arrived, Gandra told her fellow scientists to line up at the buffet.   

“I need to warm up my lunch.”  

“Do you want me to get you something?” Dr. Dendron asked, picking up a tray.  

“A plate of waffles, if you can, please,” Gandra requested, waving her hand in appreciation, and marching to the refrigerator where she stored her homemade lunch. When she opened the fridge, she noticed a note sticking out of her lunchbox, which she had forgotten to remove. She usually reserved all similar notes in a special box in her office.   

Written messily on it was, ‘Go get them, Gadget Girl.’  

She couldn't help but smile warmly. She fumbled for her phone and sent a short message to ‘Suit’ with a picture of her blue lunchbox.  

‘Suit,’ replied quickly, ‘I made your favorite empanadas and guacamole :)’  

Oh, he’s so nice.  

After heating the empanadas, she made her way to the tables when her eyes fell upon an unexpected figure. She knew some sparse information about him: an uncle of a triplet and nephew of a multi-billionaire.  

“Oh, Donald’s here,” Dr. Dendron spoke behind her. “I wonder why –” then her eyes followed where Mr. Duck was staring, “– I see. I forgot the press conference is today.”  

Gandra glanced at the TV and saw Mr. Hicks sitting at a long table under an onslaught of questions.  

“–the company's focus shifted from weapons manufacturing and engineering to clean energy. How will you ensure the company's financial stability during this period of change?”   

“That is an excellent question, Ms. Roxanne. Ducklair Enterprise isn’t always reliant on weapons production. While it has been the previous CEO’s primary focus, being an inventor himself, he understood it wasn’t the sole path for the company’s long-term success.”   

Gandra suddenly felt a crippling chill run down her spine, a sudden weight clinging onto her shoulders. Someone was observing her. Her eyes turned to where Donald was sitting, and she felt a surge of trepidation. The consensus was that Donald Duck of the McDuck clan was the opposite of his adventurous uncle, Scrooge McDuck. He was averse to adventure and quick to anger but a great uncle to his nephew, according to some sources–okay, you got her. The source was from Huey.   

But he never described his uncle with eyes flickering like a blade in the night. Slowly–steadily– dissecting each layer of her carefully crafted facade, leaving her exposed and flayed like a wound itching to be closed. With a blink, he shifted from a terrifying force to a deceptively weary duck.   

“You know each other?” Gandra asked Dr. Dendron rather than openly stare at the unsettling duck.  

“You don't?” Dr. Dendron asked, taken aback, her shoulders going rigid. A flash of emotion passed through her gaze; one Gandra couldn't decipher. “We can use another table if you want?”  

“No need, I'm curious to know what his deal is.” – and yours.   

“From your interview with Lyla Lay, you called yourself an Administrator of the company. How does it differ from your regular CEO?”  

“My colleagues and… close confidants always told me that I am too determined. A CEO focused on strategy, Ms. Webra, paints a grand vision. The Administrator is keen on details. I prefer a hands-on approach to management. A custodian, you might say.”  

“Good to know that you have a sense of humor, Mr. Hicks. Unlike your predecessor, who–again–disappeared years ago after a bit of a scandal. Whatever happened to Mr. Ducklair? Any idea of his whereabouts?”  

“That’s a great question, Mr. Angus. I understand that you are curious and concerned about Mr. Everett and his family. I assure you they are doing well, and that’s all I can say. Mr. Everett has always valued his privacy, and I will continue to respect their wishes.”   

“That doesn't answer my question–”   

“If you don't have any more questions about the Enterprise, I believe we can move on to other topics. Yes, Mr.?”   

“Mr. Duck,” Gandra greeted as she plopped on one of the fluffy seats a distance away from Donald. Dr. Dendron hesitated for a moment before sitting beside Gandra. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”  

“Same as you,” Donald raised his eyebrow, then looked at Dr. Dendron with a faint smile. “Hey, Dr. Rhonda. Good to see you. How have you been? Did you manage to find an apartment downtown?”  

Dr. Dendron shrugged, a smile forming despite her initial hesitation. “It’s good! About the apartment… I decided to stay in St. Canard. I still like my city, even with the traffic. Also, thank you for shipping the Drosera occidendum’s seed.”  

“I have no idea what you need that plant for, but–er–you’re welcome?”   

“No need to be bashful; it’s a rare specimen. Knowing that your family managed to take it down was amazing.”  

Donald beamed like a mini sun, his feathers fluffing with pride. “It’s the kids who figured out that blasted plant.”  

“Not surprising,” Gandra agreed, taking a bite of her slowly cooling empanada. “They’re very… inquisitive . Though I think it’s normal. It’s your adventures that made it alarmingly so.”  

“Oh, you’re just bitter that they foiled your spy career.” Donald's beak curled in a smirk, although his eyes held a sharp edge.  

“Speaking from experience?” Dr. Dendron's eating stopped, her grip on her fork slacked as the salad hung precariously. Her gaze darted between them like a shark sensing blood in the ocean, but with gossip. 

Gandra arched an eyebrow and made a face when Donald gave her the same look. “Corporate espionage,” they said in unison, hoping to starve off Dr. Dendron’s question.  

Dr. Dendron’s eyes shone with reserved curiosity. She haltingly nibbled her salad, as if waiting for the next words. It looked like their diversion didn't work, not that it was convincing.  

Instead of spiraling into an uncomfortable silence, Donald spoke out of the blue, startling both Gandra and Dr. Dendron. However, Gandra could tell that the other scientist was surprised for a different reason.   

“You were selected to work on nanobots?”   

“NDA, Mr. Duck. My beaks are sealed.”  

“Just call me Donald,” Donald rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Mr. Duck was my father. And if you take my sister’s sons into account, that’s too many Mr. Ducks around.”  

“What a nightmare,” Gandra deadpanned, piercing her waffles.  

“So nanobots… that's your forte, right?” Donald pushed on. “I remember Huey telling a story about a ‘highly musculature Mark Beaks’ and how you helped win against him. No, I don't even want to imagine ‘Macho Beaks.’ Yes, Huey shared his findings about nanobots enthusiastically and without reservation.”   

‘I know who you are and what you did’ was left unsaid.  

When Donald continued, Gandra could hear the resignation in his following statement. “I think you’ll do great with the project.”  

“How did you know about it?” Gandra was eager to know how he got clearance to access details on their classified projects. Based on his acquaintance with Dr. Dendron, Donald had background knowledge of what she was working on–more than her. He wasn’t supposed to be here; he wasn't even on her radar of potentially dangerous people, but goddamn , anyone who knew about her work with Mr. Hicks was.   

“Here, I thought that any scientific discussion could only be discussed by fellows and should be discussed inside R&D,” Gandra emphasized, voice dripping with sarcasm.  

Donald shook his head and did not explain further. He instead watched the last thread of the conference, stoically waiting for something , Gandra didn’t bother to know. As Mr. Hicks plastered a polite smile, waving goodbye to the press, Donald’s phone rang.   

“Hey, Belinda. Yeah, I’ll be there.” He paused. “Will do, thanks. Yeah. Bye.”  

“Sorry, I need to go,” Donald said with a sigh and pulled up from the chair. “See you later, enjoy your lunch, Dr. Rhonda, Gandra.” He made his way out of the pantry, not without grabbing a freshly made waffle in a ready take-out bag from the pastry station.  

Donald is a bit of an asshole; she should have seen it coming. Not everyone liked her, especially once they knew the lengths she would go to see her vision realized. Though her ambitions were apparent, she understood that her ideas were dangerous and decided to only ever experiment on herself.  

Gandra finished off her dessert; she’d rather go back to developing her nanobots than stay in this oppressive stillness. The day had been disastrous enough.  

“Sorry, you met that way. Usually, he’s the first person to be informed about new employees. Well, everything in the company,” Dr. Dendron prompted under the noise of the pantry.  

Gandra faced her evenly in the eye and said, “I’m not asking.”  

“I think you should know,” Dr. Dendron said firmly. “If you haven't experienced his scrutiny and overwhelming need to know everything, hats off. Most of the employees, especially those with higher clearance, were subjected to it.”  

“You seemed close,” Gandra frowned. If he’s a stuck-up, it would reflect in his relationship with others, but as far as she saw, he was amiable with Dr. Dendron.  

“He has that effect,” She shrugged like she couldn't believe that could happen. “He’s more of a busybody than a boss.”  

“I find it hard to believe,” Gandra snarked, almost to herself.   

“I agree with you; his dynamic with Hicks is so casual that it’s hard to determine what was going on in the hierarchy.” Dr. Dendron cleaned off her plate of baked salmon.  

After they finished their meal, they tidied up and prepared to go back to their lab. Dr. Dendron segued just as they left the building. “Now you’ve been introduced to the important characters in this operation, I think it is safe to say I can invite you to our weekly gathering every Wednesday, an hour after the shift ends.”  

“Thanks but no. It’s not my scene,” Gandra gibed, mulling over putting on her headphones and leaving the doctor or staying and gathering further information about the enigmatic ‘busybody’.  

“It’s voluntary; Donald attends sometimes.” Dr. Dendron's beak curled into a smile.   

Gandra smirked and chuckled. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Dr. Dendron.”  

“What? I thought you would appreciate it,” Dr. Dendron gave her a sly look. “And, please, call me Rhonda.”  

Something was bubbling under the surface. Like lava slowly spilling over the edge of the crater.     

The conference ended five minutes ago, and they had time to check if everything was in order. Lyla went through the back of the van, listing off their equipment, and paused when she couldn’t find the camera for the live coverage.     

“Help, Lyla?” someone called out from behind. A duck, wearing a white jacket with an embossed 9 at the back, and a hat covering half of his face, carried the ‘missing’ HDTV camera in one hand and balanced a tray with three coffees in the other. Lyla readily took the tray out of the duck’s hand.   

“Of course, it's with you, Stefan. It almost gave me a heart attack,” Lyla sighed in relief, bringing the tray to her chest, and passed the frozen sugar monstrosity. “Alright, here’s your frap,” she chirped. “And a latte for me.”   

She placed the tray at the back of the van. Stefan glanced at the remaining coffee, a plain black one. “Donald will be here?”   

“Yep,” Lyla replied, popping the ‘p’, as she carefully sipped her steaming latte. “He’s Mr. Hicks’ driver.”   

Stefan hummed. “You’ve seen him, then, when you interviewed Mr. Hicks. How is he?”   

Lyla stared at Stefan, unaware that he was in contact with Donald. She was oblivious to a lot of things these days. “He’s doing great. But we didn't speak for long; he was quite busy.”   

