Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dark Ducks

Episode One – Dark All Day

Chapter One – Somebody's Watching Me

The car rolled steadily down the quiet streets of Duckburg, the early morning sun casting a soft glow over the town. Drake Mallard kept his eyes on the road, his grip tight on the steering wheel. Every few moments, he glanced over at his adopted daughter, Gosalyn Mallard, who sat slouched in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed out the window.

Gosalyn was the picture of defiance, her posture slouched and her arms crossed. Her light brown feathers ruffled slightly in the breeze as she looked past the open window, ignoring everything in the car around her. Her green eyes, sharp and intense, had a faraway look as though she were seeing a world beyond Duckburg. She was dressed casually, but the outfit screamed rebellion in its own way—a black t-shirt emblazoned with the old Filmation Ghostbusters cartoon logo and a pair of faded jeans. The logo wasn’t some trend for her; it was a reminder of a time when things had been simpler, with cartoonish villains and adventure. Now, she was far from that world. Her backpack, sitting in her lap, bounced slightly as the car moved.

Drake’s voice broke through her thoughts. “You know, kid, this could be a fresh start for you,” he said, trying to sound casual but failing to hide the worry in his tone. “Duckburg’s a good town. You’ll fit in here. You might even make some new friends.”

Gosalyn didn’t respond right away. Her attention remained fixed on the passing scenery outside—though she barely noticed it. Her thoughts wandered back to St. Canard, her home until a few days ago. The memory of the city, bustling and chaotic, loomed large in her mind. She missed the energy of the place, the danger of it all.

It hadn’t always been easy there, but it had been hers. She remembered the thrill of adventure, the excitement of throwing herself into danger with Darkwing Duck. Drake had been a superhero once, full of bravado, saving the day and putting the bad guys in their place. She could still remember the way he would rush out the door, muttering about “justice” and “evil-doers.” Those were the days. Now, all of it felt like a distant memory.

She remembered him in his old costume, the cape flying behind him as he soared through the night, his daring rescues and dangerous stunts a constant part of her life. That life was gone now. The suit was hanging in the closet, never to be worn again. All the action, all the thrill, was just a story for Drake to tell now. But Gosalyn had loved it. She loved being around someone who was ready to face anything head-on, even if it meant trouble.

This? This wasn’t trouble. This was just... boring. Duckburg was full of kids who didn’t have the guts to stand up for anything. The idea of fitting in here was suffocating. Normal wasn’t for her. It never had been.

Her father’s words barely registered as she thought about how much she hated being here, how everything about Duckburg felt so... ordinary. People here didn’t seem to have the guts to stand up for themselves. They just followed the rules, fit in, and blended into their predictable little lives. She’d never been good at that. How was she supposed to be "normal" when she had a past filled with things that teenagers only dreamed of?

“Gosalyn, you’re not listening,” Drake said, his voice more persistent now. “This is your chance. Start fresh. No more trouble.”

She rolled her eyes but kept staring out the window, silently tuning him out. The last thing she needed was another lecture. She’d had enough of those in St. Canard. The constant reminder from Drake that she needed to be “good,” that she needed to stop being a problem child. But that wasn’t her. That wasn’t who she was.

She was 18, a senior. She was an adult.

The car slowed as they neared Duckburg High School. The looming building stretched up in front of them like a giant fortress, full of potential and dread in equal measure. Drake pulled up to the curb, eyeing his daughter one last time.

“Remember, kid,” he said, trying once more to find the right words. “Just take it one step at a time. You’ve got this.”

Gosalyn didn’t respond. Without a word, she opened the door and slammed it behind her. The familiar weight of her backpack settled against her shoulder as she stood up, her eyes narrowing at the school. The place seemed to swallow her up with its towering walls and manicured lawns. Everything felt so... stiff.

She didn’t need this. She didn’t need any of it.

Drake watched her walk toward the entrance, his heart heavy in his chest. “Please let this work out,” he muttered under his breath.

As Gosalyn walked through the front doors of Duckburg High School, she could feel the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders. The hallways stretched endlessly before her, a maze of lockers and chatter. She didn’t know anyone here. She’d always been an outsider, even before Drake had dragged her here.

Her thoughts were interrupted when something caught her eye. Near the entrance, a large bulletin board was plastered with a variety of posters. She almost passed by it without a second thought, but now, she stopped in her tracks. Missing person posters. A dozen or more, each with a big, bold headline: MISSING—LAST SEEN IN DUCKBURG.

Gosalyn’s eyes narrowed as she stepped closer, curiosity winning over her reluctance. The faces on the posters were all unfamiliar, strangers to her. Young faces. Some were students with bright, smiling faces, others looked older, their expressions more serious. Most of them looked like the average high school crowd—nothing that stood out to her, nothing she’d ever really noticed before.

Still, the sight of so many faces all marked with the same grim message sent an unsettling chill through her. The realization that there were that many missing students in Duckburg was disturbing. And what was even worse was that there were no explanations. The posters listed names and dates, but no clues as to what had happened, no signs of what was going on. Just missing.

Gosalyn felt her stomach tighten as she scanned the posters, the chill crawling up her spine. These kids were gone—disappeared without a trace—and the school didn’t seem to have a single answer.

She quickly looked around at the other students milling about in the hallway. No one seemed to care. They walked past the bulletin board, some glancing at the posters, but then continuing on, talking and laughing as if nothing were wrong. The air felt thick, like there was something in it, some kind of unease that none of the other students seemed to notice.

A sudden shiver ran through her.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. The MISSING signs were everywhere, and the fact that no one was talking about it only made it worse.

Before she could dwell on it any longer, the bell rang, its sharp tone slicing through the uneasy tension. It echoed down the hall, snapping her back to reality. The hallway filled with the noise of students moving toward their first classes, and Gosalyn, shaken, started walking toward her homeroom. She tried to push the feeling out of her mind, but it lingered. The missing faces haunted her thoughts, and something told her this was just the beginning.

Gosalyn sat at the back of the classroom, arms crossed, trying her best to stay under the radar. She hadn’t come here to make friends; she’d come here to survive her senior year and get it over with.

But as she stared blankly ahead, lost in her own thoughts, the buzz of conversation grew louder. She flicked a glance up and immediately saw the three girls approaching her, moving together like a pack of predatory birds. Gosalyn’s eyes narrowed, and she couldn’t help but feel a sinking feeling in her stomach.

Great—here we go.

A duck, Mandy Fierro was at the front of the group, the one leading the charge. With her perfectly preened dark feathers, blond hair, and the kind of posture that screamed 'I’m better than you,' she looked every bit the part of a high school queen bee. Tara Hartwell, a hulking canine figure with muscle to spare, was right behind her, her every step oozing arrogance. Then there was Kelly MacMillan, a sleek and smug cat, trailing them with a bored expression.

Mandy was the first to speak, voice dripping with condescension. “Mmm, look what we have here,” she sneered, scanning Gosalyn from head to toe like a piece of dirt she was too important to touch. “I didn’t think they let rejects like you in here.”

Tara, her arms crossed and her chest puffed out, let out a low chuckle, eyeing Gosalyn’s shirt. “What is that, a Hot Topic shirt?” She laughed again, loud and obnoxious. “How quaint.”

Gosalyn didn't flinch. She shot back without missing a beat, voice cool and biting. “Yeah, it’s vintage. Better than your cheap knockoff brand, anyway.”

Mandy raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Oh, honey, this is fashion,” she drawled, her tone mocking. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Kelly, who hadn’t said much yet, flipped a lock of hair around her finger, stepping forward with a subtle smirk. “You should’ve tried a little harder with your first impression. You don’t exactly scream ‘popular,’ do you?”

Gosalyn’s lips twitched into a half-smirk. Popular? That wasn’t on her list of priorities, but these girls seemed to think that made them special. Who had the most followers on whatever social media platform and who was giving handjobs to who behind the bleachers during a football game. Whatever. She wasn’t intimidated by them. She had bigger things to worry about.

Mandy stepped a little closer, leaning in until she was practically in Gosalyn’s face. “Listen up, new kid,” she purred, her voice like honey and vinegar mixed together. “You don’t want to make enemies your first day here. Trust me.”

Without a hint of hesitation, Gosalyn’s hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of Mandy’s hair. In one swift motion, she yanked Mandy’s head down, slamming it hard against the desk. The sharp thud echoed through the room, causing several students to stop mid-laugh and stare in shock. Before Mandy could recover, Gosalyn slammed her head into the desk again, and then once more, each strike faster than the last.

The other two girls froze, eyes wide, mouths gaping in disbelief. Tara’s hand shot up as if to intervene, but before she could move, Gosalyn stood, letting go of Mandy’s hair with a flick of her wrist, dropping the bloodied girl on the floor before calmly wiping her hand on the back of her jeans. She turned to face the other two girls, her eyes narrowed and her stance unyielding.

“Which one of you cunts is next?” she said in a low, threatening voice, her words leaving no room for debate.

The principal’s office was exactly what Gosalyn had expected: cold, sterile, and suffocating. Mr. Smith, the principal, sat behind his desk, a tired sheepdog who looked like he had seen it all. His thinning gray hair was combed neatly, and his glasses rested at the edge of his nose, perpetually slipping down as he reviewed some paperwork with a sigh that felt like it came from the very pit of his soul.

“Gosalyn Mallard,” he said, his voice a mix of disbelief and irritation. “Fighting on your first day? And during homeroom, no less? You were just sitting there—trying to keep to yourself—and they pick a fight with you?” He pushed his glasses up, his gaze piercing. “I’ve had a look at your records. Another school, another fight, and another principal who’s had to deal with you. This is your last chance, Mallard. One more screw-up and no school will take you. Not St. Canard. Not Duckburg. Not even Spoonerville. Not anywhere.”

Gosalyn leaned back in the chair, her arms crossed tight across her chest, her eyes never leaving his. The scorn on her face was clear—she’d heard this speech too many times before, and she wasn’t impressed. Her silence spoke volumes, a quiet challenge in the way she stared him down.

Mr. Smith let out a sharp breath, clearly worn out from years of dealing with students like her. His fingers drummed lightly on his desk as he softened his tone. “I get it. You've got a past. You're trying to start fresh. But if you keep pushing people, if you keep starting fights, you're going to make things harder for yourself. It’ll be over before it starts. You understand?”

Gosalyn’s response was a quiet mutter. “Loud and clear.”

The principal shook his head, scribbling something on his clipboard before looking at her one last time. “Detention. After school. You better make it count, Mallard. You don’t get any more chances.”

Gosalyn didn’t respond. She just stared at the ticking clock on the wall, the seconds dragging by as if the universe itself was trying to hold her in place. She was used to this—used to the tired lectures, the threats, the warnings. None of it was new. And none of it mattered. The irritation bubbled up in her chest again, but she stayed silent, biting back whatever smart comment was itching to get out.

The rest of the school day drudged on with minimal incident. The whispers followed Gosalyn like a shadow, students nudging each other, pointing, or staring in her direction. Every few minutes, she would catch a glimpse of someone whispering her name, or the name of the girl she had pummeled in homeroom, the one who’d learned firsthand not to fuck with her.

Gosalyn didn’t mind the attention. In fact, she kind of liked it. It felt good to remind these kids that she wasn’t someone they could just push around. She didn’t need their approval, but the awe and fear she saw in their eyes gave her a sense of power she wasn’t used to, and she embraced it.

When the final bell rang, Gosalyn made her way to the shop class for detention. The room was quieter than the hallways, but the usual buzz of machinery and the distinct scent of sawdust filled the air. The shop teacher, Mr. Palmer, was sitting at his desk, snoring softly behind a stack of papers. He wasn’t even pretending to keep track of the students, not that there were many. The only person in the room who was making any noise at all was a single canine.

He was already seated at one of the desks, and the loud creak of his chair could be heard as he leaned back far too quickly, sending himself into a comical spin. The chair screeched and tipped slightly, but he just seemed to bounce back with exaggerated ease. He gave a wide grin, rocking himself forward and somehow managing to straighten up in the process.

“Hey, hey!” He greeted, almost too loudly, as he bounced the chair toward her. He was almost floating, propelled by the sheer force of his enthusiasm. “What’s up, new kid?” He leaned in a little too close, looking way too comfortable in the awkward space, clearly unaware of what Gosalyn had done earlier in the day.

But she promised to behave.

Gosalyn blinked in surprise, watching him for a moment before letting out a small chuckle. “Let me guess, ADHD?”

The canine just shrugged, rocking back in the chair with the kind of laid-back confidence only someone like him could pull off. “Eh, I live on the edge. You know how it is.” He raised a brow as he leaned toward her, clearly eager to start up a conversation. “So, what’s your story? What’re you in for?”

Gosalyn crossed her arms, leaning back in her own chair and eyeing him. He was dressed in a baggy red hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, and his jeans hung low enough to suggest a casual attitude that wasn’t hard to read. He wasn’t the type to follow the rules or worry about the usual school drama.

“I’m in for rearranging the face of some dumb bitch,” she said, eyeing him flatly. “Mandy Fierro, if you know her.”

His eyes lit up, and he couldn’t help but laugh, a deep, rich sound. “Oh, you’re that person!” He threw his hands up as if in awe, then rocked his chair back once more, nearly tipping it over again. “Nice! Everyone knows Mandy Fierro. She’s been making everyone’s life miserable around here. I bet her plastic surgeon is already seeing dollar signs, huh?”

“Yeah, well, she picked the wrong person to mess with,” Gosalyn said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

He grinned, his fingers tapping on the edge of the desk rhythmically. “Damn, girl. I like your style.”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow. “So, what about you? What’s your deal?”

The canine stretched his arms out like he was lounging on a beach, the chair creaking beneath him as he leaned back. “Oh, the usual. Skipping classes, being a little too creative with my free time. And, uh, maybe I sold a couple DVDs of the librarian, Miss Marpole, and the janitor doing... you know...” He gave her a wink and then mimicked the action with his hands; as if trying to be subtle about it.

Gosalyn’s eyes widened slightly. “Wait, what?”

He shrugged casually, clearly enjoying the awkward reaction he was getting. “Yeah, they’re... special DVDs. People pay good money for stuff like that. It’s kinda gross, but hey, it’s business.” He grinned lazily, not an ounce of guilt in his expression.

Gosalyn blinked, her mouth hanging open for a second before she snapped out of it and snorted with laughter. “You’re messed up.”

In return, he gave her a playful wink. “I like to think I’m an entrepreneur.”

“Seriously, are you on any medication?”

“Nope, sold 'em all." He laughed again as though it were the funniest thing he’d heard all day. He bounced on his chair, once again rocking dangerously back and forth. So, what’s your name? You never did tell me.”

“Gosalyn,” she replied, her tone softer now, her defenses lowering slightly. “Gosalyn Mallard. And you are...? I am gonna say Kyle, you seem like a Kyle to me.”

"Max Goof," Max grinned even wider. “Well, Gosalyn Mallard, I think we’re gonna get along just fine.” He gave a ridiculous mock bow while still sitting in his chair, nearly tipping it over in the process.

Gosalyn let out a short laugh. “You’re ridiculous, Max.”

“And proud of it!” Max replied with a double set of finger guns.

The shop door creaked open, grabbing the attention of everyone in the room—well, the two students and not the snoring shop teacher. Gosalyn looked up from her slouch in the chair, and Max stopped drumming his fingers on the desk.

In walked a girl, small and delicate in stature, with long white hair tied back with a pink bow. She was wearing a light pink spring dress that fluttered slightly as she moved, and slung over her shoulder was a weathered leather satchel. Her bright blue eyes scanned the room, landing on Gosalyn with unnerving precision.

“Oh boy,” Max muttered, rolling his eyes. “It's her.”

"Her?" Gosalyn blinked.

Before Max could explain, the girl strode toward them with a confident bounce in her step, stopping right in front of Gosalyn. “You’re new,” she declared, her voice crisp and cheerful, yet carrying an edge of certainty that made it sound more like a statement than a question.

“Yeah. What of it?” Gosalyn asked, narrowing her eyes slightly.

The girl extended a hand. “Webbigail Vanderquack. But you can call me Webby. Everyone does.”

Gosalyn hesitated for a moment, then shook her hand. It was surprisingly firm for someone so petite. “Gosalyn Mallard.”

Webby’s eyes seemed to light up at the introduction. “Gosalyn Mallard. Nice. Okay, here’s the thing—”

“Uh-oh,” Max muttered under his breath, leaning toward Gosalyn as Webby launched into an energetic tirade about why she was in detention. “She’s a bit... eccentric.”

But Gosalyn barely heard him. She was too busy watching Webby, taking in her delicate features, the way her hair shimmered in the fluorescent light, and how her expressive eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

“—which is why they can’t handle me in class!” Webby exclaimed, gesturing wildly as she paced. “I mean, what’s so wrong about questioning the curriculum? Like, why don’t we talk about the Montauk Project? Or how birds aren’t real? Or the fact that the moon landings were obviously a cover-up for a secret war against Moon Men? But nooo, instead we’re stuck reading boring essays about Duckburg’s economic development.”

Gosalyn blinked, trying to keep up with Webby’s rapid-fire words. Her brain was telling her that this girl was completely out of her mind. But her chest… her chest was doing something else entirely. A strange warmth was spreading there, like a flickering candle.

'She’s cute,' Gosalyn thought suddenly, and the realization hit her like a slap. Too cute, with her manic energy and that ridiculous bow.

“Anyway,” Webby continued, oblivious to Gosalyn’s inner turmoil, “that’s why I’m in detention. You try to open minds, and suddenly you’re the problem!”

Gosalyn tried to play it cool, leaning back in her chair. “Sounds rough,” she said, her voice coming out more even than she felt.

Webby beamed. “Finally, someone gets it!”

Max snickered quietly, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Oh, this is gonna be fun to watch.”

Webby’s eyes finally landed on Max, and her face lit up with recognition. “Oh, hi Max!” she chirped, giving him a little wave.

Max leaned back in his chair, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. “Hey there, Spooky,” he replied, using the nickname he’d apparently given her.

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow at that, but before she could ask, Webby’s gaze shifted between the two of them. Her blue eyes narrowed in thought; as though she were trying to piece together some grand puzzle.

Then, without warning, she blurted out, “Are you two dating?”

The question echoed through the otherwise silent shop room, bouncing off the dull hum of fluorescent lights. The snoring shop teacher let out a particularly loud snort but otherwise remained oblivious.

Gosalyn and Max turned to Webby in perfect synchronization, their voices overlapping as they both exclaimed, “NO!”

Max quickly followed up, gesturing between himself and Gosalyn. “I just met her, Spooky. Like, literally minutes ago.”

Webby tilted her head, her expression unreadable for a moment as she processed this information. A wily grin then spread across her face, sly and mischievous. She folded her arms and nodded, almost to herself.

“Good,” she said simply, her tone carrying just enough intrigue to make Gosalyn’s feathers bristle.

“Good?” Gosalyn echoed, raising her eyebrow.

But Webby didn’t elaborate. Instead, she plopped herself down into the chair next to Gosalyn, her satchel clunking onto the desk as if the conversation hadn’t just taken a weirdly personal turn.

“Classic Spooky.” Max shook his head with a chuckle, muttering under his breath.

Gosalyn crossed her arms, giving Webby a skeptical look. “So… are you one of those conspiracy theory people?”

Webby gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like Gosalyn had just insulted her honor. “They’re not theories!” she declared, her voice rising in indignation.

Without missing a beat, she flipped open her satchel and began rummaging through its contents. A moment later, she triumphantly pulled out a small stack of books, dropping them onto the desk with a heavy thud. The titles were enough to make Gosalyn raise an eyebrow: Tobin’s Spirit Guide, Cryptid Chronicles, and The Occult Almanac.

Webby jabbed a finger at the books. “It’s all documented, right here. It’s just what the World of Shadows wants you to think.”

“The World of Shadows?” Gosalyn repeated, narrowing her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she was confused, intrigued, or both.

Before Webby could launch into what was undoubtedly a long-winded explanation, Max leaned over, resting his chin in his hand. “Webby believes there’s this whole other world that exists,” he said with a smirk, “like, a supernatural shadow society or whatever that us normies can’t see.”

“Because it’s true!” Webby exclaimed, slapping her hand on the desk for emphasis. She looked at Max like he was a particularly dim student she was trying to educate. “Then how about you explain where all the people around Duckburg have been disappearing to, huh?”

Max shrugged nonchalantly. “If they’re smart, out of this boring town.”

Gosalyn didn’t laugh. Her mind drifted back to the bulletin board from earlier, plastered with the faces of missing students. A faint chill ran down her spine.

"This missing people posters..." She turned back to Webby, her voice lower, more serious. “Alright... what do you know about that?”

Webby snapped her fingers with a triumphant grin, then flipped open Cryptid Chronicles, rifling through the pages with practiced ease. She stopped on an elaborate illustration that spanned the center of the book.

“Mothman!” she announced, spinning the book around and sliding it across the desk so Max and Gosalyn could see.

The image was striking and unnerving. The Mothman stood in a dramatic pose, its body lean and muscular, with wings that stretched out like a shroud of night. Its eyes burned a fiery crimson, their eerie glow drawing attention to the sharp, angular lines of its face. Jagged claws extended from its hands, and faint traces of red veins coursed through its shadowy body, giving the impression it pulsed with malevolent energy.

Max squinted at the picture and snickered. “Looks like something that hit my windshield.”

Webby let out a sharp sigh, her eyes narrowing at him. “This isn’t a joke, Max!” she said, her finger jabbing at the image. “The Mothman isn’t just some cryptid—it’s a herald of the Apocalypse. It doesn’t just show up to watch the world burn; it makes sure it does.”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to the book. “Okay, so... what? It’s here to kick off the end of the world? That seems a little dramatic.”

Webby shook her head emphatically. “It’s not just about ending the world—it’s about feeding. The Mothman takes people, drains them of their life force, and uses it to fuel whatever dark purpose it serves. Every sighting ends in disaster because it leaves nothing but destruction in its wake.”

“That’s comforting,” Max muttered, his earlier smirk fading as he glanced at the illustration again.

Webby leaned forward, her voice low and serious. “Think about it. All those missing people in Duckburg? It fits the pattern. They vanish without a trace, leaving no explanation behind. I have also heard rumors that people have seen it.”

Gosalyn crossed her arms, her gaze lingering on the ominous picture. “So, what do you expect us to do about it?”

Webby’s eyes gleamed with determination. “We figure out why it’s here, stop it from taking anyone else, and prevent whatever apocalypse it’s about to kick off.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and charged. Gosalyn wasn’t sure whether to laugh, dismiss Webby entirely, or maybe—just maybe—start taking her a little more seriously.

Max leaned back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head as he shot Gosalyn a wry smile. “Don’t pay Webby any mind, Gos. She’ll have you chasing shadows all over Duckburg, and at the end of the day, you won’t find anything but sore feet and wasted time.”

Webby’s glare was immediate, her feathers ruffling slightly. “That’s not true!”

“Oh, yeah?” Max raised an eyebrow, then started ticking off examples on his fingers. “Let’s see. Remember the ‘ghost’ haunting the bowling alley?” He chuckled. “Turned out to be a busted automatic pinsetter.”

“That was one time!” Webby protested, crossing her arms tightly.

“And then there was the ‘alien invasion’ at the junkyard,” Max continued, ignoring her. “Spoiler alert—it was just some stray raccoons knocking over scrap metal.”

“They were weirdly organized raccoons!”

“And, my personal favorite,” Max said, his grin widening, “the ‘werewolf’ terrorizing that camp by the lake. What was it again? Oh, right—some poor guy in a fursuit who got lost during a comic convention.”

Webby’s face turned an impressive shade of pink, and she jabbed a finger at him. “I didn’t know about the convention! And he did look suspicious! He's a furry! You know we can't trust those... those... things!”

Max turned to Gosalyn, shaking his head in mock pity. “See what I mean? She’s got this thing where every weird noise or flickering light is a sign of the end times. Trust me, you’ll save yourself a headache if you just nod, smile, and let her do her thing.”

Gosalyn looked between the two of them, suppressing a grin. On one hand, Webby’s fervent insistence was borderline absurd. On the other, there was something oddly... endearing about how passionately she defended her wild theories.

“Okay, fine,” Webby huffed, her feathers settling. “So I’ve been wrong before. Big deal! But this time, I know I’m onto something. The Mothman is real, and it’s here.”

Max let out a long, dramatic sigh, gesturing to Gosalyn as if to say, See what I have to deal with?

Webby’s confident demeanor wavered, her shoulders sagging just slightly as she glanced down at the book in her lap. Her fingers traced over the illustration of the Mothman, and for the first time since she had burst into the shop room, there was a flicker of doubt in her eyes.

It hit Gosalyn unexpectedly, a pang of recognition she couldn’t quite shake. The way Webby slouched, like she was bracing herself for the next punchline at her expense, was all too familiar. Gosalyn had been in that same spot more times than she could count, always feeling like the odd one out. Her fists balled instinctively at the memory of the smirks, the whispers, the teachers and principals who sighed as if they were already giving up on her.

For all her quirks and her endless energy, Webby Vanderquack was just another outcast trying to carve a place for herself in a world that didn’t seem to want her.

Gosalyn softened, leaning forward a little. “Listen,” she said, her voice steady but kind. “You have your thing, and that’s cool. I think it’s neat.”

Webby blinked at her, momentarily stunned, before a genuine, warm smile spread across her face. It was a different kind of smile than the excitable ones she’d been flashing earlier—this one was smaller, quieter, and filled with a gratitude that made Gosalyn’s chest feel oddly warm.

“Thank you,” Webby said softly, her voice carrying a rare note of vulnerability.

For a second, they just sat there, and Gosalyn found herself struck by how genuinely... nice Webby seemed. Sure, she was a little weird—okay, a lot weird—but in a way that felt almost refreshing.

Webby’s eyes suddenly went wide, her previous energy snapping back into place like a rubber band. “Hey!” she exclaimed, nearly jumping out of her seat. “Can I sleep over at your place tonight?!”

Kelly MacMillan had been visiting Mandy in the hospital, checking on her friend after her unfortunate run-in with the new kid earlier that day. The trip had been a quick one—more out of obligation than genuine concern—but now, as the evening crept in, Kelly found herself walking alone down the dark streets of Duckburg, her mind on other things. Her steps echoed in the empty street, the air growing colder, making her shiver despite the warmth of her jacket.

She hadn’t expected to be walking alone at this hour, but the hospital visit had dragged on longer than she thought, and now she was making her way through the eerily quiet streets to get back to her car.

The dim streetlights flickered above her, casting strange shadows on the pavement, and though she tried to ignore the growing unease, something gnawed at her gut. It was the same sense of something wrong—something she couldn’t place—something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see something or someone following her, but the street was empty. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling.

Get it together, she told herself. It’s just the dark. Nothing to worry about.

But then she heard it—just the faintest sound, like a shuffling behind her, too soft to be a person, too wrong to be anything natural.

Her heart slammed in her chest.

Get moving. Hurry up.

She picked up the pace, quickening her steps, but the sound grew closer, more distinct. It wasn’t footsteps—it was something… slithering. Like claws scraping against the pavement, a low, unearthly drag that sent a chill through her bones. Her breath quickened, the pounding of her heart in her ears louder than anything around her.

Then she felt it.

A pressure. A weight in the air.

She spun around but saw nothing—only the dark street, stretching out behind her like a tunnel. The streetlights flickered again, casting a long shadow at the end of the alleyway.

That’s when it happened. The thing struck from the darkness.

Kelly didn’t even see it coming—just a sudden rush of air, a coldness that surrounded her. She felt something sharp, something wicked, rake across her shoulder, and she cried out in pain. Blood welled up, dripping down her arm, and for a moment, everything went blurry. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

She stumbled forward, her feet tangling with garbage cans as she tried to run, her head crashing into the concrete with a sickening thud. Pain exploded through her skull, but there was no time to feel it. Her legs were already moving again, carrying her forward in a blind panic.

It was gaining on her. She could feel it.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, the pain in her shoulder intensifying as she pushed herself further into the alley. But the alley was ending. The wall was there, rising up like a prison. She had nowhere left to go.

She turned to face the creature, her vision swimming, her heart beating faster with every passing second. And that’s when she saw it.

The eyes.

Two glowing, blood-red eyes, cutting through the darkness like twin embers, burning with a malevolent hunger. They were locked on her, and at that moment, she realized—it was real. The thing in the shadows. The thing that had been stalking her, following her all this time.

She opened her mouth to scream, but it was too late. The creature lunged, its form shifting and twisting, too dark, too fast to comprehend. A flash of sharp claws reached for her, and in an instant, blood painted the walls of the alley.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two – Dig Up Her Bones

The living room was dim, only the soft glow of the TV casting flickering shadows across the room. Popcorn, chips, and half-empty cans of soda were scattered across the coffee table, the remnants of a horror movie marathon that had stretched into the night. The evening had finally settled into a rhythm, the awkwardness of the initial greeting long since passed. Gosalyn had changed into her old, comfortable pajamas—a worn-out band tee and loose shorts—and Webby had done the same. She wore a pair of soft pink pajama pants and a t-shirt that read: I F**K BIGFEET, her hair still tied back in a neat bow.

At first, it had been... well, awkward. Gosalyn didn’t really do sleepovers. She never really had the chance to, considering her history of bouncing from school to school, and even at this stage, being around someone else for long periods of time felt strange. Webby, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease, chatting about anything and everything, from her latest theories about UFOs to the hidden powers she was convinced lurked in the shadows of Duckburg. At first, Gosalyn had just nodded along, unsure how to respond, but as the night wore on, something shifted.

The tension had melted away over the course of a few silly movie choices, snacks, and occasional bursts of laughter. Webby was weird in the best way possible, so open with her enthusiasm and knowledge, it was kind of hard not to get caught up in it. She was passionate about everything, whether it was ancient mysteries or obscure trivia, and though Gosalyn had a hard time buying into half of it, she couldn’t help but admire the way Webby had this unwavering confidence in herself.

As Webby flopped back onto the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, Gosalyn couldn’t help but notice how... cute she looked. Not just in the traditional sense, but the way she wore that quirkiness, that weirdness, like a badge of honor. Webby’s eyes were wide with excitement, sparkling as she leaned in toward Gosalyn with a new theory on aliens.

“So, like I was saying, I swear the government’s been hiding stuff from us for years,” Webby rambled, popping another piece of popcorn in her mouth. “It’s not just UFOs. There are things, otherworldly things, right under our noses. Things we can’t see.”

Gosalyn nodded, unsure what she was agreeing to. She could feel a knot forming in her chest, though it wasn’t from the conversation. It was something else. Something new. The more she looked at Webby, the more... drawn to her she felt. The way Webby’s eyes lit up when she spoke, the way she moved, her genuine excitement. Gosalyn hadn’t expected to feel this way—not toward someone like Webby. She wasn’t sure if it was just admiration, or something more. It was all so confusing, but in a way, it felt... nice.

Webby paused mid-sentence, catching Gosalyn staring. “Uh, you okay?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, clearly unaware of the effect she was having on Gosalyn.

Gosalyn snapped back to reality, her face flushing slightly. She cleared her throat, trying to shake off the feeling. “Yeah, just... zoned out there for a sec.” She fidgeted with the edge of her blanket, trying to appear casual.

Webby blinked, then smiled, the sincerity in her expression softening. “It’s cool. I know I can get a little carried away with this stuff.”

Gosalyn gave a small, tight smile, her heart beating a little faster. “No, it’s... it’s actually kind of cool. I’ve never met anyone who believes in all this stuff as much as you do.”

Webby’s smile widened, and Gosalyn felt her stomach flutter, a warm feeling blooming inside her chest. She quickly tried to push it aside. This was ridiculous, right? She’d never thought of girls this way before. Sure, Webby was cute, but there was no way Gosalyn could like her... like that. She was just a little strange. A little... different. Just like her.

“Thanks,” Webby said softly, the gratitude in her voice pulling Gosalyn back out of her spiral of thoughts. “I mean, it’s hard to find someone who gets it, you know?”

“Yeah,” Gosalyn agreed, trying to ground herself. “I get it.”

They both fell into silence for a few moments, but it wasn’t awkward this time. It felt... comfortable. The kind of quiet that came after spending hours with someone, the kind of silence where words weren’t necessary.

Gosalyn found herself sneaking glances at Webby every now and then. Webby’s little pink bow, the way her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve when she got nervous, the way she curled into the couch; like she belonged there. Gosalyn couldn’t deny the attraction she felt, but she also didn’t know what to do with it. Was this how things were supposed to feel? Did it matter that Webby was a girl?

The questions circled in her mind, but she couldn’t answer them. All she knew was that the warmth in her chest was real, and she didn’t want the night to end. Not yet.

The night stretched on, the hours slipping by faster than either of them had expected. The conversation flowed effortlessly between them, moving from one topic to another like they’d known each other for years. They talked about their lives, their histories, the things that made them both outcasts in their own ways.

Gosalyn found herself telling Webby about the countless schools she’d been kicked out of, the moves she had made from one place to another and the endless fights she’d gotten into. It was strange, even for her, to open up about it—usually, she kept that part of her life locked away, a secret buried deep. But with Webby, it felt different. Webby listened intently, nodding as if she truly understood, her eyes wide with a kind of empathy Gosalyn hadn’t expected.

“I know what you mean,” Webby said softly, her voice surprisingly serious. “I’ve always been picked on for being... well, different. No one really gets me. It’s like I’m always on the outside looking in.”

Gosalyn shifted, her eyes softening as she looked at Webby. “Yeah, I get that. But you know what? As long as I’m around, no one’s going to pick on you ever again. You’ve got me. And that means something.”

Webby’s expression softened at her words, a small smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “Thanks, Gosalyn. That means more than you know.”

By 3 AM, the junk food had taken its toll, and the two of them lay sprawled out on the couch, stuffed and tired but unwilling to let the night end. Gosalyn yawned and stretched, glancing at the clock. She had to admit, she didn’t want to go to sleep just yet, not while the night still felt so... warm.

They moved to Gosalyn's bedroom.

“Alright,” Gosalyn said, pulling a sleeping bag from the closet. “You can take the floor, I guess. I’ll take the bed.” Gosalyn set the sleeping bag down on the floor and jumped into her own bed.

Webby looked at the sleeping bag for a moment, her eyes blinking in confusion, but then she just shrugged and walked toward the bed with a casual air, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Before Gosalyn could even think about getting comfortable, Webby had already slipped under the blankets and crawled into bed with her.

Gosalyn froze for a second, staring at Webby in disbelief. “Webby?” she started, her voice unsure. “What are you—”

But Webby didn’t respond. She was already asleep, nestled under Gosalyn’s bill, her body curled into the warmth of the bed as though this was exactly where she belonged.

Gosalyn’s heart skipped a beat, her mouth hanging slightly open in surprise. She had never expected Webby to do this.

Her question died in her throat, the confusion swirling in her mind. What was going on? Was this normal? She barely knew Webby, but now here she was, curled up against her like it was nothing. And yet, it felt... right.

For a moment, Gosalyn didn’t know what to do. She was stunned, but as she lay there, Webby’s breath steady and warm against her skin, she felt a quiet, comforting warmth spread through her own chest.

What did this mean? Was it just the exhaustion, or was there something else going on? Gosalyn’s thoughts raced, but she didn’t want to push it away—not yet. Instead, she let herself relax a little, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach and the confusion gnawing at her.

Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to figure it all out right now. Not tonight.

Morning sunlight streamed through the dining room window, glinting off two half-empty bowls of sugary cereal. Gosalyn and Webby sat hunched at the table, silent except for the occasional clink of their spoons and the crunch of cereal being chewed.

Gosalyn’s hair stuck up in wild directions, the result of a restless night and no energy to fix it. Her eyes were half-closed, and her slouched posture gave away just how late they’d stayed up. Across from her, Webby’s usually bright demeanor was muted. She poked at her cereal absentmindedly between sluggish bites, her bow slightly crooked and her feathers ruffled.

The quiet stretched until the door creaked open, and Drake Mallard strolled in, looking far too awake for the morning. He wore his robe loosely over his pajamas and had a mug in hand as he took in the scene.

“Well, good morning to my bright-eyed and bushy-tailed breakfast crew,” he teased with a grin.

Neither girl reacted immediately. Gosalyn barely glanced up, raising her spoon in what might have been a greeting or a signal that she needed more sleep. Webby blinked at him, her brain clearly running a few steps behind, before finally muttering, “Morning, Mr. Mallard.”

Drake poured himself some coffee and leaned casually against the counter, watching them. “So... fun night?” he asked, his tone knowing.

“Uh-huh,” Gosalyn mumbled, stuffing another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. Webby simply nodded, still chewing.

Drake sipped his coffee, letting the moment hang in the air before he grinned. “You two look like extras in a zombie movie. Worth it?”

Gosalyn turned her head slightly to look at Webby, who gave a small shrug. Gosalyn mirrored the gesture, and both returned to eating without a word.

“Ah, the universal gesture of ‘probably,’” Drake said with mock solemnity, biting into his toast. “Well, Webby, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. You’re already part of the furniture.”

Webby offered a faint, tired smile. “Thanks, Mr. Mallard.”

Drake grabbed a couple of slices of toast and he joined them at the table, settling in with a sigh as he buttered one of the slices.

Gosalyn leaned back in her chair, stealing a glance at Webby, who was poking at her cereal again. Even half-asleep, Webby had a way of looking completely at home, and Gosalyn found herself smiling despite the groggy haze.

Drake, oblivious to her thoughts, leaned back as well, holding up his mug. “Here’s to the next time you two decide to pull an all-nighter. Let me know in advance so I can buy earplugs.”

Webby slurped up the last bit of milk from her cereal bowl, then set her spoon down with a clink. She stared at Drake, her head tilting slightly, as if something had just clicked.

Suddenly, she raised her hand, holding it up in front of her face at an odd angle, as though blocking out the view of Drake's eyes while she squinted at the rest of him. She blinked once. Twice. Then her expression lit up with sudden realization.

“Gosalyn?” Webby said, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Gosalyn, mid-chew, raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Webby leaned forward, her eyes now darting between Drake and Gosalyn with the intensity of someone solving a complex puzzle.

“Was your dad... Darkwing Duck?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Drake froze mid-sip of his coffee, his eyes widening slightly above the rim of his mug. Gosalyn choked on her cereal, coughing violently as she tried to recover.

“What?!” Gosalyn finally sputtered, her voice an octave higher than usual. She forced out a laugh that sounded as fake as it felt. “That’s crazy talk, Webby!”

Drake quickly joined in, chuckling in a way that made his discomfort painfully obvious. “Oh, that’s a good one! Darkwing Duck? Me? Nah, I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

But Webby wasn’t buying it. Her expression didn’t waver. If anything, her confidence grew.

“No, it makes total sense!” she insisted, pointing at Drake with her spoon. “The way you carry yourself, the tone of your voice—it's like, unmistakable! And Gosalyn! You totally have the same rebellious attitude I read about in those old news articles about Darkwing’s sidekick.”

“Sidekick?!” Gosalyn squawked, nearly knocking over her bowl.

Drake held up his hands, forcing another chuckle. “Webby, I think maybe you’ve been reading too many tabloids. Darkwing Duck was just a, uh, myth! Nothing more.”

“Nope.” Webby shook her head firmly, her determination cutting through their weak denials like a laser. “He was real. My uncle always said he was. And now that I’m looking at you...” She squinted again, raising her hand once more. “It’s definitely you. Do you own any big, floppy hats?”

Gosalyn and Drake exchanged a wide-eyed glance, their usual banter completely abandoned in the face of Webby’s relentless certainty.

“Seriously, Webby,” Gosalyn tried again, “you’re a nut.”

Webby leaned back in her chair, a triumphant smile spreading across her face as if their reactions had just confirmed everything.

“I’m not wrong,” she said with quiet confidence.

Drake sighed, pinching the bridge of his bill. “Look, Webby, even if—hypothetically—we were talking about Darkwing Duck, which we’re not... wouldn’t someone like that deserve a little privacy?”

Webby considered this, her head tilting thoughtfully. “Maybe...” she allowed, though the sparkle in her eye made it clear she wasn’t backing down anytime soon.

Gosalyn groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Great. Just great.”

Drake glanced down at his wrist, tapping it as if checking a watch—though there was clearly nothing there. “Oh, would you look at that? Eight o’clock on the dot. Time for you two to get your butts to school.”

He rose quickly from the table, clutching his coffee mug like it was a lifeline. “I’ll drive you,” he added, already heading toward the door in an attempt to escape the conversation.

Webby watched him leave with a satisfied grin, then turned to Gosalyn, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Your dad’s Darkwing Duck,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s so cool.”

Gosalyn let out a long, exasperated groan, slumping forward and bonking her head dramatically on the table.

Drake’s car pulled smoothly into the Duckburg High parking lot, its engine humming like the reliable machine it was. Drake glanced at the rearview mirror as Gosalyn and Webby unbuckled their seatbelts.

“Have a good day, girls. And Gosalyn,” he added with a meaningful look, “try to keep out of trouble today, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, Dad,” Gosalyn grumbled, slinging her backpack over one shoulder.

“And Webby,” Drake said, leaning forward slightly. “Just uh, keep being you, I guess?”

Webby smiled brightly, completely unbothered. “You got it, Mr. Mallard!”

Drake watched them hop out of the car and into the swirl of morning chaos before driving off, shaking his head.

The parking lot was alive with activity: kids swapping gossip, blaring music from car speakers, and tossing a football back and forth. But it was the crowd gathered in the far corner that caught Webby’s attention.

“There he is!” Webby exclaimed, grabbing Gosalyn’s arm and practically dragging her toward the small cluster of students.

“Who? What?” Gosalyn asked, stumbling slightly as she tried to keep up.

“Max!” Webby said, grinning.

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow as they approached a beat-up 1973 Chevy Nova SS. The car had definitely seen better days: patches of rust decorated its once-sleek frame, the driver’s side door was a dull primer gray, and the back bumper sported a bold sticker reading, 'Ass, Cash, or Grass, No One Rides for Free.'

Leaning casually against the hood was Max, a stack of colorful packets in one hand and a sly grin on his face. He wore a well-worn hoodie and jeans, his hair sticking up in all directions like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Step right up, folks!” Max called out, waving the packets like they were golden tickets. “Cheat sheets, caffeine pills, and certified stress-relief solutions—all here to make your academic dreams come true! Don’t be shy!”

The line of students waiting to see him was longer than Gosalyn expected. A kid handed Max a crumpled twenty and received a baggie of tiny white pills in return. Another student eagerly grabbed a stapled packet labeled 'Algebra 2 Midterm Guide' and slipped it into his backpack like it was contraband.

“Max!” Webby called, waving enthusiastically as they reached the front of the line.

As Gosalyn and Webby approached, Max’s grin widened. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite detention buddies! Red and Spooky, what’s up?”

“Seriously, Max?” Gosalyn asked, crossing her arms as she glanced at the students lining up for his wares. “Do you ever take a break from hustling?”

"Only when I am asleep," Max smirked.

Gosalyn crossed her arms. “What are you even selling?”

“Study aids,” Max replied smoothly, holding up a bag of pills and a packet of notes. “For the hard-working and the chronically underprepared. I’m a public service, really.”

“You mean a scam,” Gosalyn shot back.

“Hey, the notes are accurate... mostly. The pills? All FDA adjacent,” Max said with a wink.

“Nice and shady,” Gosalyn muttered, eyeing him warily.

Max gave a mock bow. “A delicate balance, my dear. Now, can I interest either of you in today’s specials? Buy one cram session, get a panic attack free.”

Gosalyn snorted despite herself, while Webby leaned closer to Max. “You’re still selling those focus pills? Asking for... a friend.”

“Only the best for my favorite customer,” Max said, tossing her a small bottle of energy pills. Webby caught it deftly and handed over a few bills from her satchel.

Gosalyn frowned. “You really trust this guy?”

Webby shrugged. “He’s not that bad. I only got a migraine twice from this stuff.”

Max leaned forward, stage-whispering to Gosalyn, “See? Spooky gets it.”

Gosalyn rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Yeah, yeah. Snake-oil salesman.”

“Academic consultant,” Max corrected, tapping the Nova’s hood. “And proud of it.”

“Hey, you guys hear about Kelly MacMillan?” Max asked, casually as he handed out another baggie of pills to a student.

Gosalyn, arms crossed, let out a loud, exaggerated groan. “What about her? Botched plastic surgery? Didn’t make the cheerleader squad?”

Max glanced around, lowering his voice as he leaned closer. “Well, she’s gone missing. Last night. The cops found her purse, covered in blood, but no sign of her. Just gone.”

Gosalyn stiffened, her mind immediately going back to those missing person posters on the bulletin board. Kelly’s face wasn’t on there yet, but it wouldn’t be long before she was plastered up on the board, and that unsettled her despite her negative meeting with her yesterday. Something didn’t feel right about this.

“And when a rich girl goes missing, the whole town starts freaking out,” Max continued, his tone more serious now. “Trust me, things are about to get real interesting.”

Gosalyn felt a knot tighten in her stomach. “How do you know all this?” she asked, her skepticism growing. She tried to keep her voice casual, but it was hard to ignore the creeping unease.

Max gave her a smug grin; as though he was about to share some big secret. “I know some people,” he replied cryptically like that explained everything.

Gosalyn didn’t buy it, but before she could dig further, she noticed Webby had gone eerily quiet. The usually chatty girl seemed lost in thought, staring off into the distance as if something had clicked in her head.

Webby suddenly broke the silence, her voice sharp and sure. “Mothman!”

Max chuckled and shook his head, “It’s not Mothman, Webby. Good lord, woman, have you never heard the phrase ‘horses, not unicorns’?”

Webby blinked, not the slightest bit offended by his dismissive tone. Instead, she perked up like a cat spotting a potential snack. “Well, if you want unicorn horn for one of your little potions, I can hook you up. I know someo—”

But before she could finish, Gosalyn cut her off with a sudden, direct question. Her voice was serious, her curiosity piqued by everything that had been said. “Do you think there’s a serial killer in Duckburg?”

Max threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh, brushing it off as if the very idea was absurd. “A serial killer?” he scoffed. “Nah. If there was a killer around here, they’d off themselves out of sheer boredom, just trying to get through Duckburg.”

Gosalyn frowned, crossing her arms. Max’s dismissiveness only made the unease swirling in her gut feel more intense. She wanted to laugh it off, to convince herself this was all just wild speculation, but there was something unsettling about how quickly things were escalating. Missing people. No leads. Bloody crime scenes. It wasn’t a coincidence anymore. Something was wrong in Duckburg.

It was like the cases her dad used to deal with as Darkwing Duck.

Webby, however, wasn’t ready to let go of the Mothman theory. Her eyes were wide, focused; as if she could see the pieces of the puzzle coming together in her mind. “I’m serious, you guys,” she muttered, more to herself than to either of them. “It's just like in my book!”

Max rolled his eyes but didn't push the issue further. He removed a cigarette he'd tucked behind his ear, lighting it up as he gave them both a half-smile. “Whatever you say, Spooky. But you’re gonna be looking for him all over town and never find anything but a bunch of bored cops and conspiracy nuts.”

Gosalyn shot him a pointed look. “Yeah, well, sometimes it’s the conspiracy nuts who see things the rest of us miss.”

Max grinned at that, clearly amused by her sharp retort. “Touché, Mallard.” Then, with a mock bow, he added, “I’ll leave the supernatural to you, then. I’ve got business to attend to.”

Gosalyn, still uneasy, glanced over at Webby, who was staring off toward the school entrance, lost in thought. The two of them might be onto something, but for now, Max’s skepticism had a certain logic to it. Maybe it was just the weirdness of Duckburg, maybe it was the feeling that something darker was creeping beneath the surface. But the mystery of disappearing people wasn’t going away anytime soon.

And neither was the chill creeping up Gosalyn’s spine.

As the bell rang for the next class, Gosalyn couldn’t shake the weight of everything that had happened since she’d arrived in Duckburg. Sitting in her History class, staring at the chalkboard in front of her, her thoughts kept drifting back to the missing people, the countless faces and names on the posters, and the indifference of those who walked past them on a daily basis. The desks and the papers before her blurred as she lost herself in the growing unease that gnawed at her insides.

It was supposed to be a fresh start. That’s what Drake; her father, had promised her when they moved away from St. Canard, to live a life free of constant danger, free of constant fighting. But as the minutes dragged on in class, Gosalyn found herself restless, tapping her pen against the desk, biting her bill. How was she supposed to focus on history and geography when people were disappearing? When there was a hint of something sinister, something dark hiding just beneath the surface of Duckburg?

She couldn't stop herself from thinking about her dad, the man who had raised her—Drake Mallard, Darkwing Duck. Despite the years he’d spent hanging up his cape and trading in his crime-fighting gear for a more “normal” life, the skills he’d passed down to her were ingrained in her bones. Fighting, strategizing, investigating—he had taught her all of it. Gosalyn had a keen instinct for picking up on things most people would miss. She knew how to get information out of people, how to fight if things got rough, and how to blend in when necessary. She was more than capable of handling herself.

But more than that, Gosalyn felt like there was a part of her legacy—her own path—tied to the shadows of Duckburg. Darkwing may have retired, but she wasn’t ready to give up on what she’d been trained for, what she’d been born into. Her father had fought criminals, villains, and monsters, and now the town she was trying to call home was becoming a breeding ground for something just as evil. If there was even a chance she could help, she couldn't ignore it.

Gosalyn knew she was trained for this. More than anyone at this school—heck, more than anyone in this town—she had the skills to investigate what was really going on.

Her hands clenched around the edge of her desk. No one else seemed to care, or at least no one seemed to know how deep this might go. People like Webby—she was invested, sure, but she was also obsessed with cryptids and supernatural theories that didn’t always line up with reality. Max didn’t even take it seriously, dismissing everything with a lazy grin and a joke.

Was she ready to step back into the fray? Was it her responsibility? She had been part of something much larger than her in St. Canard, a place where Darkwing fought for the city’s soul. Maybe that fight had left her with a purpose she couldn’t quite outrun, even in this new town, with new people.

But she did need some help.

As soon as class ended, Gosalyn went on the prowl, stalking through the hallways of Duckburg High looking for one person in particular: Max.

She spotted him ducking into the boys’ washroom and without a second thought, she followed.

The door swung open with a hard push, and the boys at the urinals froze. Their eyes went wide, clearly caught off guard by the presence of a girl in the men’s room. They blinked at Gosalyn, wide-eyed, but said nothing.

Max was bent over a sink, scrubbing his hands in a casual, almost deliberate way. When he turned and saw her, he raised an eyebrow and was about to speak until...