“You’re suspicious about Mr. Hicks,” Stefan declared unexpectedly. “The last time Ducklairs were involved, the city nearly fell into chaos, but you're not alarmed–not yet anyway.”    

Lyla gave him a quick look. She shouldn’t be so surprised at how proficient Stefan could connect the dots. It may have been decades since he covered any investigative journalism, but he was able to glean information easily. No matter how well Lyla tried to conceal her true nature, he managed to gather proof and make conclusions so close to reality.   

Lyla took a moment to answer. “You could say that. It’s complicated. Donald is more reserved about sharing information after the moon.”   

They shared a comfortable silence, drinking their coffee sedately. Lyla bit the bottom of her beak, doubt forming at the back of her tongue but decided to push it aside. She asked Stefan quietly, “Stefan, am I a bad friend?”   

“I cannot give you a response to that,” Stefan said, staring at nothing, slurping his frap.    

“Why, weren't we friends in past years?” Lyla quirked her eyebrow.    

Stefan countered, “Were you?” He set the camera next to the coffee tray, sitting beside it. “Your heart has always been in the right place. It took me a long time to understand that. Donald…we’re not friends, but I always felt a kinship with him due to our affliction.”   

Lyla blinked in deep silence. It was rare for Stefan to share something delicate, and he wasn’t often one to tell such long stories about himself. She moved to the other end of the van as he continued, “I chanced upon him months after he lost his sister in space. I was investigating the anomalies around the Ducklairs’s disappearance when I found him in the ruins of the Ducklair Manor. We did not talk; the situation was too heavy. And I suspect he lost more than just his sister.”   

Lyla averted her eyes away, stricken, her core heavy with realization. She was aware of what happened and understood the depth Donald’s lost in years past. How his life turned upside down, inside out, like the world was pushing him into the abyss. But he seemed so strong, determined, and fearless. When they met due to an unforeseen threat, his support was steadfast. Even when he needed her assistance, it was minimal as if it was never needed in the first place.   

“I – Donald’s been keeping this?”   

“It’s not my business, but I thought it might help you.”   

“You’re right,” Lyla took a deep breath. “I wasn’t there when he needed me. I was so excited; I’ve always yearned to experience the world without restraint. In the process, I left the person who helped me achieve that.”   

It was a job in the Middle East, a documentary in Southeast Asia, and interview reports on different personalities and influential people that separated her from her friend and Duckburg for eight years. Now that she was back,  a wall was separating her and Donald, and she remembered how high she needed to climb to see him on the other side.   

“Talk to him once you both have the time,” Stefan advised, stiffly patting Lyla’s shoulder, as he took his empty cup and threw it to the nearest trash can. “Come on, they should be here anytime now.”   

Lyla exhaled and shook her head, clearing off any lingering thoughts. She gathered her materials, ensuring her makeup was still good. She grabbed her coffee, took one long sip, and then closed the van door, pacing beside Stefan.   

“Hey, Stefan?” Lyla called out softly. “Thank you. And don’t ever doubt that you're my friend.” Stefan's eyes widened subtly as he turned his face away. Lyla held back a chuckle when she caught a timid smile on his beak.    

They secured a good spot to place the camera where they had a clear shot of the podium. As soon as they glimpsed Hicks’ car rounding the parking lot, Stefan started rolling the camera.    

Her beak curled into a measured smile as Lyla opened with, “Channel ‘00, live in Ducklair Park…”  

Something was bubbling under the surface. Like lava slowly spilling over the edge of the crater. It rumbled hotter than the core of any mass in the universe.   

Mary Ann Flagstarr was tired. She was running on six cups of coffee, a box of donuts, and a bowl of garden salad because she wanted something healthy, alright? It wasn't even past three in the afternoon, and she was already flagging under the weight of paperwork and the lingering effects of a jailbreak–a jailbreak that happened many months ago.  

If she had known that her first task as a captain of PBI would be cleaning up the joint jailbreak of Dr. Fairfax and former Lieutenant McCoy, she wouldn't have taken the position. She’d probably be sleeping in a moldy hotel under a disguise, but at least she wouldn't slaving away to finish a colossal administrative burden and toiling her days finding escaped criminals in every corner of the globe.  

Mary Ann smoothed down her curly hair from her face, brown feathers ruffling in frustration. She was afraid she would molt any minute due to the stress. Though she was thankful to receive help from personnel from Area 51, their combined efforts weren’t enough. They were struggling to locate where Fairfax and McCoy were hiding. During her first month in her position, she unconsciously dialed Paperinik's number only to remember that no one had seen the hero in decades.   

Usually, the hero’s partner would send her an email or fax with crucial information on any issue that might threaten the country before she could bang her head on her desk. It was convenient and very helpful; they’d saved her multiple times. She was grateful, yet a brush of jealous resentment constantly lurked in her mind.  

The captain sighed sharply. It was all in the past. She would prefer to handle the situation under her own leadership. However, Dr. Fairfax was a dangerous individual, with a spy like McCoy, the danger they posed would affect not only Duckburg and its surrounding city but also target parts of the world.  

She thought of enlisting help from emerging superheroes, like Gizmoduck and Darkwing, or gathering spies from S.H.U.S.H., or the Agency, but their various flaws ruled them out for this mission. She dismissed the idea of asking the heroes; they were too green on resolving a possible international conflict. She’d reached out to S.H.U.S.H., but they were indisposed without Ludwig. The Agency…their reputation tanked when Double Duck resigned and subsequently lost their funding.   

Her last option– the last option –was to contact the Duck siblings. She didn’t want to consider it . Their family was a constant cause of headaches, especially after the Moonlander invasion and the magical disruption that had happened two years ago. Whenever Mary Ann said they were the last option , it meant she wouldn't contact them under any circumstances unless she was, really, deeply, in-depth.   

And she needed to contact them ASAP .  

Fairfax and McCoy had been missing for nine months, even before the fucking moon-vasion. She had no leads, no clues, no witnesses that might point her in their direction. It was debatable whether they were even together. A terrible feeling simmered in her gut, warning her that what they were planning would soon implode, and destroy everyone in the process. 

She tried contacting the mansion, but the lines weren't connecting. She found out the telephone lines were blocked due to magical interference from the Magical Incident. McDuck considered the interference as a positive net condition and never fixed it. It was a good thing PBI had a magical expert for this very reason, and they created a workaround.   

But when she called the number and someone answered, the butler or housekeeper would inform her that the family was off on an adventure.   

Then she sent emails to McDuck Enterprise because their digital security system was such a hardass PBI couldn’t retrieve any personal emails, but there was no reply. Della didn’t have any digital presence since she had just returned from the moon. How crazy is that?    

Donald's contact information was easily found through various resumes; curiously, all numbers and emails had become disconnected after he left his previous employers.   

The captain had exhausted every avenue but received no luck until today.  

Mary Ann paced in front of her desk, the telephone line rang once, twice, thrice. She stopped pacing when it continued ringing for the fourth time. Putting her head in her hands, she took a deep, steady breath. Then, like magic, she heard a click. Mary Anne stared at the telephone with bated breath as a static voice burst forth.  

“Deeeewey express! How can I help you with this fine evening?”  

Oh shit.  

“Good afternoon, my name is Mary Ann Flagstarr, captain of PBI. I would like to speak to Dumbella Duck for urgent business.”  

“Mom knows someone from the Secret Service?” Mary Ann bit back a groan when she caught the kid’s wonder over the phone. It was like talking to Ziggy in his teens when he persisted in getting stories about her missions–only classified missions because they were the juiciest part.   

“It appears so. If you could pass the phone to her, I would appreciate it.”  

“Why do you need Mom? Ohhh, are you going to send her on a mission? That’s awesome, but we’re on a strict no-adventure Sunday. You can call us later, and we can hash out the mission without any issues.” Dewey said cheerfully.  

“Call the mansion again after we finish the movies. Right away! I think you have an awesome mission to tell.” Oh, she knew that tone–gosh darn kids, and their dismissal.  

Mary Ann bolted over to the phone, almost knocking herself on the lamp next to her table, and cried out, “Wait! I am not sending her on any mission. If you can tell her that–” She didn’t want to share the news with an unauthorized person, worst of all, a kid. Desperate times called for desperate measures. “–Dr. Fairfax and McCoy were on the loose. It’s a matter of national security. She can contact me through this number, preferably soon.”  

“Sure,” Dewey stretched, “I’ll pass it on.”  

Mary Ann sighed in relief. “Thank you.”  

“Dewey, come on. The third movie is starting!”   

“Webby, pause it!” Dewey shouted, muffled. “I gotta go, Ms. Captain. Bye!”  

The click of the disconnected call echoed in her office, pulsing in her head, syncing with her oncoming migraine. She braced her arms on her desk; paperwork lay scattered like a hurricane had passed through. She could wait, hopefully, before her insanity stirs.  

The clock ticked slowly, and Mary Ann realized that staying in her office, doing nothing would drive her to insanity faster. She decided to get her hands busy and complete her paperwork. She waited and took a very quick break. Waited and visited a department in crisis, which provided a mental breather from all the waiting. Waited until it was almost midnight and resigned herself to another failure.   

She was tidying her desk of today’s paperwork and organizing the ones she needed to complete tomorrow when the phone rang.   

She shot up like a bullet and swiftly put the receiver to her ear. She could scarcely believe it was Della’s voice on the other line.   

“Good evening, Della, welcome back. Thank you for reaching out,” Mary Ann greeted.  

“Cut the chase, Flagstarr. Tell me all the details, don’t leave anything behind.”  

Something was bubbling under the surface. Like lava slowly spilling over the edge of the crater. It rumbled hotter than the core of any mass in the universe. How it melts off the feathers and skin, burning everything inside out.  

That is how Donald met his demise: ripped from the Earth’s atmosphere after his ill-fated venture on the moon.   

He had, after all, been afflicted with terrible, horrible luck.  

Chapter Text

Three Months Ago  

“The Timephoon has unsurprisingly localized itself above McDuck Manor.”  

Static  

“A presence is detected approaching from [direction].”   

Static  

Lyla blinked, her awareness returning gradually. 

“Look who’s back! Growing tired of war?” Angus hiccuped, his breath reeking of onions and soda. He loomed over her cubicle, arms crossed over the divider, on each hand clutched a hotdog sandwich and cola. Lyla stared at Angus in open disgust as the ketchup dribbled slowly on his fingers; if he moved even slightly, it would surely drop onto her keyboard. 

She regarded him with an unimpressed stare before a very tight smile spread across her face as she flicked his hands away. “What do you want, Angus? I thought you were tired of the old-time news about Duckburg.”  

Angus sneered, taking a messy bite of his sandwich. “Bah, as if! If the channel wasn't owned by McDuck, I would've covered his disastrous family years ago!” 

“Getting uninspired?” Lyla said flatly, her eyes narrowing in irritation.  

“Getting irrelevant?” he countered smugly. “Your fame is not forever; the world always turns. One day, you’ll be back where you came from.” 

Lyla rolled her eyes so hard they almost popped out of her socket. There goes Angus and his aggravating, banal self, again . She had nothing to gain by speaking with him, as her increasing popularity and international reportage were enough to fuel his steaming envy. Lyla was better off compiling her papers and notes to prepare for her conference with the director than listening to Angus' snide tirade.  

“Whatever you say. I have a meeting with Ziggy in… five minutes. About an exclusive interview with Solomon Hicks. If you’ve got nothing important to say, I’d better go.” 

Angus growled, his hands clenched, threatening to spill his meal everywhere. “You got lucky this time, Lyla.” 

With an exasperated sigh, she turned and walked toward the director's office. She shouldn't have expected Angus to change, even after eight years.  

The same could be said about her old workspace. 

00 Channel was a war zone. Shrieking telephones, news flashing on every screen, and clamored whispers of congregations huddled in every corner threw her senses off-kilter. The smell of coffee spread throughout the floor like an energy boost, fueling the hunched figures of editors into a working frenzy. People were constantly in a rush, and Lyla had to mind her footing. With a deliberate tilt, she dodged a sleep-deprived intern hugging a giant mug of steaming hot coffee, then spun around from a muttering anchor to avoid stepping on his foot. Lyla seamlessly danced into the rhythmic mayhem of the newsroom. 

For all its faults, Lyla had missed this–missed the familiar faces, the tension thick as a ticking bomb; missed the whiff of the crappy coffee they continued to serve, the chaos in the mundane. 

Lyla was happy to be right on time for the meeting, even happier when she knocked on the door of the director’s office and heard Ziggy calling, “Come in!” With his cheerful invitation, Lyla turned the knob, and let herself in.  

“Hi, Ziggy! Or should I say, Director Ziegfried Flagstarr?” Lyla greeted. Her giddiness was evident upon seeing her friend sitting on what was previously Dan’s chair. 

“Don’t!” Ziggy glared, a grin stretched impossibly wide, betraying his annoyance. “I have had enough people calling me by my full name. Do you know how many times I had to correct them?” 

Lyla closed the door and sat in a green office chair opposite Ziggy, giggling. Once she settled, she passed the folder she had arranged earlier, her notes for the upcoming interview. It was a consolidated file containing Solomon Hicks’ trivial information, snippets of interviews from the news and other channels, his current views and standing in business and politics, and lastly, his objective for Ducklair Enterprise's future. 

Ziggy whistled, flipping through the pages with interest. He looked up from the material and said, “Welcome home Lyla, it’s good to have you again.” 

“Yeah, it’s been a long time,” Lyla said, nostalgic. 

“Indeed! Indeed,” Ziggy closed the folder and held it up, his eyes shining with great enthusiasm. “Let’s go back to business! This is a great start for your new segment. We can work around it by asking Hicks general questions about his plans with the Enterprise. After that, we can start asking questions about his purpose for reviving the company.”  

With a loaded smirk, he said, “I know you can sneak in some questions about his personal life, no–scratch that. Ask him directly; he doesn't have a choice but to talk about it. Anyway, he’ll be more guarded with questions about Everett and his daughters.” 

“That’s obvious,” Lyla sighed wearily. “The development at Ducklair is somewhat sudden. In particular, no stories are circulating about Everett in the news or on social media. Once the inauguration happens, his attendance will be pointed out, since he technically assigned Hicks as his CEO. People will expect him to be there, after so many years of being out of the public eye.” 

“I’m wondering,” Lyla trailed off, her eyes lingering on a page showing a timeline of events. “Hicks’ presence in the beginning is barely noticeable. Anyone in the business sector was sure about his failure to revive the Enterprise. After all, the company wasn’t doing great and had been on the decline for many years. There is also the matter of his secrecy, no one has seen him personally after the declaration.” 

“If you check here,” Lyla brought out a page with diagrams, “his acquisition of Ducklair’s previous properties is slow. It is strongly focused on projects and factories that promote green energy. He is also leaning on genuine philanthropy. I think it’s his way of distancing the company image from what it previously was.” 

“Critics had presumed it would take him years to be fully operational. But now…” Ziggy nodded as Lyla tapped on one excerpt from Scrooge McDuck. “His meeting with Scrooge was through a video conference. He commented that he was wary of Hicks.” 

“How did you even get a word from Scrooge ?” Ziggy asked incredulously, his dark, wild hair swinging in effort. “Any interviews we have of him ended in a wreck! Though, he never asked us to cut out his part despite its impression.” 

“Leeway of being friends with Donald,” Lyla shrugged. 

“That’s unfair,” He grumbled. “I’m friends with Donald, too. All he ever gave me was a threat of the cane on my backside. Like a tween! I’m the director! At least give me some respect.” 

Lyla felt her beak crook in self-satisfaction. “I’m the better influence, Ziggy. You always include him in your shenanigans” –Ziggy snorted– “which made a bad impression on Scrooge.” 

Ziggy chuckled suddenly, tousling his brown feathers. “His family is quite wacky. We have monthly pub meetings near the port where he usually docked. The stories he tells– whoosh! Adrenaline! No wonder he wanted something simple in his life.” 

“You can join us if you like. I’ll ask him if he’s available next month, he's been busy lately.” Ziggy swiveled to a table and opened a cabinet filled with knick-knacks, shoving his hand inside pawing for a pen. “Here’s the address and his phone number,” he said, stripping a piece of paper from the copy she handed and writing down the place.  

Lyla glanced at the stripped paper and said, her voice as dry as cement, “Thanks.” 

Ziggy glowed. “You’re welcome! You need to get ready this Saturday. The interview is scheduled at the Ducklair Foundation. We have a chance to feature the building before any other channels can. Snoop around and seize the opportunity, eh?” 

“Of course, who do you think I am?” Lyla pocketed the paper before going back through their notes. Her hands stopped at a page showing a list of people taking part as the crew. “Who’s with me?” 

Ziggy leaned over to look at the page, Lyla’s hand tapping the list of camera operators. “9 is not available. He’ll be covering news in the other part of the state with Geena.” 

Lyla bit back her disappointment. She hadn’t seen him since she arrived. “That’s fine, I’ll have 7, if possible; he has a steady hand.” 

“Sure,” Ziggy yawned, stretching out the kinks in his body. “I think that’s it. Tell me if you have new information about Hicks. You can go home early and relax. This week will be hectic for you.”  

“Thanks, Ziggy, I’ll keep that in mind.” Lyla hadn't specified whether it was the monthly gathering with Donald or about Hicks.  

Lyla returned to her station, occasionally giving quick hellos to familiar faces. The newsroom was as chaotic as ever, but a lull simmered on the surface as the afternoon began to take hold. Now that her excitement had abated, she found herself a moment to ponder the main reason why she had come back to Duckburg. 

She sighed, dropped into her chair, and opened the files, making it appear as if she was reviewing them. She blinked and the world was awash with circuitry and holographic images. A slow, mechanical voice prompted inside her head, and just like that, Lyla was back online. 

“Agent: Lyla Lay. Model: Droid Class 5Y. Time Period: 21st Century.”  

The footage she had been watching earlier resumed showing Benjamin Frankloon reporting in front of the McDuck Manor. She then switched to another footage, a news report about Clan McDuck after they had prevented an alien invasion. 

Lyla had known of the existence of the Moonlanders, a speck in the expanse of 21st-century history. They were among the few extraterrestrial species that tried to live on Earth, but they would eventually return to the moon after a few centuries. 

Regardless, the Moon-vasion was not responsible for her return. 

It was the sudden emergence of Tachyon particles in this century. 

The means to travel in time had been cut off by the unstable effect of microcontraction thirteen years prior. Cronotravel should have been impossible in this period, but a phenomenon occurred, and suddenly, it was back.  

According to her stored data, the period was one of lost histories, a time to which the Time Police couldn’t travel. Lyla, for some reason or another, was not affected by this effect. It was one of the miracles for which she was grateful for.  

Even if her service was not required, she couldn’t help but investigate. She checked for any temporal anomalies that had happened recently and found one: the Timephoon Incident. Better yet, the birth of the first chronopirate.  

She shouldn’t have been surprised to find it was initiated by one of Donald’s nephews. 

From her investigation, Louie Duck had used a clunky device created by Dr. Gearloose. It was called a Time Tub , an ancient relic that had long been deactivated and displayed in a museum. In his effort to acquire lost treasure across the centuries, he triggered a temporal storm by accident and nearly lost the timeline.  

The Time Police, whose job was to monitor any temporal displacement, were unavailable due to microcontraction and weren’t aware of the incident yet. However, they had yet to dispatch anyone to investigate or make any attempt to contact her. She tried reaching the headquarters, but clearly, they were swamped–it was logical considering the sudden return of the tachyons in this century. 

Or perhaps something had happened that prevented them from traveling through the past. She wanted to assess the state of the Time Police, but her chronosail lacked sufficient charge with the tachyon particles to make a jump two centuries forward. 

For now, that problem was a concern for future Lyla. She needed to focus on how time travel had returned in this century. 

Was the Timephoon Incident catastrophic? Absolutely . It was a grade-A crime that would convict anyone sentenced to Time Null. Was it related to the microcontraction? No–it was the direct consequences of it. Was it strange? Not so. At least, not as strange as the feeling of temporal winds returning; bursting, glowing, seizing the world in an embrace.  

This had happened even before the Timephoon incident, when she was in the Caribbean, thinking of coming home. This had happened when golden debris from space entered the atmosphere, burning like a shooting star in the night sky. 

With the effects of microcontraction gone, time travel was back on the scene along with its dangers and loopholes. How it came to be remained a mystery, and Lyla would not rest until she uncovered the truth. 

Saturday came like any normal day. 

“How are you feeling, Mr. Hicks?” Lyla prompted, adjusting the slipping lapel mic on her blazer. “Feeling the first-time jitters?” 

Eugene, the newly promoted editor, choked on thin air, coughing roughly, his feathers flushing red.  

“I have some experience,” Hicks answered, straightening his crooked tie while slightly raising an eyebrow at Eugene’s plight. “It wouldn't be the first time I’ve been in this setting. I have a rough estimate of how this will go. I am sure it’s not as hard as what I had with the others.” 