Without hesitation, Gosalyn walked straight up to him, grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie, and spun him around. Max barely had time to react before she slammed him up against the bathroom stall with a dull thud. His eyes widened in surprise.

The boys in the bathroom, now all looking on with a mix of shock and awe, and still didn’t say a word. They just stared.

Gosalyn turned her gaze to them, her jaw clenched, and said one word with a voice that brooked no argument:

“Out.”

There was no hesitation. The boys at the urinals scrambled in all directions, some tripping over their own feet as they rushed toward the door, desperate to get away from the intimidating presence of Gosalyn. One boy bumped into the doorframe on his way out, barely muttering a frantic “Sorry!” before darting out the door after the others.

Gosalyn didn’t flinch as the last of them bolted. Her focus was solely on Max, who was still leaning against the stall with a slightly bemused expression, though he seemed to be assessing her more carefully now.

Gosalyn let out a sharp exhale and leaned in, her face inches from his. “I need your help.”

"You know, there are better ways to ask, right?" Max grinned at her, "Listen, if you want to go out on a date, I am free Saturday."

Gosalyn let go of Max, pushing him away with a disgusted expression. “Ew, no. With you? Jesus, no.”

Max gave a pathetic little whine, his lip curling down as if deeply wounded. “Aw."

But Gosalyn didn’t waste any more time on it. She was all business now. “The people who’ve gone missing. You seem to know a lot about it. You got a friend in the police department?”

Max opened his mouth to make a wisecrack, his eyes darting nervously around the bathroom, but then he seemed to think better of it. “I’m really not at liberty to discuss that with y—” he began, his voice rising several octaves.

Before he could finish, Gosalyn grabbed him again by the collar, yanking him forward, her eyes narrowing in determination. “Answer me, or your head is going into the toilet until the bubbles stop.”

Max’s face drained of color. He stared at her for a moment, his usual cocky grin completely gone. He gulped, clearly reconsidering his earlier bravado.

The stall behind them loomed ominously as the seconds stretched out in thick silence.

Gosalyn’s expression remained deadly serious. It was clear she wasn’t playing around.

Max’s eyes darted to the door nervously, but he knew he was trapped now. His voice was a little strained when he finally blurted out the name.

“María Cabrera!”

Gosalyn blinked at him, confused. “Who the fuck is María Cabrera?”

Max scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Detective María Cabrera, she’s the cop I know.”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow, finally letting go of him, though her eyes were still locked onto his. “Okay, so what? You two just hang out and she just gives you random information on crimes?”

Max grinned awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck. “It's... a long story.”

Gosalyn’s eyebrow shot up even higher. For a split second, she looked as though she was about to strangle Max. Then she sighed, rolling her eyes. She pointed a finger at Max, her eyes narrowing. “Can we just skip to the part where you tell me what I need to know?”

“She caught me selling weed behind the bowling alley a few months ago, and well, there was a strip search and...”

Gosalyn raised her hand immediately, cutting him off. “Stop. Just stop. I really don’t want any details.”

“Latex gloves and everything...” Max continued.

Gosalyn shot him a look that could melt steel.

“Anyways,” Max said, leaning back and giving her a moment to digest what he'd just said. “We sort of became friends after that. Okay, more like she keeps on my ass about things.”

Gosalyn sighed, clearly uninterested in his 'relationship' with one of Duckburg's 'finest'. “Has she said anything about where in the city most of these people seem to be disappearing from?”

“Oh, for sure,” Max replied nonchalantly, striding over to the sink and turning on the tap, scrubbing his hands like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Downtown. It’s like a black hole down there, people just vanish.”

Gosalyn leaned against the bathroom stall, watching him with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “Why are you asking me this anyway?" He asked, "Don’t tell me you’re actually going to go looking for Mothman. I mean, listen, I like Webby—she’s hilarious—but please, don’t get tangled up in that weird shit. You’re already building a reputation around school as it is.”

“I am standing in the men’s room,” Gosalyn said flatly as she crossed her arms. “You really think I give a damn about my reputation?”

Max paused, staring at her for a second, then shrugged with a grin. “Fair point,” he admitted, drying his hands with exaggerated slowness as if he had all the time in the world. He grabbed a paper towel, ripped it off the roll with a flourish, and wiped his hands before tossing it into the trash. “So what are you planning to do, anyway?"

A mischievous grin spread across Gosalyn’s face as she stepped toward the door. “Oh, you’ll find out tonight. Pick me up at 10.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Three – Kill the Lights

The clock on her nightstand glowed 9:30 PM, casting soft blue light across the organized chaos of Gosalyn's room. She was on her knees, surrounded by half-opened moving boxes that hadn’t yet been unpacked. The box in front of her was labeled 'MISC' in her dad’s scrawled handwriting, the word underlined twice as if that made it less vague.

Her outfit was ready—cargo pants with deep pockets, a dark hoodie that was still on her bed, and fingerless leather gloves that fit snugly over her hands. It was practical, stealthy, and just a little intimidating. She wasn’t dressing for a fashion show; tonight was about being ready for whatever Duckburg had to throw at her.

Gosalyn sifted through the box, her hands brushing past a tangle of objects from her past—a half-deflated soccer ball, an old Walkman, and a stack of comic books. She tossed them aside until her fingers closed around something soft and familiar.

Pulling it out, she held it up to the light. It was a black eye mask, simple and lightweight, worn countless times during her nights as Quiverwing Quack. She ran her fingers over the edges, remembering how the elastic used to dig into her skin after hours of chasing crooks.

She smirked to herself, recalling Webby’s comment over breakfast. "Sidekick," she’d said, teasingly. Sidekick? Gosalyn chuckled under her breath. Webby had no idea. Gosalyn hadn’t been anyone’s sidekick, and she sure wasn’t going to start now.

Stuffing the mask into her pocket, she dove back into the box. Her hands searched blindly, sifting through the random contents until her fingers brushed something cold and metallic. She paused, curling her hand around it. Slowly, she pulled it out—a balisong.

The butterfly knife sat heavy in her hand, its metal handle gleaming faintly in the dim light. She flicked it open with a practiced snap of her wrist, the blade catching the glow of her bedside lamp. The sound of the latch snapping free and the blade locking into place echoed in the quiet room.

For a moment, she simply stared at it. It had been years since she’d used it, but the familiarity was immediate, almost comforting. She’d taken it off some scumbag back in St. Canard—a thug who’d thought he could intimidate her, the daughter of Darkwing Duck. The memory flashed in her mind: a dark alley, the smell of rain-soaked asphalt, the way her dad’s cape had billowed when he’d stepped between her and the criminal.

She let the knife spin between her fingers, the motions fluid and precise. Her dad had hated it, thought it was dangerous. "Justice, not vengeance," he’d told her the night he found her practicing with it. His words echoed in her mind now, tinged with his usual mix of sternness and care.

She snapped the blade closed and tucked it into her pocket alongside the mask. Straightening up, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her green eyes gleamed with determination, and the faintest smirk played on her lips.

Justice, not vengeance, she thought again. But justice didn’t mean waiting around for someone else to act. Not anymore.

She grabbed her hoodie from the bed and pulled it over her head, her mind already racing with possibilities. Whatever was going on in Duckburg, she was going to find out. And if her dad wasn’t around to don the cape, well, she had plenty of tricks of her own.

Gosalyn grabbed her phone from the nightstand, the screen lighting up to show her most recent texts. At the top was her conversation with Webby. She tapped it, scrolling up to their exchange from earlier in the evening.

Gosalyn: Can’t hang out tonight, got stuff to do.
Webby: Yeah, I can't anyway. I have to shave my uncle's feet.

Gosalyn stared at the message for what felt like the hundredth time, shaking her head with a small, bemused smile. What a weird, weird duck. Who even says something like that? And yet, despite—or maybe because of—how strange Webby was, Gosalyn couldn’t help but find her... endearing.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating whether to reply with a joke, but she set the phone down instead. That wasn’t what her mind was fixated on right now.

Webby had been on her mind a lot lately. Too much, maybe in the short time span that she had known her. And not just because of her quirks or her odd way of turning the mundane into something utterly bizarre. It was something else, something Gosalyn hadn’t quite been able to define until now.

She leaned back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her thoughts wandered to Webby’s wide, earnest eyes when she talked about supernatural nonsense, the way her hands fluttered with excitement as if she were painting pictures in the air. Webby wasn’t just weird; she was completely, unapologetically herself. And for someone like Gosalyn—who spent so much time building walls to keep people from getting too close—that was magnetic.

It wasn’t just that she liked Webby’s company, though. Gosalyn had plenty of friends back in St. Canard, and none of them ever made her stomach twist like this. When Webby leaned a little too close or brushed against her arm, it set off a quiet thrill that left Gosalyn confused and restless for hours after.

And that was the part that scared her.

Back in St. Canard, Gosalyn had always been labeled. Butch. Lesbian. Dyke. Sometimes it was whispered behind her back, sometimes it was hurled at her like an insult, meant to sting. She’d shrugged it off back then, too busy getting into trouble or playing sports to care what anyone thought. Her dad always told her to be proud of who she was, and she believed him. Mostly.

But now?

Now she wasn’t so sure.

This wasn’t just about how other people saw her. This was about how she saw herself. Gosalyn Mallard—rough, brash, sarcastic Gosalyn—was starting to feel something she’d never really felt before. And it wasn’t for some dreamy quarterback or a bad boy with a motorcycle.

It was for a duck who talked about Mothman and apparently shaved her uncle's feet.

She ran a hand through her hair, letting out a sharp exhale. Was she gay? Bisexual? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure if she even cared about the labels, but what she did know was that Webby made her feel... different. And it wasn’t bad. Scary, yes. But not bad.

Her fingers brushed over the phone again, tempted to text Webby just to see her reply. She didn’t. Not tonight.

Instead, she sat up, steeling herself. Whatever she was feeling, whatever questions she was grappling with, she didn’t have time to dwell on them now. She had a job to do, and the city wasn’t going to wait for her to figure out her heart.

Justice, not vengeance. Action, not hesitation.

The low rumble of an engine and the unmistakable sputter of a backfire reached Gosalyn’s ears. Max’s jalopy was here. Right on time, if 'barely held together with duct tape and hope' counted as punctuality. She shoved her phone into her pocket and headed out of her room and downstairs for the door, her mind already on the night ahead.

The plan was simple: Get downtown, look for clues, and figure out what the hell was going on in Duckburg. But as her fingers brushed the doorknob, she froze.

“And where do you think you’re going at 10 on a school night?”

Drake’s voice came from behind her, calm but laced with that infuriating dad-tone that let her know he wasn’t letting this slide.

Gosalyn spun around, trying not to look guilty—failing miserably. “Uh... just stepping out for a bit.”

Drake raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Stepping out for what, exactly? It’s one thing I let you have a sleepover last night, but going out this late on a school night? I don’t think so.”

Her heart pounded as she scrambled for an excuse. She couldn’t tell him the truth, not about investigating disappearances or anything remotely close to 'Hey, Dad, I’m doing what you used to do, only without your permission.'

The lie came tumbling out before she could stop herself.

“A date!” she blurted, cringing at how awkward it sounded. “I’m going on a date.”

Drake’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but the skepticism was still there. “A date?” he repeated, his tone incredulous.

“Yep,” Gosalyn said, nodding too quickly. “A date.”

Drake looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her dark hoodie, cargo pants, and fingerless leather gloves. “Dressed like that? Are you going to a midnight showing of Blade 2?”

Her cheeks flushed, but before she could retort, Drake leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “You’re not going anywhere, missy,” he said casually, “until I meet the man who thinks he’s good enough to date my daughter.”

Gosalyn’s stomach dropped. She felt like she’d been sucker-punched. The thought of actually dating Max made her want to curl up and die. But she didn’t have a choice.

The ends justify the means.

“Fine,” she said through her clenched bill. “I’ll go get him.”

She pulled open the door and stepped outside, muttering under her breath, “This is officially the worst night of my life.”

The cool night air hit her as she marched down the steps, Max’s car rumbling at the curb like it might fall apart any second. She stomped over and yanked open the passenger door, glaring at him.

Max leaned out of the driver’s seat, grinning like an idiot. “Hey, you ready to—”

“You’re my date,” Gosalyn snapped, cutting him off.

Max blinked, confused. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” she hissed. “You’re my date. Play along, or I swear I’ll break every bone in your body.”

Max’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the chaos. “This is gonna be good.”

“Just shut up and follow my lead,” she said, stepping away from the car and slamming the door.

Gosalyn marched Max back to the house, every step making her stomach churn. Max, of course, was taking the whole situation in stride, strolling along like he didn’t have a care in the world. When they reached the front door, he smirked at her.

“Relax,” he said, throwing an arm around her shoulders like they were old sweethearts. “I’ve got this. Parents love me.”

Gosalyn shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve cut glass. “Touch me again, and I'll shove your arm so far up your ass you'll taste the Cheeto dust on your fingertips.”

Max chuckled but wisely dropped his hand as they stepped inside.

Drake was waiting in the living room, leaning casually against the arm of the couch with his arms crossed. His expression screamed 'concerned dad' as his eyes darted between Gosalyn and Max.

“So,” Drake began, his tone suspicious but not unfriendly, “this is the lucky guy who’s taking my daughter out tonight?”

“Yup, that’s me,” Max said, flashing a grin that could’ve sold used cars. He stepped forward and extended a hand. “Max Goof, sir. Pleasure to meet you.”

Drake hesitated for a moment before shaking Max’s hand. His grip was firm, the kind of handshake that said, I know what you’re up to, kid.

Gosalyn stood off to the side, her arms crossed and her jaw clenched, watching the exchange with growing horror. She felt like she was trapped in some surreal nightmare.

“So, Max,” Drake said, his tone still scrutinizing but softening just a little, “what exactly do you do? School? Work?”

“Oh, I’m a student at Duckburg High, same as Gosalyn,” Max said smoothly. “But I also do freelance... landscaping.”

“Landscaping,” Drake repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep,” Max said, nodding enthusiastically. “Lots of grass.”

Gosalyn’s eyes widened, and she shot him a look that screamed What the hell are you doing?! Max, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat.

“It’s great work,” he continued. “Teaches responsibility, discipline, you know... life lessons.”

Drake nodded slowly, seemingly buying it. “I like that,” he said. “A man who works hard for his money. Reminds me of myself at your age.”

Oh god, they’re bonding, Gosalyn thought, her stomach flipping.

Drake gestured to the couch. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute? Tell me more about this landscaping business.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Max said, plopping onto the couch like he owned the place.

Gosalyn groaned internally as Drake took the seat across from him, the two of them launching into a conversation that made her skin crawl.

Max leaned back, resting an arm on the couch. “You know, sir, it’s not just about mowing lawns. It’s about creating something beautiful. A legacy, if you will.”

Drake nodded approvingly. “That’s a good attitude, Max. A man should take pride in his work.”

Gosalyn wanted to scream. She couldn’t take another second of this absurd buddy comedy unfolding in front of her.

“We really should be going,” she blurted out, stepping forward and grabbing Max by the arm. “We have... uh, some friends to meet. Yeah.”

Drake looked up at her, frowning slightly. “Friends, huh? You’re not planning on getting into trouble, are you?”

“Trouble?” Gosalyn said, forcing a laugh. “No way. We’re just hanging out. Real boring stuff.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed, but he relented with a sigh. “Fine. But I want you back before 1 a.m., or you’re grounded until you finish college. Got it?”

“Got it,” Gosalyn said quickly, already dragging Max toward the door.

“Nice meeting you, sir!” Max called over his shoulder, waving like they’d just become lifelong pals.

“Take care of her, Max!” Drake replied, his voice warm.

Oh my god, they should just date each other, Gosalyn thought as she slammed the door behind them and stomped toward Max’s car.

As they approached the car, Max turned to her with a smug grin. “Told you parents love me.”

Gosalyn glared at him. “Get in the car before I make you shit your own teeth.”

Almost midnight.

Max’s car sat idling on a narrow street in downtown Duckburg, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp that looked like it might give out any second. The city at this hour was a bizarre split personality: one half was alive with neon signs and thumping bass lines spilling out of nightclubs, where throngs of people danced like they didn’t have jobs in the morning. The other half was shadowy and dilapidated, a maze of boarded-up windows and crumbling brick walls. Figures shuffled in and out of dark alleys, their faces hidden beneath hoods or behind clouds of cigarette smoke. The contrast was jarring, like someone had taken two entirely different towns and smashed them together.

Inside the car, the air was heavy with the smell of grease and ketchup. Max was on his third quadruple-patty Behemoth Burger, and he was attacking it with the fervor of a man who had been lost at sea for weeks. Bits of lettuce and burger sauce dribbled onto the crinkled paper in his lap, which was already dotted with greasy stains.

Gosalyn, meanwhile, sat in the passenger seat, sipping from a Cherry Pep through a straw, her eyes scanning the street with hawk-like focus. Her hood was up, casting her face in shadow, though the glow of the streetlamp occasionally caught the sharp angle of her bill. Her gloved hands rested on her lap, fidgeting idly with the balisong in her pocket.

Max let out a belch so loud it made the car windows vibrate slightly. “So,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, “are we just gonna sit here all night? I could be at home watching the Mighty Ducks game.”

Without missing a beat, Gosalyn rolled her eyes. “You mean jerking it to Mallory McMallard?”

Max grinned as he reached for the last half of his burger. “I mean... you’re not wrong.”

“Ugh,” Gosalyn groaned, her face twisting in disgust. “Why are dudes so gross?”

“Because we’re honest about it,” Max replied through a mouthful of food, little flecks of bun escaping his lips.

Gosalyn turned her gaze back to the street, shaking her head. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re no fun,” Max said, digging around in the bottom of the grease-stained bag like he was mining for gold. His fingers finally emerged clutching a few limp, over-salted fries.

“Look,” Gosalyn said, her tone a little sharper now. “We’re not out here for fun, okay? We’re observing. Just... be patient.”

Max groaned and flopped back against the driver’s seat, draping one arm over the steering wheel. “Observing what? The exciting nightlife of Skid Row? Face it, this is a waste of time. There’s nothing happening.”

“There will be,” Gosalyn said firmly, though she couldn’t entirely convince herself of that, "I can feel it."

"I can feel that bullshit," Max tossed a fry into his mouth and chewed lazily. “And what do you think you’re gonna do when something does happen, huh? You’re not a superhero.”

Gosalyn bristled at his words, her grip tightening on the cup in her hand. She didn’t answer right away, staring out the window as if the city might offer her a sign, some proof that she wasn’t wasting her night.

“I’m not trying to be a superhero,” she said finally, her voice quieter but no less resolute. “I just... I don’t like sitting around while bad things happen.”

Max glanced at her, a rare moment of seriousness crossing his face. “Yeah, well, maybe leave the crime-fighting to the people who wear capes for a living. You’re gonna get yourself killed if you’re not careful.”

Gosalyn didn’t respond. Instead, she took another sip of her drink, the straw making an empty slurping noise.

Max sighed, his tone softening. “Look, I get it. You’re trying to do something good. But maybe you should think about who you’re really doing this for.”

She didn’t respond, her gaze fixed out the window. She didn’t want to admit that his words stung, that they poked at some deep part of her that wasn’t entirely sure why she was out here.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint creaking of the car’s engine cooling and the distant sounds of the city. Max sighed and reached back into the bag for more fries.

Just as he did, Gosalyn froze. Her head tilted slightly, her ears picking up something faint—something that sent a chill crawling up her spine.

A scream.

It wasn’t loud, more like the tail end of a cry for help, but it was enough to make her sit up straight. “Did you hear that?”

Max paused mid-chew, looking at her with a fry sticking out of his mouth. “Hear what?”

“A scream,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “It sounded close.”

Max shrugged, swallowing his food. “I didn’t hear anything. Maybe it was just someone having a good time at one of the clubs.”

“No,” Gosalyn said firmly, already reaching for the door handle. “That wasn’t a party scream. That was something else.”

Max groaned, leaning his head back against the seat. “Oh, come on. You don’t even know where it came from!”

“I know enough,” Gosalyn shot back, her eyes blazing with determination. “You coming or not?”

Max hesitated for a moment, then let out a long-suffering sigh and reached for his jacket. “Fine. But I will let you know right now my meth-head stab insurance isn't up to date.”

“Cowboy up,” Gosalyn said, already stepping out into the cool night air. Her heart was pounding, but whether it was from fear or excitement, she couldn’t tell.

Gosalyn led the way, her footsteps quick and silent as she weaved through the labyrinthine streets of downtown Duckburg. Max trailed a few paces behind, dragging his feet and muttering under his breath.

“Of all the places you could drag me tonight,” he grumbled, “it had to be sketchy alley number fifty-seven. You know, the kind of place where hobos go to fight over half-eaten hot dogs.”

“Keep your voice down,” Gosalyn hissed, shooting him a glare over her shoulder. “If something’s out here, I don’t want to spook it.”

Max scoffed but obeyed, sticking closer as they delved deeper into the maze of alleys. The air was damp and reeked of sour garbage, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights above casting an anemic glow over the cracked asphalt. Rats skittered across their path, their tiny claws clicking against the ground as they vanished into shadowy nooks.

“This is how people get tetanus,” Max muttered, kicking a crumpled soda can out of his way. “Or mugged. Or both.”

“Would you just shut the fuck up?” Gosalyn snapped, her voice low but sharp. She stopped abruptly, her head tilting as if trying to catch a sound. Max nearly bumped into her.

“What is it now?” he whispered, annoyed.

“Just... listen.”

The faint hum of the city seemed muffled here, the distant thrum of music and laughter swallowed by the oppressive quiet. And then, there it was—a faint, wet sound, like something... eating.

Gosalyn’s stomach tightened. She gestured for Max to follow and crept forward, her sneakers barely making a sound against the grimy ground. Max followed reluctantly, his eyes darting nervously to every dark corner.

The sound grew louder as they rounded a corner, entering a narrow alley flanked by towering brick walls smeared with graffiti. The dim light from a flickering bulb above barely reached the ground, casting jagged shadows that danced like specters.

And then they saw it.

At first, it was hard to make sense of the scene. A hulking figure crouched in the center of the alley, its massive frame bent over what looked like a pile of rags. But as Gosalyn and Max moved closer, the details came into horrific focus.

The figure was tall, impossibly so, even hunched over as it was. Its body was covered in what appeared to be thick, matted fur that gleamed faintly in the weak light. Broad shoulders tapered into long, sinewy arms that ended in claws glistening with fresh blood. Its head was grotesque—a sharp, angular beak protruding from a face that was half-avian, half-insectoid. Two enormous, glowing red eyes dominated its features, their light so intense it seemed to cut through the darkness like twin searchlights. Behind it, leathery wings arched like the frame of a nightmare, twitching with barely restrained energy.

The figure was feasting.

What Gosalyn had thought was a pile of rags was a woman’s body, sprawled out in the filth of the alley. The woman’s face was frozen in a mask of terror, her lifeless eyes staring into the void. Her neck was a gaping wound, the flesh torn apart as if savaged by a wild animal. Blood pooled beneath her, dark and viscous, soaking into the cracked asphalt. The creature held one of her arms in its claws, biting down with its razor-sharp beak, tearing flesh and muscle away with horrifying precision.

Max made a choked sound, stumbling back and nearly tripping over a discarded crate. Gosalyn’s heart hammered in her chest, her mind struggling to process the sheer brutality of the scene before her.

The creature stopped mid-feast, its head snapping up with an unnatural jerk. The glowing red eyes locked onto them, piercing and unblinking. Blood dripped from its beak, splattering onto the ground as it let out a low, guttural hiss that vibrated through the air.

Gosalyn froze, her breath caught in her throat. She felt Max’s hand grip her arm, his fingers digging into her skin as he whispered hoarsely, “What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know,” Gosalyn whispered back, her voice barely audible. She took a cautious step back, her instincts screaming at her to run, but her legs felt like lead.

The creature tilted its head, studying them like a predator sizing up its prey. Its wings twitched, and for a moment, the air seemed to grow heavier, charged with a menacing energy.

And then, it moved.

In one fluid motion, the creature unfurled its massive wings, the sound like wet leather snapping through the air. It rose to its full height, towering over them, and let out a bone-chilling screech that echoed through the alley like the cry of a thousand dying souls.

Gosalyn didn’t hesitate. She squared her shoulders, narrowed her eyes, and took a step forward. The creature loomed in front of her, towering over the alley like a nightmare made flesh. It screeched again, a horrific, ear-splitting sound that rattled her bones, but she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the balisong, flipping it open in one smooth, practiced motion. The butterfly knife snapped into place with a metallic click, its silver blade gleaming in the dim light. She spun it expertly in her hand, letting it twirl between her fingers in a dazzling display.

“What the hell are you gonna do with that!?!” Max yelled, his voice high-pitched with panic.

Gosalyn flashed him a grin, her eyes still locked on the creature. “Justice,” she replied, her tone full of confidence.

The monster’s head tilted; as if it understood the challenge, and then, with a blood-curdling screech, it lunged. Its claws sliced through the air like razors, aiming for Gosalyn.

Her instincts kicked in. Max let out an unholy scream that was the most feminine thing Gosalyn had ever heard, like something straight out of an old horror movie. She pushed Max out of the way, sending him tumbling backward into a pile of garbage with a loud, satisfying thud.

She didn’t have time to laugh.

The creature’s claws slashed through the air, so close she could feel the air shift with its deadly speed. She ducked, rolling to the side, narrowly avoiding its swipe. The monster’s movements were fast—too fast. It was like trying to dodge a blur of shadow and muscle, but Gosalyn was quick. She darted in and out, taunting it, dancing just out of reach of its sharp talons.

Max was still moaning in the garbage pile behind her, but Gosalyn was too focused to care. She grinned, feeling the adrenaline rush.

Finally, after a few more near-misses, Gosalyn saw an opening. The creature swung a claw at her, and in that split second, she dove forward, stabbing the balisong into its exposed torso.

“Got ya, fucker!” she shouted triumphantly, her arm snapping forward as the knife sank deep into the creature’s dark, leathery hide.

But then…

Nothing.

She twisted the blade. Nothing.

The monster didn’t even flinch. It barely even seemed to notice the stab.

Gosalyn’s eyes widened in disbelief. She yanked the knife back, but before she could react further, the creature’s massive hand shot down and wrapped around the hilt of the balisong like a vice.

With a sickening crack, it snapped the blade off like it was nothing more than a twig.

“Oh, for fuck sake,” Gosalyn muttered under her breath, her stomach sinking. The pieces of the balisong clattered to the ground.

Max, still recovering from his garbage dive, looked up just in time to see the creature’s hulking form looming over Gosalyn, "That's... that's not good," he groaned in disbelief.

The monster tilted its head, giving a low, rumbling growl. It slowly raised its claws again, a dark glint of malice in its glowing red eyes.

Gosalyn took a quick step back, her heart pounding. The monster stood in front of her, its claws raised, the blade of her balisong still stuck in its body. The alley was suddenly too small, too suffocating. Her eyes darted around, trying to find some escape, but the creature loomed like a nightmare come to life.

Max was still tangled in the garbage pile, brushing off the mess as he finally struggled to his feet. He looked up, wiped a smear of something sticky from his cheek, and asked, “So, what now?”

Gosalyn was already running down the alley.

Max blinked in confusion for a moment, his mind catching up with the situation. “REALLY!?” he shouted after her.

Gosalyn’s voice carried back to him, sharp and clear, “Run, you idiot!”

And run they did.

Max was quick to follow her, barely avoiding another swipe from the creature as they raced through the darkened alleyways of Duckburg. Their footsteps echoed off the brick walls, their breath coming in ragged gasps as they wove through the maze of narrow streets and abandoned passageways. The night was thick with fog and shadows, and they couldn’t seem to get their bearings.

As they rounded another corner, Gosalyn’s legs burned from the sprinting, but she pressed on, pushing through the searing pain. The adrenaline was still pumping, but the darkness around them felt heavier by the second.

“Where the hell is your car?” she panted, glancing back over her shoulder as Max struggled to keep up.

Max, still brushing the last bits of garbage from his clothes, barked back sarcastically, “Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot, we parked by Crack Alley. This is the Bum Fight Alley!”

Gosalyn shot him a glare. “Are you shitting my nuts right now?!”

He snarled back at her, his eyes wild with nervous energy. “I’m not a tour guide, alright? I sell pirated DVDs and caffeine pills!”

They turned another corner, running even faster, but the maze of alleys seemed endless, twisting back on itself like a nightmare of stone and grime. Gosalyn’s heart pounded in her chest, the panic creeping in. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the monster was right on their heels, though she dared not look behind her.

"Some date!" Max was still sputtering insults as they ran, but Gosalyn wasn’t listening anymore. They had to get out, and fast.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of running in every direction, they came to a dead end.

The alley was blocked by a tall, metal fence, the kind that was rusted and jagged at the top. There was nowhere to go but back the way they’d come, but they didn’t know how far behind the monster was.

Gosalyn came to a screeching halt, her chest heaving with exertion, and stared at the fence in disbelief. Max collided with her from behind, grunting as he barely caught himself.

“Well, this is great,” he muttered, leaning against the fence. “What kind of backwards ass pageantry is this bullshit? A dead end? What's next, a maniac in a hockey mask and chainsaw?”

Gosalyn's heart was hammering in her chest as she tried a nearby door, her fingers fumbling against the rusted knob. Locked. Of course it was locked. She cursed under her breath, her mind racing for any kind of escape.

A slow, chilling noise reached her ears. The unmistakable sound of something dragging itself toward them—something large, something heavy. She turned her head, dread creeping up her spine, and there it was. The creature stepped into the alley, its massive, hulking form filling the space. Its glowing red eyes locked on them with an unblinking, predatory gaze. The air seemed to thicken, the very atmosphere pulsing with the menace of something ancient and untouchable.

Gosalyn’s stomach twisted. There was no way out. No doors. No windows. No alley to run down. Only one option left.

“Get behind me,” she told Max, her voice low, controlled, despite the knot in her stomach as she braced herself.

Max’s eyes were wide, his expression a mix of disbelief and pure panic as he looked at the monster and back to Gosalyn. "What the hell are you going to do? Karate a monster to death?"

Gosalyn didn’t have the patience for his sarcasm, not now. Her hands flexed at her sides, her muscles tightening as she slid into a fighting stance. She grinned darkly, her body coiling with tension like a spring ready to snap. She raised her fists, cocking each arm like a loaded gun, ready to fire. "Karate is for boys whose fathers didn’t love them enough."

Max blinked at her, his mouth slightly open. "Are you serious right now?"

“Do you have any better ideas?” Gosalyn snapped, her eyes still locked on the advancing monster.

The creature moved closer, its claws scraping against the pavement, dragging with each step like metal against stone. The smell of decay and rot wafted toward them, filling the alley with the stench of death.

Max’s breath came in panicked gasps as he took a step back, his hands raised defensively. “I don’t want to die a virgin!” he yelled, his voice high-pitched with fear.

Gosalyn shot him a disgusted glance, her lips curling into a sneer. “That’s the least of your problems right now,” she muttered. She turned her attention back to the monster, trying to swallow the anxiety gnawing at her insides. This wasn’t St. Canard. This wasn’t a bunch of thugs or maniacs she could beat into submission. This was a monster—a real, bloodthirsty creature. It was beyond anything she’d ever faced.

She stepped forward, her mind racing. This was no longer about proving herself, no longer about showing off for anyone. This was survival. She had to buy Max time. That was all that mattered now.

Her voice was steady, though her pulse pounded in her ears. “I’ll distract it. You run.”

Max stared at her, horror painting his face. “What? Are you insane? You’re just gonna—”

“Do you want to die here?” Gosalyn interrupted, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto the monster's unblinking gaze. “Then shut up and get ready to run.”

Gosalyn stood facing the creature, her body screaming for escape, for safety, but she couldn’t afford to run. Not with Max still behind her, not with the monster so close, its claws poised for the kill. She readied herself, hands tight around her fists as she prepared to face the nightmare that loomed before them.

Fight, flight, or freeze. Gosalyn knew what option was she taking.

Then, in the middle of the chaos, a sharp, clear voice rang through the air, cutting through the cacophony of growls and scraping claws.

“Desine ibi monstrum!”

All three—Gosalyn, Max, and the monster—paused. The strange words echoed off the walls, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Then they all looked up.

What they saw made Gosalyn's stomach churn in confusion.

There, perched on a rusted fire escape several stories above them, was Webby.

Her pink summer dress billowed around her as though caught in a breeze, the hem fluttering like the cape of some fantastical superhero. Her hair was tousled, but her eyes were sharp, her stance poised and unshakable as she looked down at the monstrous creature below.

Gosalyn couldn’t process it. What was she doing here, in her dress, in this moment of madness?

Before Gosalyn or Max could even ask themselves the question, Webby acted.

With a single, fluid motion, Webby leaped off the fire escape, her body arcing gracefully through the air like she was defying gravity. Time seemed to slow as she descended toward the ground. She landed with catlike grace, her knees bending slightly to absorb the impact of the landing, and then—bam—she was between Gosalyn, Max, and the monster, her arms raised, her posture unwavering.

In the midst of this surreal scene, the creature halted, its claws twitching, uncertain for the first time. It let out a low, resonating growl, its gaze shifting from Webby’s unflinching form to Gosalyn and Max, sizing them up.

Webby’s eyes locked on the creature. Her expression was calm, yet something fierce flickered behind her gaze. She thrust her finger out toward the monster, her hand steady, and her bill parted to speak once more.

"Per Templariorum de luce, in hoc regno non recipis!"

The words—unfamiliar, ancient—hung in the air like a haunting incantation. Gosalyn’s heart beat faster in her chest as she exchanged a bewildered glance with Max. Neither of them understood, but whatever Webby was doing... it felt important. Like the world was shifting around them, bending to her will.

And then, in a moment that shattered everything Gosalyn thought she knew, something impossible happened.

From the outstretched palm of Webby’s hand, a dark, viscous liquid began to form. It started as a ripple of black ichor, like ink spilling from a bottle, oozing from her fingers. At first, it was slow—trickling and swirling—but then it solidified. The liquid began to coalesce, twisting and turning, growing like a living thing.

It wasn’t just liquid anymore. It was solid, shape-shifting.

A blade began to form—sharp, ancient, and gleaming with an eerie, dark glow. The black ichor hardened into steel, shimmering with an ominous sheen as it stretched and twisted into the unmistakable shape of a longsword. The blade’s hilt was held elegantly in Webby’s grasp, decorated with intricate engravings that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light of the alley. The sword was unlike anything Gosalyn had ever seen—both terrifying and beautiful, imbued with an unnatural energy that practically hummed in the air around them.

Webby stood there, as calm as the eye of a storm, holding the sword out in front of her; pointed directly at the beast. It was a weapon like no other, forged from darkness, yet glowing with an undeniable power.

Gosalyn’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know what to think. This wasn’t the Webby she knew—the strange, nerdy duck who obsessively talked about supernatural conspiracies. This was... something else entirely. This was power—and it was coming from her.

Max was equally stunned, his mouth agape as he looked from the sword to Webby, then back to the monster. "What the actual fuck is happening right now?" he managed to choke out, his voice shaky.

Webby turned to Gosalyn and Max, a wry grin spread across her bill, "Oh, hey guys! So crazy running into you like this."

Chapter Text

Chapter Four - Mad World

Gosalyn stood frozen, her mind spinning out of control as she struggled to process what had just happened. Everything around her felt surreal; like she’d somehow stepped into a fever dream. A monster—a literal monster—was standing just a few feet away, its red eyes burning with unnatural malice. And then there was Webby, her weird, awkward classmate, and crush, who had just conjured a freakin’ sword out of her hand like she was in some kind of medieval anime.

Gosalyn's thoughts were a chaotic tangle, each one crashing into the next. Is this really happening? Was this thing... Mothman? The Mothman? Did Webby just say something in Latin? And that sword—what the actual hell is that sword?

She blinked, her heart pounding in her chest. Everything she’d ever dismissed as conspiracy-theory garbage—cryptids, ancient monsters, aliens—was now staring her dead in the face. And Webby, of all people, was acting like this was just another Tuesday.

Beside her, Max muttered under his breath, “This is either the best weed I've ever had in my life or I’m having a stroke.”

Gosalyn ignored him, her focus locked on Webby, who was now standing firm between them and the creature. Webby’s expression was calm but determined, her grip on the sword steady as she stared the monster down.

"You guys get back to the car," Webby commanded, her voice firm. "I’ll deal with this."

Gosalyn’s jaw dropped. Deal with this? Did she actually hear that right? She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“What the hell do you mean, you’ll deal with it?” Gosalyn snapped, stepping forward despite the instinctual fear gnawing at her gut. “This isn’t some stupid school project, Webby! That thing is gonna kill you!”

“It won’t,” Webby replied, her tone calm, almost too calm. “I’ve trained for this. Trust me, I’ve got it under control.”

“Trained for this?” Gosalyn repeated, “You’re wearing a pink summer dress! You’re not even dressed for combat! You don’t have it under control!”

“Technically,” Max chimed in, “she does have a sword.”

“Not helping, Max!” Gosalyn barked, shooting him a glare before turning back to Webby.

The monster let out a guttural hiss, its massive wings twitching as it stepped forward. The air around them seemed to grow colder, the shadows deepening unnaturally as the creature loomed closer. Gosalyn’s heart pounded harder, but she refused to back down.

“Look, Webby,” Gosalyn said, her voice rising. “I don’t know what’s going on here—what that thing is, what you are—but you’re not doing this alone. We’ll figure it out together. I’m not running, and I’m definitely not leaving you to die.”

Webby hesitated, glancing back at Gosalyn. For the first time since she arrived, a flicker of doubt crossed her face. She opened her bill to argue but stopped when she saw the fire in Gosalyn’s eyes.

“Fine,” Webby said reluctantly. “But if you’re staying, stay out of my way.”

“I make no promises,” Gosalyn shot back, her fists clenched as she turned to face the monster.

Max groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Oh, great! Love this plan! Let’s all just stay here and fight the literal nightmare demon! Fantastic idea, guys!”

“Then run!” Gosalyn and Webby shouted in unison.

The monster let out another blood-curdling scream, its wings flaring as it lunged forward.

Webby met it in the middle, raising her sword with both hands. The blade caught the faint light of the alley, casting a strange, shifting glow that seemed to ripple across the walls. With a sharp, practiced movement, she swung the blade in an arc, the hum of its energy slicing through the air as she aimed for the creature’s midsection.

The monster dodged with inhuman speed, its clawed hand swiping toward Webby’s face. She ducked, spinning on her heel and bringing the sword up again in a defensive stance.

Gosalyn watched, wide-eyed, as Webby moved with a grace and precision that seemed impossible. She wasn’t just flailing the sword around—she knew what she was doing. Every step, every swing, every feint was deliberate.

“Holy shit,” Gosalyn muttered under her breath. “She’s... she’s actually good at this.”

“Great,” Max grumbled from behind a pile of garbage he’d ducked behind. “She’s good. That’s super comforting while I’m over here trying not to cover myself in terror pee!”

Webby’s blade clashed against the monster’s claws, the sound ringing out like steel on steel. Sparks flew as she pushed back, her face set with determination.

Gosalyn’s heart raced as she realized the creature wasn’t backing down. It was faster, stronger, more brutal than anything she’d ever seen. But Webby... Webby was holding her own.

For now.

“Gosalyn!” Webby shouted over her shoulder, her voice strained as she pushed against the monster’s strength. “If you’re not gonna run, at least grab something useful!”

“Like what?!” Gosalyn yelled back, glancing around the alley in desperation.

“I don’t know! A pipe! A rock! Anything!”

Gosalyn scrambled, her eyes darting around until they landed on a discarded length of metal rebar half-buried in a pile of trash. She grabbed it, hefting the makeshift weapon with a grim sense of determination.

“Alright,” Gosalyn muttered, stepping up beside Webby. “Let’s see how this thing likes a good old-fashioned beatdown.”

The monster let out another screech, its glowing eyes narrowing as it prepared to strike again.

Gosalyn tightened her grip on the rebar, her knuckles white. For the first time in her life, she was genuinely terrified. But as she glanced at Webby—this strange, fearless girl standing her ground against a creature of nightmares—she felt something else rise within her.

She wasn’t going to let fear win. Not tonight.

With a battle cry that surprised even herself, Gosalyn charged.

The Mothman screeched in fury as Webby and Gosalyn pressed their assault. They moved together like they’d done this a hundred times before, despite having never fought anything close to this. Webby’s sword arced through the air in shimmering, fluid motions, while Gosalyn darted in with quick, precise strikes of her rebar.

“Duck!” Webby shouted, and Gosalyn dropped to a crouch, smirking at the ironic word usage just as Webby swung her blade over her head, slicing through one of the Mothman’s outstretched wings. The creature howled in agony, its red eyes glowing brighter as dark ichor sprayed from the wound.

“Did we just hurt it?” Gosalyn gasped, glancing at Webby.

Webby smirked, her breath labored but her eyes blazing with determination. “Looks like it.”

The two exchanged a brief nod, a spark of camaraderie passing between them. Both of them grinned, adrenaline and defiance fueling their movements as they turned back to the wounded creature.

“Let’s go!” Gosalyn shouted, charging in again.

The alley was alive with chaos—the clang of Webby’s sword meeting claws, the hiss of the Mothman’s wings cutting through the air, the sound of Gosalyn’s rebar connecting with solid flesh. Every strike they landed seemed to spur the creature’s rage, its movements becoming more erratic and dangerous.

Webby feinted left and drove her blade into the monster’s side, eliciting another pained screech. “Gotcha, you overgrown mothball!” she snarled.

Gosalyn followed up, swinging the rebar with all her might against the creature’s leg. It stumbled briefly, giving them just enough time to regroup.

“This thing’s tough,” Gosalyn panted, wiping sweat from her brow.

“So are we,” Webby replied, a fierce grin on her face.

Their triumph was short-lived. The Mothman’s shriek rose in pitch, its body trembling with raw fury. It lunged forward, its wings beating with enough force to create a gust that nearly knocked them off their feet.

Then, with a single, calculated sweep, one of its massive wings struck Webby like a sledgehammer.

The blow sent her flying through the air, her body slamming into a rusted dumpster with a sickening metallic crash. The sword slipped from her hand, clattering uselessly to the ground as Webby crumpled into a heap.

“Webby!” Gosalyn screamed, her voice cracking.

The Mothman’s glowing eyes turned to Gosalyn, its focus shifting entirely to her now. Before she could react, it lunged at her, claws extended and ready to tear her apart.

Gosalyn raised the rebar defensively, her pulse hammering in her ears. Time seemed to slow as she saw the razor-sharp claws descending, the monster’s snarl filling her senses.

And then, out of nowhere, a blur of movement.

“NO!”

Max dove into the fray, shoving Gosalyn aside just as the creature struck.

The Mothman’s claws slashed through Max’s shirt, cutting deep into his abdomen. Blood sprayed across the alley as Max fell, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

“Max!” Gosalyn’s scream echoed, raw and desperate, as she scrambled toward him.

The Mothman straightened, towering over her, its red eyes burning with triumph as it prepared for another strike.

Gosalyn’s hands shook as she rose to her feet, placing herself between the creature and her fallen friend. The rebar trembled in her grip, but she didn’t back down.

Her heart thundered in her chest, her fear threatening to consume her. But as she looked at Max’s unmoving form, rage overtook her.

“Come on, you bastard,” she growled, planting her feet. “I’m not done with you yet. Let's fucking go.”

Before Gosalyn could swing the rebar or the Mothman could deliver a fatal blow, a voice rang out—strong, commanding, and laced with raw power:

“IGNIS PLAGA!”

The air crackled as the words echoed through the alley, and Gosalyn whipped her head around toward the source.

There, slumped against the dumpster, was Webby. She looked battered, her summer dress torn and stained with grime, but her expression was fierce and unwavering. Her outstretched hand glowed with ancient runes, spiraling in brilliant red light as if they were carved into her skin.

The air around Webby seemed to distort, and then—without warning—a burst of flame erupted from her hand, roaring down the alley and striking the Mothman square in the chest.

The creature shrieked, a sound so piercing and inhuman that Gosalyn’s knees buckled for a moment. Fire consumed its body in an instant, the orange and red flames dancing wildly as they fed on the beast’s dark form.

It flailed, panicked, its massive wings beating furiously as it tried to extinguish the fire. The monster slammed into the walls of the alley, leaving streaks of smoldering soot on the brick, its horrific wails reverberating like a nightmare come to life.

Gosalyn stood frozen, unable to process what she was seeing. The sight of the Mothman—a towering, monstrous predator—reduced to a flaming, desperate shadow felt surreal.

With a final, guttural scream, the creature spread its wings and took to the air. Fire trailed behind it, illuminating the dark sky as it disappeared over the rooftops, a streaking comet of burning rage and agony.

The alley was silent again, save for the faint crackling of embers left in the wake of Webby’s spell.

Gosalyn turned to Webby, her chest heaving, her mind reeling. She couldn’t believe what she had just witnessed.

This was beyond anything she’d ever imagined.

This was not shaving feet.

Gosalyn took a shaky breath, the piece of rebar in her hand clattering to the ground. Her eyes darted from the sky, where the flaming figure of the Mothman had vanished, back to Webby, who was still slumped against the dumpster.

Her heart was pounding.

She approached Webby cautiously, each step feeling heavier than the last. Her awe clashed with unease—here was Webby Vanderquack, the quirky, conspiracy-obsessed girl she’d barely tolerated just days ago, suddenly revealed as something far more than Gosalyn could comprehend.

The lingering light of the glowing runes on Webby’s hand faded, leaving faint, darkened traces on her palm. The sight sent a shiver through Gosalyn’s body.

“Webby,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She forced herself forward, the weight of confusion and curiosity driving her on.

Webby looked up as Gosalyn reached her, her piercing blue eyes locking onto Gosalyn’s green ones. For a moment, the world shrank. The grime and darkness of the alley, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the adrenaline coursing through Gosalyn’s veins—it all disappeared under Webby’s gaze.

There was something profound in those eyes. Strength, yes, but also vulnerability. And trust.

Gosalyn swallowed hard. Her stomach churned, but not in fear. No, this was something else entirely.

Butterflies.

She reached out a trembling hand, hesitating for just a second before grasping Webby’s arm and pulling her to her feet. Webby’s hand lingered on Gosalyn’s shoulder for balance, and the contact sent a jolt through Gosalyn’s entire body.

“Y-You okay?” Gosalyn asked, her voice cracking despite her best effort to sound casual.

Webby smiled softly, her gaze holding steady, unwavering. “I’ve had worse.”

Their eyes locked again, and Gosalyn felt her stomach twist into tighter knots. The butterflies, warm and frantic, swirled up to her chest. Her fingers flexed as she steadied Webby, unsure what to do with herself. Hug her? Kiss her?

Her mind reeled at the thought, and her cheeks burned. What was happening? Was this really the moment to be having... feelings?

But she couldn’t look away.

Webby tilted her head slightly, her expression somewhere between curiosity and quiet amusement. She opened her mouth to say something, but—

“Hello? Dying man here. Anyone? Help?”

Max’s groan shattered the moment like glass hitting concrete.

Gosalyn’s shoulders sagged, and she closed her eyes with a long, frustrated sigh. “Of course,” she muttered under her breath.

What was the female version of cock-blocking?

She finally broke eye contact with Webby and turned to the heap of Max sprawled out on the alley floor, one arm weakly raised in the air like he was trying to flag them down.

“Hold on, Max,” Gosalyn called, her voice laced with exhaustion and lingering embarrassment. “We’re coming.”

Gosalyn knelt beside Max, blood—too much of it—was spreading out across the cracked pavement, pooling beneath his body. His face had already taken on an ashen hue, his breath ragged as he groaned, the pain clearly washing over him in waves.

“Max,” Gosalyn’s voice was sharp with panic, though she masked it with controlled urgency. She tore the sleeve off his already ragged shirt, using it to press against the gash in his abdomen. It was deep, jagged—no way to make it stop bleeding easily. She gritted her teeth, feeling the heat of the blood through the fabric, but she had no time to think about it.

“Hold still,” she muttered, her fingers working quickly to fashion some kind of makeshift bandage. Max flinched as she pressed the cloth down harder, a sharp gasp escaping him.

“Next time you fight a monster,” she said, her voice tight, “try not to do so with your insides, alright?”

Max managed a weak grin despite the obvious pain. His lips trembled, and a cough wracked his chest—one that ended in a spray of crimson droplets.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” he wheezed, his voice a little strained from the effort, before coughing again, more blood.

Gosalyn’s stomach lurched at the sight, but she stayed focused. She’d fought through worse. She had to.

“Max, stay with me,” she said, more quietly now. “We need to get you to a doctor—like, right now.”

Max’s eyes fluttered, his lids heavy with exhaustion, but he managed a chuckle. “You... you make it sound like we’re not about to die here.”

Gosalyn shot him a look, her brow furrowed in frustration. “Don’t be such a drama queen,” she muttered, but inside she felt a gnawing terror that she wasn’t sure how to push away.

It wasn’t just the blood—though that was bad enough—it was the reality of it all. Everything had changed in the span of a few hours. Mothman was real. Supernatural things were real. Webby was some sort of... monster hunter? And Max—Max—had thrown himself into the line of fire without a second thought. For her.

For a second, she almost forgot about the rest of it—the weirdness, the monsters, the reality shifting like sand under her feet. Her focus was solely on Max.

But then, in the corner of her eye, something caught her attention.

Webby was crouched down, not paying any attention to the mess of blood and gore that Max was leaking. She was instead beside her sword.

The way Webby was interacting with the weapon was... strange. The girl was murmuring something in a soft, melodic tone that Gosalyn couldn’t quite make out. The words sounded ancient, almost rhythmic, but they weren’t in any language Gosalyn had ever heard.

Then, Webby gently cupped the hilt of the sword in her hands, whispering again, “It’s okay, Lena, they’re friends.”

Gosalyn blinked, her curiosity piqued despite the urgency of the situation. Lena? The sword? What the hell was Webby talking about?

Webby’s hand hovered over the blade, her fingers trembling slightly. As she spoke, the black ichor—so similar to what had bled from the sword when it formed earlier—began to spread from the weapon, oozing out like liquid shadow. The ichor swirled around Webby’s fingers, and, in a fluid motion, it absorbed back into her palm, the sword vanishing as though it had never been there at all.

For a moment, everything was still.

Webby looked up, catching Gosalyn’s gaze, and for the first time, there was something more human in her expression—vulnerable, even. “We'll, talk about it later,” she said, her voice soft, almost apologetic.

Gosalyn opened her mouth to speak, but she was at a loss for words. What was happening here?

Her mind spun. She was still trying to process the battle, the fire, the monster... and now this new layer of mystery Webby had just unveiled. What was that sword? Why had she called it "Lena"?

And why did it feel like the more she learned about Webby, the less she understood?

The answers were out of reach, swirling in the shadows, just as the sword had been. The only thing Gosalyn knew for sure at that moment was that her world was upside down.

And now, she had to deal with Max—who was looking increasingly pale—and whatever came next.

She pushed herself back to her feet, trying to steady her breath. “Webby,” she started, “we—”

But then Max groaned again, and the urgent need to focus on him surged back, overriding any thoughts of swords and shadows.

“Help me, Webby,” Gosalyn said, voice breaking with frustration, “he’s not gonna make it if we don’t get him out of here.”

Webby nodded, her eyes sharp now, back to her more determined self. “Right,” she said, already springing into action.

Max groaned loudly as Webby and Gosalyn hooked their arms under his shoulders and began hoisting him upright. His legs wobbled beneath him, and he stumbled slightly as they moved forward.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he muttered, though the pale sheen of sweat on his face said otherwise. “Seriously, no need to carry me like a damsel in distress. Unless, of course, this ends with one of you swooning over me.”

Gosalyn rolled her eyes as they shuffled forward. “If you weren’t already bleeding out, I’d leave you here just to teach you a lesson.”

Max chuckled weakly. “Worth it.”

They moved through the dark, twisting alleys, the only sound the scuff of their footsteps and Max’s strained breathing. The adrenaline from the fight was fading fast, leaving exhaustion and pain in its wake. Gosalyn felt it, too—every inch of her body ached, but she kept her grip firm on Max.

Finally, the tension bubbling inside her boiled over, and she turned to Webby. “Okay, seriously, you mind explaining what the hell that was all about?”

Webby tilted her head quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Gosalyn snapped, incredulous. “Let’s start with the obvious! What was that language you were speaking? Latin? Nobody speaks Latin, right? And what’s up with the sword? The glowing runes? The fire? The monster?!”

Webby glanced at her as though Gosalyn had just asked her to explain basic arithmetic. She spoke with the detached tone of someone delivering a book report in English class. “Monsters are real. I hunt them. I am the last of the Templars of Light, the one thing keeping evil from consuming the world. Why do you ask?”

Gosalyn stopped dead in her tracks, causing Max to grunt as the support under his arm wavered. She stared at Webby, her mouth agape. “Why do I ask?!” she echoed, her voice rising in disbelief. “You just—you just casually drop that, like it’s nothing?”

Webby shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I mean, I told you about monsters before.”

“That was conspiracy theory stuff! UFOs and cryptids! I didn’t think you were—” Gosalyn gestured wildly, “—actually fighting them!”

Webby smiled faintly; as if this was a conversation she’d had dozens of times before.

“So... all the conspiracy stuff is real?” Gosalyn continued, her voice tinged with disbelief. “Like, really real? Wait—” She narrowed her eyes. “Is Elvis still alive?”

Webby opened her mouth, her expression serious. “Well, the thing about Elvis is he—”

The sudden flash of red and blue lights silenced her. Sirens wailed as a police car screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley. The beam of a spotlight swept over the trio, momentarily blinding them.

“Hands where we can see them!” a female voice barked through the car’s loudspeaker.

Gosalyn groaned, leaning heavily on Max’s arm as she muttered under her breath. “Perfect. Just what we needed.”

Webby’s gaze flicked toward the police car, her hand instinctively flexing as though ready to summon her sword again.

Gosalyn grabbed her wrist. “Don’t even think about it,” she hissed.

Webby gave her a sheepish grin. “Right. Normal people stuff. Got it.”

The spotlight fixed on them, illuminating the bloodied and battered trio in stark detail. Gosalyn felt her stomach twist. As if the night hadn’t been insane enough already, now they had to deal with the cops.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five - Out Comes the Evil

"You three!" The voice barked again, sharper this time. “I said, put your hands where I can see them!”

Gosalyn winced but shouted back, her voice cracking with urgency. “We can’t! He’s hurt—he’s bleeding out!”

The cop hesitated for a moment before turning off the spotlight and stepping out of the squad car, revealing a small yet authoritative figure. It was a rabbit, wearing a crisp navy-blue uniform with a badge gleaming under the streetlights. Her revolver was drawn but held steady as she cautiously approached, long ears twitching to take in every sound. Her wide lavender eyes scanned the trio, narrowing as they settled on Max.

“Cheese and crackers,” she muttered under her breath, her free hand tightening on her radio. “What the hell happened to you kids?”

Max gave a weak chuckle, his voice hoarse and strained. “You should see the other guy.”

“Max, shut up,” Gosalyn hissed, pressing harder on his makeshift bandage to staunch the bleeding.

Webby straightened up, her face lit with the same overly eager expression she wore when diving into one of her infamous rants. “Actually, Officer, we were attacked by—”

Gosalyn shot her a glare sharp enough to cut through steel and immediately cut her off. “—A maniac! Some lunatic jumped us! He hurt our friend!” She threw in a dramatic, desperate edge to her tone, playing up their victim status. “Please, he’s losing a lot of blood. We need an ambulance!”

The rabbit officer’s gaze flicked between them, her revolver still up but her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of the scene. Her nose twitched rapidly as if trying to sniff out the truth. Finally, she holstered her weapon, though her body remained tense, ready for action.

“Alright, stay put,” she said firmly, pulling her radio from her shoulder. Her voice, calm yet edged with urgency, crackled through the speaker. “Dispatch, this is Officer Judy Hopps. I have a 10-38 between Hopalong Drive and Upsy Street. I need paramedics and backup on scene, suspect not in custody. Over.”

As she clipped the radio back in place, her sharp gaze fell on Gosalyn and Webby. “Keep applying pressure to his wound,” she instructed, nodding at Max. “And don’t move a muscle until backup gets here. Got it?”

Gosalyn nodded quickly, still pressing down on Max’s stomach, though her own hands were trembling now from adrenaline and exhaustion.

Judy crouched slightly, peering closer at Max’s paling face and the growing bloodstain on his shirt. “Hang tight, kid. Help’s on the way.”

Max gave her a weak smirk. “You’re kinda short for a cop, aren’t you?”

Gosalyn groaned and smacked his shoulder lightly.

The rabbit cop’s ears twitched, but she didn’t respond to Max’s remark, her focus returning to the scene. “What kind of ‘maniac’ does this?” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else, but Gosalyn caught it and felt her chest tighten.

Judy’s suspicion was clear as day, but Gosalyn didn’t dare let her guard drop. With Webby’s history of rambling about the supernatural, the last thing they needed was for her to mention swords, magic, or monsters.

Officer Hopps stood with her hands on her hips, her lavender eyes scrutinizing the trio as she pressed them for answers.

“Alright, one of you start talking. What’d this ‘maniac’ look like?”

Gosalyn swallowed hard, her mind racing. If she hesitated too long, Judy would catch on. But if she described the monster truthfully… No. She couldn’t. “Uh, tall… real tall,” she started, keeping her voice steady. “Wearing a hoodie, I think? Dark clothes. And, um… I didn’t get a good look at his face—it was dark, you know? Maybe a wolf? Bear?”

Judy squinted at her, clearly suspicious, but Gosalyn held her gaze, refusing to flinch. She was good at this—too good, really. Lying had become second nature in her old life in St. Canard, and now it might just save them.

“Okay,” Judy muttered, jotting something down in her notepad. “Tall, hoodie, possible predator. Not much to go on.”

The distant wail of sirens teased them from the edges of the city, but they never seemed to get any closer. Judy frowned and pulled out her radio again. “Dispatch, any word on emergency services yet?”

The crackling response came after a brief pause. “Negative, Officer Hopps. There’s a multi-car pileup on the highway. Paramedics are tied up. ETA unknown.”

Judy cursed under her breath, her ears flicking back in frustration. “Copy that. Hopps out.”

She turned back to the trio, her voice tinged with annoyance but still professional. “Looks like we’re on our own for now. You guys stay here—I’ve got a first-aid kit in my—GLURK!”

Glurk?

The guttural, choking sound that escaped Judy’s throat was horrifyingly unnatural. Her body froze mid-step, her hands twitching toward her chest. The trio stared in confusion, until Max croaked out, “What the hell was that?”

Then, in slow, awful clarity, they saw it.

Emerging from the shadows behind Judy, its charred body wreathed in flickering embers, was the Mothman. Its wings, tattered and smoldering, stretched wide, and its glowing red eyes pierced the darkness like twin hellish beacons.

And then… the claws.

Blackened and jagged, they burst through Judy’s chest from behind with a sickening wet crack. The rabbit’s eyes went wide, her mouth agape as blood poured from her lips in thick, bubbling streams. She didn’t even have time to scream.

“NO!” Webby screamed, but it was too late.

With a single, gruesome motion, the Mothman pulled. Judy’s small body split in two, her torso ripping apart like wet paper, spraying the alley with a torrent of blood and viscera. Organs spilled onto the asphalt in a grotesque heap, and a thick, metallic scent filled the air as the trio were doused in the grisly aftermath.

Gosalyn’s ears rang. Her heart pounded so loudly it drowned out everything else. Blood dripped from her face, warm and sticky, and her trembling hands were stained crimson.

“WHAT THE FUCKITTY-FUCK-FUCK!?” Max screamed, his voice cracking as he stared at the ruined remains of Judy Hopps.

The Mothman turned its fiery gaze toward them, a low, guttural growl rumbling from its chest. The embers clinging to its form crackled as it took a menacing step forward.

Gosalyn, her voice barely a whisper, muttered, “We're so fucked.”

But instead of attacking them, the creature went to the body he just mutilated.

The sound of wet slurps and sharp, crunching snaps echoed through the streets, each one more nauseating than the last. The Mothman hunched over what little remained of Judy Hopps, its charred claws working methodically to scoop up bits of flesh and shattered bone. Its jagged beak tore through muscle with sickening precision, and the creature emitted low, guttural growls of satisfaction with every bite.

Gosalyn could barely breathe. The air reeked of iron and burnt fur, and the squelching noises burrowed into her ears like nails on a chalkboard. She felt her stomach lurch but forced herself to stay focused.

Webby leaned in close, her voice barely above a whisper. “Move slowly. It’s feeding. It won’t care about us for a minute or two.”

Max’s face was pale, his knees shaking so hard it was a miracle he hadn’t collapsed. “You want us to just walk past that thing while it’s chomping down on—on—” He gestured weakly to the blood-soaked ground, unable to say her name.

“We don’t have a choice,” Webby hissed, her eyes darting toward the Mothman. “If we attack it now, it’ll go berserk. We need to get you somewhere safe first. Then I’ll deal with it.”

“Why not just deal with it here and now?” Max shot back, though his voice cracked halfway through.

“Because if you die, I’m going to feel really guilty,” Webby replied, her tone sharper than intended.

Gosalyn grabbed Max’s arm, tugging him forward. “Let’s move before it notices us. Come on.”

They crept along the edge of the street, the dim glow of the streetlights barely illuminating their way. Each step was agonizingly slow, every shuffle of their feet feeling like it might be the one to draw the monster’s attention. The sound of the Mothman’s feeding was unbearable—a grotesque symphony of gnawing and snapping, punctuated by low, rumbling growls.

As they neared Judy’s squad car, Gosalyn’s sharp eyes caught sight of something inside: the blackened steel barrel of a shotgun resting in the center console. Her heart skipped a beat. That could even the odds.

She gestured toward the car, whispering, “Keep going. I’ll catch up.”

“What are you—” Webby started, but Gosalyn was already slipping through the open door of the car, her movements surprisingly quiet given the tension crackling in the air.

Inside the car, the stench of leather and faint coffee mixed with the lingering scent of Judy’s perfume. Gosalyn’s hands trembled as she reached for the shotgun, fingers brushing over its cold steel. She glanced at the box of ammunition next to it, her mind racing as she grabbed both and slid the shotgun free.

Her dad’s voice echoed in her mind as she checked the weapon. 'A shotgun’s simple, Gos. Point, pull, and pray you hit something.' She snapped open the box of shells, loading the gun with practiced efficiency, her father’s training kicking in like muscle memory. Five rounds. That’s all she had before a reload.

She racked the pump, the sound loud and unmistakable. A round slid into the chamber with a satisfying clack, but the noise cut through the street like an actual gunshot.

“What is with you women?” Max hissed from a few steps ahead, his face pale as he clutched his side.

Before Gosalyn could retort, a low, guttural growl broke through the air, and the feasting stopped.

The Mothman’s head jerked up, blood dripping from its fanged maw. Its glowing eyes locked onto them, burning brighter as its wings flared out with an audible crackle. The wounds Webby had inflicted earlier had begun to close, the charred flesh knitting itself back together in a grotesque display of regeneration. The flames that once engulfed it were gone, replaced by a horrifying slickness, as if its skin were oozing with dark, tar-like fluid.

“Uh… guys?” Gosalyn muttered, her grip tightening on the shotgun.

The monster let out an ear-piercing screech, its wings beating once and sending a gust of foul-smelling wind down the alley. Bits of blood and ash scattered like confetti, forcing them to shield their faces.

“Now would be a great time to run!” Webby yelled, grabbing Max and practically dragging him forward.

Gosalyn didn’t move immediately. Instead, she raised the shotgun, her heart hammering in her chest. She’d never shot at anything alive before, let alone a supernatural monster. But there was no time to hesitate. The Mothman crouched low, ready to pounce.

“Come on, you freak,” she muttered through her clenched bill, her finger hovering over the trigger. “Let’s dance.”

Boom!

The first shot rang out, echoing like a cannon blast. The kickback slammed into her shoulder, almost making her lose her grip, and the slug flew wide, shattering a window above the Mothman’s head.

“Damn it!” she hissed, but there was no time to dwell on the miss. She racked the pump with a satisfying clack and fired again.

This time, the shot found its mark. The slug tore through the Mothman’s torso, black ichor spraying from the wound like oil from a ruptured pipe. The creature staggered but didn’t stop.

Gosalyn fired again. And again. Each shot landed with a wet, meaty thwack, punching gory holes in the monster’s body. The alley filled with acrid smoke from the gunfire and the stench of gunpowder.

The shotgun’s recoil battered her shoulder with every shot, but she kept firing, her jaw clenched against the pain.

Clack. Boom!
Clack. Boom!

The fifth and final slug tore through the Mothman’s chest, sending it stumbling back a few feet. Its glowing red eyes flickered, its body heaving with unnatural effort. But it didn’t fall. Instead, it roared, louder and more furious than ever, and charged forward, its claws scraping against the ground, leaving deep gouges in the concrete.

“What’s it going to take to kill you?!” Gosalyn screamed, throwing the empty shotgun aside in frustration.

Then inspiration hit her: the squad car, engine still running, headlights piercing through the smoke-filled alley like twin beacons. An idea sparked in her mind, wild and reckless, but it was all she had.

She darted for the car, sliding across the hood like a stuntwoman in an action movie before jumping into the driver's side. Sliding into the seat, she slammed the door shut and gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled determination.

“Alright, mother fucker,” she growled, shoving the gearshift into drive. “Let’s see how you handle two tons of steel.”

The tires screeched as she floored the gas pedal, the car lurching forward with a roar of the engine. The Mothman turned its glowing eyes on her, spreading its wings wide as if to block her path, but it was too late. The car slammed into the monster with a bone-crunching thud, the impact jolting Gosalyn in her seat.

The Mothman’s body crumpled against the hood, its claws scrabbling at the metal, leaving deep gouges as it tried to hold on. Gosalyn didn’t stop. She pressed the accelerator to the floor, the tires squealing as the car surged forward, pushing the monster back toward the alley wall.

“DIE, YOU FUCK!” she shouted, her voice cracking with adrenaline. “DIE!”

The Mothman let out a guttural scream, ichor pouring from its wounds and smearing across the hood like spilled ink. Its wings flapped wildly, creating a windstorm of embers and ash, but Gosalyn kept going, her grip on the wheel unrelenting.

The car slammed into the wall with a deafening crash. The impact sent the airbag exploding out of the steering wheel, hitting Gosalyn square in the face and snapping her head back against the headrest. Stars danced in her vision as the world spun around her.

The Mothman’s body slumped over the crumpled hood, its glowing eyes dimming. Its wings drooped, twitching weakly before going still. The monster let out one last gurgling screech, then fell silent, its tar-like ichor dripping onto the ground in thick, viscous globs.

Gosalyn blinked, dazed, the smell of burnt rubber and blood filling her nostrils. The airbag deflated with a hiss, leaving her slumped in the driver’s seat, her head throbbing and her ears ringing. She groaned, wiping at her face with trembling hands, smearing blood across her bill from a nosebleed.

Through the shattered windshield, she saw the Mothman’s body, limp and unmoving, sprawled across the crushed hood of the car.

“Quiverwing Quack, bitch.” she muttered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her own heartbeat.

Gosalyn shoved the door of the crumpled cop car open with a groan, the metal screeching in protest. She tumbled out onto the asphalt, landing hard on her knees before sitting back against the fender, completely spent. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest, her head pounded from the airbag’s blow, and the coppery taste of blood lingered on her tongue. She tilted her head back against the dented car and closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath.

The sound of a roaring engine and squealing tires snapped her out of it. Gosalyn cracked an eye open to see Max’s beat-up muscle car screeching into the alley, its headlights cutting through the haze of smoke and carnage; barreling toward her like a knight’s steed on its last legs.

The car skidded to a halt just a few feet away, and Gosalyn couldn’t help but laugh despite herself. Webby was behind the wheel, her petite frame almost comically out of place in the driver’s seat. Her head barely cleared the steering wheel, and she had to lean forward to see over the dash, her intense expression undercut by the absurdity of it all.

Webby leaned across the seat, shoving the passenger door open with a sense of urgency. “Gosalyn!” she yelled, her voice sharp and commanding. “Hurry and get in!”

Gosalyn waved a hand weakly, her voice dripping with exhaustion and dry humor. “No worries, it’s over. Mothman’s flatter than a pancake,” she quipped, giving Webby a tired grin.

Webby’s reaction was immediate and not what Gosalyn had hoped for. She rolled her eyes, groaning in exasperation. “It’s not dead!” she snapped, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The grin fell from Gosalyn’s face. She blinked at Webby, not fully processing the words. “What do you mean, not de—”

Her question was interrupted by the groan of metal behind her. The crumpled cop car shifted, the whole frame shuddering. Gosalyn turned her head slowly, her stomach sinking with dread.

The Mothman was moving. Its bleeding, mangled form writhed against the hood of the car. Its claws scraped at the metal, prying itself free with deliberate, horrifying effort. Ichor dripped from its gaping wounds, and its wings fluttered weakly before snapping open, showering the ground with ash. The creature’s glowing red eyes flickered, dim at first but growing brighter, more alive, with every agonizing motion.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” Gosalyn sighed; her voice a mix of disbelief and utter frustration. She glanced back at Webby, who was still waving frantically for her to get in. Her body screamed at her to stay put, to give up, but pure adrenaline pushed her into motion.

With a groan, Gosalyn forced herself to her feet and staggered toward Max’s car. Every step was a struggle, her legs wobbling like jelly, but she wasn’t about to let herself get skewered by that thing.

As she reached the passenger door, she risked one last look back. The Mothman hadn’t noticed her yet—it was too focused on freeing itself, its claws tearing chunks of the hood away as it clawed its way upright. The sight of it—burned, broken, but still alive—sent a chill down her spine.

“Gosalyn, get in!” Webby’s shout snapped her back to the present. The panic in her voice was like a whip, and Gosalyn didn’t need to be told twice. She threw herself into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind her.

Before she could even settle into the seat, Webby floored the gas pedal. The car lurched forward with a deafening roar, the tires screaming against the pavement. Gosalyn barely had time to grab the dashboard for support as the car peeled out of the alley, leaving a trail of smoke and chaos behind them.

“Next time, remind me to kill it harder.” Gosalyn groaned over the noise, her voice cracking with a mix of panic and irritation.

Webby didn’t take her eyes off the road, her hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity. “I’ll make a note!” she shouted back, her tone clipped but with a hint of exasperation.

The muscle car barreled down the darkened street, its rusted frame rattling with every bump in the road. Gosalyn leaned back in the passenger seat, her body still aching from the earlier encounter. She glanced over her shoulder into the backseat, where Max lay sprawled out, pale and sweating but conscious.

“Max?” she called, her voice tinged with concern. “You still with us?”

Max’s head lolled to the side, his face scrunched up in pain, but he managed a weak grin. “Oh, yeah, I’m great. Just figured I’d lie back here and enjoy the world’s worst Uber ride.”

Gosalyn snorted despite the tension. “Glad to see you’re keeping your sense of humor, even if you look like death warmed over.”

Max gave her a lazy thumbs-up before closing his eyes again, muttering something about “trusting the professionals” as he slumped deeper into the seat.

Her momentary relief was short-lived. Gosalyn shifted her gaze out the back window, keeping an eye on their pursuer—or at least where she thought it might be. The eerie glow of the Mothman’s eyes wasn’t visible, but she knew better than to assume it had given up. It was too relentless for that.

Then she saw it.

“Uh, Webby?” she said, her voice low and uncertain.

“What?” Webby replied, focused on the road ahead, her hands tight on the wheel.

“I think…” Gosalyn’s voice trailed off as her eyes widened. In the distance behind them, silhouetted by the dim glow of the streetlights, the Mothman emerged, its wings stretching wide and ominous. But it wasn’t flying—it was lifting something.

Something massive.

“Oh, come on!” Gosalyn groaned in frustration, her stomach dropping. The creature was lifting the crushed police car, its claws gripping the twisted metal with terrifying ease. “Webby, must drive faster! Drive faster, Webby!”

Webby spared her a brief glance, her brows furrowed in confusion, before glancing in the rearview mirror. Her eyes went wide when she saw the Mothman hefting the cop car over its head, its charred form illuminated by the flickering streetlights.

“Hold on!” Webby shouted, slamming her foot on the gas. The engine roared in protest, the entire car shaking as it surged forward.

Behind them, the Mothman let out a guttural, otherworldly screech that sent chills down their spines. With a sickening, metal-grinding groan, it hurled the entire police car into the air. The massive hunk of wreckage soared like a missile, flipping end over end as it hurtled toward them.

Gosalyn’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the car flying closer. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!” she chanted, her hands gripping the dashboard so tightly her knuckles popped.

The Mothman’s aim was slightly off—thankfully—but not by much. The police car crashed into the pavement just ahead of them with an earth-shaking impact, sparks and debris flying in every direction. Webby screamed as she yanked the steering wheel to the side, the muscle car swerving sharply to avoid the wreckage. The rear fender clipped the remains of the cop car with a deafening CRUNCH, sending a jolt through the vehicle.

“Can you take it easy on my car!?” Max groaned from the backseat, his voice strained but carrying just enough of his usual snark to lighten the tension.

Webby didn’t look back, her focus laser-sharp as she fought to keep the car steady. “I really don’t think anyone will spot the difference!” she shot back, her tone dry as ever.

The muscle car straightened out, the damaged fender dragging briefly before Webby gunned the engine again, putting more distance between them and the furious Mothman. Gosalyn stole one last glance behind them before they turned down a side street.

They were away. For now.

The engine roared, filling the tense silence inside the battered muscle car as it sped through the desolate streets. For a brief moment, none of them spoke, each lost in their own swirling thoughts. Gosalyn kept glancing back at Max, his pale, sweat-slicked face illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlights. Finally, she broke the silence.

“We need to get Max to the hospital,” she said, her voice firm.

Webby shook her head, her knuckles tight on the steering wheel. “No can do. The Mothman’s going to follow us wherever we go. If we lead it to a hospital, we’re just putting more people in danger. We need to get him away from everyone and take that thing down.”

From the backseat, Max groaned dramatically. “I am dying back here!”

Webby scoffed without looking back. “You’re not going to die. Well... not right now.”

Max’s eyes flew open wide. “Wait, what do you mean, not right now?! Oh, God, am I going to turn into a weremoth or something? I don’t want to be a moth!” His voice cracked in sheer panic. “I’m too handsome to be a moth! I don’t even like bright lights!”

Webby rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t pull something. “There’s no such thing as weremoths, silly.”

“Then what do you mean?” Gosalyn asked, frowning as she turned toward Webby, who sighed like a professor about to deliver an unappreciated lecture.

“Well,” Webby said, clearing her throat. “Max’s wound is deep, and it’s clearly contaminated. If left untreated, he risks developing sepsis, which is a potentially life-threatening systemic response to infection.”

Gosalyn and Max exchanged a glance. Webby didn’t notice—or didn’t care—and continued.

“Here’s how it works,” she began; her tone eerily like she was quoting a medical textbook. “When a wound becomes infected, bacteria can enter the bloodstream. The immune system overreacts, triggering widespread inflammation. This can cause blood clots, reducing oxygen flow to vital organs, leading to organ failure or even septic shock, which is fatal in approximately 40% of cases depending on the speed of treatment and the patient’s overall health. Symptoms may include fever, chills, rapid heart rate, low blood pressure, confusion, and then you will be de—”

“I THINK I WOULD RATHER BE A MOTH!” Max yelled, cutting her off. His voice cracked with desperation. “Seriously, turn me into a moth, give me antennae, slap some wings on my back—anything but that nightmare! How do you even know all of this?”

Webby gave him a small, innocent smile in the rearview mirror. “I read a lot of books.”

Gosalyn pinched the bridge of her bill. “Okay, fine, Webby, noted. But unless you’ve got an operating room stashed somewhere in this rust bucket, we’re still gonna need a hospital.”

Webby’s grin widened. “Who needs an operating room when you’ve got me?”

Max groaned. “I take it back. I don’t want to be a moth or your patient.”

“How about some music?” Webby chirped, reaching for the radio.

Before anyone could object, the car’s old speakers blasted to life, unleashing a wall of bass-heavy gangster rap. The lyrics were explicit enough to make even Gosalyn, no stranger to rough language, raise an eyebrow.

“Ew, you listen to this stuff?” Webby grimaced, glancing back at Max.

He let out a weak grunt. “I have...layers.”

Webby shook her head disapprovingly, spun the dial again, and landed on a different station.

The soft, familiar piano notes of 'A Thousand Miles' filtered through the car.

“Oh my God!” Webby gasped, eyes lighting up with unrestrained glee. “I love this song!”

Gosalyn’s brow furrowed. “No, don’t you dare—”

But it was too late. Webby’s voice burst forth, completely unbothered by her lack of pitch control.

“Makin’ my way downtown,” she sang off-key, her tone like nails on a chalkboard. “Walkin’ fast,” she continued, her head swaying to the rhythm as if she were on stage. “Faces pass,” her voice cracked on the note. “And I’m homebound, doodoodoodoodoo.”

Gosalyn groaned, burying her face in her hands. She reached for the radio knob. “We’re not doing this—”

Without even looking, Webby smacked Gosalyn’s hand away, still singing. “Starin’ blankly ahead! Just makin’ my way, makin’ a way—through the crowd!”

From the backseat, Max weakly lifted his head, his voice a tortured whimper. “Please... just let me die. This is cruel and unusual torture.”

“Shh!” Webby said, not missing a beat. Her voice took on a sudden intensity as the chorus approached. She gripped the wheel with one hand and gestured dramatically with the other.

“Doodoodoodoodoo, and I need you!” she bellowed, whipping her head violently toward Gosalyn.

Gosalyn’s eyes went wide. “What are you—”

“Doodoodoodoodoo, and I miss you!” Webby screeched, her head snapping to look at Gosalyn again, her eyes brimming with melodramatic fervor.

Gosalyn leaned back, baffled as she stared at Webby.

“Doodoodoodoodoo, and now I wonder..!” Webby belted, her voice cracking spectacularly on the last note. Her head jerked one last time to meet Gosalyn’s stunned gaze, her expression deadly serious.

Before Webby could launch into the next verse, Gosalyn reached over and snapped off the radio with a decisive click.

“Aw…” Webby let out a pitiful whine, her shoulders slumping.

Gosalyn wasn’t having it. “Webby! Focus! What exactly are we doing here? Where are we going?”

Webby’s pout vanished, replaced by a surprisingly serious expression. “The abandoned amusement park,” she said, her voice steady. “There’s no one around, and we can kill Mothman there. I think.”

“You think?!” Gosalyn’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “You’re supposed to be the expert monster hunter!”

“Well...” Webby scratched the back of her neck, her cheeks flushing a soft pink under her feathers. “I wouldn’t say, expert. This is, uh… my first real hunt.”

Gosalyn blinked. “Your first?”

“And, heck,” Webby continued, her voice picking up an almost alarming chipper tone, “I’ve never even driven a car before, but look at me now! I’m like an F1 driver!”

From the backseat, Max suddenly perked up, his ears twitching. His expression shifted from woozy to alert as the engine noise caught his attention. Something wasn’t right.

“Uh... hey, Spooky?” Max said cautiously.

Webby glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, Maxie?”

“What gear are you in?”

“Gear?” Webby raised a brow, her voice tinged with confusion.

Max’s face fell. “Oh no.”

The car gave a shuddering groan, the engine revving higher and higher until—

BANG!

A metallic clunk reverberated through the frame as the engine seized, and the car lurched before coasting to a pitiful stop. Steam hissed from under the hood, rising like a ghostly mist into the night air.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint plink of cooling metal.

“...What just happened?” Gosalyn asked, staring at Webby, incredulous.

Webby gave a sheepish laugh, sinking slightly in her seat. “Um… I think the car’s taking a little nap.”

Gosalyn pinched the bridge of her bill, muttering under her breath, “We’re so dead.”

Max threw his head back against the seat with a groan. “This is why I don’t let people drive my car!”

Webby turned to face him with an indignant huff. “Hey! In my defense, you never asked me if I drove before!”

Max gestured weakly toward the dashboard. “You blew up my engine! I’ll be lucky if I can sell this thing for scrap!”

“Relax,” Webby said, hopping out of the driver’s seat with an air of optimism. “It’s not like we need it anymore. We’re walking the rest of the way!”

Gosalyn threw her hands in the air. “Oh, great! The expert monster hunter and the F1 driver just turned us into sitting ducks!”

Webby shot her a cheeky grin. “Well, technically, we’re always sitting ducks. It’s in the name.”

Max groaned from the back. “I’m gonna die out here… with these idiots.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Six - Neon Cross

Max's car groaned as it settled, its hood still releasing thin tendrils of smoke into the cool night air. Gosalyn leaned into the backseat, gritting her teeth as she worked to pull Max out.

“C’mon, Max, you gotta help me here,” she muttered, her grip firm under his arm.

Max groaned, his face pale and clammy, but his wit, as always, was intact. “Just… just leave me here. Tell my dad I went out like a hero.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to mention the heroic wetting of your pants while we were fighting Mothman,” Gosalyn shot back, heaving him toward the open door.

Webby was already outside, hands on her hips as she surveyed the situation. She leaned into the car with a dramatic eye roll. “Stop being a big baby, Max. We’re not leaving you here.”

Max snorted, though it ended in a wince. “Yeah, fine. Just a scratch. No big deal. Only feels like my insides are trying to audition for a horror movie. You know, from saving your feathered ass?”

Gosalyn shot Webby a look as she dragged Max toward the edge of the seat. “A little help here, maybe?”

With an exaggerated sigh, Webby ducked under Max’s other arm, helping Gosalyn guide him out of the car and onto the ground. He flopped down with a grunt, his head lolling back as he stared at the stars above.

“Just leave me,” Max muttered, barely lifting a hand. “I’m dead weight anyway. Go, save yourselves.”

“Max,” Gosalyn said, deadpan, “You only get one hero moment per day. Now move your ass.”

“Would it be the worst idea?” he muttered, his voice weak but still dripping with sarcasm. "I'm probably going to die anyway."

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Webby said, rolling her eyes as she knelt by Max’s side. “Oh my God, Max. You’re not going to die.”

Max turned his head to squint at her, his ears twitching faintly. “Pretty sure I am. And honestly? It’d be faster than sitting through a pep talk.”

Webby ignored him, pulling his shirt aside to inspect the wound. The gash on his torso wasn’t bleeding as much as before, but it was still nasty—raw and jagged, surrounded by dark, bruised flesh.

Gosalyn crouched beside her, her eyes flicking between Max and Webby. “Okay, monster hunter. What’s the plan? What are we doing here?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Webby waved a hand, brushing off the question. "With magic."

"Magic, right," Gosalyn frowned. “That’s not an answer. Why didn’t you just heal him back in the alley then?”

Webby’s response was infuriatingly casual. “Because Lena didn’t want to.”

Gosalyn blinked, caught off guard. “Lena? Who’s Lena? Your sword?”

Max groaned from the ground. “Great. I’m dying and I’m getting dragged into some weird soap opera. Just my luck.”

Webby glanced at Gosalyn, her expression unreadable. “Don’t worry about it,” she said quickly, her tone light but clipped.

Gosalyn’s brow furrowed. “Oh no, I’m worrying about it. Who’s Lena? And why does she get to make that call?”

“She’s… complicated,” Webby admitted, finally breaking eye contact as she focused on Max again. “But right now, we’ve got bigger problems. Like the fact that Mothman could be back any second.”

“That’s not an answer!” Gosalyn snapped, her frustration bubbling over.

Webby turned, meeting her gaze. There was something strange in her eyes, something that made Gosalyn’s stomach twist. “You’re right. It’s not. But it’s the only one you’re getting right now.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, Max’s groan of pain was the only sound breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Finally, Gosalyn let out a sharp exhale, leaning back on her heels. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”

“Whatever you say,” Webby said, her tone breezy. But the tightness in her jaw betrayed her unease.

They sat in silence for a moment, the cool night air pressing in around them. Somewhere in the distance, a faint rustling echoed through the trees, too far to be immediate but close enough to remind them of the danger.

Max stirred, his voice barely above a whisper. “So… are we doing something? Or are you just gonna let me bleed?”

Webby smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine."

The tension between the three of them was thick, but Gosalyn barely registered the atmosphere anymore. Her focus was on Webby, kneeling by Max’s side, her hand pressed firmly over his wound. A faint glow began to emanate from Webby’s palm, soft at first but quickly intensifying into a bright white light that bathed Max’s torso.

“If you pull a rabbit out of my ass,” Max gritted out, his voice tight with discomfort, "I'm gonna be kind of upset."

“Shut up, Max,” Webby muttered distractedly, her brow furrowed as she murmured something low and rhythmic, the words rolling off her tongue like an incantation. The syllables didn’t make sense to Gosalyn, but they sounded old, powerful, like they carried the weight of centuries.

Gosalyn watched the scene unfold, unable to tear her eyes away. The light, the murmurs, the way Webby’s face shifted into something almost serene—it was surreal. But instead of being awestruck, Gosalyn felt an ache deep in her chest, sharp and confusing.

What was wrong with her?

Her gaze remained on Webby, who seemed entirely in her element, her odd, brilliant self. This was the same Webby who’d made off-key declarations of love to a Vanessa Carlton song not ten minutes ago. The same Webby who’d nearly driven them into an early grave because she couldn’t work a stick shift. Yet here she was, pulling magic out of nowhere like it was second nature.

And then there was that name. 'Lena'.

It had slipped out of Webby’s mouth so easily, like it meant nothing. But the way Webby avoided Gosalyn’s questions, the way her voice had tightened when she said it—Lena did mean something. Someone, maybe. Someone important.

Gosalyn’s stomach churned as her mind spun. Was this feeling a natural reaction to all the chaos? Being thrown headfirst into the supernatural world—something she’d always thought of as fairy tales or nightmares—was a lot to take in. Maybe her brain was just trying to make sense of the impossible.

But… that wasn’t it. Not entirely.

Because every time she replayed Webby’s nonchalant “Lena didn’t want to,” it sparked something sharper than confusion. Something uncomfortable.

Was it… jealousy?

The realization hit her like a slap to the face. Her cheeks burned, and her feathers ruffled involuntarily. She didn’t know who Lena was or why Webby seemed so beholden to her, but the thought of anyone having that kind of control over Webby sent a pang of irritation coursing through her.

And yet, what reason did she have to feel jealous? What was there to be jealous of?

Gosalyn squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the intrusive thoughts away. She barely even knew Webby—at least, not in the way that would justify these feelings. Sure, they’d survived a Mothman attack together. Sure, Webby was weird and brave and undeniably fascinating in ways Gosalyn couldn’t put into words. And, sure, there had been that fleeting moment in the car, when Webby’s over-the-top antics had made Gosalyn laugh despite herself.

But none of that explained why her chest felt so tight watching Webby now. Why she kept replaying the way Webby had looked at her earlier, as if she trusted Gosalyn completely, even when Gosalyn wasn’t sure she trusted herself.

“Almost… there…” Webby muttered, her voice low and strained. The glow from her hand pulsed one last time before it began to fade. Max let out a relieved groan, flopping back against the dirt like a marionette with its strings cut.

“Remind me never to let you do that again,” Max wheezed. “Why did it taste like raspberries?”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Webby said dryly, though a small smile tugged at her beak. She sat back on her heels, exhaling sharply, and glanced up at Gosalyn. “Well? How’s that for magic?”

For a moment, Gosalyn didn’t respond. Her mind was still tangled, her thoughts circling back to the same impossible question: Why am I feeling this way?

Finally, she managed a nod, her voice quieter than she intended. “It’s… impressive.”

Webby beamed, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside Gosalyn. “Told you I could handle it.”

Gosalyn looked away, trying to gather herself. But as she heard Max groan dramatically on the ground and Webby brush dirt off her knees, that ache in her chest lingered.

Maybe it wasn’t just the supernatural world that had thrown her off balance tonight. Maybe it was Webby.

But there were more pressing concerns.

Max groaned as he sat upright, patting his torso where the gaping wound had once been. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, fingers brushing against smooth, unbroken fur and skin. “You know what, Spooky?” He looked at Webby, who was crouched beside his car. “Forget what I said earlier. That was rad as hell.”

Webby grinned, clearly pleased with herself. She stood up and gave him a dramatic wink, adding a snapping gun motion with both hands. “It’s a type of magic,” she said casually; like she hadn’t just closed a life-threatening wound with her bare hands.

Gosalyn, however, wasn’t feeling as lighthearted. She crossed her arms and shifted her weight, her sharp eyes darting between Max and Webby. “Alright, cool, you’re healed, he’s alive—yay, team effort. Now what are we doing? You said we’re on foot, so where are we going?”

Webby straightened her posture and turned to Gosalyn, her usual quirky energy replaced with something sharper, more determined. “The old fairgrounds,” she said, her voice carrying a weight that made both Max and Gosalyn pay attention. “It’s been abandoned for years. No houses, no people, no one to get in the way. It’ll be perfect for killing Mothman.”

“Killing Mothman,” Gosalyn repeated flatly, her brow furrowing. “Right. Because that’s been working so well so far. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but you lit him on fire—lit him on fire, Webby—then I blew enough holes into him that cheese is jealous, and oh yeah, I hit him with a car. An entire car, Webby. And he’s still out there! So, wanna clue us mortal folk in on how exactly we’re supposed to kill this thing?”

Webby’s bill curled into a smirk, and she stepped forward, the moonlight glinting off her wild, determined eyes. “We cut its goddamned head off,” she said; as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with finality.

Max, still sitting on the ground, threw his arms up in exasperation. “Oh, that’s all? Sure, let’s just cut its head off! Easy peasy! No big deal!”

Webby shot him a sidelong glance. “Sarcasm noted, Max.”

“Not sarcasm,” Max said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He staggered to his feet, still looking a little pale but clearly in better shape than before. “I’m totally confident we can just walk up to an unkillable, flying demon thing and lop its head off like we’re in a bad horror movie. Totally doable.”

Gosalyn let out a breath, pinching the bridge of her bill. “This is insane.”

Webby gave her a sly grin. “Welcome to monster hunting.”

Gosalyn just groaned, throwing her hands up before slapping them against her thighs as they began to gather their things and head off into the night, the shadow of the old fairgrounds looming in the distance like a grim promise.

The trio stood before the imposing rusted corrugated metal fence surrounding the Harbor Heights Fairgrounds. The moonlight illuminated the dull sheen of years of grime and decay, the fence standing tall like a grim sentinel. The gate, once wide and inviting, was now chained shut with a sturdy padlock that dangled from a thick, weathered chain.

Max stepped closer to the gate, peering at the padlock with exaggerated skepticism. “Alright, Spooky,” he said, turning to Webby with a smirk. “You got a magic spell for this? 'Open Sesame', maybe?” He wiggled his fingers mockingly in the air like a stage magician.

Webby rolled her eyes so hard it looked like she might tip over. “Do you believe everything you read in storybooks, Max?” she shot back, crossing her arms.

“Says the girl who’s been rambling about Mothman, ghost crap, UFOs, and all sorts of crazy all day, every day!” Max fired back, rolling his own eyes in mock indignation. “But this is where you draw the line?”

As the two bickered, Gosalyn stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she examined the padlock. It was an old-school laminated steel lock, the kind with a heavy-duty shackle and a body made of several layers of riveted steel plates. It was tarnished from exposure, but the locking mechanism still looked functional. She reached out and jiggled it, confirming it wasn’t budging without some intervention.

“Alright, you two, keep at it,” Gosalyn said, cutting into their argument without even looking at them. “I’ll handle this.”

“Handle what?” Webby asked, glancing over.

“The lock.” Gosalyn glanced back, a smirk playing on her beak. “Unless you’ve got some bolt cutters you can pull out of your body too.”

Webby looked momentarily flustered, but before she could respond, Gosalyn held out her hand. “Hey, Webs, lend me one of those bobby pins in your hair.”

Webby blinked, instinctively patting her head. “What? My—why?”

“Because I’m gonna pick the lock.”

Max let out a short laugh. “You know how to pick a lock?”

Gosalyn turned her smirk on him. “You spend a few years dodging trouble like I do, you pick up some useful skills.” She wiggled her fingers. “Now gimme the pin, princess.”

Webby sighed dramatically but obliged, tugging a bobby pin from her hair and handing it over. “I spent a lot of time on my hair you know,” she muttered.

“And you're very pretty,” Gosalyn said, crouching by the padlock.

She bent the bobby pin into a makeshift lockpick, straightening one prong to serve as the pick while leaving the other slightly bent to act as a tension wrench. She inserted the bent end into the bottom of the keyway and applied gentle pressure, holding it steady.

“Alright, let’s see if I still remember how to do this,” she murmured to herself.

She slid the straightened prong into the keyway, feeling for the pins inside the lock. It was a basic five-pin tumbler mechanism—old, reliable, but not impossible to crack. As she applied pressure with the tension wrench, she carefully probed the pins one by one.

The first pin clicked into place with a soft metallic snap.

Gosalyn smirked. “One down.”

The second pin took a bit more effort, but with a slight adjustment of pressure, it too slid into place with a faint click.

“Two,” she muttered, her voice low and focused.

The third and fourth pins followed in quick succession, but the fifth gave her trouble. She bit her lip, adjusting the tension wrench and repositioning the pick. Sweat beaded on her brow as she carefully nudged the stubborn pin upward.

“C’mon,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, "Razza-frazzin', dip-thonged, butt-ugly..."

Finally, the fifth pin clicked, and the shackle popped open with a satisfying clunk.

Gosalyn stood up, tossing the mangled bobby pin back to Webby with a grin. “There you go. One open gate, courtesy of my own magic hands.”

Webby caught the bobby pin, narrowing her eyes at Gosalyn, "I'm onto you." She whispered.

Max clapped slowly. “I’m impressed and also mildly terrified of you right now.”

Gosalyn shrugged, pushing the gate open with a loud creak. “You should be. Now, let’s move before Mothman catches up.”

Webby nodded, her awe quickly replaced by determination. “Right. Into the fairgrounds.”

The gate creaked open with a ghostly groan, the sound echoing across the silent expanse of Harbor Heights Fairgrounds. Inside, the once-lively park was a graveyard of rusted rides, overgrown pathways, and faded memories. The midway booths were shattered, their signs illegible beneath layers of grime and weathering. In the center of it all stood the Ferris wheel, a skeletal giant looming against the night sky. Its rusted beams creaked faintly in the wind, and the dangling gondolas swayed as if restless spirits haunted them.

“Okay, this is officially the creepiest place I’ve ever been,” Gosalyn muttered, glancing around the desolate grounds.

“Agreed,” Max chimed in. “This feels like the start of a slasher flick. Except we’re already in the middle of it.”

“Focus, you two,” Webby said, stepping into the middle of the midway. Her eyes swept over the surroundings, assessing every shadow and corner. “We need to finish this.”

“Yeah, about that,” Gosalyn said, turning to her. “What’s the move, Vanderquack? We’re not exactly equipped to take down that thing.”

Webby smirked, a glint of mischief and confidence in her eyes. “Mothman’s a moth, right? And what do moths love?”

“Bright lights?” Gosalyn guessed, then gestured around the dark, abandoned park. “Good luck with that. This place hasn’t seen electricity since the last century by the looks of it.”

“I can probably help with that,” Max said reluctantly, his ears twitching as he looked around. “If there’s a breaker box or something, I might be able to get the power running. But no promises.”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You? Sorry, but after seeing your car, I am not sure you're qualified for the job.”

Max shrugged. “Hey, I built her myself. Just don’t expect miracles.”

Webby clapped him on the shoulder. “Perfect! Start looking for the breakers. They’re probably in a maintenance shed or something near the edge of the park.”

Max groaned, pointing toward a decrepit shed with a half-collapsed roof. “Yeah, that thing screams electrical deathtrap. Great.”

As Max trudged off toward the shed, Gosalyn crossed her arms and turned back to Webby. “Alright, let’s say he somehow manages to pull that off. Then what? You still haven’t explained how we kill this thing.”

Webby grinned, and with a flick of her wrist, her sword materialized in her hand. The blade gleamed brilliantly, its blade shimmering with an ethereal light that seemed to push back the darkness around them.

“Simple,” Webby said, hefting the weapon onto her shoulder. “We use you as bait.”

“Wait, what?!” Gosalyn’s eyes went wide, and she pointed a finger at Webby. “Bait? Me? No way! Absolutely not!”

“You’re perfect for it!” Webby said, her tone infuriatingly casual. “You’re fast, you’re tough, and you’re stubborn enough to stay alive. Mothman will go right for you.”

“That’s not a compliment!” Gosalyn snapped, her face reddening.

Webby ignored her outburst and gestured with the sword. “While it’s distracted chasing you, I’ll come in and—” She swung the blade in a dramatic arc. “Off with its head.”

Gosalyn opened her bill to argue, but Webby cut her off. “Do you have a better idea? Because I’m all ears.”

Clenching her bill, Gosalyn glared at Webby. “Fine. But if this goes tits up, I’m haunting you forever.”

Webby smirked. “Deal.”

From the shed, Max called out, “If I die trying to fix this, I’m haunting both of you!”

Gosalyn sighed, muttering under her breath. “This better work…”

The shed rattled faintly in the distance as Max muttered curses to himself, the occasional clack of switches being pulled breaking the eerie silence of the abandoned fairground. Gosalyn took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus. She scanned the area, mentally marking potential escape routes. The broken-down carousel to the west could serve as cover. The dilapidated ticket booth near the Ferris wheel might offer a defensible position. She pointed toward a shadowy corner beneath the archway of an old rollercoaster.

“Webby, you should probably hide over there,” Gosalyn said, nodding toward the spot. “It’s got a clear line of sight, and if things go south, you’ll have cover—”

Before she could finish, arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her into a sudden, tight hug. Gosalyn stiffened instantly, her breath catching in her throat.

“W-Webby?” she stammered, her voice cracking slightly.

“Shh,” Webby whispered, her voice soft and almost... vulnerable. She nuzzled into Gosalyn’s back, her bill brushing lightly against the base of her neck. “Just let me hug you for a bit. I’m cold.”

Gosalyn froze completely, her mind short-circuiting. Cold? She’s cold? It didn’t feel like that. Webby’s warmth pressed against her back, her arms snug around Gosalyn’s waist, and Gosalyn was suddenly hyperaware of every single feather on her body.

Oh my God. Oh my God. What is happening? What do I do?

Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure Webby could hear it. It wasn’t just the physical closeness—though that was already enough to fry her brain—but the way it felt so... natural. So perfect. As if Webby just fit there, like she was meant to be this close.

Why did it feel so perfect?

Do I... like her? No, no, I don’t. Or maybe I do? Oh God, I’m totally blushing. Can she feel that? Of course, she can feel that. Stupid feathers. Stupid feelings.

Her thoughts spiraled into chaos as her body refused to move. But then, as if on instinct, she turned slowly in Webby’s embrace until they were face-to-face.

And there she was.

Webby.

Her big, sparkling blue eyes locked onto Gosalyn’s green ones, full of something Gosalyn couldn’t quite place—warmth, mischief, maybe even a little nervousness. Her cheeks were dusted faintly pink beneath her feathers, her beak curved in a small, unreadable smile.

Gosalyn’s breath hitched. Her legs felt like jelly, but her body refused to back away.

She’s so close. She’s so freaking close. How is she this beautiful? Those eyes... Those perfect, stupidly blue eyes...

Her gaze dropped for a split second to Webby’s beak.

No, don’t look there! Stop looking there! Oh God, why is my heart doing that? Am I really about to...

Her body betrayed her hesitation. She felt herself leaning in, her face inching closer to Webby’s.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Is this happening?

The air between them felt charged, electric. The world around them faded away—the creaking Ferris wheel, the distant sounds of Max tinkering, even the eerie stillness of the fairgrounds. It was just them, suspended in this perfect, unbearable moment.

Gosalyn swallowed hard. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

I’m really going to kiss her, aren’t I?

Her heart screamed yes, her nerves screamed no, but her body... her body kept moving closer, trembling with anticipation.

Just as their beaks were a whisper apart—

The moment was shattered by a deafening ZAP and a flash of blinding white light that erupted from the shed. Gosalyn and Webby recoiled in alarm, their budding connection yanked away as their heads whipped toward the source of the commotion.

The shed door blasted open with a violent clang, and Max was launched into the air like a ragdoll, landing on the cracked asphalt with a loud thud. Smoke poured from his body, his clothes singed and torn, small embers glowing faintly along the edges of his sleeves.

“Max!” Webby shouted, breaking from Gosalyn and sprinting toward him.

Gosalyn wasn’t far behind, her heart still racing—though now from a cocktail of adrenaline and leftover feelings. As they reached him, Max lay sprawled on his back, his ears twitching and his face smeared with soot. A goofy grin spread across his face as he stared up at the night sky, his eyes slightly glazed over.

“I think I got it,” he croaked, his voice a mix of triumph and delirium.

Before Gosalyn could ask what “it” was, the entire fairground roared to life.