“That’s wonderful,” Lyla acknowledged, smiling as she finally fixed her minor technical issue. “Just sit back and relax; be yourself. You’ll barely even notice that it's over. It’ll be nice and smooth, I’m telling you.” 

Lyla looked up to see Brenda, one of the senior makeup artists on the channel, sharing an inconspicuous side-eye with Eugene. Which, in turn, made Eugene face Camera 7 with an incredulous look.  

Hicks' PR team was also not doing any better, sharing alarmed faces as if they were heading for a PR disaster. Belinda, Hicks' assistant, watched the whole situation with amusement. 

“I believe we can start filming?” Lyla suggested. It made Eugene’s already flushed body even more inflamed. Brenda's smile tightened, and her eyes widened comically. Mel, who was overseeing the production, lifted his eyes to heaven, silently pleading for patience. 

“Sure, we can begin– uh –recording, if you're ready, Mel,” Camera 7 grimaced, casting a helpless look at Mel. The look caused Brenda’s professional mask to slip, and she turned away, feigning to adjust her supplies. 

Lyla’s eyes narrowed as she discreetly scanned her coworkers’ faces and body language, realizing she must have said something funny or embarrassing. Their body temperature read warm despite the chilliness of the room. Their blood rushed to their faces and showed an increased level of serotonin. 

“They must have found our exchange humorous,” Hicks whispered playfully and gave her a mischievous wink.  

Lyla reviewed their conversation quickly and suppressed a giggle. This made the crew even more animated. She could practically see their expressions morphing rapidly before her eyes.  

“Why don’t we give them a show ?” Lyla mock whispered. Hicks cast one last teasing smirk before he went to sit on a white, modern armchair. Lyla followed and sat opposite Hicks, her face spasming as the last conversation kept popping in her mind but forced herself to get a grip. 

Lyla glanced down at her cue cards and opened her awareness in the room. The interview was being conducted in one of the building’s solariums, which provided ample lighting in the room, and due to its clever placement, shielded it from the sun’s deadly rays. The building was separate from the Foundation’s main building; they had taken a van to reach it. The building served exclusively as the company’s event place and office for public relations. 

Her senses picked up Mel’s order echoing across the chambered room, Eugene’s clumsy attempt to arrange a softbox, and Belinda’s soft, approaching steps. Lyla observed her under her lashes as she walked past her peripheral vision and leaned into Hicks' ear to whisper: 

“He’s back.”  

“Keep him company and advise him to wait in the lobby. He’ll appreciate an old friend’s visiting.”  

With that, Belinda left the room, after providing instructions to the PR team. Lyla followed the retreating figure intensely; she almost missed Hicks’ pensive face staring at her. She didn’t question it, much like many things she wouldn't question in this interview.  

Lyla felt a sense of familiarity when she first saw him, a feeling that lingered like the autumn wind blowing in the recess of her mind. At some point, it made her question the accuracy of her internal diagnostics. But she could read him like any other person in this century–his internal temperature, the blood flowing through his veins, his beating heart, his active brain. Only when she dug deeper did it transform into a familiar shape. It was like peering in the mirror, seeing the sewed-in sinews of line and metal, of pulsing core and flowing coolant. It was looking at the uncanny valley of flesh and circuitry, entangling like one messy web. 

“Ready, Lyla?” Eugene’s voice jolted her out of her reverie. In his hand was a clapperboard, hanging, waiting for her signal. Lyla sat straight and nodded. The board snapped shut. He moved in front of Hicks, clapperboard ready. 

Snap  

Lyla started, “First of all, thank you for inviting us to your wonderful office; we are grateful that you accepted our request,” 

“It is a pleasure to have you here,” Hicks replied with a small smile. 

Lyla paused, leaning back in her chair, trying to get comfortable. She launched her first question, “We can start with the revival of Ducklair Enterprise. Given a significant change this past month, surrounded by skepticism about your methods and gains. What compelled you, Mr. Hicks, to accept the CEO position of a company left to ruins?” 

“ That was dorky,” Brenda said as the crew made their way into the lobby.  

“No, it’s not!” Eugene protested, swinging heavy bags that kept slipping off his shoulders. “That’s for high school and sweethearts; yours is an office drama spanning multiple seasons. You’re ruthless with him, Lyla. You don’t pull any punches but after the interview, you’re trading ‘romance.’ I know there’s a policy about this! Somewhere!” 

Was she really? She had promised to give them a show . Hicks had quickly adopted the light and charming atmosphere of the post-interview. Lyla understood Hicks was maintaining a carefully crafted persona to present to the world. It worked incredibly well, as she expected from an overachiever. Her help with his performance was just a bonus; after all, he was an impressive opponent. His deflection on her pointed questions smoothly fit the narrative he wanted to portray. Lyla would have applauded his clever strategy if not for the others present.  

“Like I said, dorky,” Brenda smirked as Eugene stammered at the back of the group. Mel, who was speaking with the Foundation’s head of PR, swiveled his head back and glared menacingly at each of them, except for Camera 7, the only crew member who behaved properly.  

They were nearing the end of the hallway which opened into a vast, winding atrium, showcasing sleek curves, contemporary white walls, and warm wooden floors. It was a testament to Ducklair’s progress in constructing a colossal building in such a short period. Lyla’s group found their way to the reception area, the crew’s last stop before they descended to their vehicle. It was their chance to bid a final farewell, but it turned out to be an unexpected reunion. 

“Hey, Lyla,” Brenda nudged her sides. “Is that Donald? He looks different .” 

Lyla snapped to attention, instinctively activating her optical sensor. She spotted a duck–small in height with a tuft of downy white feathers. He wore a tailored three-piece suit, a wardrobe he rarely used. Despite the changes, he remained unmistakably Donald Duck. 

Oh, how she knew him : his clumsy feats and sarcastic banter. His grumpy face on things that displeased him. His kindness, bravery, and stubbornness. How he viewed the world, with all its flaws, and found goodness. How he pushed through his unforgivable luck like greeting an old friend. How he unfailingly rose above the problems thrown on his way.  

But here was the thing: neither Lyla of the future nor present hadn’t met this version of her friend. He was now shrouded in weariness and sadness, there was bitterness etched on the corner of his eyes, and a hefty weight clinging to his shoulders–a sight she wasn’t familiar with.  

Donald had his back turned to them. He chatted with Belinda, his voice raspier than what he would have sounded, but she could recognize a tint of joy rumbling between his ribs. They were lounging in one of the available seats in the atrium while Donald showed the pictures of his nephews–who had gotten so big! –with a young duck wearing a nice blouse, vest, and pink skirt combo.  

Even from a distance, Lyla could hear their conversation. “This was taken during their last adventure. And this one,” he swiped to the next photo, “they were trying to create an exploding marmalade for a science…project? Don’t give me that look. I know. I’m not an idiot. Della and I explicitly told them not to create any flammable projectiles or, in short, Molotovs. They had the brilliant idea to make this sticky monstrosity.” 

Belinda smiled reservedly as if only humoring Donald’s chatter, yet her intrigue was obvious. “I imagined Mrs. Beakley had something to say about this?” 

Donald’s laugh resonated in the open space; the lingering heaviness slowly loosened the strained fabric of his suit. “She made them wipe the house from floor to ceiling. Not a speck of marmalade in sight, else they face her wrath.”  

The group trailed after the head of PR, heading towards Donald. Belinda noticed their approach and stood. She looked down at the sitting duck and said, “I hate to cut this short, but we have company.”  

Donald rubbed his face, groaning in frustration. “Oh phooey. I don’t want to meet people this early. Why doesn’t Hicks just say goodbye to them?” 

Reluctantly, Donald jumped to his feet and scanned the room, then balked when he saw her. A myriad of expressions flashed across his face, but eventually, he pulled a slightly strained yet relieved smile. It was as if her mere presence dislodged a heavy burden in his heart. 

“Lyla! You’re back!” Donald exclaimed, his eyes glistening under the soft light of the skylight.  

Lyla moved around the group, meeting her old friend halfway. Donald gripped her arms firmly in greeting, his tremors barely hidden, and she couldn’t help but do the same. “It’s been a long time, my friend.” 

“Yes, it’s been a long time, indeed.” Donald agreed wistfully, his hands loosening. “And look at you! A big-star reporter. I’ve watched your interviews with presidents, you know. They were great!” Donald’s face creased in a heartfelt frown as he patted her arms firmly.  “But having you back in Duckburg and working here feels different. You’ve missed a lot, Lyla. But I believe, even though everything changes here, you’re still the same, right?” 

Donald narrowed his eyes and checked her over from head to toe. Lyla pulled back, shoving her hands into the pockets of her trench coat, offering herself for inspection. She could see his eyes darting from her face to her hands and the tip of her webbed toes for any ‘injuries’ that she might’ve ‘sustained’ while she was overseas. It was highly unlikely, but it didn’t stop Donald despite knowing her mechanical nature. 

“Hey, D-Onald. Nice fit,” Eugene whistled coming up next to Lyla. “Think you can refer me?” 

“Eugene, if you think for one second that I can’t hear you, you’ve got another thing coming,” Mel boomed from behind, causing Eugene to wince sharply.  

The head of PR raised an eyebrow, then commented slowly, “You’ve got a nice crew.” 

“They are overly competent children,” Mel sighed dramatically, causing a ripple of laughter among them.   

“Unless you can protect me from Mel, sure. Why not?” Donald grinned, shaking Eugene’s hand enthusiastically. “Congrats, you’ve managed to escape from the shackles of internship.” 

Eugene beamed. “Same to you! Had you gotten tired of being a busybody you snagged a C-position? You’re really something, Donald. I thought you didn’t like corporate that much?” 

Donald laughed, waving his hand dismissively. “Me, an executive? That’s way too much for my lazy bones.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Donald. You’re a valuable employee,” Belinda slipped smoothly into the conversation and stood beside Donald. 

“Thanks, Belinda. I appreciate your compliments on my driving skills.” 

“I assume you’re a chauffeur for Hicks?” Lyla concluded, eyes narrowing slightly. It was right up his alley: plain and unobtrusive. A job where he could hide in plain sight with access to a multitude of technologies. Which, Lyla realized, was part of a larger context she wasn’t privy to. Understandable , but now the thought was at the forefront of her mind, it niggled at her incessantly.   

After all, a job under Ducklair? That was no mere coincidence. History suggested only one reason Donald would work with them. 

PK is back .  

This also meant that the anomaly with the tachyon particles might be related to whatever mission he was involved in.  