Lights blinked on in a cascading wave, from the derelict ticket booth to the looming Ferris wheel at the heart of the park. Bulbs that had seemed dead for decades suddenly glowed with vibrant hues of red, blue, green, and yellow, casting dancing shadows across the cracked pavement. The enormous Ferris wheel groaned as it began to turn, its skeletal frame illuminated in a brilliant rainbow of lights, each rotation creaking like an ancient, awakening beast.

Carnival music blared from unseen speakers, an eerie, nostalgic melody full of high-pitched organ notes and whimsical undertones. The sound echoed hauntingly through the dilapidated fairgrounds, mixing cheerfulness with an undeniable sense of foreboding.

The carousel, its paint peeling and horses chipped, began to spin slowly, its once-majestic figures now distorted in the flickering light. The chipped mirrors on its centerpiece reflected fractured glimpses of the surroundings, twisting the colors and shapes into something almost dreamlike.

Even the game booths came to life. The lights around the ring toss and shooting galleries blinked erratically, and a long-silent stuffed animal claw machine gave an unsettling clunk as its claw began moving aimlessly. The towering rollercoaster rattled to life, the empty cars clinking ominously along the rusted tracks. The teacups spun in dizzying circles, and the scrambler twisted wildly, its arms whirling like drunken dancers.

It was a symphony of sound and motion, a carnival resurrected from the grave, but there was something undeniably wrong about it. The lights were too bright, flickering like an overloaded circuit. The music wavered, notes occasionally warping into unsettling tones.

Gosalyn and Webby froze, taking it all in, the surreal chaos stretching out before them.

“Well,” Gosalyn muttered, glancing down at Max, who was still lying in the dirt, smoke curling lazily from his singed clothes. “Other than blowing yourself up, I would say that's mission accomplished.”

Max let out a weak chuckle, lifting a shaky thumbs-up. “Told you... I got it.”

Webby helped him sit up, brushing soot from his clothes as she looked around. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the spinning Ferris wheel, the way its colors cast strange, shifting shadows on the ground below.

“This is it,” she said softly, her voice almost drowned out by the blaring carnival music. “This is where it’s going to happen.”

Gosalyn looked at her, then back at the eerie, flickering lights. Her gut twisted with unease.

“Great,” Gosalyn muttered. “This is totally not going to end badly.”

Webby turned to her, her expression deadly serious. “Get ready. It shouldn't be long.”

As if on cue, a cold wind swept through the fairground, carrying with it the faint but unmistakable sound of wings and a shrill scream that made their blood turn to ice.

It was coming.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven - Savin' The Day

Max looked between Gosalyn and Webby, his face still marked with faint soot from the earlier electric mishap. “Alright, so what do you want me to do? I assume I’m not just standing around here like a sitting duck?”

“You’re right, Max,” Webby said with a curt nod, only to add, “You’ll be hiding.”

Max’s ears drooped, and he threw his hands up in frustration. “Oh, come on, Spooky! I didn’t nearly fry myself just to cower in some corner while you two play monster hunters.”

“You’re not cowering,” Webby corrected, her hands on her hips. “You’re strategically positioning yourself out of harm’s way. Big difference.”

“Strategically positioning myself my ass,” Max muttered, shaking his head as he looked around to find cover. “I almost died if you remember!”

As the two bickered, Gosalyn’s attention drifted. Her fingers brushed something in her pocket, something she’d almost forgotten she had brought along. She pulled it out, the worn fabric instantly familiar in her hands. Her old mask. Quiverwing Quack’s mask.

Her grip tightened around it as memories surged forward. The shadowy streets of St. Canard. The thrill of rooftop chases. Her dad—no, Darkwing Duck—charging headfirst into danger, cape billowing behind him, with her at his side. She could almost hear his voice: “Let’s get dangerous!”

Back then, she was a sidekick, just as Webby said, a tagalong to her dad’s heroics. She had loved it, of course. Loved the rush of saving lives, of making a difference. But there was always an unspoken limitation. She was Quiverwing Quack, sure, but only in his shadow.

Now? Things were different. She wasn’t in St. Canard anymore. She wasn’t chasing crooks or thugs. This wasn’t just another night of stopping petty crime. This was a fight for survival, for her friends, and for her own place in this world.

Her heart thudded with a mix of nerves and determination as she slipped the mask over her head. The fabric hugged her face perfectly; like it had been waiting for this moment. As she adjusted the elastic, she felt a weight settle on her shoulders—not a burden, but the weight of purpose.

She turned to Webby and Max, straightening her stance. “I’m ready.”

Max and Webby both turned to her; and for a fleeting second, Gosalyn thought they were impressed, maybe even awed. But then Max broke the silence, his face splitting into a wide grin. “Whoa there, Zorro. You forget your sword?”

Webby snorted, her beak curling into a mischievous smile. “It’s adorable. Like, really. Very ‘junior superhero starter kit.’”

Gosalyn rolled her eyes, heat rising to her cheeks. “You two are the worst, you know that?” she muttered, crossing her arms.

“Hey, we tease because we care,” Max said with a wink.

“Yeah, well, save the comedy routine,” Gosalyn shot back. “We’ve got a giant flying monster to deal with.”

Before anyone could respond, an ear-piercing shriek cut through the night air, louder and closer than before. The Ferris wheel lights flickered ominously, casting long, eerie shadows across the fairgrounds.

The three of them froze, instinctively turning toward the sound. Webby gripped her sword tighter, her expression hardening. Max muttered, “Oh great, it’s showtime.”

Gosalyn’s heart raced, but she forced herself to stay calm. This was it—the moment she’d been waiting for. Mask or no mask, she wasn’t going to be anyone’s sidekick tonight.

“Let’s do this,” she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

The shrieks grew louder, the sound echoing through the abandoned fairgrounds like the cries of a nightmare come to life. Somewhere in the darkness...

...Mothman was coming.

Max took off first, sprinting toward cover with an annoyed groan, vanishing behind a rusted popcorn stand. The moment he was out of sight, Webby was already moving, her footsteps light, controlled, her body a blur as she slipped into position behind an old ticket booth further down the fairway next to the Ferris wheel. She crouched low, gripping her sword, her knuckles white around the hilt. The neon lights from the now-active fairgrounds cast flickering colors over her feathers, bathing her in shifting reds, blues, and yellows as she steadied herself, hidden in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Gosalyn, however, had no such cover.

She was out in the open, completely exposed beneath the vast, eerie glow of the Ferris wheel. The flashing bulbs overhead made the pavement shimmer, and every single one of her instincts screamed at her that this was wrong. Standing still, vulnerable, practically begging to be attacked—it went against every scrap of training her dad had drilled into her. Her fingers curled into fists, tightening the leather of her gloves. She rolled her shoulders, forcing herself to breathe, to stay calm.

She swallowed hard and turned her gaze skyward.

There he was.

A monstrous shadow against the pale, indifferent moon, wings spread wide as he soared high above the ruined fairgrounds. His body was grotesquely wrong, his silhouette too jagged, like he’d been stitched together from nightmares. Then there were his eyes—twin burning pinpricks in the night, crimson and unblinking, locked directly onto her.

Her pulse kicked up, her breathing felt too loud in her own ears.

Okay. This is fine.

She flexed her fingers.

This is just like before. Just like fighting crooks in St. Canard. Just like those nights with Dad—streetlights, rooftops, fists flying. You can do this.

But even as she tried to tell herself that, she felt something deep in her gut coil tighter and tighter. This wasn’t some two-bit thug with a crowbar. This wasn’t a joyriding punk stealing purses. This was a monster. A real, actual thing that shouldn’t exist.

Her knees locked.

A deep, rumbling screech tore through the air.

Her breath hitched. Mothman twisted his massive frame, shifting in the wind—then suddenly, violently, dropped.

A blur of wings. A gust of air pressure. He was coming, fast.

MOVE!

Gosalyn slapped her hands together; like she could physically force herself to snap out of it.

Come on!

A tremor ran through her legs, but she refused to freeze up. Instead, she widened her stance, bracing herself as the creature raced toward her.

Faster. Faster.

He was close now. She could see the wicked gleam of his talons, the way his chest expanded with every monstrous breath, the wind screaming around his body as he rocketed toward her.

NOW!

She turned on her heel and bolted.

The night blurred. Her feet slammed against the pavement as she took off, arms pumping, adrenaline roaring through her bloodstream like liquid fire. She didn’t dare look back—she felt him bearing down on her, his presence vast and predatory, a tidal wave of malice crashing toward her at full speed.

She just had to lead him to the right spot.

One shot at this. One chance to make it count.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, every muscle in her body screaming as she pushed herself to move faster, faster, faster. The wind tore past her face, the neon lights of the fairgrounds flashing in streaks of electric color as she weaved through the decayed remains of the carnival.

Behind her—just behind her—came the Mothman.

A screech split the night, sharp enough to rattle her bones. She could feel him, a wall of shadow and fury crashing toward her. His massive wings buffeted the air, each flap sending dust and debris flying. His claws—those massive, hooked talons—ripped through the ground where she had been seconds ago, inches away from slicing her to ribbons.

Too close. Too damn close!

Her instincts screamed at her—RUN!

Up ahead, an old, rotting food stall loomed in her path. Gosalyn didn’t hesitate. She kicked off the ground, launching herself forward, planting a foot on the rusted counter and vaulting over it like a hurdle.

Behind her, the Mothman didn’t stop.

He slammed through the stall with the force of a wrecking ball, sending splintered wood and metal flying in all directions. A broken menu board flew past her head, missing her by inches.

Gosalyn rolled as she hit the ground, barely breaking her momentum before she was sprinting again. She swerved right—straight into a narrow corridor formed by abandoned game booths.

Bad idea, bad idea!

The walls closed in around her, the flashing lights overhead making the shadows dance wildly. She could hear the Mothman barreling behind her, too big for the space but not stopping, crashing through the booths like they were made of tissue paper.

The walls exploded outward behind her in a rain of shattered wood and neon bulbs, sparks crackling as they rained down like embers.

She spotted an old milk bottle game stall just ahead, its countertop jutting out at the perfect height. Without breaking stride, Gosalyn jumped, swinging a foot up and planting it against the side of the stall, using the momentum to push off into a sideways flip over the counter.

The Mothman lunged—his talons swiped, slicing through the air where she had been.

Gosalyn hit the ground hard but stayed moving, pumping her arms as she burst out of the corridor and into a more open space—right in the shadow of the Ferris wheel.

There.

Just ahead.

The ticket booth.

Webby was waiting there, sword in hand, crouched low, her eyes locked on the chaos unfolding.

Almost there—so close!

Gosalyn pushed herself harder, lungs burning, her body screaming in protest.

Then—

A rush of wind behind her. A massive, dark shadow looming over her.

The Mothman was diving, closing the gap, about to snatch her up—

With a roar of effort, Gosalyn dropped into a baseball slide, skidding beneath an old turnstile as the Mothman swooped over her, missing her by mere inches.

The instant she cleared the turnstile, she popped back up onto her feet, twisting mid-air and landing in a sprint—right toward Webby.

"NOW!" she screamed.

Webby’s eyes flared. Her grip on the sword tightened.

The trap was set.

Webby lunged from behind the ticket booth, sword raised, ready to strike. Gosalyn saw her movement, her heart pounding in sync with Webby’s charging footsteps. This was it—the moment they had planned for.

Then, everything went black.

The power cut out so fast it felt like the entire world had been swallowed whole. The neon glow of the fairground rides, the flashing bulbs, the rotating lights of the Ferris wheel—all gone in an instant. Pure darkness.

For a moment, there was no sound, just an eerie, suffocating silence. Then—

Shriek!

A blood-curdling scream ripped through the void, but now it wasn’t just terrifying—it was everywhere. No lights, no landmarks, no glowing red eyes cutting through the dark to tell them where Mothman was. Just pitch-black nothingness.

Gosalyn’s breath hitched. She turned blindly, pulse skyrocketing, straining her ears. She could hear Webby’s breathing somewhere near her, sharp and controlled, but beyond that? Nothing.

A metallic groan echoed through the night. Something moved. Something big.

Gosalyn spun toward the sound, muscles coiled, but she couldn’t see anything. Her mind raced with the worst possibilities—Mothman was behind her, above her, right in front of her—and she had no way of knowing.

Then, in the darkness, Webby’s voice rang out, steady but edged with urgency:

“Fiat lux!”

A burst of light flared to life. Webby’s sword ignited, casting a fierce, white-gold glow that cut through the shadows like a beacon. The details of the fairground snapped back into existence—rusted metal, shattered glass, toppled booths, the long stretch of cracked pavement.

But Mothman was gone.

Webby’s chest rose and fell as she held the glowing sword aloft, eyes darting around, scanning, searching. Gosalyn whipped around too, every hair on her body standing on end.

“Mothman?” she whispered; as if saying its name might summon it.

No answer.

No movement.

Just an empty, abandoned fairground bathed in an eerie white glow.

Then came the worst part—

That horrible feeling.

The feeling that something was watching them.

Gosalyn swallowed the lump of fear rising in her throat. The silence was unbearable. It was the kind of silence that made your own breathing sound deafening. The kind that made you feel small. Her eyes darted around, scanning the dimly illuminated fairground. Shadows stretched long and jagged under the glow of Webby’s sword, flickering like living things. No sign of Mothman. No sound. Just nothing.

Gosalyn clenched her bill. No way she was standing around waiting to get ambushed.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, "Max! Get the power back on, NOW!"

By the popcorn machine, a startled yelp sounded, followed by the sound of sneakers frantically slapping against pavement.

"On it!" Max’s voice cracked with panic as he took off running.

Webby tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword, the enchanted blade casting a pale, eerie light across the ruins of the fairground. It wasn’t enough. The shadows still felt too deep, too hungry.

Gosalyn sidled up next to Webby, pressing her back against hers.

“It’s too quiet,” she murmured.

Webby nodded, barely breathing.

Gosalyn's fingers twitched at her sides, itching to throw a punch at something—anything—just to break this unbearable waiting game.

She exhaled sharply. “Talk to me, Webby. Where is he?”

Webby didn’t answer right away. She just swallowed and gave the smallest shake of her head.

“I don’t know.”

Gosalyn felt her stomach drop. That wasn’t good.

“Just stay close,” Webby whispered.

They stood there, back to back, scanning the darkness, listening.

A metallic creak echoed through the night.

Both girls whipped around—nothing there.

A rustle near the carousel.

They spun again—still nothing.

A faint clinking noise, like something metal tapping against metal.

Gosalyn’s breath hitched. The waiting was killing her. Every shifting shadow, every tiny noise sent fresh jolts of adrenaline through her veins.

Where was he?

Where—

A shiver ran down her spine.

That feeling again.

Like they were being watched.

Hunted.

The silence stretched on, thick and oppressive. It was a predator in itself, slinking between the cracks of the fairground, seeping into every rusted-out booth and ride.

Gosalyn’s fingers curled into fists.

Then—

Something moved.

Fast.

And this time, it was right behind them.

A deep, guttural screech ripped through the fairgrounds as the Mothman burst from the shadows, its monstrous wings unfolding like tattered banners of war.

Gosalyn barely had time to react—a second, maybe less—before the world exploded in white.

The power surged back to life.

The lights came on all at once, flashing like a million camera bulbs, drowning out everything—shapes, motion, depth. A deafening symphony of calliope music, whirring rides, and mechanical laughter filled the air, disorienting her completely.

Then—impact.

Webby shoved her.

Hard.

Gosalyn hit the ground and skidded across the ground. She felt the heat of something massive whooshing past her—claws missing her by inches—before the weight was gone.

She gasped, pushing herself up on shaking arms, her head spinning from the sudden fall.

Her vision swam.

Shapes blurred, lights streaked, and for a second, she couldn’t tell which way was up—until her sight snapped back into focus, and she saw it.

Webby—in the air.

50 feet up.

In the claws of the Mothman.

Gosalyn’s blood froze.

Webby was fighting.

Even as the beast’s hooked talons squeezed around her, she was stabbing—over and over again—her sword a streak of silver, hacking and plunging into the Mothman’s flesh.

The creature shrieked in fury, its massive wings flapping wildly.

Blood—dark and thick—splattered across the pavement below.

But the Mothman didn’t let go.

It was pissed.

With a feral screech, it jerked Webby up higher, as if trying to shake her off—but she held on, twisting, slicing, biting down a scream as claws dug into her arms.

“WEBBY!” Gosalyn’s voice cracked, her heart slamming against her ribs.

She moved on instinct—running, sprinting, anything—

Then she saw it.

The shift in the Mothman’s grip.

The way it tilted its head, as if realizing something.

Gosalyn felt it before it happened.

No.

No no no no NO—

The Mothman tossed her.

Like garbage.

Like she was nothing.

Webby soared.

Her body twisted violently, flailing mid-air.

For a split second, Gosalyn swore she saw Webby’s face—wide-eyed, her mouth open, a strangled noise escaping her throat—

Then—

Impact.

A booth near the power shed EXPLODED in a rain of shattered wood and twisted metal as Webby’s body crashed through it.

The sound was sickening.

Gosalyn’s knees nearly buckled.

Her lungs seized, and her entire body turned to ice; like she was suddenly suffocating.

"WEBBY! NO!"

The scream tore through her throat, raw, desperate, agonized.

She was already running, her heart hammering so hard it hurt, her legs moving before her brain even processed it.

She didn’t care about the Mothman.

She didn’t care about anything.

All she knew—all she could think, could feel—

Was getting to Webby.

Gosalyn fell to her knees, hands shaking uncontrollably as she scrambled through the debris. Wood splintered under her fingertips, jagged edges biting into her gloves, but she barely felt the pain. Her mind was too far gone, her chest tight with panic, her breath coming in frantic, shallow gasps. She didn’t care about the blood, about the damage to her hands, all she cared about was finding Webby—saving her. Every second felt like it was slipping away. The world around her was a blur of shadows and wreckage, the sounds of the fairground twisting in her ears as she reached and tore at the shattered booth, pulling pieces of metal and wood away like they were nothing more than paper.

“Please, please,” she whispered, her voice raw, cracked, barely audible. “Come on, come on…” Her fingers were numb, not from the pain, but from the terrifying reality of what might be under that rubble. What if it was too late? What if—

And then, as though the universe had heard her silent plea, there was a flash of white. A hand.

Her breath caught in her throat, and suddenly, the world became so still, so painfully silent, all she could hear was the thudding of her own heart in her ears. She didn’t even hesitate. She grabbed hold of whatever she could, yanking debris out of the way, praying that what she was seeing was real, that she wasn’t just imagining it in a fevered panic.

And then there she was.

Webby.

Unconscious, but—alive.

Gosalyn’s hands were trembling now, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from the rush of relief that was almost too much to bear. She could feel the heat of her own tears, hot against her cheeks, though she hadn’t even realized she’d started crying. She’d found her. Webby wasn’t dead. She wasn’t crushed or broken in some horrible way. There was a faint blue glow surrounding her, a shimmering halo that suggested some kind of protection—a magic she didn’t understand, but she wasn’t questioning it. Webby was safe.

At least for the moment.

The air was split with that unholy shriek—the Mothman’s wail echoing through the dark, a sound that twisted her gut into knots.

And just like that—something inside Gosalyn snapped.

All the fear, all the terror that had been clawing at her since the moment Webby had been thrown into the air—it dissolved, like ice melting under the heat of the sun. It was replaced with something else. A searing, burning hot fury, so intense, it felt like it could set her entire body on fire.

It had tried to kill Webby.

Her Webby.

Tried to tear her apart.

This thing—this beast—was an abomination, a creature from the depths, something that didn’t belong in this world. It had tried to take away the one person she cared about, the person who had become more than just a friend. Webby had become everything to Gosalyn. She would never forgive it.

Gosalyn’s jaw clenched so tightly she thought her bill might split. Her hands were still trembling, but not from fear anymore. The adrenaline coursing through her veins was a drug, and her body thrummed with the power of it. This thing needed to die. And she was going to make it happen.

She reached down, not even thinking as she grabbed the sword—Webby’s sword—still half-buried in the wreckage. She stood slowly, but there was no hesitation in her movements. The fear had been replaced with pure rage—rage at the creature, rage at the fact that it had dared to hurt Webby, rage at everything that had led up to this moment.

And as she turned to face the Mothman, as its hulking form loomed ahead of her, the rage bubbled to the surface, wild and untamed. Her green eyes were burning, blazing with a fire that could not be extinguished.

She stood tall, holding the sword with both hands, eyes locked on the creature. She could feel the heat of the Mothman’s gaze—those glowing, red eyes—burning into her. The air was thick with tension, the only sound the wild, frantic pounding of her heart.

She snarled.

“Now you’ve made me MAD.”

Gosalyn squared off against the Mothman, the cold air biting at her skin and the weight of Webby’s sword heavy in her hands. Every muscle in her body was coiled tight, ready for the fight, but even the rage burning inside her couldn’t quiet the dread gnawing at her gut.

She’d never fought with a sword before. She was used to her fists, her agility, her speed, but this? This was different. The sword felt alive in her hands, like it was fighting her at every turn. She tried to bring it up to strike, but the hilt jerked, as if it had a mind of its own, pulling her off course. Why wasn’t it cooperating?

The Mothman let out another shriek, one that rattled her bones, and lunged at her with blinding speed. Its claws were outstretched, each talon long and gleaming, dripping with deadly intent.

Instinct took over as Gosalyn threw herself to the side, barely avoiding the claws. But the sword... the sword in her hands seemed to pull in the opposite direction, forcing her to stumble, leaving her wide open. She barely managed to bring the blade up in time, the metal scraping harshly against the Mothman’s claw, a loud screech of steel that made her wince.

The Mothman didn’t even flinch. It lunged again, slashing with ferocity, its wings creating a gust of wind that knocked her back a step. She wasn’t even prepared for the force of it, her feet slipping on the ground as the sword once again felt like it had a mind of its own, pulling against her as though it didn’t want to be used against the creature.

“Come on!” she shouted, trying to steady herself, but the sword slipped from her grip for just a moment, the blade jerking downward like it was disobedient. Her heart pounded amd she tried to focus, to get it under control. She had to get it together—this was Webby’s sword. It was hers. And if Webby trusted it, then she could too, right?

“I don’t know if you’re some kind of living sword or what, but work with me here!” Gosalyn shouted mid-swing, barely managing to parry a swipe from Mothman’s claws. The sword jerked in her hands again, and she had to take a half-step back, her arms trembling from the effort to control it.

The Mothman seemed to sense her struggle. It grinned—if that was even possible with its grotesque face—and dove at her, its claws like razor blades cutting through the air. She dodged, narrowly avoiding one strike, but the Mothman was relentless, its speed and strength overwhelming.

“Don’t do it for me, do it for Webby!” Gosalyn shouted, desperation creeping into her voice. She took another wild swipe at the creature, but the sword resisted again, pulling awkwardly to the side, missing the Mothman by mere inches. It felt like fighting against a force of nature itself—like trying to control a storm that didn’t want to be tamed.

Her breathing was ragged, her muscles burning from the effort. She couldn’t keep this up forever. The Mothman was too strong, too fast. It would wear her down eventually.

But just as she was starting to feel the weight of defeat settle over her, something snapped inside her—something dark, something driven. She could feel Webby’s presence in her mind, the memory of Webby’s determination to fight. That had been her. She had fought for Webby, for the goal of keeping the city safe.

With a defiant yell, Gosalyn lunged again, twisting her body in a way she never thought she could, her legs propelling her forward. This time, when she swung, the sword didn’t resist—she felt it align with her. The blow cut through the air with a sharp whistle, and it wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was—but it felt right.

“Come on, Lena!” Gosalyn’s voice rang out in the chaos, the name of the sword leaving her lips like an incantation, a prayer. For a brief moment, the air itself seemed to pause, the universe taking a breath.

And then, the sword responded.

With a surge of power, the blade seemed to hum, a faint blue light flickering down its length, a reflection of Webby’s own magical aura. Gosalyn’s grip tightened, and suddenly, the sword felt like it belonged in her hands. It moved with her, instinctively guiding her strikes as the Mothman lurched forward, its claws outstretched once more.

This time, when she swung, the blade connected—crashing into Mothman’s wing with a sickening, meaty sound. It wasn’t a clean cut, but it was enough. The Mothman howled in pain, its red eyes glowing with fury, but Gosalyn didn’t care. She didn’t have time to celebrate. This battle was far from over.

She grunted, raising the sword for another strike as the Mothman lunged again, and Gosalyn stepped forward, no longer afraid—no longer unsure. The fight wasn’t about who was stronger anymore—it was about survival. It was about Webby. It was about everything.

Gosalyn’s heart slammed against her ribs as she landed another strike, the sword biting deep into the Mothman’s torso. It howled, thrashing violently, but for a moment, she thought she had the upper hand. This was it. She could feel the weight of the battle shifting in her favor. But just as the Mothman recoiled, its massive form lunged forward with terrifying speed, knocking her off her feet and sending her crashing to the ground.

The air left her lungs in a rush. Everything hurt. The Mothman’s rancid breath washed over her face like a wave of decay, the stench of rotting flesh so overpowering she could taste it. She barely had time to brace herself before its claws swiped at her, tearing through the air as it pounced on her.

Gosalyn raised the sword, her hands shaking, but the Mothman was too strong. It pinned her down, its weight pressing her into the ground. The sword felt like a thin barrier between her and the beast’s gnashing maw, its beak snapping at her face as if it meant to tear her apart. The gleam of its claws glinted in the light, ready to shred her.

She gritted her teeth, fear clawing at her chest, her vision starting to blur with panic. Is this it? The thought hit her like a punch to the gut. Is this how I go out? She could hear the blood pounding in her ears, the ground beneath her shaking with the force of the Mothman’s assault.

But she wasn’t ready to give up—not yet. Not after everything she had fought for.

With a grunt, she pushed against the sword, using it to keep the Mothman’s beak at bay. Sweat was dripping from her brow, her arms aching, but she refused to let go. Come on. Come on! She wasn’t going to let it end here.

But the Mothman’s strength was overwhelming, and it pressed down harder, forcing her arms to tremble under the weight. The sword slipped slightly, the hilt jerking from her grasp for just a moment, and that was all the Mothman needed.

It snarled, eyes burning with fury, and just as it raised one clawed hand to finish her off, the screeching sound of sparking electricity shattered the air.

“Hey, lamp fucker!”

Gosalyn’s head whipped around, her eyes wide, and through the blur of panic, she saw him. Max.

Max?

He ran toward them, holding a thick piece of cable in his hands. The cable was sparking with a wild energy, connecting to the utility shed. The moment the Mothman turned to snarl at the source of the noise, Max shoved the end of the cable straight into the Mothman’s beak.

ZZZZZZAAAP!

A blinding flash of light.

The Mothman let out an unearthly scream—the kind of scream that sent a shiver of terror down Gosalyn’s spine. Its body spasmed, the electricity arcing through it like a lightning strike, and the smell of burnt fur and flesh filled the air, thick and acrid.

The Mothman’s grip loosened. For one precious moment, Gosalyn felt its weight ease off of her as it staggered back, screeching in pain. Her heart was racing as she scrambled to her feet, her breath ragged.

Max dropped the cable, panting, a wild grin spreading across his face. “You owe me one, red.”

Gosalyn didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her eyes were locked on the Mothman, which was still stumbling back, its body twitching and smoking from the electrical charge. It hissed, dragging its wings through the dirt, clawing at the air in frustration as it recovered from the blow. The monster was no longer the unstoppable force it had been a moment ago. But even weakened, it still had the same monstrous power, and that was something Gosalyn couldn’t ignore.

The Mothman swiveled its grotesque head toward her and Max, its red eyes glowing faintly. The air felt thick with impending violence. But the fear? It was gone from Gosalyn. Instead, there was only one thought that crossed her mind: It needs to die.

Max shifted his stance beside her, ready for whatever came next, his hands twitching nervously at his sides. "We got this," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

But just as Gosalyn raised the sword again, preparing to finish what they had started, something unexpected happened.

The sword yanked from her hands, an invisible force pulling it from her grip. It was so sudden that Gosalyn's heart skipped a beat. She staggered back, eyes wide in disbelief, her fingers gripping nothing but air as the blade flew away from her.

Her gaze followed it as it soared through the night air, twisting and turning until it landed in someone’s hands. Someone who had just appeared in the midst of the chaos.

Webby.

She stood there, her posture rigid with fury, eyes locked onto the Mothman. This wasn’t the Webby Gosalyn knew.

Her usual quirks and calm, analytical demeanor were gone. In their place was pure, unadulterated rage. Webby’s face was tight with emotion, her jaw clenched as she gripped the sword with both hands, its blade glowing faintly in the night’s darkness. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The silence between them felt like a charged moment, as though time had stopped just for them.

Gosalyn’s breath caught in her throat as she watched, wide-eyed. This was the real Webby. This was the power that had been hiding beneath her awkwardness and strange obsessions with the supernatural. She was more than just the girl who talked about aliens or researched cryptids—she was someone capable of this kind of ferocity.

The Mothman let out a screech, its body vibrating with anger as it recovered, twisting its grotesque wings back to full span. It turned toward Webby, snarling, its beak snapping with rage. But Webby, without a word, took a single, slow step forward.

The Mothman’s screech turned into a battle cry, and in an instant, it lunged forward, its claws slashing through the air with terrifying speed.

But Webby didn’t flinch.

With a primal scream of her own, Webby charged.

Gosalyn watched, her heart in her throat, as the two collided in a deafening crash. Webby’s sword collided with the Mothman’s chest in a glorious arc, the power in her strike so immense that it pushed the Mothman back on its heels. Its claws scraped against the air, but Webby didn’t stop. She drove forward, with a final, brutal motion, she swung the sword upward in a perfect arc.

And then, in one swift, almost silent motion, Webby sliced through the air, her sword meeting the Mothman’s neck.

The body of the Mothman went still. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind, the creaking of metal, and the sharp intake of breath from everyone watching. Gosalyn’s heart seemed to stop, disbelief flooding her mind. Had it really happened?

And then the Mothman’s head rolled off its body. The decapitated monster’s body slowly slumped to its knees, the life draining from it in a series of jerky movements.

Gosalyn and Max stared, wide-eyed, as the Mothman’s once terrifying form began to crumble, the edges of its body turning into ash. Its wings, once flapping in rage, disintegrated, leaving nothing but dust to blow away in the wind. The monstrous creature was gone, reduced to nothing more than a cloud of smoke in the night air.

Webby stood motionless for a moment, staring at the now-empty space where the Mothman’s body had once been. Her grip tightened around the sword, but she didn’t raise it again. There was no need. The fight was over.

Gosalyn’s mind reeled. She couldn’t even process the enormity of what had just happened. She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath until the air rushed back into her lungs.

“It’s... over?” Max muttered, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid that speaking too loud would undo everything they’d just accomplished. His eyes darted to the ashes that once were the Mothman, a mixture of disbelief and cautious relief playing across his features.

Gosalyn didn’t answer immediately. Her breath was still ragged, her heart racing in her chest as the adrenaline slowly ebbed from her body. The battle—this nightmare—was over. But the weight of it lingered, hanging heavy in the air. The burning wreckage, the remnants of a monster that had almost torn them apart, the strange bond she had felt with Webby in those moments... it all crashed down on her.

Webby lowered her sword, her posture still rigid, standing like a soldier in the wake of battle. The fury that had once blazed in her eyes—the rage that had propelled her into that final strike—was now gone, replaced with something harder, colder. There was no sense of relief in her face. No satisfaction in victory. Gosalyn had never seen her like this before.

Her eyes lingered on Webby for a long moment, searching for something—anything—familiar beneath that icy exterior. But all she saw was a warrior, battle-worn and scarred, standing as if she'd just walked out of hell.

That realization hit Gosalyn hard. Webby wasn't just brave. She wasn't just the quirky, eager friend who had shared her weird theories about the supernatural. She was someone who had been through hell and had come out the other side stronger for it. And now, she was here, standing in front of Gosalyn with that steely look in her eyes. But was that really all there was?

Gosalyn couldn't take it anymore. The wave of emotion that had been building inside of her, from fear to relief to something else entirely, rushed up in a tidal wave. Without a word, she rushed toward Webby, all the terror and uncertainty of the past few moments exploding in a desperate, impulsive action. She wrapped her arms around Webby in a tight, almost frantic hug.

For a brief second, Webby stood rigid, caught off guard. But then, the sword in her hand flickered, as though acknowledging the moment, and the tendrils of dark energy wrapped around it, folding the blade back into Webby’s grip with a swift, smooth motion.

And then, Webby’s arms were around Gosalyn, holding her just as tightly. It wasn’t a wordless moment, but it wasn’t spoken either. There was no need for words. They just held on to each other, a fierce, silent bond forming in the space between their hearts. Everything was still—no more monsters, no more chaos. Just the quiet of the aftermath, of survival.

They didn’t let go. Not yet. They stayed like that, a tangled mess of raw emotion, of relief and confusion, and of something else that neither of them could yet name. All that mattered, for now, was the space between them, and the knowledge that, for this moment, they were safe.

Max’s voice cut through the silence, breaking the fragile moment. “You know, I helped too,” he said, his tone a bit too casual, his hands in his pockets. His grin was wide, but the tiredness behind it was evident. He was clearly trying to keep things light, but even he couldn’t deny the weight of what had just happened.

Both girls looked at him at the same time, their expressions instantly shifting to one of annoyance. The terror they had shared in the night seemed miles away, replaced by the silent understanding that they’d been through something life-altering. But even in the midst of it all, there was Max, ever the comic relief.

Webby’s gaze softened as she looked at him, and despite the tension, a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Come here, you big Goof,” she said, her voice filled with affection that was undeniable.

Max’s grin grew wider as he stepped toward them, the exhaustion he’d been hiding finally making itself known. Without hesitation, he opened his arms, and the trio embraced in a group hug. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. After everything, it felt like a moment of reprieve, of simple connection. Of normalcy.

As the trio broke from their hug, each of them stepped back, looking at one another with a sense of quiet relief. The adrenaline of the fight was starting to wear off, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. The night, which had felt like an endless battle, was finally beginning to settle.

Gosalyn wiped her forehead with the back of her gloved hand, trying to shake off the last of the tension that still clung to her like a second skin. The Mothman was defeated, the night was quieting down, and for the first time in what felt like forever, they could breathe.

Max clapped his hands together with a grunt. “Well, that was something, huh?”

As Max and Webby celebrated, Gosalyn’s eyes drifted to the ground, her attention snagged by something out of place. The fairgrounds were a mess, debris scattered everywhere, and the wreckage of the Mothman’s rampage left the earth scarred. But amidst the chaos, there it was—a single, green feather, lying innocently on the ground.

She took a step closer, squatting down to examine it. The feather gleamed in the light of the fair lights, its color impossibly vivid against the dirt and the trash strewn about. There was no reason for it to be there; nothing in the area matched it. It was... foreign, out of place. Gosalyn's heart skipped a beat, a strange, unexplainable pull drawing her closer to it.

She hesitated for a moment, looking around at Max and Webby. They were both busy, their attention still on the aftermath of their fight. But Gosalyn couldn’t help it. There was something about that feather, something that whispered to her, urging her to pick it up.

She reached down slowly, her fingers brushing the delicate edge of the feather. The moment she touched it, a strange sense of urgency swept through her, a feeling like she had no choice but to take it with her. Almost instinctively, she tucked it into her pocket, her eyes lingering on the spot for just a moment longer. The pull it had on her was undeniable, but she couldn’t explain why.

Just as she straightened up, the distant sound of sirens began to reach her ears, the unmistakable wail of police cars growing louder by the second. Her heart sank, and she whipped her head toward the sound.

Seconds later, the first police car screeched to a halt, tires screeching in the still night air, and then a dozen others followed. Flashing lights lit up the scene, casting long, harsh shadows across the wreckage. The officers poured out of their vehicles, guns drawn, and began shouting orders.

“Hands up! Now!” one of them barked, his voice harsh and demanding.

“Move it!” another shouted, as several officers aimed their weapons at the trio.

Gosalyn froze for a split second, she’d almost forgotten where they were. The fairgrounds, the Mothman, the destruction—it was all too much to process. But the reality of the situation hit her in that moment. They were going to get arrested, no doubt about it. The cops wouldn’t understand.

She raised her hands.

Max, used to police attention it seemed, raised his hands in the air with a careless shrug. “Oh, come on, really?” he groaned, clearly irritated.

But Webby? Webby’s shoulders slumped, and she let out a deep sigh of frustration. “Ah, phooey,” she muttered before raising her hands as well.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight - Doll Parts

The air in the interrogation room was stifling, a mix of disinfectant and the faint, lingering scent of sweat and fear. The walls were a dull, featureless gray, save for the occasional scuff marks and scratches that hinted at countless similar scenes having played out here before. A single fluorescent bulb buzzed overhead, casting harsh light that only accentuated the cracks in the paint and the grime clinging to the corners of the room. The table was metal, bolted to the floor, and the chairs were the kind that screamed discomfort—a deliberate choice, Gosalyn thought bitterly.

She sat in one of those chairs, the cold steel of the handcuffs digging into her wrists. They’d cuffed her to a metal loop embedded in the table, just to make sure she stayed put. Not that she had anywhere to go. Her reflection stared back at her from the two-way mirror—a face she barely recognized. Her wild red hair was matted with sweat and dirt, her face streaked with blood, some of it hers, some of it not. Her clothes were torn, smudged with grime, and stained with dark, rusty blotches that only deepened the feral look she had going. She looked like trouble. Worse, she looked guilty.

Her eyes narrowed at her reflection, her bill curling in disgust. Not at the state of herself—she didn’t care how bad she looked—but at the whole situation. She hadn’t seen Webby or Max since they were thrown into separate cop cars. Were they here, in the same building? What were they going through? Were they okay? A twist of worry tightened in her chest, but she pushed it down. Worrying wasn’t going to help her now.

Instead, she focused on the rising anger that had been simmering since the moment those flashing lights showed up. Gosalyn had never trusted cops. Back in St. Canard, they were either completely useless or in someone’s pocket. Darkwing Duck had been the only thing keeping that city from drowning in crime, and even he’d had to fight the police as often as the villains. It didn’t take much observation to figure out that the system wasn’t broken—it was working exactly as it was meant to, and it didn’t give a damn about people like her.

The cops here in Duckburg didn’t seem much better. Sure, they had fancy uniforms and shiny badges, but the moment they’d arrived at the fairground, guns drawn, they didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to understand what had happened. They saw 'kids' standing in the middle of chaos and decided they were the problem. Typical.

Her gaze flicked to the mirror again. She could almost feel them on the other side, watching her, judging her. Cops loved their two-way mirrors, didn’t they? Loved the power of being unseen, of making people squirm under their invisible gaze. Gosalyn didn’t squirm. If they wanted to sit there and stare at her like she was some kind of caged animal, fine. Let them.

Her wrists ached from the cuffs, but she didn’t let herself fidget. They’d see it as a sign of weakness, and she’d be damned if she gave them the satisfaction. She leaned back in her chair, ignoring the way her muscles screamed in protest, and fixed her reflection with a glare that could’ve cut through steel.

She let out a slow, measured breath, her mind still spinning. One thing was clear: the cops weren’t going to understand what had happened. They didn’t know about the Mothman, the supernatural, or the bigger picture. And they wouldn’t care if they did. To them, she was just another delinquent, another kid who’d made a mess and needed to be punished.

Fine, she thought. Let them think what they want. She wasn’t going to explain herself to them, wasn’t going to beg or plead. If they wanted to paint her as the villain, she’d play the part. But she wasn’t about to roll over and let them win. Not now. Not ever.

The door swung open, and someone walked in, who immediately put Gosalyn on edge.

The duck woman moved with the slow, deliberate confidence of someone who owned every space she entered. Her feathers were light brown, but it was her hair that caught Gosalyn’s eye—wavy and dark, pulled back into a loose ponytail, strands escaping around her face. She looked tired, but not the kind of tiredness that came from missing sleep—the kind that came from dealing with people who pissed her off daily. Her red shirt was mostly covered by a gray blazer, neatly pressed, but her black slacks had just enough wear on them to suggest she’d seen her fair share of long nights. A badge hung from a chain around her neck, resting against her chest, and on her hip, a revolver—an old-school choice.

She didn’t speak at first. Instead, she strode into the room like she had all the time in the world, setting a thick file folder onto the cold metal table before placing a Styrofoam cup of coffee next to it. The scent of burnt, over-brewed caffeine filled the small, sterile interrogation room. Finally, she pulled out a chair and sat across from Gosalyn, folding one leg over the other.

"Detective María Cabrera," she said, her voice low and clipped.

Gosalyn barely reacted. But inside, her brain sparked with recognition. Cabrera. Max had mentioned her just yesterday—the one cop in Duckburg he actually vouched for. Said she was sharp, no-nonsense, not like the others. But that didn’t mean much to Gosalyn. Cops were cops.

Gosalyn kept her expression neutral.

María studied her in silence for a moment, as if waiting for her to speak first. When Gosalyn didn’t, the detective let out a quiet sigh and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in?"

Gosalyn tilted her head, smirking as she leaned back in her chair as much as the cuffs would allow. "I don’t know, you’re the detective. Why don’t you tell me?"

She half-expected a lazy eye-roll. Instead, María’s jaw tightened slightly, her fingers tapping once on the file in front of her.

"Cut the shit," María said, her voice flattening into something sharper. "You're in deep enough trouble as it is." She flipped open the file, scanning its contents. "I have a few bodies—one of them a decorated police officer. Multiple missing persons. And enough collateral damage that the taxpayers are gonna revolt." Her gaze lifted, pinning Gosalyn in place. "So check the attitude and tell me what you and your friends were doing at Harbor Heights Fairgrounds."

Gosalyn didn’t blink.

She knew exactly what she and her friends had been caught up in.

A creature from the abyss. A monster not meant for this world. A real nightmare, not the kind from childhood stories, but the kind with claws and wings and red, glowing eyes that tore through the dark. And then there was the other part—the part the cops wouldn't believe even if she told them. The part about magic. About Webby. About the sword.

But Gosalyn wasn’t about to spill.

María let the silence stretch between them, her eyes fixed on Gosalyn like she was trying to peel her open with just a look. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting stark shadows against the walls. Gosalyn could hear the faint murmur of other voices beyond the interrogation room door, the distant hum of a police precinct running its late-night operations. But in here, it was just the two of them, locked in a battle of wills.

When it became clear that Gosalyn wasn’t going to speak, María exhaled through her nose and leaned back slightly in her chair, tapping a finger against the open file. "You know, you're eighteen." Her tone was measured, but there was something cold beneath it. "That means you get tried as an adult."

Still, Gosalyn said nothing.

María flipped through the folder, her eyes scanning over whatever was inside. "You’ve got a record in St. Canard. Multiple incidents of assault, destruction of property, resisting arrest… and let’s not even get into how many schools you’ve been kicked out of." She turned a page, giving a little shake of her head like she was reading something particularly damning. "But this? This is Duckburg. And the judges here? They aren’t as forgiving as the ones back home. You’re not a kid anymore, Mallard. They won’t just throw a book at you—they’ll throw the whole damn law library."

She snapped the file shut and rested her hands on top of it, letting the weight of her words settle.

Gosalyn didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. She just stared at María, her smirk unwavering, until her gaze flicked down—just for a moment—to the detective’s wrist.

The watch caught her eye. It wasn’t some expensive piece of police department-issued gear. It was old, simple. A cheap thing with a leather strap, scuffed along the edges, probably worn down from years of use. The kind of thing you buy in a department store and keep because it’s practical, not because it’s valuable.

Gosalyn tilted her head slightly and smirked. "Nice watch."

María blinked, momentarily thrown off. "Excuse me?"

"Your watch," Gosalyn said, nodding toward it. "Nothing fancy. Just a plain old leather strap, government pay-grade kinda deal." She let her smirk grow wider. "That’s what you get when you retire, right? A watch. Maybe a little ceremony, a handshake, a 'thank you for your service'—then you’re out the door, and no one ever thinks about you again."

María’s expression hardened.

"You spend your whole life chasing down punks like me, trying to 'keep the streets safe' or whatever. You probably tell yourself it makes a difference. That it matters. But it doesn’t." Gosalyn leaned forward, her cuffs clinking against the metal table. "Because when it’s all said and done? You don’t get remembered. The city doesn’t care. The people don’t care. You get your watch, and then some new cop takes your desk, and the whole machine keeps turning."

María’s jaw tightened.

Gosalyn saw it—the way the detective’s fingers curled slightly against the table, the way her shoulders stiffened. She was getting under her skin now. Good.

"You wanna know what actually makes a difference?" Gosalyn continued, her voice quieter now, but sharper, cutting through the air between them. "People who do what’s necessary. People who don’t follow your neat little laws because they know criminals don’t give a damn about them. You think rules stop the kind of people who really hurt others? You think a badge means anything to monsters?"

For the first time, something flickered in María’s expression—just a flash of something behind her eyes.

And Gosalyn knew she’d struck a nerve.

For a moment, Gosalyn thought she had won. She could see it in María’s body language—the stiffness in her shoulders, the tension in her jaw. That little flicker in her eyes. She leaned back, smirking, waiting for the detective to break.

But María didn’t break.

Instead, she exhaled slowly and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest, letting a small, wry smile tug at the corner of her bill. "You know," she said, tilting her head slightly, "I’ve heard this spiel before. Anti-cop sentiment. Defund the police. ACAB. All the slogans, all the speeches. And you know what?" She shrugged. "None of it means a damn thing when you’re the one who has to show up."

Her voice was calm now; like she had all the time in the world. Like she wasn’t rattled at all.

"I don’t do this job for a thank-you. I don’t do it for a retirement ceremony or a watch. I do it because, at the end of the day, someone has to. Because when someone’s kid goes missing? When someone gets hurt? When a family is scared out of their minds because something bad is happening to them?" She leaned forward slightly, her eyes locked onto Gosalyn’s. "I show up. Every single time. Even if they hate me for it."

The smirk on Gosalyn’s face twitched, but she didn’t let it fall.

María narrowed her eyes. "And what have you done?"

That one hit like a gut punch.

Gosalyn opened her mouth, but no words came out. What had she done? She knew what was out there—monsters, real ones, things that no badge, no law, no system could ever hope to stop. And yet, what had she done about it? Picked fights in school? Gotten expelled? Lashed out at every authority figure in her life?

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to break eye contact. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, like a high-stakes staring contest where neither one of them wanted to blink first.

Then, the door swung open.

The moment shattered as a bulldog stepped inside. Stocky, thick-necked, with graying fur and a uniform that was pressed so perfectly, it looked like he’d walked right out of a catalog. The way he carried himself, the authority in his stride—yeah, this guy had to be the captain.

The captain’s voice was rough, and authoritative, and left no room for argument. “Cabrera. Outside. Now.”

María blinked, caught off guard. “What’s going on, Captain Brantley?”

Brantley just gave her a look—one that said don’t ask, just move. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.

María hesitated for only a moment before following. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Gosalyn alone with her reflection in the two-way mirror.

She let out a breath and slumped back in her chair, rubbing her wrists against the cold metal of the cuffs. The adrenaline was starting to wear off now, leaving behind exhaustion and frustration.

But more than that, her mind kept drifting back to Max and Webby.

Max, she figured, was probably cracking jokes, playing it cool, maybe even managing to get his interrogator to like him. He had that kind of charm when he wanted to. She wasn’t worried about him.

Webby, though?

Gosalyn chuckled darkly to herself. If Webby was still in the building, it wouldn’t be in a holding cell. No, if she had gone off about what really happened, they probably had her in a padded room, trying to figure out how to classify her particular brand of crazy. White coats, straight jackets, the whole nine yards.

If only they knew.

Before she could sink too deep into those thoughts, raised voices filtered through the walls. She couldn’t make out the words, but the sharp edge in María’s tone was clear. Whatever was happening out there, she wasn’t happy about it. Brantley’s voice was lower, steadier, but firm.

Then, heavy footsteps.

The door burst open again, and María stormed back in, her face set in a deep scowl.

“Well, Mallard,” she said through gritted bill, “I don’t know who you know, but apparently, you’re free to go.”

Gosalyn sat up straight, blinking. “Wait, seriously?”

María didn’t answer. She just leaned over, taking out a key to unlock the cuffs. As she did, her voice dropped to a whisper, her breath warm against Gosalyn’s ear.

“I’m keeping an eye on you,” she murmured, her tone sharp as a blade. “I will find out what’s going on. Believe that.”

The cuffs clicked open.

Gosalyn rubbed her wrists, giving María a lopsided grin. “Can’t wait.”

María held the door open for Gosalyn, but just as she stepped through, the detective called after her, “We called your father, by the way. He’s waiting outside for you.”

Gosalyn stopped dead in her tracks.

Oh.

Oh no.

Despite all her bravado, all the tough talk she’d thrown at María, this was what actually got her stomach to sink. She might not give a damn about what the cops thought of her, but her dad? That was a different story. And if there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that Drake Mallard did not take late-night calls from the police station well.

Gosalyn could already picture it. Drake Mallard pacing in the police station lobby, arms folded, a deep frown creasing his face as he muttered angrily to himself. Maybe he had his coat draped over his shoulders, looking even more like a worried father from some old noir film. And then the moment he saw her, he’d start lecturing. His voice would be firm, tight with barely restrained panic, the same panic he always felt when he thought she was this close to ruining her own future.

María must have noticed the way Gosalyn’s shoulders stiffened; because when she turned to glance at the detective, she saw the woman smirking ever so slightly. “Good luck with that,” María added, her voice laced with amusement.

Gosalyn scowled. “Yeah, yeah, eat my box.”

She stormed off before María could get the last word, making her way through the dull, gray corridors of the station. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting everything in a sickly, artificial glow. She passed by uniformed officers hunched over desks cluttered with paperwork, detectives muttering into phones, and the occasional suspect being led down the hall in handcuffs. The whole building had that same sterile police station smell—cheap coffee, sweat, and old paper.

When she finally reached the station’s front foyer, her eyes landed on a familiar figure.

Max stood slouched against the wall near the entrance, his hands stuffed into his pockets, looking like he hadn’t a care in the world. His clothing was torn, covered in dried blood, but he didn’t look shaken, or even tired. He just looked… bored.

Typical.

As Gosalyn approached, Max lifted his head, raising an eyebrow at her. “You good?”

“Yeah.” She rubbed her wrist absently, still feeling the ghost of the handcuffs around them. “You?”

Max stretched his arms over his head with a loud yawn. “Surprisingly, yeah.”

Gosalyn frowned. “You got any idea why they’re letting us go?”

“Nope.” Max rolled his shoulders. “One second they were trying to hit me with the whole ‘you’re gonna rot in jail if you don’t give us something’ routine, and the next? Poof. I’m free to go.”