“Yup,” Donald nodded readily. “I drive Hicks around, advising about old billionaires that Uncle Scrooge has beef with. Who to avoid doing business with when buying a piece of land, or what property is haunted by the spirit of Halloween. You know, the usual.”  

“It’s good he can withstand the sheer craziness of Duckburg,” Brenda said thoughtfully. “Just last week, your family almost destroyed the port with your pet Kraken? Krill? Even now, it sounds utterly crazy when I say it aloud.” 

A sheepish grin spread across Donald’s face; his body shifted awkwardly at the accusations. He was saved by Mel, who finished wrapping up details with the head of PR. “It’s good to see you, Donald, but we need to go. Thank you for having us. Please send our regards to Mr. Hicks.” 

Lyla stayed behind with Donald as the rest said their goodbyes, waiting for them to be alone. The atrium wasn’t an ideal space for private conversation, but she’d manage. With so many questions piling up in her database, she didn’t know where to begin. Hence, she opted for something simple, something they had in common, “Ziggy invited me to your monthly pub meeting. He gave me your mobile. Sorry, I forgot to message you and ask if it’s okay for me to come along.” 

That’s a lie . Lyla wasn’t programmed to forget anything; even minuscule details were stored in her database. It should have been easy to message Donald–a simple ‘hi’ and ‘how are you?’ would suffice. However, before she could even begin typing her message, her processor overclocked, preventing her from even touching her phone. 

“Of course, you can come,” Donald said. “We had Jana, Ziggy’s wife, joined us last time. My cousin, Abner, also joined us whenever he visited Duckburg. Don’t worry about intruding; you can intrude anytime.” 

“Thanks, Don, I’ll text you later.” – about the Tachyon, PK, and, of course, you. Lyla offered a soft knowing glance Donald caught on. He nodded, turning away, his face crumpling in distress. Lyla pursed her beak and gave Donald's shoulder a comforting squeeze before joining her team.  

She exchanged polite pleasantries with the Foundation’s personnel, feeling both light and exhausted. Before they left the floor, she cast a final glance at Donald. Under the vast, sunlit warmth of the atrium, his figure stood, a storm brewing within him, like a raging, tumultuous sea.  

He knew Lyla was suspicious. Donald watched as the 00 Channel crew was guided to the underground parking lot, Donald caught Mel’s pleased expression while speaking to Lyla. The interview must have gone well and would probably be a hit, as Mel rarely expressed such obvious pride in his team.  

“Ready to go?” Belinda asked after dismissing the head of PR. Donald heaved a long, deep breath before nodding. Belinda raised an impassive eyebrow and placed a hand on his shoulder. “No need to be nervous; it’ll be a short debrief.” 

That wasn't what he was worried about. Donald was glad the plan had progressed steadily. They had rebuilt Ducklair’s company, or whatever was left of it, gathered the greatest minds in one building, and successfully infiltrated an enemy base to obtain necessary information–all in just a few months. It was an impossible feat. An accomplishment! Or was it? 

Omega would tear him apart, viciously. His last mission was a disaster. In his defense, it was a suicide mission–one against the entire base. No one could survive without a specialized suit and an advanced weapon, which he had. Still, it was his shitty luck that saved him from becoming a Swiss cheese on a kebab.  

With the retrieved information, he returned to Duckburg. Once they had created a solid plan, he sought help from the military, his old pal from Area 51. Bearing his suit and mask, he informed General Westcock of the schematics provided by Omega. According to their pooled resources and data, it would take months before they could launch a large-scale assault on the enemy bases. 

Donald followed Belinda as they exited the building and boarded an electric van back to the main office. He observed the sprawling greenery from his window–a manicured landscape, a testament to order and was far removed from the image of its predecessor. Everett, despite his genius business acumen and bizarre inventions, had a reputation as an irritable, problematic billionaire. Hicks was the opposite, radiating an enigmatic charm and conducted the business like an overseer, like a custodian –hah! 

Custodian because he was–you know–the caretaker…of the tower. 

Never mind. It was obvious that he was nervous about the debrief. 

They pulled up in front of the main office, a staggering infrastructure of steel, glass, and concrete. The area was intimidating, with its massive quadrangle, glass domes, and endless stairs at the main entrance. It could be a lot, or awe-inspiring to some people, but in his opinion, it was overly pretentious, just like Everett’s .  

“When you said Hicks has a surprise, it’s Lyla?” Donald asked, clambering out of the van. Belinda hummed as they walked toward the stairs. Donald wondered why they needed to climb if there was a serviceable elevator nearby. 

As though Belinda read his thoughts, she replied, “You need some light exercise; to move your body.” 

Donald threw a look of disbelief, and Belinda chucked, “You’re tense. A walk to the office may ease you up.” 

He sighed wearily. “Thanks, today has been overwhelming.” Yet . Donald quirked a tiny grin, “Knowing Lyla’s alright has been a relief.” 

Their communication had dwindled since Lyla accepted a job in the Middle East, covering dangerous reports that would advance her career. Donald, since then, had taken care of Della’s children. He was also at fault; he had distanced himself from anyone. Though, it didn’t stop him from making bad decisions, left and right. 

If not for the kids’ growing needs and Abner, who was as grief-stricken as he was, he’d probably never have set foot on land. 

“We’re here,” Belinda reminded gently. Donald lifted his head in thanks and stepped into the automatic doors that revealed Hick’s executive office. It was as gaudy as everything else, though much sleeker in the designs than the tower. Donald proceeded to plop face down on the red, modern, eyesore of a sofa. He moaned in relief as his body met a surprisingly soft cushion.  

“PK,” Hick– Omega– drawled, analyzing the holographic blueprint of genetic tracers. “We don’t have the luxury to be tired. Get up; we have a lot to discuss.” 

Donald groaned but ultimately sat up; Omega was right. They were running out of time, the date of the alien attack was nearing, and they needed to ensure nothing would go downhill.  

Donald popped the buttons of his suit open, hunched down on his knees, and stared at the busy courtyard below. “The genetic tracers were a bitch; it’s a miracle I’m still alive. Faraday only used the prototype, but it was accurate. If the final product is completed, there is no getting out of its firing range without the suit.”  

“I can’t recreate your suit,” Omega waved a hand to swipe the data, replaced by a diagram of the suit. “While the chamber can produce the same product, we don’t have the resources for it. Our best course of action is to deal with the Evronians before they hit the streets of Duckburg.” 

“As you said, we don’t have the resources–not just for the suit.” Donald's eyes narrowed, fighting back the fire behind his teeth. “We are unprepared; we don’t have a way to fight back massive numbers of their species.” 

Hicks scoffed, turning off the holographic device with a flick of his hand. He stood by the windows, overlooking the Foundation, downtown Duckburg, and the slowly setting sun on the horizon. His silhouette created a sharp contrast on his face, his eyes shining artificial blue. 

“It would have been easy if you’d let set aside your sentimentality,” Omega frowned, his disdain barely contained. “Your actions in New Zealand proved nothing of your competency, PK. You were distracted infiltrating an enemy base and it nearly cost us the mission.” 

Donald grimaced. There was no denying he’d made mistakes. Even though his situation was unfavorable, he couldn’t use it as an excuse for almost failing. Even now, he could feel the brush of the shots following him, the bruising hits Evronians landed, the rush of adrenaline– 

(–she dodged the oncoming fire like a blazing tornado, and how she lay when all fight inside her was extinguished. Her eyes unseeing. The starburst of pain and hope bloomed in his chest because his sister was alive; she survived because she was his sister and because nothing could stop Della Duck. The joy and happiness were just a fleeting whisper that ripped viciously and violently. In a second he saw Della alive behind the screen, then was gone. Ten years later, she was gone. She was gone and dea–)  

“Distracted,” Omega noted stoically, breaking the tension curling within Donald.  

“For good reason,” Donald sighed. “The company employs the brightest minds in the world. They should be able to create a capable nanobot suit.” 

“And waste our time,” Omega’s eyebrow furrowed as if what he was requesting was a nuisance.  

It wasn’t; it would never be. Donald abandoned all pretense of professionalism and lay down on the couch, blocking the harsh fluorescent light with his arms. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was overwhelmed. On top of a week-long mission, he needed a break, a minute to compose himself.  

“Family is my greatest strength,” Donald mumbled. “They’re also my weakness. If we don’t find a way to guarantee their safety, I’ll never get the job done.” But he’ll raze the Evronians to the ground with no mercy. Xadhoom would be so proud.  

“I continue to believe Odin made the wrong choice,” Omega marched to the couch opposite from where he was lying and sat imperiously. “It doesn’t mean that I’ll leave you and your family at the mercy of these alien scums.” 

Donald peeked over his arms and observed Omega with tired eyes. “You’ve already had someone in mind to man the project for the suit, haven’t you?” 

Omega cocked an eyebrow as if Donald was an idiot. “Now that we have the military’s help in funding the Devolver and have located the cultivation spots of Evronian spores, I believe it is time to expand our expertise. I have created a new division for its creation.” 

Donald held his stare for a few seconds before exhaling sharply. He closed his eyes, ready to doze off, and he said, “I’ll trust you on this, Omega.” 

After that, he was out like a light. 

Gandra felt warm kisses pepper her face. Her nose crinkled at the sensation as she blindly pushed the offending face away. Soft laughter tickled her ear as she slowly opened her eyes. The scene that greeted her was a face nestled against the crook of her neck, dark eyes peering out from under a fluff of brown feathers.  

“Rise and shine, mi gallina,” Fenton whispered, ruffling her feathers gently. “Breakfast is ready.” 

Gandra kissed the top of his head but didn’t move any further. They lay on the bed, soaking in each other’s presence as the mottled light danced behind the bedroom curtain. 

“You’ve got mail. I left it on your desk,” Fenton mumbled, slipping away from their cuddle. “You never told me you applied to Ducklair Enterprises?” 

“No,” Gandra rubbed the sleepiness off her eyes, yawning. “I mean–I never applied to them. I don’t think they will offer the same program as my current company. They tanked hard without Everett so it’s not worth working there.” 

“I’m curious. Want to check before breakfast?” Fenton flashed an excited grin. Ducklair might have their company in shambles, but they remained influential. Their devices were still exalted as the pinnacle of technology, even without groundbreaking inventions released in years. Gandra understood the hype. 

Gandra shrugged, which widened Fenton’s grin. He left the bed with a quick peck on her cheek. She lay for a minute, then got up to follow her boyfriend in the living room.  

She considered the purpose of the mail. There was no reason for Ducklair to reach out; it was unthinkable they would employ an amoral, self-proclaimed scientist like her. Had they performed a background check, or had they chosen to overlook her past employment? Were they desperate for intelligent minds to pool under their company? She’d heard that the Ducklair Enterprise was slowly making a comeback after the moon-vasion. Employing specialized scientists and researchers would significantly boost their declining reputation in the scientific community. 

Either way, these were only theories. But seriously, sending mail? In this day and age?  

Gandra entered the living room as Fenton brought out a sealed, premium-looking catalog envelope with the Ducklair Foundation logo stamped in the center.  

Fenton gently placed the envelope on the coffee table, brimming with giddiness. “I was waiting for you to wake up, but I’ve got too–,” he shrugged helplessly. “So, I made breakfast and tamales and desserts, brownies! I peeked at the office, five or ten times–I lost count, so I decided to wake you. I–yeah–sorry.” 

“Calm yourself, Suit,” Gandra chuckled as she sat down on the sofa. “You’re more excited about this than me. Let’s get this over then.” 

Gandra broke the seal and took out the papers inside. It was a letter of intent outlining her prospective position, her role in the company–a freaking head scientist for a newly established nanotechnology division–and a generally phrased compensation. It was nice knowing that the paper she’d shared publicly about experiments and conclusions on nanotech had reached the eyes of important people.  

Too bad the offer arrived late.  

Gandra was suddenly wrapped in a warm embrace, squeezing her tightly. She leaned back into the comfort. “Come on GG,” Fenton said. “Let’s eat. And don’t forget you’re the best. If they want you so badly, they’ll find a way.” 

Gandra gave Fenton’s arm a gentle squeeze in return before pulling away. “Can’t wait to have your brownies again.” 

“Full stomach before sweets, as Mama says.” 

Gandra huffed in amusement, but as Fenton turned away, her expression morphed into frustration. A multi-dollar company asking for her expertise was unexpected. And flattering. If she had known that an opportunity like this would arise, she wouldn't have wasted her time slaving away to some second-rate evil organization.  

Not only she was lying to Fenton, thinking she was employed purely to develop The Gizmocloud, but also the org was getting so ridiculous and dangerous that she considered quitting. 

She roughly combed her hackles and rose, abandoning the open letter. It was a done deal, there wasn't much she could do. She would email the Foundation stating she’s not interested. It wasn't as if they would reach out again, anyway. 

Chapter Text

“You’re saying we’re in this situation because he died?” 

The Raider frowned at the golden spaceship plummeting to Earth at an incredibly high speed. Anyone with half a brain knew no one could survive the re-entry. Yeah, the duck inside was burned to a crisp–what a brutal way to die. 

Odin turned to him, raising an unimpressed brow. The Raider crossed his arms and rolled his eyes in disbelief. Who would have thought that a superhero who survived multiple catastrophic events and attempts on his life would be slain by a second-rate villain? Indirectly?  

“Spill. You have reasons why you revealed PK’s identity. And his death.” The Raider moved closer to the screens, analyzing his former opponent–rival? Ally? Frenemy? Argh, preposterous. He wouldn’t go that far . 

“You’re not aware of the changes?” Odin asked, fiddling with a controller that changed the frequency of the monitors to show the massive project of those critters . The Raider’s beak twisted into a sneer as Odin pulled up the images of the gravitational engines.  

“You mean Earth is now traveling through space, finding new planets to conquer?” the Raider shot a derisive look at the mallard. “Then yes, I’m aware. It’s obvious from the earthquakes and the growing distance between us and the solar system.”  

“Good,” Odin nodded firmly, then twisted the knob of the controller, and another image was shown. This time, the Raider was extremely familiar with it. He gestured toward the screen, looking back and forth between the image and Odin. 

“What? Wait, how?”  

“Due to the change in Earth’s position, the effects of microcontraction were nullified. We can now travel in time,” Odin explained. For the Raider, it was as if Christmas had come early. This was his chance to get away from this hellhole of a future. He had to find his trusty chronosail, charge it with the newly emerged tachyon particles, and leave this time behind.  

“Your chronosail will not survive the jump, Raider,” Odin declared curtly, cutting off his wonderful plans. “It is calibrated to the Earth’s rotation. Now that we’re forcibly flown out of the system, the device can’t survive a long jump. It won’t travel back far enough, and the risk of temporal displacement is extremely high . Believe me when I say you won’t like the consequences.” 

“Alright, I’m out.” The Raider raised his hands in surrender, already stepping away from the command center when he caught sight of Odin’s wrist.  

“That’s my chronosail,” the Raider said flatly. 

“Look closer and tell me if it really is.” 

The design was almost identical, but the materials and the hardware–if he focused his mechanical eye on the side where the motherboard sat–were different. It was a sophisticated piece of technology that had no business existing at this time.  

The Raider observed Odin suspiciously. “You knew this would happen?” 

“Don’t overestimate my abilities, I merely prepare myself for this situation.” Odin smiled ruefully at the screens, “I always have hope. Sooner or later, everything will be back in order.” 

Sure, wonderful sentiments, not that he gives a damn. But a chance to make things right was a tempting opportunity. Not only that, but the most pressing matter was on their doorstep. Literally.  

They are running out of time. The Evronians had been on their tail since the beginning, and they were getting closer with each passing day. Despite Odin’s humble bragging, he was their last hope to escape this dystopian nightmare. However–  

“I will not risk my life for a–” he pointed lazily at the screen “–tired, mid-life crisis, old uncle, wearing a sailor suit. Find someone else to do the job. I’ll sit back and enjoy the present we deserve.” 

With an exasperated sigh, Odin pushed some buttons on the controller. A cylindrical compartment–inside was a purple card with an omega symbol–slid smoothly from the console. “This is the key for Omega Chamber. You’ll find new technologies and weapons that may interest you. I’ll permit you to obtain one.”  

“How generous of you, Eidolon,” the Raider smirked. “You would do anything for him, huh?”  

“Yes,” Odin answered in a heartbeat, rendering the Raider speechless. Odin removed the chronosail from his wrist and threw it toward him. “It will take you back, but you need to remember that traveling to the 21st century means you’re reliant on the chronosail’s energy source. The effects of microcontraction are still present in the century unless something changes.” 

The Raider examined the device, turning it in his hand before clasping it over his wrist. “And if I fail?” 

“You’ll be trapped.”  

The Raider gave the mallard an incredulous look. “You expect me to volunteer for an impossible mission with a possibility of no return?” 

“You’re going to return?” Odin asked, filled with skepticism. 

“I have Trip,” he emphasized, his voice verging on irritation. 

“Dad! You won’t help Uncle Odin? That’s PK you needed to save, not some NPC,” a voice from below the command center retorted. The Raider facepalmed heavily. Great, these two are conspirators.  

“Trip! I told you not to waltz into headquarters willy-nilly. This is not a playground!”  

“I have an access pass, Dad.” Trip climbed up to the command center, swaggering with hands in his pockets. “Besides, everyone likes it if I’m here, right, Uncle O?” 

Odin hummed in a low, almost smug way.  

“Oof, he looked so...ordinary,” Trip grimaced, looking at the picture of PK’s real identity. “And his name is also...ordinary. Are you sure he’s PK?” 

“That's his signature. Though, to my knowledge, he already showed his face to you when we visited the 20th century,” Odin pointed out as he ruffled Trip’s crown.  

Trip endured playful ruffling, his face set in a frown. “All I could remember of him was a dark figure. It’s like centuries ago, Uncle O.” 

If his dying would make these two bonds over PK, he wouldn't have died in the first place. Stupid alternate self.  

“I’m excited once we’re back! I missed Frue Frida, and my classmates, even if they’re annoying. I missed tacos, pizza, and hamburgers, we can eat anything! I can continue writing Timeboy! You know the comics that I–” 

“I know Trip,” the Raider sighed heavily, rubbing his eyebrow in resignation. “Fine, I’ll save PK. You better compensate me once I’m done, Odin.” 

“As long as the timeline is back on track,” Odin agreed and then tossed a silver device to Trip. “Good job.” 

“Told you he’ll fold,” Trip smirked, clasping the silver chronosail on his wrist. “Bye Dad, see you soon!” 

The Raider watched as Trip descended to the direction where the city center was located. His eyes narrowed on the infuriating mallard. “Why?” 

“For his protection. I instructed him to use the chronosail only if he’s in danger. It will transport him back to the headquarters if he finds himself in a bad situation.” Odin beckoned for him to follow to his office. “This is my guarantee to you; I’ll never leave your son unarmed and without protection.” 

Odin let the silence simmer as they descended. He had a hateful personality the Raider couldn’t stand. He has every possibility planned out, always twelve steps ahead, like a chess master. He probably knew that he’d agree to whatever insane plan he concocted. 

The Resistance’s Headquarters, while bleak and claustrophobic, was a hub of activity and cold optimism. All who had survived the Evronian attack lived in the underground cities and at its center was the group Odin assembled. The Raider found himself in a heavily guarded office that required Odin to perform four-way authentication before they could even step foot inside. 

“Now that we’re on the same page, I’ll debrief you on the mission until you’re ready to make the jump.” 

Della had set aside a lot of things.  

Like the cool-sounding name she’d once imagined for her ducklings–Jet, Turbo, and Rebel, all were related to space and NASA. Huey wasn’t Jet and Dewey definitely wasn’t Turbo. Her youngest? Absolutely not Rebel. She understood why. Though, the names her brother came up with had started to grow on her. So, it was fine. 

Or the ten-year separation between Uncle Scrooge and Donald, which hadn’t been addressed since she came back from the moon. They were such emotionally capable adults, waiting for the perfect time to discuss it. Who would want to talk about emotions when adventure was right around the corner?  

But there were some things she drew a line at. 

“I admit it was one of the best movie franchises I watched,” Louie said to his phone, fork twirling as he made his point.  

“I must attest, it was indeed a great movie,” Beakley sighed as she carefully placed a baked turkey in the middle of the dining table, expertly dodging an intense cutlery swordplay between Dewey and Webby. 

Webby paused and said, “No way,” in delight. Dewey spotted an opening and made a quick jab at Webby’s left shoulder. What he didn't know was Webby anticipating such a move. With a flash, she clamped on his wrist, yanking Dewey forward, and brought her knee to his stomach, delivering a sharp blow. Oh, that’s foul.  

“Oh my gosh, are you all right, Dewey?” Webby hurriedly fell to her knees, taking stock of Dewey’s hurts. Dewey groaned and raised a thumbs-up.  