That didn’t sit right with her. “And you didn’t tell them anything?”

Max looked offended. He scoffed, crossing his arms. “C’mon, red, you know me. I know how to talk to cops.”

Gosalyn smirked. “Oh, I know—I had a run-in with your girlfriend detective back there. Detective María Whats-her-Cunt.”

Max groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “She is not my girlfriend.”

“Sure, sure,” Gosalyn teased, elbowing him lightly. “You can admit it, dude, you’ve got a thing for tough chicks with badges.”

Max gave her a flat, unimpressed look. “You do recall, I saved your ass twice tonight, yeah?”

Gosalyn snickered, raising her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll be nice.”

Max shook his head, exasperated, but there was a slight twitch at the corner of his lips; like he was trying to suppress a grin.

From the nearby doorway, a figure emerged, and it was Webby.

Gosalyn’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of her. Webby stood there, looking disheveled and worn. Her pink dress was torn in places, and stained with dirt, and a faint smudge of blood was on her cheek where it had been grazed by something sharp. Her normally flawless hair was wild, strands sticking out in all directions as though she’d been through hell. Yet there she was, standing on her own two feet, still alive.

But she wasn’t alone.

Walking just a step behind her was a figure Gosalyn hadn’t expected to see. The man had the build of someone who didn’t take orders easily, yet there was a calmness to his demeanor that made him look like he could shatter anyone in his path without breaking a sweat. He was a canine—a tall, gray-haired with floppy ears and an immaculate suit that made him seem out of place in the police station. The way he moved was deliberate; like he knew how to command attention without saying a word.

Gosalyn didn’t know who he was, but something about him felt... wrong.

Webby walked beside him, her gaze fixed ahead, her face as blank as if she had already checked out of the situation entirely. Her hands were clenched at her sides, but Gosalyn could tell there was more than just fatigue in her stance—there was something off about her. She didn’t look at Gosalyn. She didn’t look at Max. It was like the girl had already made up her mind to leave them behind.

Gosalyn’s chest tightened.

“Webby!” she called, her voice sharp with relief, her heart pounding in her chest as she took a step forward.

But Webby didn’t even flinch.

Not even a glance. She kept walking, her steps steady and unhurried as she moved toward the door.

A cold wave of dread swept through Gosalyn, gnawing at her insides. Her mind screamed for Webby to turn around, to see her, to at least acknowledge that she was here—but Webby wouldn’t do it.

Gosalyn was already moving before she could think twice.

Max followed closely behind, equally as intent on getting to Webby. But the man in the suit was quicker, stepping directly into their path with a calmness that was almost unnerving. His posture was rigid, his eyes locked onto them without blinking, as if he had already sized them up and determined they were no threat.

“Miss Webbigail is going home,” he said, his voice smooth, almost soothing; as if he were simply making a polite announcement. “And I would ask you not to contact her.”

Gosalyn’s blood boiled. She had had enough of people keeping Webby from her. She didn’t care who this guy was, she was not going to let him walk away with Webby like that.

“The hell do you mean, ‘don’t contact her’?” Gosalyn growled, taking a step forward, her fists clenching at her sides. “Who the hell are you?”

The man’s expression didn’t flicker. He didn’t even look surprised at her outburst. “A messenger of the one keeping you out of jail,” he said evenly, his words clipped with a kind of finality that made it clear he wasn’t interested in talking. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

He didn’t wait for a response. With a subtle nudge, he guided Webby forward, urging her toward the exit. Gosalyn’s heart raced. This wasn’t happening. She wouldn’t let it happen.

“Webby!” Gosalyn called out one more time, her voice cracking with frustration and desperation.

This time, Webby’s steps faltered for just a second. She turned her head over her shoulder, her face briefly coming into view.

Gosalyn’s heart dropped.

In Webby’s eyes, there was a sadness that stole all the warmth from Gosalyn’s chest. It wasn’t the look of someone who had been caught in a bad situation—it wasn’t fear, or anger, or frustration.

It was deep, soul-crushing sadness.

The kind of sadness that made Gosalyn feel like she had been punched in the face. The kind that only came from someone who had given up on everything. On her. On them.

Webby didn’t speak. She didn’t even offer a smile. She just turned her head back and walked away.

Gosalyn stood frozen for a moment, the weight of Webby’s gaze still heavy on her heart. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even think.

Max stood silently beside her, but there was a quiet understanding in his eyes.

Gosalyn called out again, but her voice felt weak, useless.

"Webby..."

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t turn around.

She walked out of the police station, and Gosalyn was left standing there, staring at the door, at the emptiness left in Webby’s wake.

Max shifted awkwardly beside her, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, that was awkward," he muttered, glancing at the now-closed doors. "I wonder what the hell's up with that?"

Gosalyn didn't answer right away. Her throat was tight, her chest heavy, and her hands curled into fists at her sides. She felt hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

"I don't know," she said finally, her voice raw with emotion. "But I am going to find out."

She meant it. Whatever had just happened, whatever was happening to Webby, she wasn't about to let it slide.

Before she could dwell on it any longer, the doors to the police station swung open with a sharp creak, and in walked him.

Gosalyn felt her stomach drop.

"Fuck a duck," she muttered under her breath.

Drake Mallard stood in the doorway, his stance rigid, his face set in stone. He scanned the room briefly before his sharp eyes locked onto her.

"You." His voice was low and firm, filled with barely contained anger. He jabbed a finger toward the door. "Outside. Car. Now."

Gosalyn swallowed hard. Yep. She was so screwed.

Before turning to leave, Drake’s gaze flicked over to Max. His expression darkened slightly, and then, without saying a word, he lifted his hand and pointed at himself, then at his own eyes, then at Max. The universal "I'm watching you" gesture.

Max blinked. "Uh—okay?"

Then, without another word, Drake turned and stormed out.

Max exhaled. "I don’t think your dad and I are gonna be golfing anytime soon."

Gosalyn let out a heavy sigh, running a hand down her face. "I think you're probably right."

They stood there for a moment, neither sure what else to say. Finally, Max gave her a small grin and jerked a thumb toward the door. "See you at school tomorrow?"

Gosalyn snorted. "Yeah, if my dad ever lets me out of the house again."

They chuckled, sharing a quick, friendly hug before Gosalyn braced herself and trudged toward the exit, ready to face her inevitable doom.

As the door closed behind her, Max let out a breath and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

It was only then that the realization hit him.

"Ah, dammit," he muttered, eyes widening. "My car’s still broken down in the middle of nowhere."

He sighed, glancing around the police station as if someone might magically appear with a ride.

"...How the hell am I getting home?"

The ride home was suffocating.

The hum of the engine and the rhythmic click of the turn signal were the only sounds filling the space between them. Outside, the streetlights passed in blurs of white and yellow, flickering through the windshield like silent specters. Gosalyn sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out at the city rolling by.

Drake hadn’t said a word since she climbed into the car. Not a sigh, not a groan—nothing.

It was the silence that was killing her.

After what felt like an eternity, Gosalyn finally turned her head just slightly, her voice dry. “So, are you gonna chew me out or what?”

Drake’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. His voice, when it came, was cold. Emotionless. Tired.

“Will it make any difference?”

That hit harder than she expected.

Gosalyn’s fingers dug into her arms as she huffed. “Wow, okay. So that’s how we’re doing this.”

She expected him to snap at her. To launch into one of his long-winded lectures about responsibility, about staying out of trouble, about how this—whatever this was—wasn’t how she was supposed to live her life.

Instead, he kept driving. Silent.

The tension coiled in her chest like a vice.

“You know what?” she snapped, turning to face him fully. “Fine. Let’s just skip the whole routine. I screw up, you yell, I yell back, and neither of us changes, so let’s just fast-forward to the part where we go home, and I get grounded for life.”

Drake inhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head, eyes locked on the road.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered, more to himself than her.

“Don’t get what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely, his voice still controlled but barely holding back the frustration underneath. “I retired. I put Darkwing Duck away. I gave up everything—the risk, the fights, the danger—so you could have a chance at something better.”

Gosalyn clenched her jaw. “And you think I don’t know that?”

“Then why?” Drake finally turned to her, only briefly, but there was fire in his eyes. “Why do you keep doing this, Gosalyn?”

“Because someone has to!”

She hadn’t meant to shout, but the words burst out of her like an explosion, her breath heavy with frustration.

Drake scoffed. “From what? What are you even protecting people from?”

Gosalyn hesitated.

That pause—that one second of hesitation—was all he needed.

Drake exhaled, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Of course, you can’t.”

“No, I literally—ugh!” She ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the strands. “Dad, if you knew what was really going on, you’d lose your damn mind.”

Drake let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m the one losing my mind?”

Gosalyn threw her hands in the air. “You’re acting like I’m just throwing my life away—like I don’t know what I’m doing! I do! You trained me for this! You taught me how to fight, how to protect people—”

“That’s different!”

“How?”

“Because I was there!”

The car screeched as Drake suddenly slammed the brakes, jerking both of them forward against their seatbelts.

“Jesus, Dad!” Gosalyn barked, gripping the dashboard as a car behind them swerved and blasted its horn.

“Nice driving, asshole!” a voice yelled from the passing window.

Drake ignored it.

Hands gripping the wheel, he finally turned to her, his voice no longer just frustrated, but raw.

“You think I don’t know what this is doing to you? You think I don’t see how this—this obsession—is eating you alive?!”

Gosalyn glared right back. “Oh, obsession? That’s rich coming from you!”

Drake blinked.

For a second, just a second, she saw something flicker in his expression. A crack in the wall.

And then it was gone.

He shook his head, and started driving again, slower this time. “This isn’t about me.”

“No. It’s about me. And the fact that you don’t trust me to make my own decisions.”

“I trust you.”

“No, you don’t. You trust me to be the perfect daughter you want me to be. But guess what? I’m not. I never have been. I never will be.”

Drake’s jaw tightened.

“You want me to be normal?” Gosalyn pressed. “To go to school, get some boring job, live a safe life? That’s not me, Dad. It never was. And deep down, you know that.”

Drake didn’t respond.

The rest of the ride was silent.

Not the suffocating kind from before—this was heavier. Like a weight pressing down on both of them.

By the time they pulled into the driveway, neither of them had anything left to say.

Not tonight.

Not for a while.

Chapter Text

Episode Two - Freaks & Geeks

Chapter Nine - Every Day Is Exactly The Same

The sky outside was a dull, featureless gray.

Gosalyn sat up in bed, rubbing her face, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders. The air in her room was cool, heavy with the weight of an overcast morning, the kind of day that made it easy to stay in bed. But she wasn’t tired. Not really. She hadn’t been sleeping well—not since the fight with Mothman, not since the police station, not since everything.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting up as she thumbed it awake. No messages.

Nothing from Webby.

Gosalyn swallowed, scrolling through the last few texts she’d sent.

Friday, 10:42 AM: Hey, you okay?
Friday, 3:15 PM: Where were you today?
Saturday, 8:01 PM: Just let me know you’re alive, weirdo.
Sunday, 12:30 AM: Okay, seriously, what’s going on?
Monday, 2:45 PM: You missed school again. I’m getting worried here.

All left on 'Delivered.' Not even read.

Her stomach twisted.

Where the hell was Webby?

Gosalyn had half a mind to just show up at her house, but she didn’t know where Webby lived. It had never come up. And now she was realizing that was insane. How could she consider someone a friend—maybe even something more—and not even know where they lived?

It wasn’t like Webby was some regular kid with a regular house and a regular life, though. She had that weird guy escorting her. That messenger or whatever he’d called himself.

A lump formed in her throat.

The last time she saw Webby—when she’d turned around at the police station—there had been something in her eyes. A sadness Gosalyn didn’t understand, something wrong that she couldn’t put into words. And then she was just... gone.

And now, days later, Webby was still gone.

Gosalyn exhaled, dropping her phone onto her lap and running both hands through her tangled red hair.

Things at home weren’t much better.

Her dad had mostly kept things civil since their fight, but it was all surface-level. Polite. Just words exchanged over dinner, nods in passing, the occasional reminder to do homework or take out the trash. It was normal, technically.

But it was just an act.

They were playing their roles: Responsible Dad. Stubborn Daughter. Going through the motions of what a normal father and daughter were supposed to be, but there was always that unspoken tension hanging between them.

Every conversation could have been a minefield. One wrong step, one wrong word, and the whole thing would explode.

Gosalyn sighed, shoving the blanket off her legs and getting out of bed.

At least there was one silver lining.

Today was Tuesday.

Webby hadn’t been at school Friday. She hadn’t been there Monday.

But today... maybe today she’d be there.

Gosalyn rolled out of bed with a groan, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The room was dim, the sky outside a dull, overcast gray that barely let in any light. The air was cold, heavy, like it had rained overnight or was thinking about doing it again.

She shuffled toward the bathroom, flicked on the light, and squinted at her reflection. She looked like hell—messy red hair, dark circles under her eyes, a general air of exhaustion clinging to her. Not surprising. The past few days had been a lot.

She took care of the basics. Pee, wash her hands, splash cold water on her face. She brushed her teeth, though not as thoroughly as she probably should have, then ran a hand through her hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it. It didn’t work. It never did.

Time to get dressed.

She grabbed a pair of dark jeans from the floor—worn, comfortable, the kind she could move in. No rips, though they were faded at the knees from years of wear. She threw on a white tank top and tugged her favorite purple hoodie over it, zipping it up halfway. The sleeves were a little loose around her wrists, just the way she liked them.

Dressed. Ready. Whatever.

Downstairs, the house was quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the faint clink of a cup. The smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the ever-present scent of old books and the faint mustiness of a house that had been lived in for decades even though they had only been here for around a month.

Drake was already at the kitchen table, dressed in his usual work attire—slacks, button-down, tie lazily knotted around his neck like he hadn’t fully committed to the day yet. He was sipping coffee, flipping through a newspaper, and a plate with a half-eaten slice of toast was sitting next to him.

“Morning,” he said, barely glancing up.

“Morning,” Gosalyn muttered back.

She went straight for the pantry, grabbed a box of Sugar Bangs, and poured herself a too-big bowl. Drowning the cereal in milk, she plopped down across from her dad and dug in, crunching loudly in the otherwise quiet room.

This was how things were now.

They talked—technically. Traded words when necessary. But it was all surface-level, a routine. There was always something unspoken between them, a tension that never quite left, no matter how much they tried to pretend otherwise.

Gosalyn kept eating, watching her dad over her spoon.

Drake Mallard. Once, he had been Darkwing Duck. The masked vigilante who struck fear into criminals, who fought for justice, who made a difference.

And now?

Now he was an accountant.

Gosalyn still couldn’t wrap her head around it. This was the same man who had spent years drilling lessons into her—how to fight, why to fight. He had taught her strategy, how to read people, how to hold her own in a world that didn’t play fair. And then, a year ago, out of nowhere, it had all stopped.

She remembered that night like it had just happened.

Drake had come home late, battered, bruised, looking more exhausted than she had ever seen him. She had asked what happened, and he had just said, We’re done.

That was it. No discussion. No warning. Done.

A few months later, they had packed up and moved to Duckburg. A fresh start, a normal life.

But Gosalyn wasn’t normal.

She couldn’t just turn it off like he had.

And after the past few days—after the fight with Mothman, the cops, Webby disappearing—it was obvious.

She wasn’t done.

And she wasn’t going to stop just because he had.

She tapped her spoon against the edge of her bowl, still watching him. She wondered if he ever missed it. If he ever thought about it. If, when he looked in the mirror, he saw the same thing she did—a shadow of something that once mattered.

Maybe.

Or maybe she was just fooling herself, thinking he missed it as much as she did.

The sun had finally broken through the thick morning clouds by the time they pulled into the school parking lot. The lot was alive with movement—students gathered in their usual groups, leaning against cars, sitting on curbs, laughing, talking, just existing in that in-between time before class.

The jocks were near the front, tossing a football back and forth, already hyping each other up. Scene kids clustered by the bike racks, swapping playlists and talking about bands no one else had heard of. The preppy kids hung around their expensive cars, sipping iced coffees, their laughs sharp and calculated.

Gosalyn sat in the passenger seat, watching it all, and for a second, she wondered—Where the hell do I even fit into all this?

She wasn’t a jock, despite the fact that she could probably take more than half of them in a fight. She wasn’t a prep, she wasn’t scene, she wasn’t a nerd, she wasn’t—

She wasn’t anything.

She was just… Gosalyn Mallard.

Maybe that was why things had always been like this—why she had bounced from school to school, why she never fully clicked anywhere. She was too much for most people. Too intense, too aggressive, too stubborn. Even here, she had only really found friends in Max and Webby, and—

Webby.

Gosalyn felt her stomach twist. Please be here today.

She was about to open the door when Drake spoke.

"Hey, kiddo?"

She hesitated, hand on the handle, then glanced back at him. "Yeah, Dad?"

Drake cleared his throat. Gosalyn could see it in his face before he even said anything—there was something sitting heavy on him, something that had been there since that night at the station.

"Close the door for a second," he said.

That wasn’t a request.

Gosalyn sighed but let go of the handle and pulled the door shut. She turned to face him. "What’s up?"

Drake exhaled, looking out the windshield for a moment before finally turning to her. "I just… I wanted to ask if we’re okay."

Gosalyn frowned. "What do you mean?"

Drake shifted in his seat, rubbing a hand over his bill like he was trying to find the right words. "The night you got arrested… we both said some things I think we regret."

She opened her mouth to argue—because she didn’t regret anything she said. But… that wasn’t really the point, was it?

Drake didn’t give her time to interrupt. "Look, I know you're eighteen now. I know soon you’re gonna be off doing your own thing, making your own life. And I just—" He sighed, shaking his head. "I’ve been trying to do right by you for years, and half the time I feel like I’m making it up as I go. You know that, right?"

Gosalyn swallowed, watching him carefully.

"I wanted the best for you. I still do. But I know I’ve made mistakes." He let out a short, humorless chuckle. "A lot of mistakes."

She looked down at her lap, picking at the frayed edge of her hoodie sleeve. "Yeah, well… I’m trying to learn how to be a daughter, too."

Drake blinked, looking at her like she had just said something he never expected.

Silence filled the car.

Then, slowly, Drake reached over and pulled her into a hug.

Gosalyn hesitated—she wasn’t great at this kind of thing. But after a second, she leaned into it, letting her arms wrap around him.

For a moment, there were no words. Just warmth. Just understanding.

Finally, Drake pulled back, ruffling her already messy hair. "Alright. Go kick today’s ass, okay?"

Gosalyn smirked, opening the door again. "Always."

She stepped out, shutting the door behind her, and started toward the school.

And even though she had no idea what the day was going to bring, for the first time in a while… things felt a little lighter.

Gosalyn made her way across the school parking lot, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her hoodie, her mind still turning over the conversation she’d just had with Drake. The hug had caught her off guard. Not that she hadn’t wanted it—she had—but that kind of vulnerability wasn’t exactly her strong suit.

She kicked at a stray rock, watching as it skittered across the pavement. The truth was, she did appreciate what he said. That he was still learning how to be a dad. That he cared. It was a rare moment of honesty between them, but at the same time, it didn’t fix the underlying issue.

He wanted her to be normal.

But she wasn’t normal.

Gosalyn yanked her phone from her pocket and checked it again. Still no texts. No calls. No nothing.

Her stomach twisted again.

Where the hell are you, Vanderquack?

Gosalyn was starting to feel like she was going crazy.

But just as she was about to spiral down that particular rabbit hole again, she caught sight of something weird.

Off to the side, near a tree at the edge of the parking lot, a tall, lanky figure was lurking.

Gosalyn stopped in her tracks, squinting.

It was Max.

And he was acting… suspicious as hell.

He was hunched over, half-hidden behind the tree trunk, peering out toward the row of parked cars like some kind of discount spy. His entire posture screamed creepy stalker, and for a split second, Gosalyn actually considered whether or not she should be concerned.

Then she followed his gaze.

Near the cheerleaders’ cars, a group of them were gathered, laughing and chatting with their jock boyfriends.

Gosalyn rolled her eyes so hard that it was a miracle she didn't get whiplash.

“Oh my god, Max, you pervert,” she muttered under her breath.

What, was he just gonna stand there all morning, gawking like some awkward, lovesick idiot?

No. She was not about to let this go unpunished.

With a devious grin, she crept toward him, making sure to keep her steps light, her approach silent. He had no idea she was there.

Then, once she was right behind him, she took a deep breath—

—and bellowed in the loudest, most obnoxious voice possible:

“HEY, MAX! WHATCHA LOOKIN’ AT?!”

Max launched a foot into the air, his entire body seizing up like he’d just been electrocuted.

In a split second, he spun around, clamped a hand over her bill, and shoved her backward.

“WILL YOU SHH?!” he hissed, his wide, panicked eyes darting between her and the cheerleaders; like he was making sure none of them had noticed.

Oh.

Oh, he just touched her.

Big. Mistake.

Before Max could react, Gosalyn grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and yanked him into an arm lock.

“Buddy,” she said casually, her grip firm, “you know I don’t like being touched.”

Max let out a strangled noise. “Ow! Okay, okay, my bad—”

She twisted a little harder.

“GOSALYN!”

She smirked. “You like this arm, right?”

“YES, I LIKE MY ARM, PLEASE LET ME KEEP IT.”

She held him there for a second longer—just long enough to make sure he really got the message—before finally releasing him.

Max stumbled forward, rolling his shoulder with an exaggerated groan. “Jeez, woman, remind me to never surprise you with a hug or something.”

Gosalyn grinned. “Good instinct.”

Max shot her a glare but didn’t argue. Instead, he rubbed his sore arm and turned back toward the parking lot, muttering under his breath.

“You are the worst.”

“And yet, here you are, still hanging out with me.”

Max let out a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, well… I got bigger problems.”

Gosalyn crossed her arms. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

Max hesitated, glancing toward the cheerleaders again, then dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not what you think.”

Gosalyn arched a brow. “Uh-huh. Sure, bud.”

Gosalyn tilted her head, arms still crossed and huffed impatiently. "Okay, seriously, who are you even looking at?"

Max didn’t answer right away. He just motioned with his head toward the group of cheerleaders, but Gosalyn quickly realized his attention wasn’t on the whole group—just one in particular.

A feline with bright red hair pulled into huge pigtails that practically bounced with every little movement. She was dressed in a tight crop top that definitely broke the dress code, paired with a short skirt—not a cheer skirt, but still really short. Long, toned legs crossed at the ankles as she perched on the hood of some jock’s car, one hand resting on the guy’s shoulder, the other twirling a strand of her fiery red hair. She laughed at something he said, a high, bubbly giggle that made Max visibly tense up.

Gosalyn rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. "Oh my god, her?"

Max shot her a glare. “What?”

“You’re drooling over her?”

Max scoffed, crossing his arms. "I am not drooling."

"Dude, you were literally hiding behind a tree."

Max ignored that.

Gosalyn turned back to the feline, then back to him. “I know you can do better than some cheerleader skank.”

Max’s expression immediately darkened. “She’s not a skank.”

Gosalyn arched a brow. "Is that so?"

Max sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Pistol Pete. We grew up on the same street together."

Gosalyn blinked. Okay. That was unexpected.

"We used to hang out all the time as kids," Max continued, voice a little softer. “Before high school. Then, y’know…” He waved vaguely toward Pistol and the group of jocks and cheerleaders. "She fell in with the cool kids." He did the air quotes with an unimpressed expression.

Gosalyn smirked. "While you..."

Max groaned.

“…became a hustler and swindler?"

Max huffed, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. "Yeah, well, whatever.” He glanced back at Pistol, shoulders slumping slightly. "Maybe I just… I dunno. Maybe I just miss hanging out with her, y'know?"

And that hit a little closer to home than Gosalyn expected.

Because yeah, she did know.

She thought about Honker Muddlefoot—her nerdy, socially awkward, anxiety-ridden best friend. He was back in St. Canard, probably studying his ass off, living a nice, normal life. They still texted, but it wasn’t the same. It never was. And just like Max, she hated to admit how much she missed it.

Max must’ve picked up on her silence because he nudged her with his elbow. “C’mon, even you, Red, had friends back in St. Canard.”

Gosalyn scoffed. "Yeah. I did."

Max smirked. "See? You get it."

Gosalyn just rolled her eyes. She wasn’t about to get all soft about it.

Instead, she gestured toward Pistol, shrugging. "So why don’t you just ask her out?"

Max blinked. Then laughed. "Oh yeah, great idea, Red, lemme just march over there right now and—"

Gosalyn grinned. "Bet you won’t."

Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I hate you."

Gosalyn smirked. “What’s stopping you, huh?”

Max exhaled sharply through his nose and gestured toward Pistol again. “Him.”

Right on cue, the jock standing next to Pistol turned his head, revealing a chiseled, annoyingly perfect jawline, a smarmy grin, and way too much confidence for someone who probably still struggled with basic algebra.

Bradley Uppercrust III.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with that effortlessly smug aura that all rich, popular douchebags seemed to have. He was decked out in a blue and gold varsity jacket, marking him as one of Duckburg High’s prized football players, because of course he was. His perfectly styled brown hair didn’t have a single strand out of place, and the way he carried himself—like he owned the entire damn school—made Gosalyn’s feathers bristle on instinct.

She watched as Bradley leaned in, pressing a kiss to Pistol’s cheek, while she giggled and playfully swatted at him like some dime-store romance novel cliché.

Max sighed dramatically. “Bradley Uppercrust the Third.” He said the name like it physically pained him.

Gosalyn scoffed, arms crossing. “God, even his name is insufferable.”

Max nodded solemnly. “Tell me about it.

She tilted her head, eyeing Bradley for a moment before smirking. “I mean, sure, you’re not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, but this guy?” She jerked a thumb toward him. “He’s got so much CTE he probably can’t even read a pop-up book.”

Max let out a sharp laugh, nearly doubling over. "Oh my god, Red—"

“I bet if you asked him to spell ‘concussion,’ his brain would just blue screen.”

Max wheezed, clutching his stomach. "Stop, stop—"

"Like, seriously, how many times do you think he’s headbutted his way through life?" Gosalyn continued, grinning. "I bet if you shook his skull, you'd hear a rattle."

Max was dying. His entire body trembled with barely contained laughter as he sucked in a deep breath, wheezing, “I hate you so much right now.”

Gosalyn just shrugged, still smirking. "Yeah, well, I still think you can do better but clearly, so can she."

Gosalyn couldn’t help but feel the weight of the silence that followed their conversation about Max's crush. It was strange, thinking about Max having a thing for someone. He was... well, Max, the laid-back, weed-smoking guy who liked to joke around and hustle people. But underneath all that, he was still a guy who could crush on a girl, just like anyone else. And that got Gosalyn thinking.

Not about Max—Max was whatever—but about Webby.

Her stomach twisted. It wasn’t like she hadn’t felt that strange, fluttery feeling before. But it was different now. It had been days since she last saw Webby at the police station. She hadn’t heard from her since then. And it wasn’t just the silence that was bothering her. It was the absence of Webby’s energy. The way she just... vanished.

Max’s voice broke through her thoughts as though he was reading her mind. “Hey, have you heard from Webby?”

Gosalyn blinked, surprised he’d asked the same question she’d been avoiding. She tried to sound casual, but her voice was tight. “Nope. Not since, well… you know. You?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. No texts, no messages, no funny notes. It’s like she just disappeared.”

He looked frustrated. He cared; but in his own way.

The silence between them stretched for a moment, both of them lost in their thoughts. Gosalyn didn’t know how to explain the unease gnawing at her. She had this feeling deep down; like something wasn’t right with Webby. Like she was in some kind of trouble and Gosalyn had no idea how to reach her.

“So,” Gosalyn asked, breaking the silence. “Do you, uh... know where she lives?”

Max shrugged. “Well, no. She’s new to the school, too. Started last year, but no one really knows where she came from before that. It’s weird, right?” He frowned. “Like, I don’t even know what neighborhood she’s in. She just kinda... showed up.”

That made Gosalyn’s heart drop. She never realized how little she knew about Webby’s past. In a way, she’d just accepted Webby’s quirks without asking too many questions. But now, standing here, it felt like she had missed something important.

“Okay,” Gosalyn muttered, trying to push through the growing unease. “What about her address? We could ask the school secretary, right? They’ve got all that information.”

Max snorted, and Gosalyn raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Good luck with that,” he said, giving a sarcastic wave of his hand. “The school’s got some strict privacy policies. They won’t just hand out personal info like that. Not even for a friend.”

Gosalyn’s shoulders slumped in frustration. She didn’t need a policy to stand in her way.

“Well, fuck,” she muttered, fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie. Her mind was racing now. What was going on with Webby? Why hadn’t she reached out? What if she was in trouble, or worse—what if she was just... gone?

Max shifted his weight, clearly deep in thought. “Well, she doesn’t have many friends besides you and me, so...” He trailed off, then snapped his fingers as though a lightbulb had gone off above his head. “Wait! I’ve got it. Z-man!”

Gosalyn blinked. “Who or what is a Z-man?”

Max grinned, his eyes gleaming with something mischievous. “Meet me at the computer lab at lunch, and I’ll show you.”

The computer lab had that weird, stale smell that all school tech rooms seemed to have—some mix of dust, overheated monitors, and teenage desperation. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a sickly white glow over the rows of outdated computers. Gosalyn spotted Max immediately, leaning against a desk near the back of the room, looking way too casual for someone who had dragged her into this.

And then there was him.

Bobby Zimmeruski.

Or, as Max had so eloquently put it earlier, Z-Man.

The guy was lanky, practically all limbs, dressed like he had just walked out of a '90s thrift store explosion. Faded denim jacket with the sleeves rolled up, skinny jeans that probably cut off circulation to his legs, and a grungy, band t-shirt that looked older than both of them combined. But the first thing Gosalyn really noticed?

The forehead.

It was huge. Like, comically large. Like, 'Why was there so much space between his eyebrows and hairline?' large. And, of course, he was wearing sunglasses indoors.

He turned at the sound of their approach, grinning like he had been expecting them, pushing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose just enough to peer over them.

“Ayyy, Maxi-pads, what’s crack-a-lackin’, broseph?”

Gosalyn bit back a laugh as Max groaned. “Dude. We talked about this.”

“Ohhh, right, right, right, my dude, my bad,” Bobby waved his hands dramatically. “Max-o-rama, Maximillion, Maxwell House Coffee, the Maxinator! How we feelin’ today, my guy?”

“Fine,” Max sighed, shaking his head. “Bobby, this is Gosalyn.”

Bobby turned his attention to her, tilting his sunglasses down just a little further so she could see his eyes. Then, in the absolute worst smooth-guy voice, he said,

“Well helloooo, beautiful creature.”

Gosalyn immediately recoiled, her face twisting in disgust. “Ugh. No. Nope.”

Bobby put a hand to his chest like he had been personally wounded. “Awww, harsh, dudette. Why you gotta harsh the Z-Man’s vibes like that? I’m just a simple soul, floatin’ on the river of life, lookin’ to spread some love, ya feel me?”

Max clapped him on the back before Gosalyn could come up with a scathing retort. “Okay, okay, reel it in, Z-Man. We actually need your help.”

“Ohhh,” Bobby waggled his eyebrows. “You comin’ to the Z-man for a favor? Interestinnng.”

Max crossed his arms. “You do still know how to get into the school’s system, right?”

At that, Bobby scoffed, flipping his sunglasses back up. “Pfft, please. That firewall’s about as sturdy as a wet paper bag, my guy. All it takes is a little finesse, a little digital foreplay, ya know?” He cracked his knuckles, then wiggled his fingers like he was preparing for some great performance. “We’re talkin’ SQL injection, baby. Man-in-the-middle attacks. A little proxy hopscotch so the admin logs think I’m pinging in from Timbuktu instead of Duckburg High, ya catchin' my flavor?”

Gosalyn stared. Max sighed.

But Bobby wasn’t done. Oh no. He was just warming up.

“I mean, listen, listen—ya can’t just go in all guns blazing, nah nah nah. That’s how the noobs get caught, ya dig? You gotta finesse it, gotta romance the system. Whisper sweet nothings to that database, let it trust you, believe in you. Then bam, you slide in smooth with a little social engineering—‘Oopsie daisy, I forgot my password, help a bro out, Mr. Admin!’—and then boom, backdoor access, baby! Free real estate. She's moaning, she's grinding...”

Gosalyn blinked. “Is he going to fuck the computer?”

Max frowned. “I... I don't know.”

Bobby scoffed. “Ugh, plebs, man. But no worries, the Z-man is here to ed-u-muh-cate.” He spun the chair around in front of the computer and flopped down into it like some kind of cyberpunk guru. “A’ight, what exactly are we snoopin’ for?”

Gosalyn crossed her arms, leaning against the desk. “We need to find a student’s home address.”

Bobby wiggled his fingers dramatically over the keyboard. “Oooooh, we gettin’ into the juicy stuff, huh?” He looked at Gosalyn. “Tell me, babe-a-licious—ya got a crush or are we dealin’ with some real spy movie intrigue here?”

Gosalyn narrowed her eyes. “Just do the damn search.”

Bobby chuckled, cracking his knuckles again. “Awww, don’t be shy, babes. The Z-Man sees all.”

Gosalyn sighed heavily. “Just hurry up.”

Bobby grinned as he started typing. “Buckle up, kiddos. You’re about to witness a master at work.”

Bobby’s fingers flew across the keyboard in a chaotic but oddly efficient rhythm, his sunglasses sliding down his huge forehead as he worked.

“A’ight, so check it, check it,” he began, his voice dripping with excitement. “Back in the day, lil’ ol’ Z-Man pulled off the ultimate broadcast banditry, ya feel me? Hacked a whole-ass TV station, boom, just like that.”

Gosalyn blinked. “You what?”

Max just smirked. “Oh, this is a good one.”

Bobby kept going, fingers still hammering away at the keyboard. “Yeah, yeah, so, like, I had this righteous need, dude. See, these lame-o execs took Maui Mallard in Cold Shadow off the air—y’know, the greatest noir-ninja-cyber-duck flick ever made? Total travesty, babes.”

Gosalyn folded her arms. “And?”

“So what does Z-Man do?” Bobby went on, “I go full cyber-samurai, my dudes. Hit ‘em with a lil’ SQL kung fu, slip through their firewalls like a ghost in the machine, and—BOOM—Channel 6 starts running a Maui Mallard marathon.”

Max burst out laughing. “Dude, I remember that! Channel 6 played nothing but Maui Mallard for, like, six hours straight!”

Bobby pointed both fingers at him. “EXACTLY, my dude! A total cinematic hijacking! And they never figured out who did it.”

Gosalyn’s face was a deadpan 'Are you fucking serious' look. “You committed a federal crime so you could watch a cartoon?”

Bobby gave her a slow, dramatic nod. “And I’d do it again.”

Gosalyn sighed and rubbed her temples. “Just find the file for Webby Vanderquack, Maui Mallard.”

Bobby made a face as he resumed typing. “Oof, Webby? Chicky’s got some real Weekly World News energy, ya know? Always lookin’ like she’s expectin’ a government van to roll up and snatch her.”

Before he could ramble further, Gosalyn grabbed his shoulder and squeezed.

Hard.

Bobby froze.

Gosalyn leaned in, voice low and dangerous. “If you don’t shut up and do what I ask, I will put your giant melon head through this monitor. We crystal, Z-Man?”

Bobby swallowed hard. “Crystal, dudette. Like, totally transparent.”

Suddenly, his fingers were moving a lot faster.

In seconds, Webby’s student file appeared on the screen.

“Boom, baby, we in,” Bobby announced, voice slightly higher than before. “Looks like our girl Webby’s been yoinked.”

Gosalyn’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean yoinked?”

“I mean yanked, plucked, extracted, gonezo, baby!” Bobby gestured wildly at the screen. “She’s been pulled outta school, like, straight-up removed. No explanation, no transfer records, just poof—disappeared like my uncle’s tax returns.”

Gosalyn’s gut twisted. “Can you pull up her home address?”

Bobby waggled his fingers. “Ohhh, ya ask, and the Z-Man delivers.” He hit a few more keys, and the address popped up on the screen. “Aaaand bam, here we go—residence of one Webbigail Vanderquack.”

Gosalyn leaned in. The address was listed on the outskirts of Duckburg, way out past the usual suburban neighborhoods, in an area she didn’t recognize.

Max, however, blinked. “Wait a minute… I know that address.”

Before Gosalyn could ask, Bobby clicked again to bring up Webby’s guardian information.

Then he froze.

His sunglasses slid down his nose again as he stared at the screen.

Max let out a low whistle. “Whoa.”

Gosalyn frowned. “What? What is it?”

Max just pointed at the glowing blue text.

Guardian: Scrooge McDuck.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten - Doubt

The bus rattled away down the cracked, lonely road, leaving Gosalyn and Max standing on the outskirts of Duckburg. A biting wind rolled across the barren landscape, making the dried-up grass whisper. The air smelled of damp earth and old wood, the kind of scent that belonged to forgotten places.

Gosalyn stuffed her hands into her hoodie pocket, side-eyeing Max as they walked. “Alright, for real this time—who is this Scrooge McDuck?”

Max let out a long sigh, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. “Man, I keep forgetting you didn’t grow up around here. Okay, so, once upon a time—”

“Oh, great, a fairy tale,” Gosalyn muttered.

Max smirked. “Nah, this one’s got way less singing animals and way more capitalism. So, back in the day, Scrooge McDuck was the wealthiest man in Duckburg. No joke, this guy was loaded—like, ‘I-own-a-bank-and-still-carry-gold-bars-in-my-pants’ kind of loaded.”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow. “Okay, so rich old dude, big deal.”

“No, dude, you don’t get it.” Max gestured wildly. “He wasn’t just rich—he was a legend. The guy made his fortune by adventuring, like some real-life pulp novel crap. Treasure hunts, lost cities, cursed gold, all of it."

Gosalyn snorted. “Yeah, sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

Max grinned. “Hey, you asked. Anyway, everything was great—the guy had a family, a massive business empire, a freakin’ money bin—”

“Money bin?”

“Yeah, he had this huge vault full of gold coins that he used to, like, swim in.”

Gosalyn stopped walking and stared at him. “Are you messing with me right now?”

“Swear on my dad’s potato and raisin salad, not messing with you.”

Gosalyn shook her head and started walking again. “Okay, so Mr. Gold Coin Bathtub was a big deal. What happened?”

Max’s expression darkened a little. “That’s the thing—no one knows. About five years ago, he just vanished. Became a total shut-in, locked himself away in that old mansion of his, and hasn’t been seen since. No interviews, no press, no nothing.”

Gosalyn frowned. “People had to have noticed that, right?”

“Oh, for sure,” Max nodded. “Rumors went nuts. Some people say his family died, and he couldn’t take it. Others say he lost his fortune overnight in some shady deal. Some even think he was cursed by some artifact he stole.”

“Real logical options.”

“Hey, after finding out what we know now, does it seem all that crazy?” Max shrugged. “But the one thing everyone knows? His mansion? Totally haunted.”

Gosalyn rolled her eyes. “Of course it is.”

“I’m serious, dude! People say weird lights show up in the windows, shadows move on their own, some folks even claim they’ve seen his ghost wandering the grounds.”

Gosalyn scoffed. “So you’re telling me Webby Vanderquack—Miss ‘I Read Demon Summoning for Fun’—is living in that house?”

Max grinned. “Perfect place for her, huh?”

Gosalyn exhaled sharply, looking up at the looming silhouette of the mansion in the distance.

“…Yeah. Perfect.”

They kept walking, the dirt path crunching beneath their sneakers. The mansion was still a ways off, but with every step, it loomed larger—like some old beast waiting for them to come closer. The trees around them grew gnarled and twisted, branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, and the wind had picked up just enough to make the air feel thick with something unspoken.

Then, out of nowhere, Gosalyn stopped.

“Hey… weird question,” she said, kicking at a loose rock in the path. “Why didn’t anyone pick you up from the police station the other night?”

Max shoved his hands deeper into his jeans pockets. His expression didn't change much, but there was something about the way his shoulders tensed that told her she’d hit something real.

“Eh.” He shrugged, eyes on the dirt. “My dad works nights. Factory job. The kind of gig where you clock in, shut up, and don’t ask for breaks unless you want to get replaced.”

Gosalyn frowned. “So, he just… didn’t know?”

“He doesn’t care,” Max corrected, though there wasn’t much heat behind it. “Not in a bad way, I guess. He’s just got enough problems without worrying about whatever I’m up to.”

There was a pause. Just long enough for the wind to push past them again, sending a few dry leaves skittering down the path.

“…What about your mom?” Gosalyn asked carefully.

Max exhaled through his nose. “Died when I was five. Breast cancer.”

Gosalyn winced. “Damn. Max, I—I’m sorry.”

He just nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a long moment, they didn’t say anything. The only sound was the crunch of their feet on the path and the distant, hollow call of a crow somewhere in the trees. The sky had started to turn gray again, thick clouds rolling in like a slow-moving tide. The smell of rain was in the air, damp and electric.

After a while, Gosalyn spoke again, quieter this time.

“My parents died when I was little, too.”

Max looked over at her. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “I don’t remember much. Just that… one day, they were there, and the next, they weren’t. It was just me after that. Until my dad—well, my dad now—adopted me.”

She didn’t say more than that. She wasn’t going to. Max didn’t need to know about St. Canard, or the late-night crime-fighting, or how her dad used to be Darkwing Duck. That wasn’t for him.

But still, something about saying it out loud felt… strange. Not bad. Just strange.

Max gave her a sideways glance. “So… Webby’s got Scrooge McDuck as a guardian, you’ve got your dad, and I’ve got—well. My dad and myself.”

Gosalyn smirked a little. “Maybe we were all brought together because of that. Loss of parents. No real place to belong.”

Max hummed in thought, then grinned. “Nah. Webby probably didn’t have parents. She was probably, like, some freaky government experiment. Like, ‘Project Vanderquack’ or something.”

Gosalyn snorted. “Yeah, the government wishes they could build something like her.”

They both laughed, just a little.

They reached the edge of McDuck Manor’s property, stopping at the rusted iron fence that loomed over them like the bars of an old prison. The gate was chained shut, but whoever locked it hadn’t put much effort into making it secure. The links sagged, loose enough that someone determined could probably squeeze through.

The stone walls were cracked, and stained by time and weather. Thick ivy crawled up the sides like veins, strangling the structure. Some windows were shattered, jagged glass still clinging to the frames, while others had been haphazardly boarded up. The roof sagged in places, and one of the upper-floor balconies had partially collapsed, leaving a pile of rotting wood and rusted railing below.

The yard was even worse. Overgrown weeds had swallowed the driveway, and a once-fancy fountain sat in the middle of the courtyard, dry and crumbling, with a family of crows perched on its edges. A rusted-out car, some ancient luxury model, sat abandoned near the house, its windshield shattered, vines curling through the gaping holes. The whole place looked more like a haunted asylum than a home.

Max exhaled sharply. “Well. This is welcoming.”

Gosalyn scoffed. “What, you scared?”

“No, concerned. There's a difference.” Max gestured toward the house. “Like, seriously. Who the hell just lives here?”

Gosalyn smirked. “Webby.”

Max made a face. “Okay, yeah, right.”

A gust of wind blew past them, making the rusted fence rattle. One of the shutters banged against the side of the mansion, the hollow thunk echoing in the empty yard.

Max shivered. “I feel like I've seen this horror movie.”

Gosalyn grinned. “Yeah, and in those movies, the dumbass characters always ignore the obvious warning signs and go inside anyway.”

Max shot her a look. “And what are we about to do?”

Gosalyn grabbed hold of the sagging iron chain wrapped around the gate and yanked, testing to see how much give it had. “Ignore the warning signs and go inside anyway.”

Max sighed, rubbing his face. “Why did I even ask?”

Gosalyn slipped through the rusted gate with as grunt, her feet skimming the grass as she moved swiftly into the overgrown yard. The air smelled faintly of mildew and damp earth, the remnants of recent rain still clinging to the tall weeds. She looked back to see Max hesitating, glancing at the gate like it might suddenly spring shut and trap him.

“You coming or what?” Gosalyn called over her shoulder, her voice laced with impatience but also the thrill of what she was doing.

Max muttered something under his breath and, after a long pause, reluctantly squeezed through the narrow gap between the gate and the stone wall. His large frame didn’t fit as smoothly as Gosalyn’s, and he grumbled as he maneuvered his way through.

“Quit complaining,” Gosalyn shot back, grinning as she led the way toward the house. “You know you’re enjoying this.”

“Enjoying? I’m risking my life for you,” Max grumbled, brushing himself off. “Again.”

She didn’t say anything in return, instead making a beeline for the front door. The old mansion loomed before them, its windows dark and foreboding like empty eyes. Gosalyn tried the front door handle. It rattled but didn’t budge. Locked, of course.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we could try knocking? You know, like... normal people?”

Gosalyn rolled her eyes, undeterred. “Normal people don’t find out anything useful, Max. Trust me, I’ve got a better plan.”

She turned to scan the side of the house, eyes darting over the stone walls and the ivy that clung to them like a shroud. A flash of movement caught her eye as she spotted an old wooden side door, slightly ajar. A grin tugged at her lips.

“There,” Gosalyn said, already making her way toward it. “Easy.”

Max hesitated behind her, eyeing the dark door with skepticism. “You’re seriously just going to walk in? What if there's an alarm?”

"Does this place look like it has an alarm?" Gosalyn gave him a quick, exasperated look over her shoulder. “Stop being such a pussy. C’mon, you’re not gonna back out now, are you?”

Max let out a frustrated sigh but followed her nonetheless. “Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you.”

She gave him a quick wink as she pulled the door open. It creaked slightly, but it wasn’t loud enough to raise suspicion. Inside, the smell of stale air hit them immediately, and Gosalyn squinted in the dim light. The kitchen stretched out before them, covered in layers of dust and unused cookware. There was an untouched feeling in the space; as if no one had bothered to step foot in here for years.

“This place is so... not what I expected,” Max muttered, eyes scanning the room as he stepped carefully inside, trying to avoid making noise.

“Perfect,” Gosalyn whispered back, already moving forward into the kitchen. “Less chance of being spotted.”

Max trailed behind her, his footsteps heavy compared to her light, nimble movements. She glided silently over to a set of stairs leading up to the second floor, the creaky wood groaning under her weight. “Can you at least try and be a little stealthy?” She asked under her breath, taking a brief glance back at Max. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Yeah, ‘cause sneaking around a creepy mansion is really my idea of a good time,” Max muttered, but he still followed her as she moved toward the staircase that curved upward.

Gosalyn’s gaze shifted as she turned a corner, eyes sweeping over a small hallway leading deeper into the house. The place felt abandoned, forgotten even. There was something oddly comforting about it, like no one would care if they were here.

Gosalyn and Max crept up the stairs, each step groaning under their weight. The house felt still—too still. Dust floated in the air, disturbed only by their movements. The upstairs hallway stretched before them, lined with doors that had long since lost their luster. The faded wallpaper curled at the edges, and cobwebs hung in the corners like neglected decorations. It was the kind of place that screamed no one lives here anymore.

Max muttered under his breath, “Yeah, real welcoming place Webby’s got here. Not ominous at all.”

“Shut up and keep looking,” Gosalyn whispered back.

They started checking doors. The first room they opened was empty—completely bare except for an old, rotting wooden chair in the center, its legs warped from age. The second room was worse, filled with broken furniture, scattered papers, and what looked like an old suit of armor missing its head.

“Oh, cool, horrors beyond my comprehension,” Max murmured, stepping over a toppled bookshelf.

The third door led to a room where part of the ceiling had caved in, letting in thin beams of gray daylight through a gaping hole. Water damage streaked down the walls, and a shattered mirror lay in the corner.

Max turned to Gosalyn. “How long are we going to keep this up? Obviously no one lives here anymore, it has to be a computer error.”

Gosalyn ignored him, pressing forward. At the very end of the hall, there was one last door, slightly ajar. A soft creak echoed as she pushed it open.

The dust and decay stopped abruptly at the doorway. The air was crisp, and clean, carrying the faint metallic scent of sweat and steel. Inside, the space had been completely converted into a personal training area. Weights sat neatly stacked in the corner. A pull-up bar was mounted above a reinforced doorway. A large mat covered most of the floor, showing signs of frequent use. This was not an abandoned relic like the rest of the house—this room was alive.

Max stepped inside, his eyes scanning the space in disbelief. “Okay, now I have questions.”

Gosalyn ran a hand along a nearby weight bench, noting how polished the metal was. No rust, no dust. Someone used this room regularly.

“Dude, this girl’s got a full-on gym in here,” Max said, moving toward a wooden rack lined with different kinds of weaponry. There were staffs, wooden swords, and... fencing gear? A full set of masks, gloves, and foils were neatly arranged on a stand.

Unlike the others, this room was different.

Gosalyn grabbed one of the fencing swords and gave it a few experimental swings. It was lighter than she expected but well-balanced. The blade whistled through the air as she moved it.

Meanwhile, Max wandered over to a strange figure tied up in the corner. A humanoid training dummy, but not the usual kind. This wasn’t just some punching bag—it was an eerily life-like canine person, bound to a wooden pole with thick rope.

More unsettlingly, it had daggers embedded in its chest.

Max leaned in, flicking the hilt of one of the daggers with a finger. The blade wobbled slightly before settling back into the dummy’s “flesh.”

He turned to Gosalyn. “Sooooo… Webby’s a serial killer. Good to know.”

Gosalyn ignored him, still testing the feel of the fencing sword in her hand. “Shut up, Max.”

Max gave the dummy one last wary glance. “I’m just saying, this is weird, even for her.”

Gosalyn had to admit, it was. A home gym was one thing, but this setup? It wasn’t for casual exercise. This was training—serious training. She swung the fencing sword through the air, testing its weight again. It was light, almost too light for her liking, but she could work with it. She smirked, imagining herself in a swashbuckling duel, when—

SNAP.

A guttural growl filled the air.

Max barely had time to react before the training dummy lurched forward, its restraints straining as it snapped its slavering jaws right at him. The sound of grinding teeth and wet, animalistic snarling filled the room.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” Max yelped, leaping back so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet.

The dummy—no, the thing—was alive. Its cloudy, milky-white eyes were void of intelligence, just blind, feral hunger. The rope binding it to the pole creaked under the force of its struggles. Its fingers—twitching, clawed things—scraped against the wood as it reeled forward, its maw snapping wildly in the air where Max had been standing seconds before.

Max bolted behind Gosalyn so fast he might as well have teleported. “KILL IT! KILL IT!” he shrieked, grabbing her shoulders like a human shield.

Gosalyn stared, wide-eyed. “What the hell is—?!”

Max was still gripping her shoulders in pure panic. “WHY IS THAT A THING THAT’S HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?!”

Before Gosalyn could answer—

SHRRK!

A flash of steel came at her out of nowhere.

Gosalyn barely had time to jerk her sword up in defense before CLANG! A force slammed against her blade, sending a jolt through her arms.

She staggered back, her heart hammering as a figure in full fencing gear stepped out of the shadows.

They were clad in an immaculate white fencing uniform, the kind with reinforced padding at the joints and ribcage. But what caught Gosalyn’s attention was the helmet—a sleek, silver fencing mask with a black mesh visor, completely concealing their face. The uniform had no markings or insignias; it was just sterile and cold white.

The fencer adjusted their grip, leveling their épée at Gosalyn.

Then they lunged.

CLANG!

The force of the fencer’s strike sent shockwaves up Gosalyn’s arm, her grip tightening around the hilt of her stolen fencing sword as she barely held her ground.

Another lightning-fast thrust—she parried just in time, the blade grazing past her shoulder. She stumbled backward—right into Max.

“Whoa—HEY!”

Max lost his balance, crashing right into the snarling creature behind him. The force sent them both toppling over, the monster still bound but now on top of him, snapping its rotting, canine-like jaws just inches from his face.

“AAAAH! HELP!”

Gosalyn couldn’t—she was too busy trying not to get stabbed.

Her opponent was relentless. Fluid, controlled, surgical precision. Every attack was calculated, and every movement was practiced to perfection. This wasn’t some amateur fencer at a high school tournament—this was someone trained for combat.

CLASH! Gosalyn dodged left, narrowly avoiding another stab, then countered with an upward strike—blocked! The fencer twisted, aiming a kick at her side—she barely twisted out of the way, feeling the air shift just inches from her ribs.

Meanwhile, Max was screaming bloody murder.

The not-dummy was practically breathing down his throat, snapping wildly as Max struggled to keep its face away. He wedged his forearm against its neck while his other hand frantically slapped the floor for anything useful.

His fingers brushed something cold—

A shoe.

He grabbed it and whipped it at the creature’s head.

Nothing.

“OH COME ON!”

WHAM!

The fencer’s foot slammed into Gosalyn’s wrist, nearly disarming her. She hissed through gritted teeth, flipping the sword to her left hand just as the fencer lunged again—

She dodged, spun, and went low, sweeping at their legs—they leaped over her attack effortlessly.

“Who are you?” Gosalyn growled.

No answer.

The fencer lashed out with a rapid flurry of thrusts—she backpedaled fast, barely managing to block each one, the force driving her toward the wall.

Meanwhile—

CRASH!

Max rolled across the floor, finally shoving the creature off him. He scrambled to his feet, panting, watching as it thrashed—

The ropes snapped.

Max froze.

The monster stood up.

It was bigger than he realized—at least six feet tall, a gaunt, sinewy frame with patchy fur and bone-thin limbs. Its jaw hung loose, too wide for its face, filled with too many teeth.

And it turned right to him.

“Aw, damn.”

The thing lunged—

Max threw the shoe at its face.

It didn’t even flinch.

Max sprinted for his life.

“RED, I’M GONNA DIE!”

Gosalyn heard but couldn’t react—she was too busy ducking another blow from the fencer. She retaliated with a fierce overhead strike—her opponent side-stepped, grabbing her wrist mid-swing and twisting.

Pain flared through her arm—she yelped, dropping the sword.

Her attacker moved to strike—

Gosalyn headbutted them.

A muffled grunt of pain came from behind the mask—they staggered back just enough for her to kick her sword back up with her foot and grab it mid-air.

Nearby—

Max grabbed a stool.

The creature charged him—

He hurled the stool at it.

SMACK! The creature stumbled.

Max grabbed a broom.

It pounced at him again—

He swung like a baseball bat.

“STAY! DOWN!”

THWACK!

The monster reeled, snarling, then grabbed the broom mid-swing and just… snapped it in half.

Max’s face drained of color. “Okay, cool, that’s fine.”

Gosalyn, meanwhile, was still locked in a fierce duel.

She sidestepped a thrust, turned it into a spin, and slashed at the fencer’s leg—they hopped back just in time. Their footwork was flawless—every motion lightning-fast, controlled.

Gosalyn had speed and aggression. The fencer had precision and patience.

They clashed again, blades scraping, eyes locked.

Ongoing—

Max grabbed a lamp.

The creature lunged.

Max smashed the lamp over its head.

The lightbulb popped like a firecracker.

The creature stumbled, dazed.

Max—panting, sweating, on the verge of a panic attack— lifted his hands and screamed,

“WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING?!”

BOOM!

A gunshot ripped through the air.

Max flinched.

The creature jerked, mid-step, a dark hole now dead-center in its skull. Its cloudy, too-wide eyes rolled back as it collapsed, unmoving.

Silence.

Then—a rasping breath.

Max and Gosalyn both turned their heads.

There, sitting in the corner, was an old duck in a wheelchair.

He looked half-dead himself—weary, filthy, clothes that were once fine but now hung tattered and loose. He held an ancient flintlock pistol, its barrel still smoking from the shot. His eyes, however, were sharp.

And he was watching them.

Max took a slow step back. “Uh… hello?”

Gosalyn barely had time to react—

The fencer took advantage of the distraction, pouncing on her.

“AGH—HEY!”

She hit the ground hard, her sword clattering away.

A knee pressed into her chest, pinning her down. A hand gripped her wrist, forcing her other arm to the floor.

And then, the fencer ripped off their mask.

Gosalyn’s eyes went wide.

“Webby?!”

Webby Vanderquack, flushed from exertion, panting, eyes filled with conflicting emotions, stared down at her.

For a split second, neither spoke.

Then—

“What are you two doing here?” Webby blinked at Gosalyn.

Gosalyn barely had time to react before Webby pulled her up. For someone shorter than her, Webby had some serious strength—the kind you only got from years of training, fighting, and surviving.

And then—Webby hugged her.

It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t quick. It was fierce.

For a moment, Gosalyn was too stunned to react. This girl had just tried to stab her. She had ambushed her, knocked her down, and fought her like her life depended on it. And now she was… hugging her like she was afraid she might disappear.

Gosalyn’s arms hovered for a second before, without thinking, she hugged back.

Tightly.

Like if she let go, something would break.

There was no space between them. Not even a breath.

Neither of them spoke.

Max stood there, panting, lamp shards at his feet, staring at them like they’d both lost their minds.

Finally, he threw his hands up and shouted,

“CAN SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!”

Gosalyn and Webby pulled apart—but only slightly, their hands still gripping each other’s arms. Their eyes locked for a moment too long.

Then—

CLICK.

All three of them froze.

The air in the room shifted, thickening.

Slowly, they turned.

The old duck in the wheelchair had reloaded his pistol.

And now, he was pointing it at Max.

The old duck’s grip on the pistol was steady, his tired eyes sharp beneath the weight of years. He took a slow breath, his voice a low, weathered growl— thick with a Highland accent, every word edged with suspicion.

"Aye… now would one o’ ye mind explainin’ why I shouldnae put a bullet in the lot o’ ye?"

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven - The Blue Wrath

The dining hall of McDuck Manor was a cavernous, crumbling relic of a bygone era. Once grand, the long wooden table was now covered in dust except for the few spots where plates had been set. The high ceiling loomed over them, cracked and water-stained, with a chandelier that swayed ever so slightly, as if uncertain whether to remain hanging or finally give in to gravity. The dim candlelight barely reached the corners of the room, where shadows clung like cobwebs.

At the head of the table sat Scrooge McDuck, once the richest man in Duckburg—now looking like he’d been living in a crypt for the past twenty years.

His red frock coat was faded and patched in places, the gold trim dulled by time and a severe lack of giving a damn. His feathers, unkempt and ruffled, made him look less like a legendary tycoon and more like an old barn owl who’d lost a bar fight.

And yet, despite looking like a disaster, the man ate with absolute confidence—loudly, messily, and with zero shame.

SLUUUUUUUUUUURP.

The sound of him sucking down a spoonful of soup echoed in the vast, empty hall.

Nearby, Gosalyn, Webby, and Max sat side by side, completely stiff.

Max hesitated before taking a sip of his own soup. The second it touched his tongue, he froze.

He looked down at the bowl, then back up at Webby.

“… Uh. This is cold.”

Webby, noticing his confusion, leaned in and whispered, “It’s vichyssoise. It’s supposed to be cold.”

Max turned to her very, very slowly, the face of a man who had just learned the universe was cruel. He gave a single slow nod; as though she had just informed him that he was, in fact, eating frozen swamp water.

Before he could say anything else, Scrooge suddenly barked out,

“Duckworth! More water!”

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward.

Gosalyn tensed.

It was him.

The same severe-looking man who had picked up Webby from the police station now stood in the dining hall, dressed in a crisp black suit, moving like a shadow.

Duckworth.

She hadn’t thought much of him before, but now she was sure—this guy gave off a serious 'I dispose of bodies' vibe.

With eerie precision, he poured water into Scrooge’s glass.

Scrooge grabbed it without a word and chugged it in one go—half of it spilling down his front. He didn’t react. Didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t care.

Gosalyn and Max exchanged a glance as Duckworth left.

Yeah.

This was, without a doubt, the most awkward dinner of all time.

Silence hung thick in the air, as thick and oppressive as the dust that clung to the walls of the decaying McDuck mansion. The low, flickering light from the candles cast long shadows across the room, stretching and distorting the faded, cracked portraits of the McDuck ancestors, their faces stiff and lifeless. The scent of stale air, old wood, and cold soup filled the room, but the worst part was the tension. It was like a weight pressing down on everyone, making the space feel even smaller than it already was.

Webby's shoulders were tight, her hands clasped together on the table in front of her as though she was trying to hold herself together. Her eyes flickered from Scrooge to the others, the strained smile on her face barely visible.

“So, as I was saying, Uncle Scrooge,” she started, her voice carefully controlled, “these are my friends.”

Scrooge didn’t even look up. He took another loud slurp of soup, sloshing the bowl with reckless abandon. Then, as if her words hadn’t even registered, he grunted in that thick accent of his.

“Ye don’t have any friends,” he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.

Webby flinched, and Gosalyn could feel her tense up even more. The room seemed to grow quieter, as though everyone else was waiting for the next moment to unfold. Gosalyn glanced at Max, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing. This was a side of Webby they hadn’t seen before.

Gosalyn was done waiting.

“Mr. McDuck, sir,” Gosalyn spoke up, her voice firm despite the tension in the room, “we are her friends. We’ve been worried sick about her—about where she’s been and why she wasn’t at school. We don’t just disappear, especially when someone’s worried about us.”

Scrooge took another slurp, louder this time, and didn’t acknowledge Gosalyn’s words. Then, in a low growl, he muttered without even glancing at her, “Aye, I pulled her out o’ that blasted school. It’s no place for someone like Webby. Beyond her talents…”

He paused, eyes narrowing as he looked over at Gosalyn, his gaze sharp as ever. “Beyond normal people.”

Gosalyn’s stomach tightened, but she held his stare. He had no idea who he was dealing with.

“She’s not the only one who’s different,” Gosalyn shot back, her voice unwavering. “Maybe it’s not normal people who should be shoving others aside. Webby’s different, and she deserves to be with people who understand that.”

At that, Scrooge’s bill curled into a sneer. He didn’t even flinch as he finished off his soup, then let out a loud, obnoxious belch that reverberated through the room.

“Nice?” Scrooge barked. “Nice? Ye’re lucky they aren’t planted in the backyard with the rest of the bodies!”

Max, who had been cautiously tasting his soup, gagged and nearly choked on the liquid. He spat out the contents of his mouth in a fit of coughing, his face flushed in confusion.

“Rest of the bodies?” he croaked, his voice cracking as he looked between Scrooge and Webby.

Scrooge at first didn’t acknowledge Max’s question. Instead, he set his soup spoon down with a finality that made the sound of metal scraping against porcelain seem like a gunshot.

“Aye, the bodies,” he muttered under his breath. “The ones who didn’t know when to shut up.”

There was a long, tense silence. Max’s face was still a mix of shock and disgust. Gosalyn could feel her heart rate spike. The words were too chilling, too deliberate. It wasn’t a joke. Scrooge wasn’t playing.

Webby seemed to shrink into herself. Her eyes darted nervously from Gosalyn to Scrooge, her bill pressed tight. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but the words didn’t come. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and Gosalyn was left feeling like they were all sitting on the edge of a precipice, with no idea what would happen next.

Max, still stunned, managed to choke out, “What the hell does that even mean?”

But Scrooge just stared at him, unmoving. His eyes were cold, and the edges of his mouth twitched with a hint of something—resentment, maybe? Gosalyn felt the feathers on the back of her neck stand up. Something was wrong here. Something bigger than they realized.

Under the heavy weight of the silence, beneath the long, worn dining table, Webby’s fingers found Gosalyn’s. It wasn’t an accident, not some casual brush—her hand grasped Gosalyn’s like a drowning person clinging to the last thing keeping them afloat.

Her grip was firm, desperate. Not the playful, excitable Webby Gosalyn had known in detention, the one who had bounced into her life with weird facts and unshakable confidence. No, this was something fragile, something raw.

Gosalyn almost flinched at first. The sudden warmth of Webby’s palm against her own sent a jolt up her arm, not because she was afraid—she wasn’t—but because of what it meant. Webby hadn’t been ignoring her. She hadn’t forgotten about her or ditched her without a care. She had been trapped here, in this crumbling house, beneath the iron grip of her overbearing, cryptic uncle.

Webby’s thumb pressed into Gosalyn’s palm, and Gosalyn realized Webby was trembling. Not visibly, not in a way anyone else could see, but she could feel it in the way Webby’s fingers tightened and then loosened, as if afraid of holding on too hard, afraid of needing someone.

Gosalyn’s first instinct was to squeeze back, to tell Webby with that simple motion: I’m here. You don’t have to handle this alone.

And she did. She tightened her grip around Webby’s, firm and unwavering. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Webby let out the softest breath, so quiet that if Gosalyn hadn’t been paying attention, she would have missed it. A breath of relief. A silent thank you.

Across from them, Max was still staring at Scrooge in mild horror, probably still stuck on the rest of the bodies comment, but Gosalyn barely registered him. The whole world outside of this moment, outside of their entwined fingers, felt muted.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch Webby’s eyes.

They were wet.

Not crying, not outright, but there was something in them that made Gosalyn’s stomach clench. Something vulnerable, something unspoken.

Webby didn’t need to say it out loud. I missed you. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t have a choice.

Gosalyn understood all of it. And without thinking, she brushed her thumb against Webby’s hand in quiet reassurance.

I'm not leaving you, Webby.

Scrooge exhaled sharply through his bill, shifting slightly in his wheelchair before clearing his throat. His sharp eyes flicked across the table, settling on Gosalyn and Max like they were pests he had just found scurrying through his pantry.

"Now then," he muttered, dragging out the words, his thick Scottish accent making them sound even heavier. "Yer... friends." He spat the word like it tasted rotten in his mouth. "They've been fed, no one’s dead, an' they can leave." His tone darkened. "An’ never come back."

Silence.

Webby shrank slightly in her chair, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. She stared at her soup as if trying to will herself to speak, her lips parting—then hesitating. But when she did speak, her voice was quiet.

"No."

A cold weight settled over the room. The fire in the distant hearth crackled, but no one moved.

Scrooge’s head turned slowly toward her, his sharp eyes narrowing. "What do ye mean, no?"

Webby swallowed hard, then lifted her head, her voice stronger now. "You promised me," she snapped, her hands clenching into fists on the table. "You promised I could go to a normal school. That I could have at least somewhat of a normal life!"

Scrooge scowled. "That was before ye went gallivantin’ through the streets o’ Duckburg, nearly gettin’ yerself discovered—us discovered—draggin’ mortals into our affairs!" His voice rose, his gnarled fingers tightening around his wheelchair as if he wanted to break it in half.

Gosalyn, who had been biting her tongue up until now, finally snapped. She shoved her chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. "Hey, you old bastard! 'Mortals' were already dragged in when Mothman decided to start treating Duckburg like his own personal buffet!"

Scrooge let out a sharp bark of laughter, shaking his head. "An' what do you know about it, lass?"

Gosalyn placed her hands on the table and leaned forward, her green eyes burning. "What I know is that I am about two seconds from climbing across this table and making sure you shit into a bag for the rest of your miserable, hopefully short, life, old man."

Max spit out a mouth full of water in shock.

Scrooge’s head snapped toward Gosalyn, his tired old eyes narrowing like a wolf sizing up a yapping dog. His grip tightened around his spoon, knuckles stark white against his wrinkled skin.

“Aye?” he scoffed, tilting his head with a mocking sort of amusement. “Ye think yerself tough, lass? Think ye can just swagger in here, break into my home, insult me at my own table, an’ threaten me on top o’ it?” He let out a low chuckle, deep and grating, before shaking his head. “Ye’ve got more brass than brains, I’ll give ye that.”

Gosalyn leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, voice low and firm. “Try me, old-timer.”

Max, still seated between them, stiffened, eyes darting back and forth like he was watching a lit match inch toward a pile of fireworks. He let out a nervous chuckle, raising both hands. “Okay, okay, let’s just—not start an intergenerational war at the dinner table, yeah?”

Scrooge ignored him, his glare locked onto Gosalyn like a predator considering whether the fight was worth it. “Ye’ve got no idea what ye’ve stuck yer beak into, girlie.”

“I know enough,” Gosalyn shot back. “I know that whatever weird secret society crap you’ve got going on, Webby deserves better than being locked up in this dump, training to stab people like some kinda medieval assassin.” She gestured toward Webby, whose fists were clenched so tight her knuckles had gone pale. “She wanted a normal life. You promised her that.”

Scrooge’s jaw tightened. “Aye,” he said coldly, “and I also promised her she’d live.”

That landed like a hammer between the ribs.

Webby’s breath hitched, but Gosalyn barely noticed—her mind was too busy racing at that last word.

Live?

Max blinked. “Uh. That sounded way more ominous than it probably should’ve.”

Scrooge ignored him again, eyes still locked onto Gosalyn. “Ye think I took her out o’ that school for fun? That I’m keepin’ her here because I like playin’ the villain in some childish fantasy?” He shook his head. “Ye don’t know the half o’ it, lass. The world outside these walls—” He jabbed a finger at the towering, grime-streaked windows. “—ain’t a fairy tale. It’s a battlefield. And if ye step onto it without knowin’ the rules, ye don’t just lose, ye die.”

Webby shot up from her seat, her chair scraping against the floor. “That’s not your choice to make for me!”

Scrooge’s face darkened. “It bloody well is, when yer mistakes put this whole family in danger!”

“What family!?” Webby’s voice cracked, and for the first time that night, there was something raw in it. Something broken. She gestured wildly at the decaying mansion, at the dust and rot and emptiness. “Look around you, Uncle Scrooge! There is no family! It’s just you!”

Silence.

Heavy. Smothering.

Scrooge stared at her, his face unreadable.

For the first time, Gosalyn thought he almost looked... old. Not just in the way old men did, but in a way that made her wonder how long he’d actually been alone.

The weight in the room was unbearable.

Until Max, voice barely above a whisper, muttered, “So... I’m definitely not getting dessert, huh?”

Webby let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and a sob, and just like that, the tension cracked—if only slightly.

Scrooge leaned forward, resting his elbows on the long dining table, his eyes locking onto Gosalyn like a hawk sizing up its prey. The candlelight flickered against the deep lines of his face, casting dark shadows that made him look even older, more tired—but not weak. His fingers drummed against the tabletop, slow and deliberate.

"Aye," he muttered, voice low but sharp as a blade. "Ye want tae keep playin’ at bein’ Webby’s friends? Then yer gonna have to earn it."

Gosalyn didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. She folded her arms across her chest, meeting his glare with one of her own. "Oh yeah? And how do we do that?"

Scrooge smirked, but there was nothing warm about it. "Ye killed Webby’s practice dummy, so ye’ll be replacin’ it. I need more Zombie Juice, and since ye lot seem so eager tae be involved, ye can go fetch it from the Night Market."

From the corner of her eye, Gosalyn saw Webby stiffen at the mention of the name, but before she could ask why, Max shot upright in his chair. He pointed an accusatory finger at Scrooge, his face twisted in a mix of disbelief and frustration.

"Okay, hold on—technically, you were the one who shot it in the head, so really, if we’re placing blame here—"

Scrooge cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Don’t interrupt me when I’m bein’ rhetorical."

Max’s mouth hung open for a second before he sighed heavily, slouching back into his chair, mumbling something about ‘boomers’.

Gosalyn, however, was unfazed. She leaned forward, pressing her hands against the table, her knuckles whitening against the wood. "Fine. We’ll go to your Night Market, whatever that is. But if we come back with your, uh, juice, not only do we get to stay friends with Webby, but she gets to go back to school, too."

For a moment, the room was utterly silent, save for the faint crackling of the candles. Then Scrooge let out a sharp, barking laugh, shaking his head as he pushed away his half-finished bowl of soup.

"Girlie, if ye make it back, I’ll have Duckworth drive the three o’ ye to school every day."

Gosalyn smirked, pushing herself away from the table and crossing her arms. "Deal."

Another silence fell, but this one was heavier, filled with the weight of everything that had just been agreed upon. Webby’s hand brushed against Gosalyn’s beneath the table, but she didn’t squeeze it this time. Maybe she was too stunned to, or maybe she wasn’t sure if they’d even win this bet.

Then Max, who had been eyeing everyone with growing confusion and concern, finally cleared his throat and hesitantly raised his hand like he was in class.

"So... what’s a Night Market?"

Webby, Gosalyn, and Max moved through the vast halls of McDuck Manor, the heavy silence between them was broken only by the distant ticking of an unseen grandfather clock. The golden glow from the sconces flickered along the deep crimson wallpaper, casting long shadows that stretched and curled like grasping fingers. Ornate portraits of long-deceased McDucks lined the walls, their painted eyes following the trio with an air of judgment; as if silently questioning why they of all people were here.

Webby led the way, moving with purpose, though there was an anxious stiffness in her posture. She still wore the same clothes she had on earlier: a pink collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, layered under a slightly oversized blue sweater, her purple skirt swaying just above her knees. Gosalyn, walking slightly behind her, was still trying to process everything. Just a few hours ago, she was in her own world, dealing with mostly normal teenage problems. Now, she was about to step into some hidden supernatural black market, as if it were a trip to Behemoth Burger.

“So,” she finally asked, “this ‘Night Market’—explain it to me again like I am five years old, or Max.”

"Hey!" Max whined.

Webby didn’t slow her pace. “It’s a pocket dimension. A place between places. Think of it like… a supernatural neutral zone. Angels, demons, ghosts, were-creatures, vampires, even inter-dimensional travelers—all of them gather there to barter, trade, and get information. It’s one of the few places in the world where they can interact without trying to kill each other.”

Max groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, great. A flea market for the freaky and undead. Love that. Really looking forward to haggling with a werewolf over haunted lawn furniture.”

Webby gave him a sideways look. “It’s not a flea market. It’s more like… a supernatural bazaar.”

Max crossed his arms. “Cool, cool. And I’m guessing us ‘normies’ aren’t exactly welcome there?”

“Not usually,” Webby admitted. “But you’ll be with me, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Max latched onto that instantly. “‘Shouldn’t?’ What do you mean shouldn’t be a problem?!”

Webby ignored him. “Just… whatever you do, don’t touch anything.”

Gosalyn, meanwhile, was only half-listening. Her mind was buzzing with a mix of apprehension and excitement. Ever since she was little, she had wanted to be part of something bigger—something more. And now, here it was. A hidden world full of danger, mystery, and possibilities. It was terrifying, sure, but it was also thrilling.

Then Webby abruptly turned a corner and pushed open a door, leading them into a…

Laundry room.

Gosalyn and Max stopped in their tracks, looking around the small, unimpressive space. The washer and dryer sat side by side, old and clunky, their paint peeling from years of use. A rickety wooden drying rack leaned against the wall, half-covered in socks and faded shirts. Cabinets hung overhead, one slightly ajar, revealing neatly folded towels inside. A lone ironing board stood in the corner, looking as if it hadn’t been touched in years. The fluorescent light overhead flickered, buzzing softly.

Max blinked. Then he blinked again.

“…Okay,” he said slowly, “so let me get this straight. We’re about to enter this big, terrifying, supernatural black market… through your laundry room?”

Webby shot him a grin. “Obviously.”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow. “Are we gonna have to wrestle a demon in the spin cycle, or…?”

Webby chuckled. “Nope. We take the dryer.”

Max pinched the bridge of his beak, exhaling sharply. “I hate magic.”

Webby yanked open the dryer door with a metallic creak, revealing nothing but the dark, empty tumbler inside. Without hesitation, she hiked up her skirt just slightly for mobility and started climbing in, her upper half disappearing into the machine as she wriggled her way forward. Her legs kicked once before she vanished completely.

Max, watching this unfold, raised an eyebrow and muttered, “You know, I think I saw this in a video online once.”

That earned him a sharp smack upside the head from Gosalyn.

“OW! Hey!” He rubbed the sore spot, shooting her a glare.

Gosalyn just crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You deserved that.”

Meanwhile, Webby was gone. No sound, no trace—just an open dryer door leading into… nothing.

Gosalyn turned to Max and jerked a thumb toward it. “You’re up.”

Max took a step back. “Oh, hell no.”

Gosalyn didn’t budge. “C’mon, Goof. Don’t be a chicken.”

“I’m not a chicken,” Max said, frowning as he hesitantly bent forward, peeking inside. He squinted. All he could see was the dull steel tumbler of the dryer, looking very much not like a mystical portal. “Uh… I don’t think this is going to work—”

Before he could finish, Gosalyn planted both hands on her hips and kicked him square in the ass.

“GAH!”

Max flailed wildly as he was shoved inside, his yelp cut off the second he crossed the threshold. He vanished as if he had never been there at all.

Gosalyn stood there, staring at the empty space where her friend had just been.

This was insane.

Completely, absolutely bonkers.

But then again, that seemed to be par for the course ever since she met Webby. And if things were going to keep getting weirder from here, well… she wasn’t about to back down now.

A smirk tugged at her beak.

“Cowabunga it is,” she muttered before diving headfirst into the dryer.

The door slammed shut behind her.

The moment Gosalyn crossed the threshold, reality twisted.

It felt like she was being stretched—not just her body, but her thoughts, her perception, her very sense of self. Colors that didn’t exist in the real world flashed past her eyes, shifting hues she couldn’t name. Time slowed, then sped up, then unraveled entirely. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she was falling, floating, or standing still. She felt inside-out and outside-in all at once, her limbs spiraling out like she was made of taffy, then snapping back together like a rubber band. It was dreamlike, surreal—like her mind was skipping across different states of being.

And then—

WHUMP.

She landed.

In socks.

Piles and piles of socks.

Gosalyn groaned, pushing herself up, feeling the absurd softness beneath her. She sank into the fabric, her arms buried up to her elbows, her knees half-submerged. Socks of every shape, size, and color surrounded her—striped socks, polka-dotted socks, mismatched socks, baby socks, knee-high socks, even a few with tiny cartoon characters on them. They all smelled faintly of fresh laundry.

A single sock slid off the top of her head.

She blinked at the never-ending landscape of fabric hills, the sock dunes stretching out into a bizarre void with no walls, no ceiling—just infinity.

She muttered, mostly to herself, "Huh. So that’s where they all go.”

Movement caught her eye. A few feet away, Max was peeling a bright red sock from his shirt—only to yelp as a tiny spark of static zapped him. He recoiled, shaking his hand like he’d been stung.

Webby, standing nearby, giggled.

Gosalyn trudged through the socks to join them. “So, uh…” she gestured vaguely at the sock-void. “This is the Night Market? Just like… socks?”

Webby let out another giggle. “No, silly! It’s over there!”

She pointed.

Gosalyn followed her gaze, and sure enough, about a hundred meters away, a wooden door stood all by itself. Not attached to anything—just a lone door, upright in the middle of the sock-filled void.

Gosalyn frowned.

Max squinted. “Okay, but like… is this also where Tupperware lids go when they disappear?”

Webby had already started marching forward, but she turned back just long enough to call over her shoulder, “Oh no, you don’t want to go where they go. Now follow me!”

Max and Gosalyn exchanged a look.

Then, without a word, they trudged after her.

As they walked through the endless expanse of socks toward the lone wooden door, Gosalyn found herself glancing at Webby every few steps. She had so many questions, so many things she wanted to say, but with everything happening so fast—the Mothman, the cops, Scrooge, the literal magic dryer portal—she hadn’t had a chance.

But beyond all the supernatural mumbo-jumbo, there was something far more important on her mind.

Webby.

“Hey,” she said, nudging Webby’s arm gently. “I… I was worried about you. Like, sick worried. You disappear, then you show up all weird and try to stab me, and—dammit, Webby, I thought something happened to you.”

Webby slowed her pace, her hands clasping together as she looked down at the socks beneath her feet. “I know,” she murmured. “And I’m sorry.”

Gosalyn narrowed her eyes but it was clear she was just teasing. “You better be.”

Webby let out a soft chuckle but then sighed, rubbing her arm. “It’s just… there’s so much you don’t know, Gos. About me, about my family, about the world you’ve just stepped into.”

Gosalyn folded her arms. “Then tell me.”

Webby hesitated for a long moment, then took a deep breath and met Gosalyn’s eyes. “I’m the last of the Templars of Light,” she admitted. “It’s an ancient order dedicated to fighting the darkness in the world—monsters, demons, sorcerers.” She glanced away. “My Uncle Scrooge… he’s kept me under lock and key for most of my life, training me, protecting me. Because everywhere I go, everyone I meet, is in danger just because of my existence.”

There was a long silence.

Then Gosalyn scoffed. “Pfft. Yeah, well, I don’t care about all that.”

Webby blinked. “What?”

Gosalyn smirked. “I don’t care. I don’t care about some ancient templar order, I don’t care about ‘danger,’ I don’t care what crazy nonsense is gonna come crawling out of the shadows next—we’re friends, Webby.” She clenched her fists. “And I’d fight anyone who even thought about hurting you.”

Webby’s breath hitched. She turned to look at Gosalyn fully now, eyes shining, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or if she was just happy. And then, before she could even think, the words slipped out:

“What if I wanted to be more than friends?”

Gosalyn stopped dead in her tracks.

Her brain short-circuited.

Her feathers fluffed up so fast she looked like she’d been struck by lightning. Her face went bright red under her feathers—so red that it was almost glowing. She opened her bill, closed it, opened it again, but absolutely no words came out.

She was malfunctioning.

“Uhhh—uh—I mean—” she stammered, rubbing the back of her head so hard she was surprised she hadn’t drilled a hole into her skull. “I—I—uh—so, okay—um—”

Webby just watched her; she was clearly amused but also way too patient about the whole thing.

Gosalyn groaned, shutting her eyes tight. “Okay, fine! I have been thinking about you! A lot! More than I should! And maybe—maybe once we get through tonight and don’t die, we could—y’know—go on a date, or whatever.”

Webby’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Gosalyn, bright red, muttered, “Yeah, really.”

Max, who had been following behind this entire time, rolled his eyes so hard he nearly fell over. “Oh my God,” he groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “Will you two just kiss already? This tension is driving me insane!”

Both girls instantly turned an even darker shade of red.

“MAX!” Gosalyn shouted.

“What? I’m just saying—”

Gosalyn lunged at him, and Max barely dodged, laughing as he darted ahead toward the door. Webby, still pink, giggled before chasing after them. The air between them all felt lighter now, but also… different.

Gosalyn wasn’t sure what came next.

But she knew she wasn’t running from it.

They reached the door, its wooden surface worn and ancient, covered in faint carvings that seemed to shift if you looked too long. There was no wall, no frame—just the door, standing in the middle of an endless void of missing socks.

Webby placed a hand on the knob, her fingers tightening around it as she turned to face them. Her expression had changed, no longer playful but deadly serious.

“Alright,” she said, her voice firm. “Whatever happens next, you two stay close to me.”

Gosalyn and Max exchanged a glance.

“The Night Market is not meant for the eyes of mortal creatures,” Webby continued. “Everything, and everyone, is going to be looking at you like food.”

Max gulped audibly.

“Don’t touch anything,” Webby warned. “Don’t speak to anyone—” She locked eyes with Max; as if already anticipating his tendency to make smart-ass comments. “—And whatever you do, don’t take any free samples.”

Gosalyn raised a brow. “What happens if we do?”

Webby didn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes darkened slightly. “You don’t want to know.”

A heavy silence followed.

Max and Gosalyn shared another look, silently asking each other, 'What the hell are we getting into?' Then, after a beat, they both gave a single nod.

Webby exhaled and turned back to the door. She gripped the knob tightly, a little smirk tugging at her lips despite the tension.

“Then, without further adieu, ladies and germs…” She twisted the knob.

“The Night Market.”

With a creak, the door swung open—

And the world beyond it was not the one they left behind.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve - Midnight in a Perfect World

Stepping through the door was like stepping off the edge of a dream and landing in a waking nightmare.

Gosalyn’s first instinct was to squint up at the sky—only to realize there wasn’t one. Not in the normal sense. Above them stretched a vast, star-choked void, swirling with impossible colors, shifting nebulas, and constellations that moved when she wasn’t looking. Every so often, something huge and wrong slithered across the darkness, just a shadow against deeper blackness. Watching. Waiting.

Her feathers bristled. Nope. Not looking up again.

Instead, she took in the market, and—

“Whoa.”

Gosalyn had seen weird before. She’d grown up around superheroes and supervillains and spent her childhood dodging robots, mutants, and masked villains. But this?

This was another level.

The buildings made no sense. They leaned at impossible angles, some hovering inches above the ground, rocking like boats on an invisible tide. Others twisted in ways that made her head hurt if she stared too long. A Victorian apothecary stood beside a tower of shifting glass, its shape never quite the same when she blinked. A gothic cathedral had been hollowed out and repurposed into a stall selling glowing vials, and a massive stone pagoda, overgrown with pulsating vines, throbbed like a living thing.

The ground wasn’t much better—patches of cobblestone led into smooth obsidian, which melted into wooden planks that shouldn’t have been floating there. Alleyways twisted off into nothingness, some looping back on themselves, others leading into impossible spaces—a jungle, a frozen wasteland, a starry void.

And then there were the people.

If you could call them that.

A trio of gargoyle-like creatures, their bodies carved from cracked stone, strolled by, their glowing fissures pulsing with each step. Their wings twitched occasionally, shedding tiny flakes of rock as they whispered in a language that sounded like grinding boulders. Nearby, a fox-faced trickster spirit in a flowing silk robe bartered with a man-shaped shadow, the latter's form constantly shifting, distorting, never quite solid. At the center of the street, a headless fire-breather put on a show, jets of blue-green flames shooting from the severed stump of his neck, illuminating the eager onlookers with eerie, flickering light.

And the vendors.

A hunched-over crone with four arms stirred a cauldron that whispered secrets to itself. A tentacle-faced bookseller displayed tomes that read their owners instead of the other way around. A ghostly tailor worked at a loom made of spider silk and banshee wails, the fabric screaming softly as it was woven into a cloak that shimmered like trapped moonlight.

And the sounds.

The murmur of deals whispered in languages not meant for human tongues. The clinking of strange coins, the rustle of robes, the occasional inhuman laughter from somewhere in the distance. A distant melody—played on an instrument that didn’t exist—drifted through the air, sweet and haunting.

Somewhere, someone screamed.

Short, sharp, cut off too quickly.

No one reacted.

“Okay,” Max muttered, eyes darting everywhere at once. “This place is utterly terrifying.”

“Told you,” Webby said, smiling in a way that wasn’t exactly reassuring.

“Yeah, thanks for the heads-up, Webbigail,” Max grumbled.

“Hey, I did warn you,” Webby said, keeping her voice low. “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t speak to anyone. And whatever you do—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gosalyn cut in, still staring at everything, eyes wide. “No free samples.”

“Good,” Webby nodded. “Because if you break the rules here, the Bodaks will come.”

“…the what now?” Max asked immediately; because of course, there was something worse lurking around.

“The lawkeepers,” Webby said grimly. “They don’t talk, they don’t warn you. They just… erase you.”

Gosalyn frowned. “Erase, like… kill?”

“No.” Webby looked at her. “Erase. Like you were never here. Like you never existed at all.”

Silence.

Max swallowed hard. “Cool. Cool-cool-cool. I am so glad we came.”

Gosalyn smirked, nudging him. “Come on, Goof. Where’s that reckless, devil-may-care attitude?”

“Back in Duckburg, where things make sense,” Max grumbled. “And where the only thing I have to worry about is getting caught selling bootleg DVDs and where I can get a decent burger at two in the morning.”

Gosalyn laughed.

But even she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching them.

Not the vendors. Not the creatures in the streets.

Something else.

Something hungry.

"So, uh…" Max glanced around, still on edge. "Where do we even start? And please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me 'Zombie Juice' is just a fun name and not actual juice made from zombies."

Webby grinned, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "That depends on who we buy it from."

Max groaned. "Of course it does."

Webby's grin grew even wider, "Relax, Maxie. What’s the worst that could happen?"

From somewhere in the crowd, a low chuckle echoed.

Webby tensed.

"Just keep walking."

The Night Market stretched beneath Magica De Spell like a living thing, a writhing mass of creatures and corruption, flickering under the glow of eerie lanterns. The air was thick with the scent of incense, roasted meats, and something darker—old magic, the kind that stained souls and twisted fate.

From her balcony, Magica sat in her throne-like chair, carved from dark, gnarled wood, sipping from a silver goblet filled with something rich and red. Her black gothic dress clung to her like liquid shadow, its fabric shimmering in the low light. The neckline plunged just enough to suggest extreme vanity, and long, jagged sleeves draped past her green-feathered wrists, stitched with silver embroidery in the shape of arcane runes.

She wore raven-feather pauldrons, their slick, iridescent sheen reflecting the lanternlight. Her fingers, adorned with twisted, claw-like rings, tightened on the goblet’s stem. Her sickly yellow eyes scanned the market, flicking between vampires, witches, and deal brokers, unimpressed by the usual rabble.

And then—she froze.

A flicker of pink and blue in the crowd. White feathers. A stance she recognized. A girl she had long since written off as untouchable.

Magica shot upright, goblet clattering to the floor, its contents spilling like blood across the stone. She stalked toward the balcony’s edge, gripping the railing, her breath sharp and uneven.

Webby Vanderquack.

And she was alone.

No protector at her side.

A slow, wicked smile crawled across Magica’s face.

Behind her, a figure stirred, watching her with a keen, knowing gaze. The duck, dressed in purple and gold, his military-style coat was crisp, perfectly tailored to his lean frame. His white hair, tied back in a tight ponytail, gave him an air of control, of refinement. The saber at his hip rested easily in its sheath, polished, ready.

His mistress didn’t react this way often.

“Mistress,” he spoke smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his coat, his expression unreadable. “What is it?”

Magica’s grip on the railing tightened, her nails digging into the stone. She didn’t turn, her voice a low, dangerous whisper.

“She’s here, Paperelfo,” she hissed. “The last Templar… and Scrooge isn’t.”

Paperelfo’s icy blue eyes flicked to the marketplace below, scanning. He didn't know what the Templar looked like, but he could tell when Magica smelled blood in the water.

“Alone, then?” he mused, rolling his shoulders, testing the weight of his saber. “Fortune smiles upon us.”

Magica let out a slow, delighted chuckle, a sound that slithered through the air like a coiling snake.

Magica’s yellow, bile-stained eyes stayed locked on Webby as she moved through the Night Market. The girl was older now, but Magica would recognize that damned bloodline anywhere. The last Templar walked with purpose, her wide eyes drinking in the market’s wonders, but there was something different about her—something fragile beneath the steel.

And then Magica saw them.

The two mortals trailing behind her.

A slow, sharp grin spread across her face as realization dawned.

The first one was a redheaded duck, all fire and fierce energy, walking just a little too close to Webby, brushing against her arm, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered in this nightmare world. The other was a taller dog, broad and slouched, moving like a reluctant tourist in a haunted house—eyes flicking from shadow to shadow, already regretting this decision.

Magica’s fingers tightened on the edge of the balcony.

“Ah-ha,” she breathed, her voice like silk unraveling.

“What is it?” Paperelfo asked, watching her carefully.

Magica barely heard him. She was watching Webby’s body language, the way she leaned ever so slightly toward the redhead, how they shared fleeting glances, how that tiny flicker of hesitation crossed Webby’s features; like she was terrified of something… and yet still let herself be near.

“Oh, you foolish girl.” Magica’s grip relaxed, and she leaned into the balcony railing, eyes practically glowing with glee. “After all you’ve lost… after what happened to her… you actually let yourself fall in love again?”

Paperelfo frowned, his gloved fingers tapping against the hilt of his saber. “So, she’s not alone, then.”

Magica let out a slow, deliberate exhale through her nose.

“She’s alone where it matters.”

Her companion studied the two unknown mortals with mild disinterest. “Then they’re nothing. We could strike now, take her before—”

Magica lifted a hand, silencing him.

“No, no.” She finally turned, her dress swirling at her feet, shadows curling at the hem like living ink. “Not yet.”

Magica lifted a hand and snapped her fingers, the sharp sound cutting through the eerie hum of the Night Market.

"May. June."

The shadows at the far edges of the balcony stirred. Not like something stepping into the light, but like the darkness itself coiling, swirling, unraveling into form.

Two figures emerged—twin ducks, their movements impossibly smooth, as if gravity had no claim on them. Their tattered dresses, Victorian in design but ancient-looking in presence, fluttered despite the absence of wind. The fabric was stained, aged, and embroidered with patterns that whispered of forgotten funerals and decayed elegance. The high collars and lace details only added to their otherworldly, mournful presence.

Their gloved hands folded at their waists. Their hooded heads tilted just slightly in eerie unison. The only distinguishing feature between them was the color of the ribbon tied around each of their necks—May’s ribbon was a faded yellow, while June’s was a pale blue, the shades so muted they seemed almost drained of life.

They knelt before Magica, their voices an echoing harmony, spoken as if from the depths of an abandoned house.

“What is your desire, Mistress?”

Magica didn’t bother looking at them. Her eyes remained fixed on the Templar and her unwitting companions below.

“Follow them.” Her voice was smooth, almost amused. “I want to know what they’re up to, where they’re going, and why they’re here.” She finally turned to the twins, her grin sharpening. “Do not engage. Do I make myself clear?”

The twins nodded as one.

“As you wish...” May murmured.

“...Mistress.” June finished.

Then, like ink spilled in reverse, they sank back into the shadows, their forms dissolving into tendrils of darkness.

Magica let out a slow, satisfied hum as she sat down once more on her twisted throne.

“Let’s see how far love will take her this time.”

Gosalyn, Webby, and Max wove through the twisting alleys of the Night Market, past stalls selling whispering trinkets and bottles of liquid moonlight, until they arrived at a crooked, towering shop wedged between two much smaller buildings, as if it had grown too large for its space but refused to relocate. A sign, made of black iron and twisted vines, hung above the entrance, creaking softly as if whispering to itself. It read in ornate, shifting script:

Morgana’s Macabre
'Curiosities, Elixirs, and Oddities Beyond Mortal Comprehension.'

"And we're here!" Webby announced.

"Great," Gosalyn sighed as she looked at the sign, "Let's see what horrors await."

The double doors were impossibly tall, carved from dark, ancient wood with faintly glowing arcane symbols etched deep into their surface. As Webby pushed them open, a small brass bell overhead let out a sound that was less of a chime and more of a delighted giggle.

Inside, the shop was larger than it should have been, stretching far beyond the confines of the street. Dim, flickering candlelight illuminated rows of dusty shelves stacked high with potions, grimoires, and magical trinkets. The air smelled of incense, aged parchment, and something faintly floral, yet unrecognizable.

At the center of the shop was a massive, gnarled tree, its roots spreading across the floor like veins of black marble. Suspended from its twisted branches were glass orbs, each containing a small, floating creature—some resembling miniature dragons, others glowing jellyfish that drifted lazily inside their enchanted prisons.

To the left, racks of robes and cloaks shimmered as if woven from stardust, their colors shifting with every blink. A case of runed daggers and bone-carved wands rested beneath them, each artifact humming with latent energy.

To the right, a collection of bizarre animals sat in cages of silver and crystal. A six-eyed raven tilted its head at them, murmuring in a language that sounded suspiciously like gossip. A small cat-like creature, covered in deep blue fur with twinkling constellations, blinked lazily, its tail flicking and leaving behind trails of stardust.

The shelves behind the curved, wooden counter held bottles of every imaginable color, their contents bubbling, swirling, or muttering to themselves. Some were labeled with helpful descriptions, such as:

"Guaranteed to Turn Your Enemy into a Toad (Results May Vary)."
"Love Potion #7 (Because #9 Had… Unfortunate Consequences)."
"A Spoonful of This and You’ll Speak in Riddles for a Week."

At the far end of the shop, a staircase wound upwards into the shadows, leading to an unseen second floor. A curtained-off area near the back exuded a sense of secrecy, the velvet fabric swaying as if something had just passed through it.

Gosalyn took one look around and let out a slow, awed whistle.

“Okay, this place slaps.”

Max folded his arms, glancing at a floating eyeball in a jar that was very clearly watching him back.

“We're not in Safeway anymore.”

Webby, completely unfazed, strode forward with confidence.

“Yep, that’s about right. Come on, let’s find Morgana.”

The moment Webby spoke her name, the heavy velvet curtain behind the counter shifted, as though the shop itself had taken a breath. A moment later, a figure stepped from the shadows—Morgana Macawber.

"Webby!" she exclaimed, her voice rich with warmth and familiarity.

The duck glided forward, the deep red of her spiderweb-patterned dress shifting like woven dusk. The lantern light flickered across her black hair, streaked with white, and her sharp green eyes gleamed with delight. Despite the eerie beauty of her shop, Morgana herself carried an air of effortless grace, as though she belonged to a world that hovered just beyond the veil of dreams and nightmares.

She pulled Webby into a tight hug. “It’s been too long, darling.”

Webby grinned as they parted. “Way too long! Morgana, these are my friends—Gosalyn and Max.”

Morgana turned her gaze to Gosalyn first. Her piercing eyes flickered with curiosity, as though reading something beyond the surface. Then, with an elegant motion, she extended her clawed hand.

Gosalyn, never one to be intimidated, gripped it firmly and smirked. “Nice place you got here. Real… homey.”

Morgana chuckled. “A matter of perspective.”

Then she turned to Max. “And you?”

Max had been motionless this entire time, eyes slightly wide, lips parted in what could only be described as overwhelmed awe.

Gosalyn bit her bill to keep from laughing.

Max finally jerked upright, nearly knocking over a nearby display of crystal vials. “I—I’m Max! Max Goof! That’s—uh—me!” He awkwardly thrust out his hand, then hesitated halfway, as if second-guessing whether touching her might actually turn him to stone.

Morgana’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Charmed.” She took his hand, her touch cool and smooth, her nails just sharp enough to make his breath hitch.

Max looked like he might actually pass out.

Webby rolled her eyes. “Don’t encourage him.”

Gosalyn just smirked. “Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with this.”

Morgana leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her sharp nails tapping idly against the wood. “And how’s Scrooge these days?”

Webby smirked. “Old.”

Morgana let out a rich, amused chuckle. “He is a grumpy old bastard, isn’t he?”

She tilted her head, studying Webby for a moment before asking, “So, what brings you to my shop today, darling?”

Webby got straight to the point. “We need more Zombie Juice.”

Morgana’s black lips curled into a pleased smile. “Ah, perfect timing. I was just brewing a fresh batch. Should only be a bit.” She tapped a long claw against the counter, then added, “While you wait, I have some new wares upstairs. Special stock.”

Webby’s eyes lit up instantly. “You mean…?”

Morgana gestured toward the spiraling staircase. “Go right ahead. Just no testing indoors, if you please.”

That was all the invitation Webby needed. She immediately grabbed Gosalyn’s hand and, with barely contained excitement, yanked her toward the stairs.

“C’mon, you have to see this,” Webby gushed, practically bouncing on her feet as she pulled Gosalyn along.

Gosalyn stumbled after her, barely managing a, “Wait—what am I seeing?” before they disappeared up the stairs.

That left Max alone with Morgana. He exhaled slowly, adjusting his hoodie like he suddenly needed to look cooler. “I think I’ll just, uh, poke around down here.” He made a casual, totally-not-obvious motion toward Morgana, flashing a small grin. “You know, maybe learn a thing or two.”

Morgana arched an elegant brow, amused. “Oh? And what, exactly, do you hope to learn?”

Max hesitated. “Uh…”

Gosalyn’s laugh echoed from upstairs.

Morgana chuckled softly. “By all means, poke around. Just be careful—some of these artifacts have a habit of poking back.”

Max swallowed. “Noted.”

The upstairs room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from floating, ghostly lanterns that bobbed through the air, casting an eerie greenish glow on the walls. Unlike the more traditional shop floor below, this was a monster hunter’s dream—a veritable arsenal of arcane weaponry, each piece humming with untold history and power.

Webby bolted forward, practically vibrating with excitement, her boots clanking against the old wooden floor. “Oh my gods, she actually has a Hellfire Flintlock!”

She grabbed a massive, antique pistol from a velvet-lined case, its barrel engraved with infernal runes. The dark wood of the grip seemed charred but untouched, and when Webby tilted it, the runes briefly flickered red.

“This bad boy?” she said, waving it toward Gosalyn. “Shoots bullets wreathed in spectral flame! Melts right through ghosts, demons—hell, even some lower-tier angels if you really piss one off.”

Gosalyn blinked, watching as Webby carefully placed it back with something almost like reverence.

But Webby was already onto the next treasure. She let out an actual squeal when she spotted a twisting, barbed spear mounted on the wall. “Stormpiercer!” she gasped.

She grabbed the bronze shaft, its surface etched with jagged lightning patterns, and twirled it. Sparks crackled from the tip, faint and whispering, but definitely there.

“Legends say this thing was forged by a mad sorcerer during a hurricane and can call down lightning on command.” She shook her head in awe. “Freakin’ unreal.”

Nearby, a curved, silver dagger rested in a glass case, its hilt wrapped in what looked like pale leather. Webby’s expression grew a little more serious.

“The Bleeding Fang,” she murmured. “You don’t cut people with it, you feed it a single drop of blood, and it hunts down the source.”

She glanced at Morgana’s collection of swords, her eyes nearly popping out of her head.

“Wait, is that a real Witchslayer Saber?!”

She darted over, practically climbing onto the display case to get a better look. The blade was slim and curved, gleaming darkly under the lantern light. It pulsed, just once, as if recognizing an eager soul nearby.