“That’s an awesome kick, Web,” Dewey said, clinging to Webby as she dragged his body to a dining seat. “I need some practice.” He huffed, slumping across the dining table. 

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to practice!” Uncle Scrooge gleefully announced from the head of the table. “Now that we’ve found the journal of Isabella Finch, you will have opportunities to apply all that you’ve learned from our past adventures.” 

“Isn’t that exciting?” Webby grinned, shaking Dewey’s shoulder.  

“You should teach me your spy moves, Webby,” Dewey murmured, his eyebrows crumpling in thought. He raised his head and looked at Della with wonder. “Mom? Are you a former spy?” 

Della stopped loading a mash mid-scoop and tilted her head in confusion. She carefully lay the ladle back on the bowl, her voice thick with surprise, “Err, I’m not.” Where does Dewey get that idea? “Spy work sure is cool, but I had never joined any espionage agencies.” 

“Not even the PBI?” 

“Did Captain Flagstarr call again?” Beakley scowled as she sat beside Webby. “She’s quite persistent, isn't she? She never gave us the reason why she called. She was insistent on only speaking with you or Donald. I’ve already informed your brother about it, but it seems he never called her back.” 

“What did she say?” Della asked Dewey, her heart beating because she had a hunch this was related to–.  

“She said, and I quote, ‘Dr. Fairfax and McCoy are on the loose. It’s a matter of national security.’ End quote. Sounds urgent and official, right? Definitely a big deal.” Dewey grinned from ear to ear. 

Oh.  

“Why would they contact you? You’re not a consultant for the PBI,” Uncle Scrooge exclaimed with disbelief. 

“Isn’t it a security breach?” Huey added. “This is confidential information. Why would they share it with an unauthorized civilian? I mean, Mom most likely has a clearance but Dewey? Still, there should be a protocol about this.” 

“Maybe it’s my destiny to be a spymaster, Huey. Now that this has come to light, when are we going to kick this Fairfax guy’s butt?” 

Secrets.  

“No,” Della’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “If we’re going to take down criminals, we need to do reconnaissance and have a full belly! Don’t wait on Mrs. Beakley’s food.” 

There were varying protests from the table, Huey, obviously, sought after for more information. Dewey and Webby were hyping each other about the potential field mission. A mission that was never gonna happen if Flagstarr was leading the investigation.  

Louie, on the other hand, was silently watching, and observing; he had always been a sensitive kid. Della felt the cold sweat slowly running down her back, causing her to shiver from the heat of her drink–. Wait when did she have a glass of wine?   

“For your thoughts.” Mrs. Beakley poured another glass.  

“Thanks, Mrs. B,” Della blinked, felt a hand wrapping her elbows, and looked up to see Penumbra gently checking on her. Della gave her a thumbs-up, a smile playing on her face. Her attention then snapped to an incredulous voice. 

Huey, with his fork poised mid-air, clarified, “Fairfax, tried to drown the West Coast using an artificial earthquake? And he almost succeeded ?” 

“Arg, don’t remind me, lad. It nearly crashed our market,” Uncle Scrooge roughly sliced a piece of turkey meat.  

“It was rumored that PK helped with resolving the situation,” Webby chimed in.  

“What, now?” Louie retorted, eyebrows shooting up in confusion. 

“Paperinik!” Webby and Huey said in unison. Their eyes instantly met, and they shared a knowing grin. 

“Okaay, who’s he?” Dewey looked between Huey and Webby. 

“The first ever known–” 

“The greatest superhero–” 

Huey paused and gestured to Webby. “You go first.”  

“No, you can go first,” Webby shrugged, eyes wide with enthusiasm. 

“No–no. You probably collected all the data about him.” 

“What! I need to know what you know, so we’re on the same track!” 

“True, but–” 

“Can both of you stop?” Louie groaned. “He’s a superhero, nice, no big deal. But we’ve got Gizmoduck and Darkwing So, what's with the hype?” 

“For one, he’s a menace,” Uncle Scrooge grumbled under his breath. Della’s disapproving glare made him hide behind a forkful of turkey. 

“It’s time for me to educate you about Duckburg’s superhero,” Huey said, grabbing a nearby napkin as a visual aid. “Listen well, first we have Astrongman, a superhero in the 50’s–” 

The dining room descended into an impromptu teaching session with ideas and theories flinging from the most inane to incredibly absurd. Dinner continued in this manner and questions about Della’s involvement with the PBI seemingly blended into nothingness.  

The night slowly petered out into silence, and the kids found themselves tired from the day’s fanfare. Della herded her boys up to their room, waving weakly to Webby as they went upstairs. She tucked them into their bed and kissed their foreheads goodnight.  

“Mom,” Louie called out before she could turn off the lights. “It’s not a family secret, right?” 

Della glanced at her youngest, feeling the rest of her sons watching, heavy with anticipation. Her chest simmered in unspoken secrets, making her muscles tense like a coiled spring. A memory filtered on the fringe of her mind, pulsing heavily as it swept her thoughts. 

(” Don’t tell anyone,” Donald pleaded, as he patched a wound under his left eye.   

“Don’t tell anyone that you’re hurt. Why?” Della disagreed, eyes blazing with fury.  

“I needed to do this. And I don’t want you–all of you–to get hurt.”  

“Oh, come on, Don! That’s a weak excuse and you know it. How is it different from our adventure with Uncle?”  

“More dangerous. I dug myself too deep, Della. I don’t see a way out anymore.”  

A beat.  

“Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t tell Uncle Scrooge.”  

The fractures in his eyes were an answer enough.)  

“I hope not.” Della swallowed the beginning of her bitterness. “Well! Good night, kiddos. I know Uncle Scrooge is itching to take a trip to Peru. But since the entrance to the temple reveals itself every year, we’ll brainstorm for a new location to explore instead. Sleep tight and be ready tomorrow!” 

“Yes, Mom. Good night!” her boys chorused as the light switched off. 

“Here we go again.” Louie’s ‘I’m-so-done’ tone bounced off the dark room. Huey sat up and peeked down at Louie’s bed.  

“That’s…yeah,” Huey sighed, plopping back on his bed. He stared at the ceiling. Questions were floating in his mind, such as: Who was PK? Why was Mom involved with the PBI? Was it because of her alleged connection with the superhero, as her best friend? Was she a consultant? This seemed impossible knowing she never interacted with the outside world in the past month. However, she could be secretly communicating with them. 

“–uey. Huey!” Dewey’s voice startled him out of his musing. 

Huey looked under his bunk bed and hissed, “What?” and found Dewey missing. Huey scanned the room and saw him already crawling inside a vent.  

“Mom is speaking with Uncle Donald.” 

“Louie?” 

“Already here!” his voice rang from inside the vents. Huey hastily climbed from his bed and followed his siblings. 

“How did you know that Mom is talking with Uncle Donald?” Huey asked in a hushed voice. 

“Guys! You better hurry,” Webby shouted from somewhere.  

“That,” Dewey nodded in the direction where they heard Webby’s voice.  

“Family secrets, aren't they tired of it?” Louie grumbled from the front.  

Huey rolled his eyes. For all of Louie’s grumbling, his eagerness to know Mom’s secret was obvious. He was even the first one to crawl into the vents when usually he needed convincing to do anything that required effort. 

They turned into a corner before spotting Webby peering through the vent grill, listening keenly. He could hear Mom whisper-shouting, speaking to someone on the phone. Webby noticed their approach and she motioned to move carefully. When they finally settled, Huey saw his mom pacing from one end of the room, her metal leg whirring with each step. 

“– t the kids be kids. It’s what we used to do when we were their age.”   

Mom paused, listening raptly on the other line then jerked suddenly and said, “Whaaa?” She wrung her hands in a nervous tic. 

Catching her mistake, she cleared her throat and continued, “ What? Can't I call my baby brother because I’m worried? He didn't even bother to give us a call.”  

She huffed, “ That’s all good, Don. I’m surprised your work with the Duckliars is keeping you so preoccupied.”  

A loaded silence filled the room. “Is PK back in the field?”  

Everyone present in the cramped, claustrophobic vent shared a look.  

“I know why you’re there. Fairfax and McCoy, right? Mrs. Beakley said she already told you about her call.” Mom sighed, her frustration mounting with each passing second. “Dewey answered it!”  

“Donald?” She called out, her voice fragile like one mistake and the call would drop. 

“Other sources, like Solomon Hicks?” Mom questioned, her eyebrows raising through the roof, “Whom you haven't introduced yet? That I found out existed when I saw him on the news with you?”  

“Will you stop that,” Mom hissed lowly, causing Huey to flinch. “Could you at least explain what the hell is happening? Dewey blurted out his convo with Flagstarr in the middle of dinner, and now everyone thinks I’m some secret agent.”  

“I couldn't answer them! Della Duck never runs–especially on valid questions asked by my boys! But I stayed silent because I needed more information. I need to know your plan.”  

Her tone became quiet, distant. Her body shook from invisible winds of anger. “I know you–you keep a lot of things. I understand why you need to keep this secret from me. You see, ever since I’ve spoken to you, all I’ve done is ask because I’m blindsided. I’m completely in the dark!”  

Huey felt Louie’s hand creep into his, and all he could do was hold on as they watched their Mom falter. “You don’t trust me anymore, do you? Not after the moon?”  

Yup, his curiosity was sated. There was no need to witness what was happening below the vents. 

“Do you guys want to sleep in my room?” Webby spoke softly, her voice carried surprising comfort. 

“Impromptu sleepover?” Dewey whispered back, his eyes glinting with thanks, but they quickly changed into alarm as the voice below snapped like the boom of a launcher.  

“Doesn't feel like it!”  

They all winced. “Okay, I think this is enough for tonight,” Louie said, cringing.  

Mom was trembling, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Huey noticed the dampness clinging to her eyes. She listened on the other line, and she suddenly froze, guilt etching onto her face, likely because of what Uncle Donald had said.  

“We need to talk as soon as possible.” Mom’s chest rattled. “No takebacks.”  

“Do you feel slightly angry at Uncle Donald?” Dewey asked, looking at each of them for agreement, but pouted when no one responded. 

“Mom is hurting, sure. But Dew, ten years?” Louie's brow lifted in question. 

“Shut up.” Dewey scowled and returned to observing their mom. 

“Look, you don’t need to tell me the whole truth. I’ll have Flagstarr fill me in on the details.”  

Mom rolled her eyes, “I know she’s not going to tell me anything ‘confidential’. Or information that is classified as a ‘security breach’, which she started, by the way. But I know what she wanted.  So don’t be such a downer and let me have my fun.”   