Gosalyn, meanwhile, was still trying to process all of this. “Are we just glossing over the fact that at least three of these things could probably explode if you look at them wrong?”

Webby, still practically salivating over the saber, waved her off. “Yeah, yeah, but look at the craftsmanship!”

She kept moving, pointing out bizarre weapons almost too fast to follow.

Gosalyn leaned against one of the shelves, her arms crossed as she watched Webby bounce from one weapon to the next with the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy store. She couldn't help but admire how at home Webby looked here, surrounded by ancient, dangerous artifacts that would send anyone else running for the hills. Each piece seemed to come with its own history, its own story, and Webby knew them all like the back of her hand. It was kind of… intimidating.

Gosalyn couldn’t help but grin at how oblivious Webby was to the potential danger of all the stuff she was handling. But then again, that was Webby for you—so comfortable with chaos, like it was second nature to her. It was almost a little scary, seeing how she could pick up a sword or a cursed relic like it was just another toy.

But even though Webby seemed like a walking disaster waiting to happen, Gosalyn found herself thinking that maybe it wasn’t so bad. There was something... endearing about it. The way Webby got excited about things that would terrify anyone else, the way she handled danger without a second thought; like she wasn’t even worried. It was almost like she was fearless—and cute in a way.

Gosalyn glanced over at Webby again, who was now reading the label on an ancient book that looked like it might crumble if you so much as breathed on it. The way Webby was so focused, so utterly absorbed in all this strange, supernatural junk, made Gosalyn feel a little… soft, in a way. Webby was like a whirlwind of chaos, yes, but she was also a mystery, wrapped in excitement, and Gosalyn found herself wanting to know more.

She shook her head at herself, trying to shake off the feeling, but the warmth that spread through her chest wouldn't quite go away.

It’s just Webby, she told herself. She's just... Webby. You're just... along for the ride.

And yet, despite herself, she couldn't stop watching as Webby bounced around from one display to the next, completely at home in a world that was both terrifying and fascinating. Gosalyn wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, she realized that she didn’t mind it at all.

Webby paused mid-bounce, her eyes narrowing playfully as she turned to face Gosalyn. She tilted her head to one side, her expression curious. “What’s got your attention so much?” she asked, her voice light.

Gosalyn blinked, snapping out of her thoughts as she realized she’d been staring at Webby. She flushed slightly, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. “It’s… you,” she admitted, her voice quieter than usual. “I missed you these past few days.”

Webby’s eyes softened at that, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. She stepped closer to Gosalyn, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m sorry. I really wanted to let you in on everything, but... I was worried that the more I brought you into this world, the more dangerous it would be for you.”

Gosalyn shook her head, a small, determined smile spreading across her face. “I’m not worried about myself, Webby,” she said, her tone firm. “I’m more worried about you.” Her gaze softened, looking at Webby like she was trying to understand all the weight the other duck carried. “But no matter what weird or strange things happen, no matter what happens to me, I’d never give up on you. We’re friends. That means something to me.”

Webby’s heart skipped a beat at Gosalyn’s words. There was an overwhelming warmth in her chest, and for the first time in days, she felt a sense of reassurance. She hadn’t expected to hear those words, especially not now, especially not after everything that had happened.

A small, genuine smile tugged at the corners of Webby’s lips. “Thanks, Gosalyn,” she murmured. “I promise, I won’t keep you out of the loop again. Not if you don’t want me to.”

Gosalyn’s eyes met Webby’s, and for a brief, heart-fluttering moment, there were only the two of them standing in that dusty room full of ancient relics. Everything else seemed to fade away. It was just them, standing side by side, and Gosalyn couldn’t help but feel a little bit lighter.

Then Webby dropped a bomb.

"Hey, you wanna kiss me?" Webby asked, her voice casual; as though she was asking if Gosalyn wanted to grab a snack.

Gosalyn blinked, her eyes wide as saucers. "You mean, like a kiss-kiss? Here? Now?" She stuttered, unsure if she’d heard that correctly.

Webby just shrugged, that trademark grin of hers never wavering. "Yeah, why not?"

Before Gosalyn could process this new, confusing request, Webby slid up to her with that same fearless ease she carried everywhere. One hand slid up Gosalyn's side, the other landing on her hips, warm and firm. She looked into Gosalyn's eyes with an intensity that made Gosalyn’s breath hitch. "I know you wanted to during the whole thing with Mothman, so..." Webby’s voice trailed off, but the implication hung there, undeniable.

Gosalyn’s mind was spinning. Webby was so close now that she could feel the heat radiating from her body, the soft brush of her breath on her skin, and something inside her felt both anxious and electric at the same time.

"I..." Gosalyn cleared her throat, her heart pounding. "I’ve never kissed anyone before." Her voice was barely a whisper, but the admission felt like a weight being lifted off her shoulders. She hadn’t even realized how much she’d been holding onto that fact until it spilled out.

Webby raised an eyebrow, her smile widening. "I haven’t either, well, unless you count my stuffies." She giggled at the thought, a strange but endearing little chuckle that made Gosalyn’s heart do a flip.

Gosalyn couldn’t help but laugh, the image of Webby surrounded by weird, bizarre stuffed animals flashing through her mind. She could totally see it. "I can’t even imagine what your stuffies must be like," she said, shaking her head.

Webby stood up on the tips of her toes, leaning just a bit closer. "So," she said with a teasing glint in her eyes, "Do you wanna kiss me?"

Gosalyn’s heart pounded harder in her chest, her mind still whirling with thoughts she couldn’t quite catch. There was an undeniable pull between them, a connection that felt like it could snap the world in two if they let it. She didn’t know what she was feeling, but she knew one thing for sure—she didn’t want to walk away from this moment.

"Are you sure about this?" Gosalyn asked softly, her voice barely audible, but full of genuine curiosity and the growing need to understand this spark between them.

Webby’s smile softened, her eyes never leaving Gosalyn’s. "Yeah. Are you?"

And for the first time, Gosalyn found herself without an answer, just looking into those wide, trusting eyes that made everything seem just a little bit simpler.

So, she did the only thing she could think of: she leaned in, closing the gap between them, "Fuck it," and kissed Webby.

Her hands found Webby’s cheeks, the soft down of her feathers tickling her palms as she pulled her closer. Webby’s eyes fluttered shut in surprise for a brief second; before she responded with a passion that matched Gosalyn’s own. Their kiss was like lightning—sharp, brilliant, and overwhelming. Gosalyn could feel the electricity of it coursing through her, setting her entire body alight.

The room fell away around them, the dust and the artifacts fading into the background. All she could focus on was Webby’s warmth, the taste of her, the way their breaths mingled together. It was nothing like Gosalyn had ever felt before, and she realized that she’d been waiting for this moment without even knowing it.

It was perfect.

For a few moments, there was nothing but the soft press of their bills, the gentle exploration of their tongues, the sweetness of Webby's saliva. Gosalyn felt like she could have stayed there forever, lost in the feeling of Webby’s warmth and the promise of something she’d never allowed herself to dream of.

As their kiss finally broke, both Gosalyn and Webby stood still for a moment, breathless, eyes wide, and hearts still racing. The space between them buzzed with energy, and for a split second, it felt like nothing else mattered.

But then, like a splash of cold water, a voice rang out,

"Well, it's about damn time."

Gosalyn's eyes snapped open, her face flushed, and she immediately stepped back, instinctively pulling away from Webby. Webby, equally stunned, blinked and turned toward the voice. There stood Max, leaning casually against the wall, a knowing grin on his face. Morgana stood beside him, her arms crossed, smiling with that mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Well, aren't you two just adorable?" she remarked, her voice laced with playful amusement.

Gosalyn and Webby both blushed deeply, their feathers visibly ruffling in embarrassment. Gosalyn wiped a hand across her face, trying to collect herself, but her heart was still racing in the aftershocks of their kiss. Webby, equally flustered, fidgeted and looked anywhere but at Max and Morgana.

Morgana’s voice, light and teasing, broke the awkward silence. "Now, if you two are done sucking face, it’s time to discuss... payment."

Chapter Text

"Dark Ducks! Woo-oo!
Every night they're out there chasing Dark Ducks! Woo-oo!
Tales of shadows, chills, and haunted dark luck! Woo-oo!

D-d-d-danger lurks behind the veil,
Strange sightings, a ghostly trail!
What to do? The darkness is no fairy tale!

Dark Ducks! Woo-oo!
Every night they're out there chasing Dark Ducks! Woo-oo!
Tales of cryptids, ghouls, and cursed tough luck! Woo-oo!

D-d-daring heroes take the dive,
Facing fears to survive!
Secrets that the shadows try to hide!

Dark Ducks! Woo-oo!
Every night they're out there chasing Dark Ducks! Woo-oo!
Tales of monsters, myths, and ghostly bad luck! Woo-oo!

Tales of terror, screams, and eerie Dark Ducks!

Woo-oo!"

Chapter Thirteen - Break Stuff

The upstairs loft of Morgana’s Macabre had an eerie sort of charm. It was cozy but dimly lit, the walls lined with bookshelves crammed with ancient tomes, jars of preserved oddities, and strange trinkets that seemed to hum faintly with unseen energy. A low table sat between the four of them, the centerpiece of a proper tea service: a dark porcelain teapot, delicate cups, a plate of assorted cookies, and a tray of finger sandwiches.

The tea was good. Fragrant, floral, with just the right amount of sweetness.

Gosalyn leaned back in her chair, letting out a satisfied sigh. “Damn, this is good.”

Morgana smiled over the rim of her cup. “An old recipe. A little chamomile, a little honey, and just a dash of moonflower.”

“Moonflower?” Max echoed, mid-sip.

Morgana tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Perfectly safe.”

Max looked unconvinced, but he took another sip anyway. The tea really was good.

The same couldn’t be said for the sandwiches.

He poked at one with his finger, frowning as something inside twitched between the slices of bread. He looked over at Webby, who had already devoured two and was reaching for a third.

“You, uh… you good with that?” Max asked, watching in mild horror as she took another enthusiastic bite.

Webby gave him a thumbs-up as she chewed.

Max glanced back at his plate, watching another sandwich shift slightly. “…I’m not used to my food moving.”

“Oh, it’s just a little pickled kraken,” Webby said cheerfully, licking a stray drop of ink from her thumb. “You can barely taste the tentacles.”

Max shoved his plate toward her. “All yours.”

Gosalyn snickered. “You’re so weird, you know that?”

Webby grinned. “Aw, thanks!”

Before they could continue their banter, Morgana set her cup down with a soft clink, and the air in the room shifted.

“Now then,” she said, her voice smooth, but firm. “About your payment.”

The playful atmosphere faded slightly as the trio straightened.

“For the Zombie Juice, I have a task for you.” Morgana folded her hands neatly in her lap. “My pet got loose. I need you to find him and bring him back before the Bodaks… erase him.”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow. “What kind of pet are we talking about?”

Morgana took a sip of tea before answering, completely nonchalant.

“Oh, just a chupacabra.”

Silence.

Max blinked. Webby sat up straighter.

Gosalyn let out a sharp laugh. “Ha! Okay, you had me for a second.”

Morgana didn’t blink.

“…You’re serious?” Gosalyn asked.

“Quite.”

Gosalyn stared at her. “Like, an actual, blood-sucking, nightmare cryptid?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Morgana waved a hand. “Chupy is just a pup.”

Something about the way she said it made Gosalyn deeply suspicious. “Define ‘pup.’”

Morgana’s bill curved into a knowing smile.

“About six feet long. Mangy. Hairless, mostly. Large claws. Unhinging jaw. Glowing eyes.”

Gosalyn’s stare intensified. “That’s not a pup, lady. That’s a problem.”

Morgana shrugged. “Semantics.”

Max dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. Sure. Chupacabra. Just another normal day in the creepy monster market.”

Webby, however, beamed. “We get to hunt a real chupacabra? This is the best!”

Gosalyn groaned. “You’re actually excited about this?”

“Of course! When else am I gonna get this chance?” Webby turned to Morgana eagerly. “Do we get weapons?”

Morgana chuckled. “I’ll give you a few tools to help. But Chupy must be brought back alive.”

“Great,” Gosalyn muttered. “We get to wrangle a six-foot bloodsucker.”

Morgana reached beneath the table and pulled out a small bundle. She set it in front of them and unwrapped it carefully, revealing three items.

A silver bell with a wooden handle, slightly tarnished. “Ring this to disrupt his invisibility.”

A sack of meat, slightly rotten. “He’s always hungry. Use this as bait.”

A coil of silver-infused rope. “Tough enough to hold him, if you can get it around him.”

Gosalyn eyed the supplies, then looked at Morgana. “No tranquilizer darts? No, I don’t know, cage?”

Morgana smiled sweetly. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Gosalyn groaned. “I hate magic people.”

Max rubbed his temples. “So, just to be clear, we’re going out into a supernatural black market, looking for an invisible, wall-climbing, six-foot-long vampire dog, and our only plan is to shake a bell and throw rotten meat at it?”

Morgana nodded.

Max exhaled. “Cool, cool, cool. Just checking.”

Webby clapped her hands together. “Alright, team! Let’s go catch a chupacabra!”

Gosalyn shot her a look. “You are way too happy about this.”

Webby grinned. “And you love it.”

Gosalyn opened her mouth… then promptly shut it. She wasn’t wrong. Damn it.

Morgana chuckled. “Good luck, dears. Try not to get eaten.”

The Night Market was alive with its usual eerie, dreamlike chaos.

But Gosalyn wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

Her mind was still back in Morgana’s shop.

Still back at that kiss.

It had been… perfect. More than perfect. It had been everything. Warm, electric, right in a way that made her stomach flip just thinking about it. Webby had been so bold, so Webby, just blurting it out—"Hey, you wanna kiss me?"—like it was as casual as asking about the weather. Gosalyn had never really thought about kissing anyone before. Never craved it. Never ached for it.

But Webby.

With Webby, it had been different.

The memory played over and over in her head, looping like a broken record. The feeling of Webby’s hands gripping her hips, the barely-there press of her breath before their beaks met, the way Webby had smiled against her mouth like she had just won some cosmic bet. It had felt… right.

Which made everything else in Gosalyn’s head a mess.

She had never thought of herself as the type to get all gooey over romance. Never chased after boys, never swooned over actors or singers like her old friends used to. That kind of thing always felt distant, like it was meant for other people. People who thought about dating and who cared about labels.

And now?

Now she was walking through a supernatural bazaar, definitely not caring about labels, but also very much thinking about a girl.

No, not just any girl. Webby.

Webby, who walked beside her, looking around for any sign of Chupy with the kind of focused intensity that made her blue eyes almost glow under the market lights. Webby, who held the silver bell like it was a holy relic, ready to throw herself into the next bit of chaos without a second thought. Webby, who didn’t hesitate, who didn’t second-guess herself, who knew what she wanted and went for it.

Gosalyn swallowed. God. She was in so much trouble.

Needing a distraction, she blurted out, “So, Webby.”

Webby turned to her instantly, still wired with energy. “Yeah?”

Gosalyn hesitated for a split second, then asked, “What’s the deal with you and Scrooge, anyway?”

Webby blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why are you with him? Where are your parents?”

That stopped Webby in her tracks.

The change was instant.

Her usual bright, almost manic energy dimmed, just a little. Her shoulders stiffened, her expression shuttering—not quite sad, not quite uncomfortable, just… distant. Like she had mentally stepped somewhere far away.

“I never knew them,” she said simply.

Gosalyn frowned. “Like… at all?”

Webby shook her head, staring straight ahead. “No. As far as I can remember, I’ve always been with Scrooge. Training. Learning. Preparing.”

That last word sent a shiver down Gosalyn’s spine. “Preparing for what?”

Webby glanced at her, and then something unreadable appeared in her expression. “He said it was my birthright.”

That made Gosalyn uneasy.

She had met a lot of weird people in her life. She had been raised by a crime-fighting vigilante, so she knew firsthand what it was like to be shoved into a destiny she didn’t necessarily ask for. But this? Something about the way Webby said it—so matter-of-fact; like it wasn’t up for debate—made her stomach twist.

“That’s… kinda cult-y,” Gosalyn muttered before she could stop herself.

Webby laughed, but it was short, empty.

Trying to lighten the mood, Gosalyn smirked. “You must’ve had some wild birthday parties, huh?”

Webby hesitated.

Then, voice quieter than before, she said, “I wouldn’t know.”

Gosalyn’s smirk faded. “Wait… what?”

“We never celebrated my birthday,” Webby said, gaze still locked ahead. “Or Christmas. Or any holiday, really.”

Gosalyn stared.

Something about the way she said it made Gosalyn’s chest feel tight.

Webby wasn’t saying it like it was sad. She wasn’t pouting about it, wasn’t seeking sympathy. She said it plainly; as though it was just a fact of life.

But it was sad.

“That's,” Gosalyn said after a long moment. “That’s kinda… messed up.”

Webby just shrugged. “It’s just how it was.”

Gosalyn had no idea what to say to that.

For a few moments, they just walked. Around them, the chaos of the Night Market continued—vendors haggling in languages Gosalyn didn’t recognize, a floating skull laughing at some unseen joke, a creature with too many eyes selling glowing bottled dreams to a cloaked figure. Somewhere nearby, something let out a deep, guttural growl, and nobody reacted.

But Gosalyn wasn’t focused on any of it.

She was just thinking about the girl beside her.

"So, are we just gonna wander this place all... night? Day?"

Max slowed his pace, rubbing the back of his neck as he squinted up at the sky—or at least, what passed for a sky in the Night Market.

"Man, I don’t even know what time it’s supposed to be," he muttered, shaking his head. "Anyways, do we even have a plan here? Or are we just hoping we’ll trip over this thing?"

That snapped Webby out of her thoughts. She had been marching forward with purpose, eyes scanning the marketplace like a hawk—or, more accurately, an over-caffeinated cryptid conspiracy theorist in her natural habitat. At Max’s question, she whirled around, her whole body practically vibrating with excitement.

"We need to watch out for anything out of the ordinary!" she announced confidently.

Max stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned to take in the Night Market.

A vendor haggling over a jar of live screams.

A skeleton casually flipping through a magazine at a cursed bookstore.

An owl-faced man sipping tea from a cup that whispered every time he took a sip.

Max took a deep breath, then flung his arms out wildly.

"REALLY!?" he cried. "Because everything looks completely, 100% normal to me!"

Gosalyn, arms crossed, gave Webby an unimpressed look. "Yeah, babe, I adore you, but you need to be more specific. Some of us have never hunted a Chupacabra before."

Webby huffed, placing her hands on her hips. "Alright, fine. Listen very carefully."

She paused dramatically, then tilted her head slightly. "Do you hear that?"

Max and Gosalyn glanced at each other before focusing.

Max furrowed his brow. "…I don’t hear anything."

Webby’s grin stretched wide as she pointed to her beak. "Exactly."

There was a long beat of silence.

Gosalyn’s eye twitched.

Webby continued, "And when we hear someone scream—"

A scream tore through the air.

"Yeah, like that!" Webby beamed, absolutely delighted by the confirmation of her theory, "That probably means Chupy is up to no good!"

Max pointed at nothing in particular and threw his hands up. "Oh, good! There it is! That’s what we were waiting for!"

Gosalyn made a sound so deeply exhausted that she might have been speaking in an ancient, long-forgotten language of sarcasm. She then proceeded to slap her forehead with so much force that she nearly concussed herself.

"Good job, monster hunter."

She grabbed Webby by the wrist, spun her around, and dragged her in the direction of the scream.

Max let out a sigh, popping his knuckles before following them. "Yeah, awesome plan, guys," he muttered. "Let’s just run towards the horrible, violent noise. This’ll go great."

The air grew thicker the moment they stepped into the next stretch of the Night Market—as if the very atmosphere had changed. The usual mix of exotic spices, strange incense, and unidentifiable street food gave way to something else. Something sweet and smoky, laced with an undertone of sulfur and the faintest hint of copper.

The alleyway before them was narrow, the cobblestone path twisting like a living thing, pulling them deeper into the heart of the market’s underbelly. Strange, flickering lanterns cast a blood-red glow, their lights swaying as if caught in an invisible breath. The buildings here leaned closer, their dark archways curling like clawed fingers, signs written in a mix of forgotten languages and symbolic etchings.

And the occupants?

Succubi, lounging against walls in outfits that left little to the imagination, their eyes glinting like liquid gold in the dim light. A group of anthro hellhounds, their fur sleek and glossy, collars studded with infernal runes, tongues flicking over sharp fangs as they grinned hungrily at passersby. Shadowy fae creatures draped in silks that shimmered like oil slicks, their laughter like chiming bells, but with an underlying sharpness that hinted at danger.

It was, without a doubt, the Red Light District of the Night Market.

And Max?

Max was in heaven.

Before he even had time to react, they were on him.

A succubus with dark crimson skin wrapped an arm around his shoulders, her breath warm against his ear. “You smell delicious,” she purred, her fingers lightly tracing the collar of his hoodie. “Why don’t you stay for a little… treat?”

A hellhound girl, taller than the others, with sleek black and silver fur and glowing red eyes, pressed herself against his other side, one clawed finger tracing lazy circles on his chest. “Mmm… I do love a mortal with a good build.” She licked her lips, flashing razor-sharp fangs.

Max's brain short-circuited.

He stood there, completely overwhelmed, his face rapidly turning a shade of red that rivaled the glow of the eyes mentally stripping him of his clothing.

"H-h-huh?" was all he managed to get out.

Gosalyn rolled her eyes so hard she could almost see her brain. “Oh, for the love of—”

She grabbed the hood of his hoodie and yanked.

Max barely had time to yelp as she dragged him out of their grasp.

The succubi hissed like a feral cat, her alluring charm dropping in an instant to reveal something sharper, darker. The hellhound growled lowly, ears flattening, her predatory instincts kicking in at the boldness of the theft.

The succubi, the one who had first latched onto Max, narrowed her eyes at Gosalyn. “Oh, you must be the jealous type,” she cooed, voice dripping with mockery.

“Yeah,” Gosalyn deadpanned. “That’s it. Totally. Now back off, sluts.”

The creatures tensed, eyes glinting dangerously—until Webby stepped up.

With a flash of blue light, her sword materialized in her hand, the enchanted blade casting a cold, lunar glow that cut through the sultry red hues of the alleyway. The light reflected in the succubi’s eyes, and the hellhounds’ ears pinned back further.

Webby grinned, shifting her grip on the sword. “Yeah, try it.”

The creatures hesitated for a beat—then, one by one, they slowly slunk back into the shadows, their seductive smiles replaced with something wary.

Webby let the sword linger for a moment longer before making it vanish. She turned to Max, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t I just tell you? Don't touch anything!”

Max, still very much in a love-struck haze, blinked slowly. “Technically, they were touching me.”

Gosalyn let out a long, suffering sigh, then promptly shoved him forward.

"Let’s go, Romeo."

They continued deeper into the forbidden alley, the lights growing dimmer but their heart rates rising. The shadows stretched long and thick, like tendrils reaching out to pull them into the depths of the Night Market’s most dangerous corner. The air was damp and thick with a mix of sweet incense and something decayed, a pungent combination that made their nostrils flare. Here, the cobblestone streets were uneven, cracked, and stained with who-knows-what—a sign of the less-legal dealings that happened in these back alleys.

The trio moved cautiously, the only sounds around them the creaking of warped wood, the distant echo of laughter and muffled music, and the occasional fluttering of bat wings overhead. Gosalyn’s mind raced, her eyes darting around, scanning every inch of shadow. Webby, always sharp, kept close to her, coiled up like a spring and ready to attack anything that jumped out at them. The air felt thick with anticipation—they were getting closer to something, something big, something dangerous.

And then, as they turned a corner, they saw it.

CHUPY.

The Chupacabra was hunched over a body, his mangy, hairless frame barely visible in the dim glow of a distant lantern. His grotesquely long limbs stretched awkwardly as he fed, his wiry fur clinging to skin stretched too tight over bone. His oversized, insectoid eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the weak light like a predator caught in a camera flash.

The corpse beneath him was still twitching.

It was a succubus, her once-seductive form reduced to a withered husk, wings crumpled beneath her like torn silk. Her skin had gone pale, her body limp as Chupy’s jagged needle-like teeth remained latched onto her neck, slurping noisily. The sound was stomach-turning—wet and greedy, like a parasite gorging itself.

Max swallowed hard. “Oh, that’s… that’s so much worse than I imagined.”

Gosalyn felt something tighten in her chest. This thing wasn’t just feeding. It was draining her, hollowing her out like an emptied juice box.

As if sensing their presence, Chupy’s long ears twitched, and he froze.

Slowly, his head lifted, dark viscous blood dripping from his lips in thick, ropey strands. He sniffed the air, and then—his unhinged jaw began to close, clicking back into place with an unnatural snap.

They moved—fast.

Gosalyn grabbed Max and Webby, pulling them back around the corner, hearts hammering. They pressed themselves against the cold brick, breathing heavily, trying to process what they just seen.

Webby whispered first, “Okay. Okay. We can’t just rush him.”

“No shit,” Max whispered back, “He just turned that chick into a freaking Capri Sun. I’m not trying to be next.”

Gosalyn exhaled sharply. “Yeah, we need a plan. A real one. Not like with Mothman.”

Max nodded, still trying to shake off the sheer grossness of the moment. “Yeah. No last-minute bullshit this time. I’d really rather not have another ‘almost died’ story to add to my collection.”

Gosalyn crouched, pulling open the worn leather sack they had stuffed full of supplies before heading into the Market. She rummaged through it quickly, sorting through their gear.

First, she pulled out the sack of raw meat—bloody, rancid, disgusting. She shoved it into Max’s arms. “You distract him.”

Max recoiled like she’d handed him a bag full of spiders. “Why me?!”

Gosalyn shot him a flat look. “Because I did it last time. You owe me.”

Max groaned, holding the leaking, putrid bag at arm’s length. “God, I hate you.”

Next, Gosalyn grabbed the coil of enchanted rope, shoving it into Webby’s hands. “You lasso him. Tie him up tight.”

Webby nodded, testing the rope’s weight in her grip. “Got it.”

Finally, Gosalyn reached into the sack and pulled out the silver bell—small, tarnished, but apparently effective against creatures that tried to vanish. She held it up with a grin. “If he tries to go invisible? Ring-a-ling-ding-ding, asshole.”

They all shared a look, a silent agreement passing between them.

This was it.

They stepped back around the corner, moving in sync, their movements careful, measured. The alley was dead silent, the only sound the faint drip, drip, drip of blood pooling beneath the succubus’s drained body.

Chupy was still standing there. Waiting. Watching.

Ready.

Gosalyn clutched the bell in her sweaty palm. “Ready…”

Webby’s grip tightened on the rope. “Steady…”

Max let out a long breath and plunged his hand into the sack of gore, fighting back a gag as he pulled out the biggest, most revolting hunk of rotting flesh he could find.

“GO!”

Max yelled as he launched the disgusting, dripping chunk across the alley. It hit the ground with a wet slap, sliding across the cobblestone until it stopped near Chupy’s feet.

For a moment, nothing happened.

And then, Chupy’s head snapped toward them.

His jaw unhinged again—farther this time, way too far—exposing rows of needle-thin teeth. His chest expanded, a horrible gurgling sound rising from his throat like a pipe about to burst.

And then—

HE ROARED.

The noise was bone-rattling, a horrific, guttural howl that shook the very air around them. The force of it sent dust and grime flying, rattling the fragile wooden stalls nearby.

And then came the blood.

A spray of thick, putrid red burst from his maw—hot, rancid, and drenching them from head to toe.

Max stood there, absolutely soaked in blood and questionable fluids, blinking slowly as a thick glob dripped off his nose.

“…Gross.”

Gosalyn wiped her face with a disgusted sputter. “GET HIM, WEBBY!”

Webby swung the rope, her aim locked in.

Chupy snarled, charging toward them on all fours, his claws skittering against the stone as he lunged—

They had seconds.

Then—

Chupy vanished.

One second, the snarling, blood-drenched beast was launching itself at them, its long claws poised to tear through flesh—

And then it was gone.

“Oh, hell no!” Gosalyn didn’t hesitate. She shook the bell furiously, expecting a harmless chime—

Instead, a blast of raw sound erupted from it, a deafening BOOM that tore through the alleyway like a shockwave.

The force shattered nearby crates into splinters, sending an avalanche of goods, glass bottles, and bizarre trinkets tumbling across the cobblestone. A vendor’s cart, precariously stacked with glowing jars, tilted wildly before toppling over, sending luminous liquid splattering across the street.

Gosalyn blinked, stunned, gripping the now-smoking bell. “Keen gear.”

Chupy reappeared instantly, mid-sprint, his body shimmering like a bad TV signal before fully solidifying again. He landed on all fours, hissing, but—he wasn’t stopping.

His glowing eyes snapped toward the open street of the Night Market—

And then he bolted.

“AFTER HIM!” Webby shouted.

The three took off, their footsteps pounding against the cobblestone as they chased the Chupacabra back into the chaotic maze of supernatural commerce. They burst out of the shadowy alley and into the heart of the Night Market, a twisted, shifting maze of supernatural stalls and otherworldly merchants.

And Chupy was tearing straight through it like a rabid dog on meth.

The first thing to go was an alchemist’s table.

Chupy skidded onto a slick stretch of obsidian tiles, colliding with a stall stacked with bubbling potions. The glass bottles exploded on impact, sending neon-colored liquid spraying in every direction.

A nearby minotaur vendor was hit square in the face with a splash of glowing green serum.

Immediately, his head shrank.

His massive, muscular body now sported a ridiculously tiny bovine head, blinking in confusion.

The minotaur let out a high-pitched squeak instead of a roar.

“MY SERUMS!” The alchemist, a hunched, four-eyed bird creature, screeched in horror. “YOU’VE RUINED THEM!”

Gosalyn vaulted over the wreckage, barely dodging a suddenly sentient puddle of serum that tried to crawl up her leg.

“MOVE! GET OUT OF THE WAY!” Webby shouted, shoving past a group of floating, cloaked figures who turned their featureless masks toward her in unison.

“Sorry! So sorry! Our bad!” Max yelped as he sidestepped Night Market patrons.

Chupy, moving like a rabid blur, launched himself onto a stack of wooden crates and used them as a springboard to leap onto a merchant’s tent.

The tent collapsed instantly, sending a dozen trapped customers crashing to the ground, buried under a pile of velvet drapes and cursed merchandise.

A skeletal shopkeeper howled in despair, shaking a bony fist. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG IT TAKES TO WARD A TENT?!”

Webby jumped onto a nearby barrel, using it to propel herself onto a rickety awning, scrambling onto the same rooftops as Chupy.

Gosalyn wasn’t as lucky.

As she rounded a corner, she slammed into something huge, soft, and wobbling.

A towering, gelatinous mass of purple goo blocked the path, arguing with a four-armed hag over the price of something wriggling in a glass jar.

Gosalyn hit it face-first, sinking in.

For a brief, horrible moment, she was halfway inside it, her limbs flailing uselessly in the thick, translucent slime.

Max, too slow to stop, crashed into her, and—

BLOOOORP.

Both of them were absorbed.

They floated in thick, jelly-like mass, muffled screams bubbling out.

The hag, completely unfazed, glanced at the slime creature. “You gonna charge them for that?”

The goo sighed, spat both of them out, and continued haggling.

Gosalyn and Max landed hard on the cobblestone, covered in thick, sticky purple sludge.

Max gasped for air, wiping jelly from his face. “I feel like the floor of a porn theater.”

“Worry about it later, dumbass, MOVE!” Gosalyn yanked him up, and they took off again.

Chupy was running out of road.

The sprawling chaos of the market had funneled into a narrow, twisting alleyway, where the once-roaring cacophony of vendors and creatures had faded into a tense, suffocating silence. The path was lined with towering brick walls on either side, their surfaces cracked and moss-covered, dripping with condensation. Crates and broken barrels lay scattered like discarded bones, their splintered wood jutting out in jagged angles. A few torn banners swayed limply overhead, their faded symbols barely visible in the dim, flickering glow of a dying neon sign.

And at the very end—

A wooden door.

Heavy. Sturdy. Exactly like the one they had entered to get to the Night Market.

Gosalyn, Webby, and Max skidded to a stop, their chests heaving, sweat beading beneath their feathers and fur. Their quarry—the ragged, scrawny, blood-soaked Chupacabra—stood just feet ahead, its grotesque, mangy form tensed like a coiled spring.

Chupy’s ribcage expanded and contracted rapidly, its eyes darting wildly between them and the door.

His way out.

He was going for it.

“NO, YOU DON’T!” Webby snarled, already moving.

She gripped the lasso and swung it overhead, the thick rope slicing through the air with a sharp snap.

Chupy lunged for the door—

—and Webby threw the rope.

The loop tightened around his scrawny torso, yanking him back mid-leap.

“HA! GOT HIM!” Webby shouted triumphantly, digging her heels into the dirt and holding on for dear life as Chupy shrieked and thrashed, his powerful limbs kicking and clawing at the rope.

Then Chupy started to vibrate, and his body started to phase out of existence.

“Not this time, fucker!” Gosalayn yelled.

She swung the bell forward and RANG IT—

KA-THOOOOOM!

It was an explosion of sound, a deep, ear-popping shockwave that ripped through the alley like a sonic bomb.

The force of it sent dust and debris flying, the walls groaning from the pressure. Stacked crates detonated like fireworks, sending shattered wood and metal scraps into the air. Somewhere in the market beyond, vendors were shouting in confusion as the blast wave rattled through the streets.

The neon sign above the alley flickered violently—then shattered, plunging them into near-darkness.

But most importantly—

Chupy REELED.

“Help me, Max!” Webby shouted.

Max had already dived for the rope, his hands scrambling to help Webby tighten it around Chupy’s body.

Chupy screeched, thrashing wildly, but his movements were getting slower, weaker. His claws scrabbled against the stone, but his strength was failing.

Gosalyn rung the bell again.

Another blast of sound tore through the alley.

Chupy let out one last, pitiful shriek—

—before his entire body slumped against the ground, his limbs twitching feebly.

Webby and Max didn’t let up.

They moved fast, looping the rope tighter, knotting it expertly. Max was breathing hard, hands shaking, but he moved with precision, keeping his weight on Chupy as he and Webby secured the bindings.

And then—

It was over.

The three of them just stood there, panting, covered in grime and who-knows-what, staring at the tightly bound, motionless Chupacabra.

Finally—

Gosalyn let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.

Then she threw her arms up in victory and shouted:

“HELL YEAH! WE CAUGHT A FREAKIN’ CHUPACABRA!”

Max, still catching his breath, gave a weak thumbs-up, "Hoo-ray."

Webby grinned, brushing dirt off her clothing.

They had done it.

The three of them stood in that grimy, dimly lit alleyway, soaked in all manner of unidentifiable fluids, their breathing still heavy from the chase. It was one of those moments where the adrenaline started to fade, and the reality of what they’d just done sank in.

They had actually caught a real-life Chupacabra.

Gosalyn and Webby grinned at each other, still riding the high of victory. Without thinking, they both stepped forward, arms outstretched for a celebratory hug—

And then froze mid-motion.

They took one long, slow look at each other—

At the thick, dark sludge oozing down their sleeves. At the blood splattered across their faces. At the stringy, viscous saliva clinging to their clothes like they had just climbed out of a swamp full of nightmares.

There was a brief, deeply uncomfortable silence.

Gosalyn slowly lowered her arms and cleared her throat.

“Maybe after a shower?”

Webby nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah. Probably a good idea.”

From the side, Max—who looked like he had literally been thrown into a sewage drain and left there overnight—let out a long, exhausted sigh and slumped against the alley wall. He wiped a thick glob of Chupy’s mystery gunk off his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, only to look down and realize—oh, right, his sleeve was also covered in gunk.

He groaned in defeat.

“So, I have a question.” He gestured lazily at the massive, still-twitching Chupacabra. “How the hell are we getting this big boy back to Morgana?”

The three of them stared at the bound creature.

Then at each other.

Then back at the massive, unconscious Chupy.

Silence.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen - Headstrong

Magica De Spell's cackle echoed through the dimly lit chamber, a sound as sharp and biting as the crack of a whip in the stillness of the night. She stood before the grand, ornate mirror, her green feathers ruffling with each sinister chuckle that escaped her beak. Her reflection, a ghastly image of power and greed, taunted her with the promise of victory that was so close she could almost taste it. The candles flickered, casting eerie shadows across the room as the two young, nude female ducks approached her, their blindfolds a stark contrast against their white feathers. They had been chosen for their beauty and their loyalty, and now they served her in the most intimate of capacities.

The first servant, her youthful body glowing like freshly fallen snow, gently untied the laces of Magica's black corset. The garment fell away, revealing the sorceress's ample bosom, each curve able to make a man, or woman, weak in the knees. The second servant took the discarded corset and placed it aside with meticulous care; as if it were a sacred artifact. Their feathers brushed against Magica's green plumage, sending shivers of pleasure through her body that she couldn't quite suppress. She reveled in their innocence, a stark contrast to the dark desires that burned within her.

Magica's yellow eyes, gleaming with a mischievous glint, roamed over the servants as they worked. Their blindfolds were not just a tool of submission; they were a symbol of the power she held over them. They could not see the hunger in her gaze, nor the malicious intent that swirled within the depths of her soul. The duck witch stepped out of her gothic dress, which pooled at her webbed feet like a puddle of ink. The fabric was almost as dark as the room itself, but it was the lightness of her bare body that truly stood out in the candlelit gloom.

The first servant, her trembling hands betraying her excitement, unclasped the necklace that hung around Magica's neck. The crimson gem at its center pulsed with an unnatural light; as though it held a drop of the most potent of magics. The second servant knelt before her, taking the necklace as if it were a sacred relic. They both knew the significance of the act and the power it symbolized.

Magica's long, black hair cascaded down her back as the first servant unraveled it from the tight bun it was held in. The locks fell around her shoulders, framing her face like a veil of midnight. She reached out with her hand, the sharp nails of her index and middle fingers tracing the outline of the servant's cheek before sliding down to the girl's neck. The servant's pulse quickened under her touch, a slight gasp of breath leaving her.

The second servant stepped closer, her blindfolded eyes searching for Magica's gaze, which never wavered from the mirror. With trembling hands, she reached for the waistband of the black, lace panties that clung to the sorceress's hips. The fabric was as intricate and as dark as the thoughts that danced within the sorceress's mind. The panties slithered down Magica's legs, revealing the soft mound of her sex, already glistening with anticipation of the nightly ritual.

Magica stepped out of the panties, her toes curling against the cold stone floor. The two servants knelt before her, the candlelight playing across their bodies, creating an almost holy scene of submission and desire. They began to undo the laces of her garters, the last vestige of her clothing, and rolled down the stockings that had been held in place by the intricate garters. The stockings fell to the floor like shed snakeskins, leaving the sorceress bare before them.

"Good girls," Magica murmured, her voice a seductive purr that seemed to resonate within the very stones of the chamber. She stepped closer to the pool of blood that awaited her, the scent of iron and power thick in the air, virgin blood, freshly drawn from the sacrifices of the day. The surface of the crimson pool rippled with each step she took, the liquid reflecting the candle's flame like a twisted, fiery dance.

The servants, their breaths shallow and quick, helped her into the pool. The blood was warm, almost scalding, but Magica relished the sensation, her skin prickling with the promise of the dark magic it contained. She sank into the crimson embrace, her eyes fluttering closed as the blood lapped at her body. The first servant, her heart racing, picked up a soft, velvet-covered sponge and dipped it into the pool. The second took a deep, tremulous breath and followed her companion's lead, their hands hovering over the blood's surface.

With practiced hands, they began to wash her body, the sponges gliding over her slick feathers. They started at her shoulders, the sponges leaving trails of crimson in their wake as they worked their way down to her breasts. The sensation of the blood-soaked material against her nipples sent a jolt of pleasure through Magica, making her moan and hiss. She could feel the blood coating her, seeping into her pores, and she reveled in the feeling of power that surged through her with every touch.

The servants, their breaths coming in short, eager gasps, took turns attending to her breasts, their blindfolded eyes seemingly able to sense the heat of Magica's desire. Their touch grew bolder, the sponges pressing firmer, the strokes more deliberate. The first servant took special care to clean the space between Magica's legs, her sponge moving with a gentle, insistent rhythm that made the sorceress's breath hitch. The second servant followed suit, her hand trembling slightly as she felt the heat emanating from the apex of her mistress's thighs.

Suddenly, Magica's eyes snapped open, the yellow orbs locking onto the first servant. Without warning, she leaned forward, capturing the girl's mouth in a fierce kiss, her tongue delving deep, tasting the innocence that lay beneath the surface. The servant moaned, her hands tightening around the sponge, her body responding to the unexpected intimacy. The second servant felt a twinge of jealousy, but she knew her turn would come. For now, she focused on her task, her strokes growing more erratic as she pressed and rubbed the sponge between Magica's legs.

The blood from the sponge mingled with the natural wetness that was building between the sorceress's thighs. The sensation was intoxicating, a heady mix of power and lust that had Magica's feathers fluttering slightly. The second servant's tongue danced over her breasts, tracing the crimson paths left by the sponge, lapping at the drops of blood that clung to her hardened nipples. Each flick sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, making her kiss the first servant even more deeply.

With a gasp, Magica broke the kiss, pushing the first servant away. She turned her attention to the second, her eyes narrowing in a silent command. The servant, understanding her mistress's unspoken desires, leaned in and was kissed by Magica, her tongue delving into the girl's mouth with a ferocity that was both thrilling and terrifying. The first servant watched with a mix of envy and arousal, her own body aching for the same attention.

The second servant's hand slipped lower, the sponge forgotten, her fingers now exploring the slick folds of Magica's sex. The sorceress's breathing grew heavier as the girl's touch grew bolder, her fingertips finding the sensitive spot that made her quiver. The chamber was filled with the sound of their combined moans, the wetness of the blood mingling with the slickness of desire. The first servant, unable to bear it any longer, reached under the pool of blood to touch her mistress as well, silently begging for her to release.

Magica's eyes grew darker, the pupils dilating like the eyes of a predator about to claim its prey. She grabbed the first servant's wrist, pulling her hand away from her body, and brought it to her own mouth. With a flick of her tongue, she tasted the blood that coated the girl's trembling fingers. The second servant watched, her own hand pushing fingers inside her mistress, feeling her tighten and pulse around them.

Magica was close.

Her breathing grew ragged, her eyes half-lidded with the beginnings of a powerful climax. The servants, blindly obedient, continued their ministrations, their own desire building alongside their mistress's. The first servant watched as Magica's tongue traced the crimson path along her own fingers, savoring the metallic tang of the blood. The second servant's hand worked faster, her own breathing matching the rhythm of her strokes. The pool of blood around them grew choppy with the sorceress's movements, the heat from their bodies making the liquid steam.

"That's it," Magica hissed, "Don't stop."

The second servant's hand moved in a blur, her fingers working in a dance that was as ancient as it was depraved. She felt the walls of Magica's sex tighten around her digits, the sorceress's muscles quivering with the tension of her approaching orgasm. The first servant, unable to resist any longer, leaned in and kissed her mistress's neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin. The mix of pain and pleasure elicited a low growl from the sorceress, her hand shooting up to grasp the back of the first servant's head, pulling her closer.

With a final, guttural cry, Magica's body arched, the muscles in her thighs clenching tight around the second servant's hand. The crimson pool churned violently as the sorceress's orgasm washed over her, a wave of dark energy that seemed to fill the very air with a palpable, malevolent force. The first servant felt the power of it, her own body responding with a jolt of pleasure that was almost too much to bear.

As the sorceress's climax subsided, she leaned back against the stone edge of the pool, her breath coming in great, heaving gasps. Her body was slick with sweat and blood, the crimson liquid running in rivulets down her form. The servants, their faces flushed with exertion, looked up at her with a mix of awe and fear. They knew better than to speak without being spoken to, their eyes wide and unblinking behind their blindfolds.

From the shadows, a figure emerged, clearing his throat to get the trio's attention. Paperelfo, Magica's devoted minion, stepped into the flickering candlelight, "Mistress, I bring you word from May and June." He said, averting his gaze from the pool.

Magica, her breathing still ragged from the intense climax, opened her eyes and nodded. "Speak," she said, her voice thick with the aftermath of pleasure.

The two servants, their bodies trembling with unspoken need, carefully helped their mistress rise from the pool of blood. The crimson liquid fell from her in a cascade, painting the stone floor with a gruesome pattern. They took turns using the soft cloths to dry her off, their movements slow and deliberate, as if afraid to disturb the sorceress's post-coital bliss. Each stroke of the cloth sent a shiver through Magica's body, the warmth of the blood against her cooling body a stark reminder of the power she wielded.

"The Templar and her companions went on a merry chase through the Night Market," Paparelfo said, still avoiding eye contact with Magica, "They caused quite the uproar."

"The sword," Magica hissed, pushing both servants away from her to grab a black, silk robe that was laid out on a velvet chair. She wrapped it around herself, the fabric whispering against her damp body as she cinched the robe tight. The two servants, their own desire now unbridled by their mistress's release, turned to each other. Their blindfolds remained in place, but it was clear their senses were heightened as their lips found one another in a kiss that was both tender and desperate.

"Does she have the word?" Magica asked with narrowed eyes.

"She does," Paperelfo nodded.

"Lena..." Magica whispered as she sat on the chair from which she plucked the robe, her voice a dark melody filling the chamber. The two servants, their desires stoked by the intense ritual, remained focused on each other, their bodies trembling with a need that could no longer be denied. At their mistress's feet, they touched each other tentatively at first, their feathered fingers tracing the curves and valleys of their bodies with a newfound urgency. The first servant, her eyes blindfolded yet seeing more clearly than ever before, reached out and caressed the second's breast, the soft mound of flesh yielding to her touch. The second servant's breath hitched, a whimper escaping her beak as she leaned into the touch.

"They also appear to be readying to leave the Night Market," Paparelfo stiffened as he watched the two servants, their hands and feathers exploring each other's bodies with an intensity that only his mistress could bring about in others, "We should strike now, while she is unprotected."

"No," Magica huffed, offering one of her webbed feet to her servants. The first servant leaned in eagerly, her tongue flicking out to taste the blood that had begun to dry on the sole of Magica's foot. The second servant followed suit, her own tongue tracing the arch of the sorceress's foot, "Send an assassin of your choice. If we attack her in the Night Market it may draw the attention of the Bodaks."

The two servants continued to kiss and touch each other as they worked Magica's foot, their passion fueled by the dark energy that surrounded their mistress. They knew the consequences of disobedience, and they served her willingly, eagerly, their love and fear blending into one all-consuming emotion.

"But, mistress," Paparelfo frowned, not only at Magica's comm and but at the lewd display taking place before him, "She's weaker here."

Magica leaned back in her chair, watching the servants with a smug smile. "And that's precisely why we'll let her leave unmolested," she said, stroking the second servant's cheek with her toe, "The hunt is more enjoyable when the prey thinks they're safe."

"But..."

"But nothing!" Magica growled, her yellow eyes flashing with a hint of malice. She knew Paparelfo was eager to claim victory, but patience was the key to the most satisfying conquests. "The game has just begun, my dear Paparelfo. We will not be hasty."

Paparelfo bowed, "Yes, Mistress Magica. It shall be done."

With a wave of her hand, Magica dismissed him, her thoughts already turning to the thrill of the chase. Paparelfo faded back into the shadows, leaving Magica and her two servants.

"Now, you two..." Magica's voice was a low, seductive purr that seemed to resonate through the very air of the chamber. With a graceful motion, she reached for a silver dagger that lay gleaming on the table beside her, the candlelight playing across its wickedly sharp blade. Her hand closed around the hilt, her grip firm and confident, the very essence of power and control.

She tossed it on the floor between her two servants, the dagger landing with a metallic clang that echoed through the chamber. The blade spun once before coming to a rest, the silver glinting in the flickering candlelight. The two nude ducks, their blindfolds still in place, looked at each other with a mix of confusion and excitement, their breathing growing heavier as the implications of their mistress's action became clear.

"To the victor go the spoils," Magica stood from her seat, "The winner will join me in bed. Make it quick."

Dragging Chupy back to Morgana’s shop had been an ordeal.

Not because the creature was struggling—he wasn’t. Chupy had been out cold for most of the trip, his oversized tongue lolled out of his needle-filled mouth, legs dragging limply against the cobblestone.

No, the real problem had been that Chupy was disgustingly, impossibly gross.

With every step, the monster oozed.

A thick, blackish ichor seeped from his skin, dripping onto their shoes, leaving behind a sticky trail that Gosalyn was pretty sure would never wash out. His mangy fur shed in patches, floating in the air and clinging to their clothes, making Webby sneeze multiple times. His breath, even in unconsciousness, was like a rotting corpse marinated in swamp water—which had made dragging him a test of pure endurance.

By the time they reached Morgana’s shop, the three of them were absolutely wrecked.

Their clothes were torn, soaked in sweat, and caked in dirt, blood, slime, and other unidentifiable substances. Webby’s hair was a disaster, Gosalyn’s clothing was ruined beyond repair, and Max?

Max had given up on life halfway through.

He stood there, hunched over, his hoodie a tragic casualty, his eyes staring vacantly into the middle distance like a war survivor who had seen unspeakable horrors.

Morgana, on the other hand, looked pristine as always.

She stood at the doorway of her gothic little shop, arms crossed, one perfectly arched brow lifting as she took in the state of them. Then, without a word, she turned her gaze to Chupy.

For a moment, the Chupacabra stirred—blinking his massive eyes, letting out a soft, pathetic groan. His body twitched as if he were considering making a break for it.

Morgana did not hesitate.

She lifted a rolled-up newspaper from inside her sleeve, stepped forward, and—

SMACK!

She whapped Chupy right across the snout.

“Bad, Chupy!” she scolded, voice sharp; like she was disciplining a misbehaving puppy. “I have half a mind to get you neutered!”

Chupy let out a high-pitched whimper, ears flattening against his skull. His eyes shimmered, and for a second, he looked like a guilty dog that had been caught chewing on the furniture.

Morgana huffed, shaking her head before turning her attention back to the trio.

“Well done,” she said smoothly, a smirk tugging at her bill. “I knew I could rely on the last Templar.”

That statement probably meant something significant, but at the moment, none of them cared.

Gosalyn, Webby, and Max just stood there in absolute silence, their bodies sagging, dead-eyed, exhausted beyond reason.

Max opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Then, in a hoarse, deadpan voice, he muttered:

“I wanna die.”

Gosalyn let out a weak, wheezing laugh.

Webby groaned, wiping a glob of Chupy-slime and blood off her face.