“You're impossible. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye!”  

“What now?” Dewey looked at Huey for guidance on what they needed to do next.   

“We have two options. We’ll go with Webby’s plan.” Which wasn’t going to be a sleepover . “Or we’ll go back to our rooms, sleep, and reconvene the next day.” At least they would have a rest before they could discuss what they heard. 

“Bro,” Dewey groaned. “Sleeping? After all that?” 

“Yeah, as per Woodchuck rule 15, section 8, sleep is essential to ensure better decision-making. It is prudent to maintain a healthy eight hours of sleep every day.” 

Dewey’s nose crinkled and shot Webby a quick side-eye.  

“Or we could stay,” Louie said suddenly, his eyes tracking Mom’s movement. “I think Mom is making another call.” 

“Insecurity is so high school, Della. Stop. What we need is more information.”  

With a weary sigh, Mom dialed a number. Huey could feel everyone holding their breath as another page of their family secrets began to turn. 

“Cut the chase, Flagstarr. Tell me all the details, don’t leave anything behind.”   

“ I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye!”  

That could have gone better. 

Donald sighed, rubbing the fatigue from his face. He tried his best to prevent Della from knowing too soon, but he understood that he must reveal the truth one way or the other. Now that the suit– her suit –was almost complete.  

“Those are some heavy words you dropped there, cousin.” A familiar voice spoke from behind. Donald turned abruptly and found Abner staring at the Ducklair Foundation building. “ I don’t want to be the reason why they’ll lose you again. ” 

Donald flinched. “You heard that.” 

“Just the last parts.” Abner turned to look into his eyes, but he didn’t show anything. His expression was unreadable. Donald felt a growing tension brewing on the surface. With an explosive sigh, Donald steered his cousin out of the Foundation courtyard. It would be a mile-and-a-half walk before they could reach the nearest bus stop.  

“What are you doing here, Abner?” Donald asked. The sun had long since vanished below the horizon and the moon was swallowed by the darkness, hiding behind the night.  

“Can’t I visit my cousin?” Abner questioned. Donald shot him an annoyed glance, his beak quirking in displeasure. Abner raised an eyebrow in a challenge and walked forward purposefully. Donald groaned loudly and jogged to catch up to his cousin.  

“No, seriously? Did I forget something? Is it Grandma’s birthday? No, that’s in October. Maybe Dugan’s? Gus?” 

“I’m losing money because of you,” Abner lamented. ”You forgot the pub meetings. You said today is your only free time before you start getting busy.” 

“That’s right, but how is it my fault you’re losing money?” Donald frowned.  

“I bet that you’d be in the pub before Ziggy and I,” Abner sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I owe Ziggy and Prim some money.” 

Donald guffawed. “You’re an idiot.” Abner never learned that gambling with those two was a guaranteed loss.  

“Oh, Layla too. She’s your friend, right? The journalist.” 

Yep, he forgot about that too.  

They walked the rest of the mile in comfortable silence. The brick path leading out of the Foundation premises was illuminated by warm artificial lights. The strong breeze brought an unexpected peace to Donald when usually his walks left him adrift and hollow. 

“They’re not pushing you too hard at work?” Abner asked as they got closer to the bus stop.  

“Oh, no–no,” Donald chuckled but quickly closed his beak when Abner’s eyes narrowed threateningly, daring him to continue. “Ahh. It’s stressful but fulfilling?” 

“You look worse than when you get beaten up regularly.” Abner scoffed. “What? You never tried to hide it, and we have Prim–Adrianna? She’s not bound by the agency, after your shticks with the Actinia. She’s free to tell everything.” 

“She did what?!”  

“Come on, the bus is here.”  

Donald stared at Abner’s retreating back, working his jaw to suppress his rising anger. He hastily followed his cousin to the bus, where Abner was sitting at the very end. Abner motioned to sit beside him. For a moment, Donald considered sitting on a different seat, completely ignoring his cousin until they reached the pub. However, Abner was unfazed by what he dropped, and Donald knew. He just knew. He would lose this battle. 

Donald marched over to Abner, arms crossed. “Explain.” 

“No, you explain,” his cousin said indifferently, his eyes staring over the bus’s window.  

What was there to explain? Abner had it figured out, apparently. No need for old Donald to explain because someone has taken over the mantle! What the hell, Kay? 

“Let me help you,” Abner met his eyes with a cool stare. “We’re not idiots. We speculate. Ziggy was an ex-academy student, and his inquisitive nature made him good at investigation. Old John is your buddy in the Navy, he has some connections. And me? I learned how to listen. Why do you think they saddled me to babysit the lot of you? We conclude that you’re working with the government. If not them, a job that requires absolute secrecy.” 

Donald jerked his shoulder irritably. Abner rolled his eyes before he continued, “Not to mention your injuries. I thought those were bad, though looking at you…” 

“What’s wrong with me?” 

“You look like death came knocking at your door.” 

Donald stared at Abner while counting his breath. One, two, three. He kept on counting until minutes passed. He didn’t dare to look away. 

“What if it already has?” 

“You’ll need to buy me a drink strong enough that I can pretend this conversation never happened.” 

Donald squinted his eyes ruefully. “Be careful what you wish for. I have just a pill for you.” 

“Go ahead. I’ll spit it in your face and axe you.” 

A pregnant silence. 

And then they dissolved into giggles. They looked like loons out of the hospital, high on painkillers, hardly even trying to be discreet. Their laughter escalated to a breathless heap.  

Oh fuck, it’s been a while. 

“This–” Donald took a breath, “–this is way different from the agency. Well almost.” 

“Yeah, no kidding. Prim said the agency is dissolved. I figured whatever the hell is going on with your work is not the same. Though you pointed out that it is, somewhat.” 

Donald sighed tiredly and leaned back on the seat. “What are you going to do?” 

Abner shot him a shit-eating grin. “Bet.”  

Donald laughed, high and free. “You never learned, Abner. Gosh, you never fucking learn.” 

“I need a bigger board. Okay, timeline: Escape, Moon-vasion, and wow. No freaking clue where they are or what they’re doing. Nice going, Flagstarr; these are useless.” 

Penumbra hesitated by the door. It was past midnight, morning would reveal itself soon. Usually, Penumbra would be in bed, sleeping until the sun was up, after which she would fix her spaceship. However, what she had discovered during dinner kept her awake. 

“Purpose? Revenge.” Della wrote, placing the word in the middle of the whiteboard. “They haven’t really changed their agenda since the beginning.” 

“Also,” a scribble next to ‘revenge’, “unethical scientific experimentation–that’s so Fairfax-coded.” 

“And McCoy, who the hell was he?” Della wondered, tapping the name in contemplation. “According to Flagstarr, he’s a Belgravian spy. This is supposedly the reason why they teamed up. But there are no traces of them in Belgravia, and after the issue with the Olympics, the country is trying to steer clear from the spotlight.” 

“They were probably staying in a location with high volcanic activity,” Penumbra announced as she entered the room. 

“What?” Della quickly turned around, her hand, which had been writing on the whiteboard hung mid-air. “Penny, you’re up early. Do you need help with your ship?”  

“No, I’m here for something else,” Penumbra said, striding toward the whiteboard. She stared at the connecting dots, the messy handwriting. The circled notes. “I wanted to go back to the moon, not just because I missed it.” 

Penumbra picked up one of the writing tools, rolling it on her hands. She opened the cap and wrote. 

Della stared, her face paling rapidly. “The Moon Alliance.” 

Della paced restlessly, mumbling under her breath. “I forgot about it. And if they are lurking – their presence on the moon –why haven’t I noticed? And McCoy! He was in the mission as a representative! And he’s a spy... Gosh, maybe this is the real reason why Lunaris wanted to invade Earth.”  

“It made so much sense.” Her gaze was frantic, darting wildly across the whiteboard. “Gosh, Penny. I thought they were out of the picture. It was a mutual agreement, the president made sure of that!” 

Della’s hands suddenly gripped her arms, her eyes searching. “Did they do something to you? The Moonladers? Are they safe?” 

Penumbra squirmed out of the hold and took a step back. “We’re fine. Most of their ships orbit the Earth. Only one was close to the moon and it’s destroyed. They don’t find us a threat.” 

“That’s a relief,” Della placed her hand to her chest, looking back at the board as if it held all the answers. “Who destroyed the ship?” 

Penumbra knew that Della knew, still, the name left her lips. 

“PK.” 

Della then turned her attention to Penumbra and was surprised to see the most fearsome Earthling so defeated . All the zany and electric energy dissipates because of a name. A title.  

All because of the hero that was her brother. 

Penumbra hurriedly stepped forward; her hands hovered awkwardly before she decided to curl them to her side. “He saved us. Saved me.” 

“That’s PK, alright,” Della smiled wryly, rubbing her arms. “He’s really back, huh?”  

Della pursed her beaks, nodding her head in decision. She marched over to the whiteboard. She grabbed the eraser and furiously wiped the writings.  

“I can’t deal with this,” she said, her tone sharp and cutting. “If he isn’t going to tell me everything. Fine. I’ll find out myself. Who does he think he is? If he wanted to wallow in his problems, I’m not going to stop him.” 

An air of self-satisfaction surrounded Della as she gazed fixedly at the messy streak of the whiteboard. “Come on, Penny. I’ll help fix your ship. God knows if I can still sleep, at least my hands will be busy.” 

Della snatched her hand and dragged her out of the room. This time, Penumbra didn’t squirm and held on tightly. She squeezed her hand once. An apology. Della squeezed in return and somehow, the weight that was stuck in her chest slowly lightened. 

Penumbra was so focused on the warm hands that enveloped her naturally cold ones that she almost missed a quiet metal sliding against metal. Penumbra looked back and saw Della’s kid climbing down the vents. They moved in an experienced and fluid motion. And silently swarmed the whiteboard. When they saw the blank board a series of sadness and disappointment washed over their faces. 

Except for the green duckling. 

He watched them retreat, his gaze lingering and made a shushing gesture just before they went out of the door. 

“Noooo! They erased everything!” 

“The Moon Alliance?!” 

“Don’t worry, Webby. I’ve taken notes, but they’re incomplete. A timeline, person of interest, and yes, Dewey–the Moon Alliance.” 

“That’s great Huey! But it would be nicer if we had a whole slew.” 

“Moon Alliance!” 

And they thought of themselves as smart . Louie hit the send button, and their phones chimed instantly.  

“Louie, you’re a genius!” 

“Eh. I try not to be.” 

Blinking on the screen was a photo of messy handwriting, connected dots, and circled notes.