Morgana chuckled, completely unbothered.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Come inside. I’ll put on some more tea.”

Tea.

Gosalyn stared at her like she’d just suggested they run a second marathon.

Morgana turned, heading back inside, leaving the three of them to stumble after her like zombies.

However, Webby was eager to leave, and Gosalyn couldn’t blame her.

They’d been in the Night Market long enough to make enemies, cause untold property damage, and smell like rotting goat meat. It was time to get back to the mortal realm, preferably to a hot shower and a sandwich that move.

"Thanks for the hospitality, Morgana," Webby said as she adjusted the remains of her skirt. "But we should get going before the Market decides we’re permanent residents."

"Oh, absolutely," Gosalyn added, stretching out her sore arms. "And I can’t wait to shove our victory in his old face."

She didn’t need to say who.

They all knew.

Morgana’s bill curled into an amused smile. "Then here you go, my dear."

She produced a small bundle from the folds of her robes and placed it in Webby’s hands.

Inside were three tiny glass vials, filled with a murky, bubbling green liquid.

Webby’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. "Zombie Juice!" she breathed.

"Your reward for a job well done," Morgana said. "Just remember, only use on corpses less than forty-eight hours old."

Max, who had been rubbing his temples and preparing for the absolute nonsense Webby would inevitably use them for, side-eyed her warily.

"And one day," he said slowly, "we’re gonna discuss where those corpses come from, right?"

Webby smiled at him.

A sweet, innocent, completely unsettling smile.

She didn’t say a word.

Max shuddered.

As the trio gathered their things and made ready to head back through the rickety wooden door that led to the mortal world, Morgana touched Gosalyn’s shoulder.

"A moment, dear."

Gosalyn frowned. She glanced at Webby, but Webby just shrugged, and Max seized the opportunity to step away.

"Private witch talk." Gosalyn chuckled, "I'm honored."

Morgana led Gosalyn deeper into her shop.

Brought to the back of the store, Morgana gestured to a chair, but Gosalyn didn’t sit.

She crossed her arms instead, her stance casual but guarded. "Alright, what’s up?"

Morgana studied her for a long moment.

Then, she spoke.

"You love her."

Gosalyn froze.

Her pulse jumped, her shoulders went rigid, and her first instinct was to deny, deny, deny.

"What? Pfft, no. I mean—" She scoffed, shifting her weight. "I like a lot of people. Like Max. I like Max. And—uh—"

Morgana gave her a look.

Not an accusing one.

A knowing one.

Gosalyn deflated.

"Okay, maybe I love her," she muttered, running a hand through her messy bangs. "I am still trying to figure all of this out."

Morgana smiled, but there was a softness to it now.

She reached forward and, with the lightest touch, brushed something off Gosalyn’s jacket. A piece of dried ichor, maybe. Or just an excuse to be gentle with her.

"Webby is special," she said, her voice quieter now. "Not just because of her destiny, but because of her heart."

Gosalyn swallowed.

Morgana continued.

"The world weighs heavily on her shoulders, even if she refuses to admit it." She folded her arms, her long sleeves draping like the wings of a raven. "She is the last of the Templars, the one who will stand between the mortal realm and its destruction. And she will face horrors you cannot imagine."

Gosalyn wanted to crack a joke.

To lighten the mood, like she always did.

But she couldn’t.

Because she knew it was true.

She’d seen the way Webby fought. The way she never hesitated to throw herself into danger, the way she laughed in the face of monsters, how she never once showed fear.

And for the first time, Gosalyn realized something that sent a chill down her spine.

Webby wasn’t fearless.

She was just used to being afraid.

Gosalyn clenched her fists.

Morgana watched her closely.

"She will win, in the end," the witch said, certainty lacing every word. "She will save the world. I have seen it. But that does not mean she will come out of it whole."

Gosalyn’s stomach twisted.

She hated this.

Hated feeling like something was being taken from her before she even had it.

Morgana reached out, placing a hand on Gosalyn’s shoulder.

"That is why you must protect her," she said. "Not just her body—but her heart. That is what is most precious of all."

Gosalyn exhaled slowly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The bubbling cauldron was the only sound in the shop, and even the whispering books seemed to have fallen silent.

Finally, Gosalyn spoke.

"I’m not good at stuff like this," she admitted. "Being… y’know. The responsible one."

Morgana chuckled, stepping back.

"You will be." She turned, moving toward a cluttered counter filled with vials, charms, and trinkets. "Because when you love someone, you become what they need. Even if you never thought you could be."

Gosalyn stared at her, unsure what to say.

Then, Morgana picked up a small, silver pendant on a thin chain and tossed it to her.

Gosalyn caught it with ease.

She looked down at it—a tiny, glowing charm, carved with ancient runes.

"For protection," Morgana said simply.

Gosalyn hesitated—then slipped it into her pocket.

She wouldn’t admit it, but she appreciated it.

Morgana smiled. "Now, go. She’ll be waiting for you."

Gosalyn exhaled, rolling her shoulders.

Then, without another word, she turned and walked out.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d just agreed to.

But she knew one thing.

If the world was going to throw everything it had at Webby Vanderquack—

Then it was gonna have to get through Gosalyn Mallard first.

Gosalyn stepped out of Morgana’s shop and into the dim glow of the Night Market. The air was thick with the mingling scents of incense, roasted meats, and things far less identifiable. In the distance, merchants were still hawking their strange wares, haggling over whispering books, bottled shadows, and relics that pulsed with unnatural life. Somewhere nearby, a creature that sounded like a mix between a crow and a violin let out a shrill cry.

But none of that mattered.

Not right now.

Because—as soon as she emerged, Max turned to her, still adjusting his hoodie, which had been stretched out and tattered during their fight with Chupy. His eyes, though tired, were sharp with curiosity.

“So, what did Morgana want?” he asked, arching a brow.

Gosalyn’s fingers instinctively curled into her pocket, brushing against the small, cool weight of the pendant. She felt its edges, the delicate carvings of the runes pressing against her palm. It was nothing special to look at, but she could feel it hum. Not literally—more like it held something unspoken, something deeper than a simple charm.

She squeezed it once before pulling her hand back out and shoving it into her jacket pocket.

"Not much," she said, shrugging in what she hoped was a casual way. "Just to have a safe journey."

It wasn’t a lie.

Not really.

But when she glanced up, Webby was already watching her.

And Webby knew.

She didn’t press. Didn’t call her out or demand answers. Instead, she just smiled.

Soft.

Understanding.

Like she already knew every word Morgana had said without having to hear them.

The way Webby looked at her made Gosalyn’s chest feel too tight and too light all at once.

She swallowed and looked away first.

Max, blissfully unaware of the moment passing between them, stretched his arms over his head and groaned. “Well, I dunno about you two, but I am so ready to get back to the real world.”

“Oh? Miss the thrills of nearly getting eaten by a cryptid?” Gosalyn snarked.

“Nah, I just miss pizza.” Max shot her a tired grin. “And video games. And hell, even homework sounds good right now. Just something normal, for a change.”

Webby let out a laugh, “You say that now, but you’ll be crying over your algebra assignments by morning.”

Max sighed dramatically. “Don’t remind me.”

The girls chuckled as the three of them started walking, weaving their way through the still-bustling Market toward the exit.

They moved together like they always had, falling into step without thought. Gosalyn walked beside Webby, their shoulders brushing now and then as they stepped over uneven cobblestones. The Market was still alive with its impossible wonders—but all of it faded into the background as they walked.

Because, somewhere along the way, Webby reached over and took Gosalyn’s hand.

She didn’t make a big deal of it.

Didn’t ask permission or make a dramatic gesture.

She just did it.

Her fingers slid into Gosalyn’s—warm, steady, certain.

It wasn’t a bold, impulsive move. Not some sudden burst of passion or nervous energy.

It was simple.

And yet, it meant everything.

Gosalyn’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away.

She let her fingers curl around Webby’s, holding on.

They didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Not yet.

Because this? This was enough.

A promise.

A quiet, unspoken acknowledgment of something growing between them—something real.

And as they walked through the strange, shifting world of the supernatural, hand in hand, Gosalyn felt something she hadn’t in a long time.

Love.

Max yawned, rubbing at his eyes. "We better not run into any more weirdos on the way out. I'm tapped out on freaky crap for the night."

Webby smirked. "Oh, come on. This was a great adventure."

“If by 'great adventure,' you mean 'life-threatening cryptid chase through an eldritch flea market,' then sure."

Gosalyn snickered, giving Max a light elbow to the ribs. "You survived, didn’t you? Besides, you looked like you were having fun."

Max rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. They all knew he had.

They continued on, unaware.

Because they weren’t alone.

Behind them, beyond the flickering lanterns and twisting alleyways, something moved.

A shadow.

Long. Wrong.

Not quite touching the ground, not quite following the laws of light or physics. It didn’t step so much as glide, its shape warping and shifting, always just outside the edges of vision.

No one in the Market saw it.

No one heard it.

It had no scent, no weight, no voice.

Only purpose.

And that purpose was them.

It slithered between stalls, weaving through the impossible pathways of the Market, always keeping pace, always just out of reach. It followed them through the labyrinth of supernatural wonders, unseen, unchallenged.

And when they reached the door to the mortal world?

It followed them through.

Chapter Text

Episode Three - I Walked With A Zombie

Chapter Fifteen - Little Things

Max woke up to the sound of his alarm—a grating, robotic buzz that was somehow both too loud and too weak to actually motivate him to move. He groaned, blindly smacking at the snooze button before rolling onto his side and burrowing deeper into his comforter.

It was too damn cold to get up yet.

His bedroom, illuminated by the pale gray morning light filtering through the blinds, was the kind of controlled chaos only an eighteen-year-old guy could cultivate. The walls were plastered with old concert posters—Powerline, Ice Cube, and a local band he barely remembered seeing live. A corkboard was pinned with random movie tickets, a couple of polaroids with friends, and a crumpled detention slip from sophomore year that he kept like some kind of war medal.

The floor was an obstacle course. Dirty clothes tangled with clean ones, sneakers kicked off in opposite directions, and a half-drunk bottle of soda beside a dusty textbook he hadn’t touched in weeks. A gaming controller balanced precariously on the edge of his desk, next to his cracked phone, which buzzed with a few unread messages.

Above his bed, the ceiling was littered with glow-in-the-dark stars. He’d stuck them up there when he was a kid and never bothered to take them down. Now they were just part of the scenery, a constant from his childhood he wasn’t quite ready to let go of.

The second alarm went off.

Max groaned louder and finally sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His bedhead was a disaster, an unruly mess that defied all logic and gravity. He scratched at his chest through his t-shirt and yawned, then grabbed his phone.

7:28 AM.

Shit. He had to be out the door in twenty minutes.

Max kicked off his blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed, stepping directly onto an empty chip bag. The crinkle startled him, and he cursed under his breath, shaking it off his foot as he made his way to the door.

His bathroom routine was haphazard at best. He flipped on the light, wincing at the harsh brightness. He turned on the sink, splashed his face with cold water, and stared at himself in the mirror.

Yep. He looked like absolute garbage.

His eyes were still heavy with sleep, dark curls sticking out in every direction. He leaned closer to inspect a pimple forming on his forehead. He pressed at it experimentally, muttering, “Nope. Too soon.” He’d just make it worse.

Deodorant. Cologne. A quick swish of mouthwash; gargled aggressively before being spat out. He pulled on a pair of jeans from the probably clean pile on the floor, sniffed a hoodie, deemed it acceptable, and yanked it over his head.

Max checked himself in the mirror one last time, adjusting his hoodie.

Baggy. Comfortable. Passable for a Monday.

"You're a bad motherfucker," He muttered to himself.

As he turned off the bathroom light and grabbed his backpack from the floor, his stomach growled loudly.

Right. Breakfast.

Maybe he had time to shove a Pop-Tart in his mouth before heading out.

Max paused at the threshold of the living room, mid-bite into his untoasted, half-stale Pop-Tart. The glow of the still-on television flickered against the walls, casting shifting shadows over the couch and coffee table. His dad was out cold in his recliner, his work boots still on, his cap tilted forward over his face.

He must’ve come home and crashed immediately.

Max chewed slowly, leaning against the doorframe. He knew the routine well enough—his dad worked the night shift at the factory, long hours in a loud, fluorescent-lit warehouse, doing the kind of backbreaking work that wore a guy down over time. And yet, no matter how many shifts he pulled, how many hours he worked, he always managed to be there for Max. Even when he was dead on his feet.

It was something Max never really talked about, not even with Gosalyn or Webby, but he appreciated the hell out of it. Everything his dad had done, everything he’d given up after Mom died.

Max barely remembered her. Flashes, really. The sound of her voice, the smell of her perfume, the warmth of her arms when she hugged him. But she was more like a faded photograph in his mind than a real, solid memory.

His dad never talked about her much either. Not because he didn’t care, but because it hurt too much.

Max swallowed down the lump in his throat and set his backpack on the floor. He clicked off the TV, silencing the low hum of whatever early-morning infomercial was droning on. Then, grabbing the fleece throw blanket from the back of the couch, he carefully draped it over his dad.

Good deed for the day? Done.

His dad stirred slightly, mumbling something under his breath before settling again. Max smirked faintly, shaking his head.

This guy.

Max grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder as he made his way to the door. The cold morning air hit him the second he stepped outside, but he barely noticed.

His mind was elsewhere.

Life could’ve turned out so much worse. But somehow, despite everything, he and his dad had made it work.

And that?

That was enough.

Max grinned to himself as he made his way to the garage, the cold morning air curling around him like a lazy cat. If there was one other thing—besides, y’know, life itself—he had to thank his dad for, it was this.

His baby.

With a firm yank, he pulled open the garage door, and there it was, sitting in the dim morning light like a predator at rest.

A 1986 Chevy Camaro Z28 IROC-Z, red as a fire engine, gleaming even under the faint haze of dust that had settled overnight. Its long, low-slung body and aggressive front fascia screamed speed and muscle, a relic from a time when cars were built to be loud, mean, and fast. The IROC-Z badging on the doors was still crisp, a reminder that this wasn’t just any Camaro—it was the kind that turned heads and burned rubber.

He ran a hand along the fender, feeling the cool metal beneath his fingertips. His last car had been a complete write-off, totaled by Webby in a way that still made him wince if he thought about it too hard. But thanks to the insurance payout—and a hell of a lot of help from his dad—he’d been able to get this beast.

The Camaro wasn’t perfect. A few paint chips here, a couple of dings there, the kind of battle scars that came with a car that had lived a life before him. But the heart of it? That was pristine.

Under the hood sat a tuned-up 5.0L small-block V8, now pushing 390 horsepower after some careful tweaking. A five-speed manual transmission, because automatics were for quitters. T-tops, because sometimes a guy just wanted to pop the roof off and let the wind rip through his hair.

Inside, a beige saddle interior wrapped around the bucket seats, worn but well-kept. The dashboard had been upgraded with aftermarket gauges—an oversized tachometer and speedometer; because the stock ones didn’t cut it when you were pushing this much power.

Max slid into the driver’s seat. He grabbed the shifter, rolling it through the gears just to feel the resistance.

Yeah. This was home.

He didn’t have a lot of things in life that were just his. But this? This was something he’d earned, something he took care of, something that made him feel alive.

Max turned the key in the ignition. The Camaro rumbled to life, the deep, throaty growl of the V8 filling the garage like the purr of a lion.

He couldn’t help but grin.

"Fuck yeah."

Max reached over and cranked the stereo, the heavy bass of some old-school gangster rap rattling the door panels. The deep thump of the beat rolled through his chest as he threw the Camaro into first gear, clutch biting hard as he eased out of the driveway.

Then, with a grin, he mashed the gas.

The rear tires spun, screaming against the pavement, leaving behind two perfect black streaks—"11s"—as the Camaro launched forward, V8 roaring like a wild animal. The force pushed him back into the seat, and for a brief moment, everything else melted away. No school, no responsibilities, no supernatural nightmares lurking in the shadows.

Just him.

His car.

And the music.

This was freedom.

As the city blurred past his windows, Max’s mind drifted back over the past few weeks. Shit had gotten weird. Like, really weird. It had started with Webby—good ol’ conspiracy-nut, talks-too-fast Spooky—who turned out to be right about everything. Monsters were real. The supernatural wasn’t just some campfire story. They had fought Mothman. Mothman.

And survived.

Then there was the Night Market.

That place was still burned into his brain. A place that shouldn’t exist, hidden in some freaky pocket dimension. A marketplace where demons, vampires, witches, and God-knows-what-else shopped like it was just another Saturday at the mall. Where they had chased down a Chupacabra. Where he’d seen things that would make a sane person pack their bags and leave Duckburg forever.

Yet, here he was. Still here.

And somehow… that was normal now?

He exhaled through his nose, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter as he changed lanes.

It had all started when Gosalyn showed up.

The new girl. The fighter. The troublemaker. He hadn’t thought much of her at first—just another kid with attitude—but she fit right in with him and Webby like it was meant to be.

The three of them hung out nearly every day now. Usually at Webby’s place since Scrooge had actually let her go back to school. The billionaire had his own reasons for that, but Max wasn’t about to question it. It worked.

They had their own little clique, their own shared secret in the school. Everyone else went about their day, completely unaware that three of their classmates had fought monsters, walked through a hidden realm, and bartered with an actual witch.

It was bizarre.

It was insane.

It was… kind of awesome.

Max smirked to himself, pressing the gas a little harder as he pulled onto the road leading toward the school. Normal was overrated anyway.

Max was halfway to school when he spotted her.

At first, he didn’t think much of it—just another person walking along the sidewalk, the morning sunlight casting long shadows on the pavement. But then, his brain registered the details.

Red hair. Pigtails. Yellow ribbons.

Max’s foot eased off the gas.

Wait. What?

His head snapped to the side, and sure enough, it was her.

Pistol Pete.

And she was walking.

For a second, Max thought maybe he was imagining things. Maybe his brain was playing some kind of sick joke. But no—there she was, moving along the sidewalk with her usual self-assured, almost cocky stride. Her pleated skirt swayed with every step, the hem bouncing just above her knees. A thick Duckburg High sweater hugged her frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal her forearms. She wore her signature knee-high socks and pristine white sneakers, and oversized designer sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

Everything about her screamed effortless confidence.

But she was on foot.

And that? That didn’t add up.

Max’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

Pistol didn’t walk to school.

She didn’t have to.

She was dating Bradley Uppercrust III—Duckburg High’s resident rich boy, the kind of guy who wore sweaters with actual crests on them and probably had a trust fund just for hair products. Bradley had a BMW, and every morning, without fail, he and Pistol would pull up to school together like they were making a grand entrance.

So… where was he?

Where was the BMW?

Max’s curiosity flared as he turned off his radio and flicked on his blinker, guiding the Camaro toward the curb. His heart thudded a little harder in his chest. He had a shot. A rare opportunity to talk to Pistol without Bradley hanging over her shoulder like a living Gucci mannequin.

He pulled up alongside her and rolled down the window.

And then his brain promptly short-circuited.

“Uh, hey, Pistol! You headed to school?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to slam his head against the dashboard.

Of course, she’s headed to school, dumbass. It was Monday morning. Almost 8am. What the hell else was she doing, training for a marathon?

Pistol paused mid-step, turning her head slightly to glance at him through her sunglasses.

Max felt himself panic.

Desperately, he let out a forced laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Duh. Obviously you’re going to school. Durr.”

Kill me.

Pistol just gave him a look—not annoyed, not amused, just… a look. Then she kept walking.

Max was not about to let this moment crash and burn.

He quickly reached over and popped the passenger door open. “So, uh… you want a lift?”

Pistol let out a soft sigh, adjusting the strap of her bag. “No thanks, Max. I’ll walk.”

Oof.

Max felt that rejection like a punch to the gut. Not a hard one, but enough to make him sit there like an idiot for a second, grasping for a way to salvage the situation.

His eyes flicked to the dashboard clock.

7:55 AM.

First bell was at 8:15.

The school was at least a twenty-five-minute walk away.

He had an opening.

Max leaned slightly toward the open door, trying not to sound too eager. “C’mon, you’ll be late if you walk.”

Pistol barely reacted.

He doubled down. “Just jump in. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Pistol stopped walking.

Max held his breath.

She wrinkled her nose slightly, looking down the road, then at the car… then at him.

For a moment, it seemed like she was about to shut him down again.

Then, finally, she let out a sharp, exasperated sigh and climbed in.

Max fought every single urge to grin like a complete idiot.

He failed.

Max kept it cool this time, rolling onto the main road with a little more restraint, resisting the urge to show off. He could still feel the goofy grin tugging at his lips, but he played it off, focusing on the feel of the wheel in his hands, the quiet rumble of the V8 under the hood.

Pistol Pete. In his car.

If ten-year-old Max could see him now, he’d probably be doing backflips.

Back then, they were inseparable. Summers spent in his treehouse, flipping through comics until the sun went down. Playing “war” with sticks in the streets, running barefoot through sprinklers, sneaking sodas from the cooler during family BBQs while their dads drank beer and argued about football. It was easy back then—she was just Pistol, and he was just Max. No cliques, no status, no bullshit.

Then high school happened.

She joined the cheer squad. Started dating jocks. Became part of that world—the one full of homecoming dances, spirit rallies, and Bradley Uppercrust’s smug-ass face.

And Max? Max became the guy in the back of the parking lot, selling cheat sheets, caffeine pills, and the occasional pre-rolled joint out of his trunk. The guy teachers side-eyed when something went missing, the guy who cut class more often than he attended. The outcast.

At some point, without either of them meaning to, they just… stopped existing in the same orbit.

And now here they were.

Max gripped the wheel a little tighter, his mind scrambling for something—anything—to say. But what the hell was he supposed to talk to her about? Cheerleader practice? Her dumbass boyfriend?

Before he could come up with something, Pistol beat him to it.

“Nice car,” she said, voice quiet, but not disinterested.

Max blinked. She was talking to him?

Pistol shifted in her seat, trailing a finger along the dashboard. “Better than that other one you had.”

Max beamed, feeling that little flicker of pride in his chest. “You like it, huh?”

Pistol shrugged. “She’s not bad.”

Max couldn’t help himself. “She’s fast.”

And just like that, he launched into full car-guy mode, rattling off every little improvement he’d made—the aftermarket intake, the tuned exhaust, the upgraded suspension. He knew she probably didn’t care, but God, she was listening.

“She ain’t Bradley’s BMW,” Max added, smirking. “She’s better.”

That killed the mood.

Pistol winced, slouching slightly in her seat, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.

Shit.

Max saw it immediately—the way her whole posture changed; like she was trying to shrink into herself. He’d hit a nerve.

And that was… interesting.

Before he could dwell on it, he scrambled for a subject change. Fast.

“How about some music?” he blurted, reaching for the radio. “You’ll love this track—”

Out of the corner of his eye, something moved.

A flash of fur.

Shit!

Max slammed on the brakes.

The tires screeched against the pavement as both he and Pistol lurched forward. Her sunglasses flew off her face, landing with a sharp clatter on the dashboard.

For a split second, everything was silent.

Then Pistol let out a startled gasp.

Max’s heart hammered in his chest as he stared at the road ahead. Sitting there, right in the middle of the street, was a mangy stray cat. Worse than mangy. It looked like it had already been run over once, with patches of fur missing and one eye a murky white. It blinked at them before flicking its tail and trotting off with awkward, jerky movements, completely unbothered.

Max let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Well,” he muttered. “That was f—”

A sharp smack landed on his shoulder.

“What the hell, Max?!” Pistol snapped, bracing herself against the door. “Are you trying to kill us?”

Max held up his hands defensively. “I was saving a life.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah? Well, next time, warn a girl.”

Max chuckled, rubbing his shoulder where she’d hit him. It wasn’t much, but for the first time in years, this felt familiar.

Then Max saw it.

Pistol reached for her sunglasses, fingers moving fast, too fast, as if she knew—knew—he was about to notice. But it was too late.

His eyes locked onto the bruise.

It wasn’t just a little bump or some light discoloration. No. This was bad. A dark, ugly splotch of deep purple and sickly yellow creeping from the edge of her right eye down to the top of her cheekbone. It looked tender, raw. The kind of mark you get when someone doesn’t just hit you—when someone means it.

Max felt a sharp twist in his gut.

For a second, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

She just kept reaching, just kept pretending like he hadn’t seen. Like this was nothing. Like she could just put the sunglasses back on and—what? Cover it up? Pretend it wasn’t there?

Not happening.

“Hold up,” he said, reaching out before she could slip them back on.

Pistol flinched. It was small. Barely noticeable. But Max noticed.

That reaction? That was pure instinct. A reflex. The kind that doesn’t come from being caught off guard. The kind that comes from experience.

His stomach dropped.

“What happened?” His voice came out lower, tighter than he expected.

She pushed his hand away, fast and sharp. “Nothing."

Max stared at her. “Pistol, you look like you went twelve rounds with a heavyweight. That ain’t ‘nothing.’ What the hell happened?”

She wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at him.

Her gaze stayed locked on the window, fingers drumming against her knee like she was counting down the seconds until this conversation was over. “Nothing,” she repeated. “Now can we just get to school? Preferably without you slamming on the brakes again?”

Max didn’t answer.

Because suddenly, everything made sense.

The flinch when he said Bradley’s name. The way she had shrunk into herself. The fact that she, of all people—the girl who never walked anywhere—was out here, alone.

His blood turned to fire.

“…Did Bradley do that to you?”

She didn’t react. Didn’t gasp, didn’t deny it, didn’t even get mad at him for asking.

Nothing.

Silence.

And that silence? It told him everything.

Max’s hands clenched around the steering wheel, fingers aching from the pressure.

“Did he hit you?” His voice came out hard, almost shaking.

Pistol exhaled sharply. Like she was frustrated. Like she was annoyed that he wouldn’t let this drop.

“He didn’t—” She cut herself off, shaking her head before trying again. “We just had a fight, okay? Things got a little… heated.”

Max felt his pulse hammering in his ears.

“I said some stuff I shouldn’t have,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair. “It’s my fault. It’s—” She stopped, sucking in a breath. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Max saw red.

He couldn’t stop the way his jaw clenched. The way his teeth ground together.

If there was one thing—one goddamn thing—his dad had ever drilled into him since he was old enough to understand?

A real man never lays a hand on a woman. Ever.

Didn’t matter what she said. Didn’t matter how mad she got. Didn’t matter if she was screaming in your face or throwing shit or kicking you in the shins.

You don’t hit back.

You walk away. You grit your teeth. You keep your hands to yourself. That’s what made you a man.

And Bradley?

Bradley was a dead man walking.

The low purr of the vintage Mercedes-Benz cut through the morning stillness like a lullaby from another era. The car itself—pristine, timeless, dignified—was a relic of a bygone age, its deep black paint reflecting the gray autumn sky like polished obsidian. The chrome gleamed in sharp, unbroken lines, the white-wall tires rolling silently over the pavement.

The interior smelled of leather, aged wood, and something faintly like pipe tobacco, a scent so deeply ingrained in the car’s upholstery that it had likely been there longer than either of its passengers had been alive. The seats were plush but firm, the kind of luxury designed for comfort without indulgence.

Behind the wheel sat Duckworth.

Posture rigid, hands in perfect form at ten and two, his gloved fingers moving with precise, practiced skill. His expression was unreadable, a mask of professional neutrality, the same as it always was. He drove with the sort of smooth, effortless control that made even sharp turns feel like gentle drifts—no sudden movements, no jarring stops. Just precision. Mastery.

It should have felt formal. Stiff.

But in the backseat, Gosalyn and Webby were in their own little world.

Hands entwined.

They sat close—closer than was probably necessary, closer than what could be excused as just sharing space in the same seat. Webby’s hand rested in Gosalyn’s, their fingers loosely intertwined, not gripping, not clutching—just resting. Just there.

They had spent nearly every waking moment together these past couple of weeks.

The nights were spent curled up on Gosalyn’s bed, watching old horror movies flicker against the darkened walls of her room—black-and-white vampires, grainy slashers, twisting Lovecraftian shadows moving across their faces in the dim glow of the screen. They had fallen asleep to the hum of forgotten soundtracks, woken up to the warmth of tangled blankets and each other.

Days were filled with music—Webby had a record player, and Gosalyn had introduced her to punk rock, while Webby had countered with haunting violin solos from centuries-old composers. They had kissed to both.

Cuddled to both.

They had been happy.

And yet.

Despite all the quiet moments of warmth, despite all the laughter, despite all the ways they fit together so perfectly—

There were things left unsaid.

Things that hung in the air like phantoms.

Ghosts between them.

Gosalyn hadn’t told Webby everything.

Not about St. Canard. Not about fighting supervillains. Not about the fights, the near-deaths, the loss of friends.

Not about how, for the longest time, it had just been her and Drake against the world.

Not about how much she had already lost.

And Webby—

Webby hadn’t told Gosalyn everything, either.

Not about how much she knew.

Not about the sword, why she talked to it, why it had a name. About her past.

Not about how, for years, she had fought this battle alone.

They both sensed it, each other’s hesitations—the way they would brush against the truth, only to shrink back at the last second.

It wasn’t fear, not exactly.

It was something deeper. Something more delicate.

Something like—if they spoke it aloud, if they laid everything bare, then maybe, just maybe, the spell would break. That whatever this was between them—this fragile, unspoken thing—would shatter under the weight of reality.

The car rolled into the school parking lot, the engine humming as it slowed to a stop.

Duckworth did not speak—he never did unless necessary—but there was a soft click as he shifted the gear into park, the silent indication that their ride had come to an end.

Still, Gosalyn and Webby lingered, just for a moment longer.

Just long enough for Webby to give the smallest squeeze of Gosalyn’s fingers.

Just long enough for Gosalyn to squeeze back.

And for now—just for now—

It was good.

As soon as Gosalyn and Webby stepped out of the sleek black Benz, Webby tossed a casual, “Thanks for the lift, Duckworth!” over her shoulder.

Duckworth, ever the epitome of long-suffering servitude, did not respond with words. Instead, he made a face—somewhere between mild disgust and quiet exasperation, like Webby had just thanked him for scrubbing dog vomit off the floor rather than chauffeuring her to school.

Then, without another glance, he shifted gears and pulled away, the pristine car slipping back into the morning traffic like a specter from another era.

Webby smirked. “One day, he’s going to actually respond to me.”

Gosalyn scoffed. “One day, you’re gonna be waiting a long time.”

As they strode through the school parking lot, dodging early morning clusters of students and the occasional clueless driver, Webby launched into a familiar topic.

“Okay, so, there’s this new horror movie out, The Smiling Widow, and we have to watch it tonight.”

Gosalyn groaned dramatically but couldn’t help grinning.

“Webby, I am begging you,” she said, hands raised in mock prayer. “For once, just once, can we watch a movie that isn’t about some nightmare creature eating people?”

Webby gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, I have varied interests—”

“You literally live in a horror movie.” Gosalyn threw her arms out. “Your life is full of cryptids, ghosts, cults, and monsters! And yet, instead of, I don’t know, escaping that for a couple of hours, you wanna spend your free time watching some long-haired demon lady crawl out of a well?”

Webby crossed her arms, considering. “You know, I was gonna suggest we make out while watching, but now I’m reconsidering.”

Gosalyn paused.

Then, with a casual shrug, she muttered, “…I mean, we can watch one horror movie.”

Webby smirked, triumphant. “That’s what I thought.”

Gosalyn shook her head, laughing. “I swear, if you keep this up, I’m gonna make you watch cartoons.”

“I like cartoons!”

“Not the weird ones you watch, Vanderquack. I’m talking about normal ones. Funny ones.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno… Bugs Bunny?”

Webby snorted. “Pffft. Nerd.”

Gosalyn elbowed her, and Webby giggled, leaning into her.

Then—

A loud, screeching of tires and a roar of an engine shattered the moment.

The unmistakable snarl of Max’s IROC-Z Camaro tore through the parking lot like a war cry, all raw horsepower and reckless intent.

Gosalyn and Webby whipped their heads around just in time to see it come barreling in way too fast, the car’s front end diving slightly as Max hit the brakes hard. The tires screeched, the smell of burnt rubber curling into the crisp autumn air.

“Holy—” Gosalyn muttered, eyes narrowing.

Webby tilted her head. “Huh. He’s driving even more like a maniac than usual.”

Max slammed the shifter into park, yanked the keys from the ignition, and all but threw the driver’s side door open.

And that’s when they saw it.

The wrench.

A big one.

A heavy one.

Gosalyn and Webby exchanged a look.

“What the hell?” Gosalyn murmured.

Then she spotted his passenger.

Webby saw her at the same time.

Pistol Pete?

Gosalyn’s brain lagged for half a second.

Pistol Pete. The Pistol Pete.

The preppy cheerleader. The queen bee of the social scene. The untouchable, unapproachable, always-perfect girl.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Max Goof’s car.

What?

Pistol looked uneasy, her hands clasped in her lap, her chin tucked slightly downward—like she was trying not to be seen.

Max, meanwhile, had fire in his eyes. His jaw clenched so tightly Gosalyn was surprised his teeth didn’t snap. He had that look—the look guys got when they were ready to start swinging.

“Max?” Gosalyn called out, but he didn’t seem to hear her.

He was already marching across the parking lot, wrench in hand, movements stiff with rage.

“Okay,” Webby said, frowning. “Something is definitely wrong.”

“Yeah,” Gosalyn agreed, already moving forward.

They had to catch up to Max before he did something stupid.

Gosalyn moved fast, stepping in front of Max, and planting herself firmly in his path. She could feel the tension radiating off him, see the way his grip had turned white-knuckled around the heavy wrench; like his hand had fused to the metal. His entire body was coiled tight as a live wire, his jaw clenched, his shoulders squared with purpose.

“What’s going on?” she asked, voice low, cautious.

Max didn’t slow down. Didn’t even glance at her. His eyes were locked forward, dark, and set on something distant—or rather, someone. His footsteps were quick, driven by something deeper than just anger, something that went bone-deep, something dangerous.

“Stay out of my way,” he muttered.

And that made her stop short.

Because those words—delivered in that low, quiet voice—they weren’t a threat. They weren’t even a plea.

They were a warning.

A warning that he was past the point of reason. Past the point of caring about consequences.

And Gosalyn knew that feeling.

She had lived it, breathed it, let it consume her too many times before.

And it never ended well.

So she didn’t hesitate. Didn’t let him take another step. She moved directly into his path, pressing a firm hand against his chest, forcing him to look at her.

“Max, stop,” she said, her voice urgent, but calm. “I know that look. I’ve seen it before. I’ve had it before. You don’t wanna do this.”

Max finally looked at her. And for the first time, she saw just how much rage was boiling underneath his usual easygoing exterior.

But it wasn’t just rage.

There was something else there—something raw, something painful, something that had festered for too long.

“She’s worth it to me,” he said simply.

And then he stepped past her.

Gosalyn turned, heart sinking, and saw who he was heading toward.

Bradley Uppercrust III.

Standing with his usual flock of jocks, leaning casually against his expensive BMW, smirking, laughing, looking every bit the untouchable golden boy. His perfect white teeth gleamed, his expensive watch caught the light, his designer clothes were pristine and ironed to perfection. He looked so goddamn smug, so comfortable in his place at the top of the food chain.

He had no idea.

No idea that Max was coming for him.

No idea that, in a matter of seconds, his entire world was about to break apart.

Gosalyn’s breath caught.

“Max, don’t—”

But it was too late.

Max closed the distance in seconds.

Bradley barely had time to register that Max was in front of him before he sneered, completely unbothered.

“What the hell do you want, burnout?”

He never got an answer.

The wrench swung through the air with brutal force, cutting through the space between them like a guillotine, and—

CRACK.

The impact was sickening.

Bradley’s head snapped sideways, his jaw contorting violently, his entire body jerking from the sheer force of the blow. The sound that followed wasn’t just the dull thud of metal on flesh—it was something deeper, something more final. Like a bone splintering.

For the first time in his life, Bradley Uppercrust wasn’t the one in control.

And the whole school saw it.

A stunned silence rippled through the parking lot.

Even the jocks—Bradley’s loyal entourage, the ones who usually barked like rabid dogs at the first sign of a fight—were too shocked to react.

Bradley staggered, one hand flying to his mouth. Blood was already seeping between his fingers, his knees buckling slightly, his usually arrogant posture crumbling.

Max didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t let him get his bearings.

Didn’t let him breathe.

Max grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward so fast that Bradley barely had time to react before—

Another hit.

It landed flush against his cheekbone, snapping his head the other way, sending him sprawling back against the hood of his car.

And then came another.

And another.

And another.

Each hit was faster, more brutal than the last.

Bradley tried to shield himself, tried to get a word out—but Max didn’t let him.

There was no mercy in him.

No restraint.

Just pure, unfiltered rage pouring out of him, years of frustration, years of injustice, years of watching guys like Bradley do whatever the hell they wanted with no consequences.

Now there were consequences.

Girls screamed.

Guys shouted.

People backed away, some frozen in horror, some in awe.

Max’s voice was shaking with fury when he finally spoke, the words coming out like a snarl, a guttural promise, an oath made of fire and blood.

“DON’T YOU EVER TOUCH HER!” He spat, "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME!?"

Bradley’s face was a mess now.

His nose twisted and broken.

His teeth shattered, blood pooling in his lap.

His cheekbones already bruising, swelling to grotesque proportions.

His expensive clothes were stained red.

His hands, the same hands he had used to hurt Pistol, were trembling.

Max raised the wrench again.

Ready to finish it.

Ready to make sure Bradley never hurt anyone again.

Gosalyn moved.

She grabbed Max’s arm, hard, yanking him back with all the strength she had.

“MAX! STOP!”

For a second, he resisted.

Still caught in the fire, still burning.

But then—

“Justice, not vengeance.”

The words came out before she could stop them, the voice in her head not her own, but her father’s.

And that made Max pause.

The wrench shook in his grip.

His breathing was ragged, heavy. His eyes wild, unfocused, caught between two worlds.

One where he let go.

And one where he didn’t.

His fingers trembled.

Bradley groaned, barely conscious.

The whole school was watching.

Max let out a shaky breath.

And then—

He dropped the wrench.

It hit the pavement with a dull, heavy clang.

And just like that, it was over.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen - Broken Out In Love

Max sat in the cold, sterile interrogation room, his wrists bound to the table by a pair of steel handcuffs that rattled softly every time he shifted. His knuckles ached, raw and swollen, skin split open over bruised bone. Dried blood, both his and Bradley’s, crusted in the lines of his fingers, flaking when he flexed his hands. He stared at them, those hands—his hands—the same ones that had gripped the wrench so tightly, had swung it without hesitation, had felt the sickening crunch of flesh and bone giving way under pure, unfiltered rage. He had never hit anyone like that before, not with real intent. Sure, he had been in fights—dumb teenage scraps in parking lots or back alleys when tempers flared—but this? This was different.

He wanted to kill him.

He could still hear the thud of metal against Bradley’s jaw, the way it echoed in his ears like a drumbeat, over and over. The way Bradley had stumbled, stunned, before Max had tackled him, fists raining down with violence that felt righteous in the moment. The way people had screamed. The way he had screamed. "DON’T YOU EVER TOUCH HER!" The words had come from somewhere deep inside him, an anger that had been simmering, not just at Bradley, but at every asshole like him—entitled, smug, abusive. He was the kind of guy who thought he could get away with anything because of money, looks, and status. He was the kind of guy who hit his girlfriend and thought there’d be no consequences.

But now, sitting here, under the flickering fluorescent lights, the rage had cooled after hours of being alone. And in its place sat something heavier, sinking deep into his chest like an anchor. Regret. Not for hitting Bradley—no, he still felt like that bastard deserved every bit of what he got—but for how far he went. He hadn’t just punched him once, knocked him down, made a point. He had lost control. Bradley was a mess when they pulled Max off him. His face had been unrecognizable, a pulpy ruin of blood and broken teeth. Max had barely been aware of what he was doing by the time Gosalyn had grabbed him, shaking him, screaming at him to stop. He had seen something in her eyes that unsettled him—not fear, exactly, but something close. A recognition. As if she had seen this kind of anger before.

Max closed his eyes and let out a slow, shuddering breath. His hands clenched into fists, nails pressing into his palms. What the hell was going to happen now? He knew he was in deep shit. Assault, probably aggravated assault. Bradley’s rich parents would press charges, no doubt about it. Maybe if this had been some regular school fight, it would have been different, but he had snapped. Used a weapon. Went too far. His dad—God, his dad—Max’s stomach twisted just thinking about it. He didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve to have to bail his dumbass son out of jail because he couldn’t control himself. His dad had worked so hard to raise him right, to be better than this. Max could almost hear his voice, calm but firm, like when he used to lecture him as a kid. "You can’t fight the whole world, son. You can’t fix things with your fists."

And Pistol—what was she thinking right now? Was she even still at the station? Did she feel guilty? Angry? Relieved? He had done this for her, but had she even wanted him to? Or had he just made everything worse? Maybe now Bradley would take it out on her, maybe now she’d be afraid of him too. The thought made him feel sick. He wasn’t supposed to be that guy. He wasn’t supposed to be someone people feared. But today, for the first time, he had understood how it happened. How could a person let that rage consume them, make them forget everything else? He had wanted Bradley to hurt. He had wanted him to feel small, powerless, broken.

And he had succeeded.

At what cost?

The heavy steel door creaked open, and in walked Detective María Cabrera—a familiar face, but not exactly a comforting one. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, a few strands loose at her temples. Her face was unreadable at first, but as she took a seat across from Max, her expression settled into something between concern and disappointment. Not anger. Not yet. But close enough.

Max had known María for a while now. Ever since she caught him selling weed behind the bowling alley when he was sixteen. She could have dragged him in, let the system chew him up, but she hadn’t. She’d let him off with a warning, told him to get his act together before someone a lot less lenient got their hands on him. And after that? She was just... around. She had this way of seeing through his bullshit, of calling him out without coming down too hard. He wouldn’t go so far as to call her a friend, but she had been fair.

That’s why the look she gave him now stung more than it should have.

María sighed, settling back into her chair, folding her arms. "How are you holding up, Max?"

Max didn’t answer. He just stared at his hands, the blood drying in the creases of his knuckles.

She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. "Yeah, that’s what I thought." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "You messed up, junior. Real bad."

Max swallowed, throat dry. He knew. Of course, he knew. But hearing it from her made it feel real in a way it hadn’t yet.

"You have any idea how deep in it you are?" she asked, voice low, steady. When Max still didn’t say anything, she continued. "Bradley Uppercrust the Third. You know who his daddy is?"

Max clenched his jaw. Of course, he knew. Some big-shot real estate mogul. The kind of guy who could buy his son out of any trouble. The kind of guy who could make someone else’s life a living hell if they so much as looked at him wrong.

María gave a humorless chuckle. "That man has judges on speed dial. Lawyers who eat kids like you for breakfast. His son is in the hospital right now with a shattered jaw, broken teeth, he's going to need extensive reconstructive surgery, and you think his old man’s gonna let this slide?" She shook her head. "No, Max. He’s gonna make an example out of you."

Max’s stomach twisted. He knew he’d be in trouble, but hearing it spelled out like this? He could already picture it—the courtroom, the news articles, the smug, polished lawyer laying out all of Max’s mistakes like a goddamn highlight reel.

María kept going. "I don’t know how much of your record you remember, but I sure do. Petty theft, possession, resisting arrest—nothing major, nothing that’s stuck because you were lucky. Because people like me were willing to look the other way. But this? This isn’t skipping class, or selling caffeine pills out of your trunk. This is assault with a deadly weapon. A felony." She let the words hang in the air for a moment, letting them sink in. "Five to ten years, Max. Real jail time. Not juvie. Not community service. Prison."

Max’s hands tightened into fists. Five to ten. That number felt surreal, distant, like something from a TV show, not something that could actually happen to him. But María wasn’t lying. She wasn’t the type to bullshit.

She studied him, waiting, then leaned in slightly. "So tell me, Max. Why?"

Max finally looked up, meeting her eyes. "He hit her."

María blinked. "That cheerleader girl I saw?"

Max nodded. "Black eye. Tried to hide it, but I saw it." His voice was hoarse, rough, like he had been screaming for hours. Maybe he had been. He wasn’t sure. "She said it wasn’t a big deal. That she started the fight. That it was nothing." His hands clenched harder. "But it wasn’t nothing." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It’s never nothing."

María studied him for a long moment, her face unreadable. Then, finally, she sighed and rubbed her temples. "Dios mío, Max..."

For a split second, he thought he saw it. The briefest flicker of understanding, of sympathy. But it was gone just as fast, replaced with the same stern, unwavering cop look she always wore.

"You think what you did fixed anything?" she asked, tilting her head. "You think beating the shit out of him means that girl's safe now?"

Max flinched at that. His stomach twisted.

"You really think he’s not gonna take this out on her?" María pressed. "You really think rich boys like him don’t find ways to get back at people?"

Max opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"You wanted justice," María said, softer this time. "I get it. But what did that do? That wasn’t justice, kid. And now you’re the one in handcuffs."

Max looked away. He hated that she was right.

María exhaled sharply through her nose and pushed herself up from the chair. For a second, Max thought she was leaving, but instead, she walked over to the corner of the room. The red light of the surveillance camera blinked steadily, unfeeling. Without a word, María reached up and flicked the switch on the side. The light died.

She turned back to Max, expression unreadable. "Off the record," she said, voice quieter now, heavier. "Just me and you."

Max shifted in his chair, suddenly uneasy. His wrists still ached from the handcuffs, the steel digging into his skin, grounding him in the moment.

"Were you going to kill him?"

The question hit like a fist to the ribs.

Max swallowed, hard. His throat was raw. He wanted to say no. Wanted to lie. Wanted to convince himself that it had never even crossed his mind. That he wasn’t the kind of person who would have—

But the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, he didn’t know.

He thought about how Bradley had looked on the ground, helpless for the first time in his privileged, golden-boy life. The blood running from his broken nose. The way he had begged—not for mercy, not for forgiveness, but out of fear.

And Max had felt nothing.

Not relief. Not guilt. Not even rage anymore. Just... emptiness.

María watched him carefully, her eyes dark and knowing. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to answer, she nodded, almost like she had expected it. She pulled out her chair again, sat back down, and rested her elbows on the table.

"I ever tell you about my first case as a rookie?" she asked.

Max blinked at the sudden shift, confused. He shook his head.

She leaned back, exhaling through her nose. "It was a bad one," she said simply. "One of those cases that sticks with you. Gets into your bones and never leaves."

Max stayed quiet. He had never seen María like this.

"It was a child predator," she continued, her voice devoid of emotion; like she had to shut something off inside herself just to say the words. "He was a real piece of shit. The kind that didn’t just hurt kids—he destroyed them. I don’t know how many victims there were. Maybe dozens. Maybe more."

Max felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.

"I got the call about screams coming from an apartment. Bad part of Duckburg. I was first on scene. Didn’t wait for backup. Maybe that was stupid. Maybe I was just young, full of piss and vinegar, ready to make a name for myself." She paused. "I kicked in the door."

Max’s hands curled into fists. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath.

"I found a girl," María said, eyes distant now. "No older than five. She was..." She stopped, clenched her jaw, and shook her head. "Doesn’t matter what I found. She was gone. And he was still there."

Max felt like he was going to be sick.

"I chased him," María said, voice quieter now. "All the way up to the roof. Just him and me. No body cameras. No witnesses. Just the city lights, the wind, and this monster."

Max licked his lips, finally forcing himself to speak. "Did you kill him?"

María was silent for a long moment. Then she gave a humorless chuckle, but there was no warmth in it. "I wanted to." She met Max’s eyes, and for the first time since she walked in, he saw something raw in her expression. Something that made him shiver. "I wanted to so bad. I was shaking, Max. Shaking. My gun was in my hand, my finger was on the trigger. He knew it, too. He could see it in my face. He knew he wasn’t getting off easy. And you know what he did?"

Max shook his head, numb.

"He jumped."

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Max exhaled, slumping forward slightly. "Jesus."

María nodded. "Yeah. That’s what I said." She rubbed at her temples; as if trying to erase the memory. "He went out on his own terms. Didn’t even let me have the satisfaction. The justice. And you know what? It didn’t make me feel any better. The girl was still dead. Nothing changed."

Max sat back, feeling the weight of her words settle over him like a thick, suffocating blanket.

"I still had to face the brass," María continued. "There were a lot of questions. Some people thought maybe I gave him a push. Maybe I made sure he went over the edge." She scoffed. "I didn’t. But I won’t lie to you, Max—I regret it to this day. Not pulling that trigger."

Max’s breath hitched.

"But you know what else?" she said, leveling him with a stare. "If I had done it, if I had let my anger take over, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you right now. My life would have been over. Not because I got caught—because I would have lost who I was."

She let that hang in the air for a moment, then leaned in slightly. "I get it, Max. I really do. Some people don’t deserve to breathe the same air as the rest of us. But when you become the monster to fight one? That’s when you start losing yourself."

Max clenched his jaw, staring down at the table.

"You got a good heart, kid," María said, softer this time. "But good hearts can turn rotten if you let them." She exhaled, shaking her head. "Bradley Uppercrust’s a piece of shit. We both know that. But you took this choice away from that girl. You took her power, decided for her. And now you’re the one sitting in cuffs, and he gets to play the victim. Tell me—does that feel like justice?"

Max felt something crack inside him.

He dropped his head, staring at his bloodstained hands, and for the first time since all of this started... he felt it.

Not anger. Not righteousness.

Just regret.

Max's breath hitched, his shoulders trembling as the weight of everything collapsed onto him all at once. He tried to hold it in, tried to swallow it down, but it was too much.

A sob tore its way out of his throat, raw and broken. Then another. And another. Before he knew it, he was crying— no, weeping, openly, violently, the way he hadn’t since he was a kid. After his mother died. The way he had sworn he never would again.

He folded in on himself, his cuffed hands curled into fists on the table, his whole body shaking like it was about to break apart at the seams. He gasped for air, but it came in short, ragged bursts. He was suffocating under it—under the guilt, the regret, the sheer fucking horror of what he had done.

María didn’t hesitate. She was on him in an instant.

She pushed the chair back, closing the space between them, and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a firm, steadying embrace. One hand cradled the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, the way a mother might soothe a crying child.

"Shhh," she murmured, her voice low and gentle. "I’ve got you, Max. I’ve got you."

"I—" His voice cracked into pieces. "I—I'm sorry."

"I know." She held him tighter. "I know, mijo. It’s okay. Just breathe."

But he couldn’t.

His chest heaved. His whole body shuddered.

God, he had fucked up. He had fucked up so bad.

"I—I didn’t mean to—" He was choking on the words, on the truth of it all. "I just—I saw her face, María. I saw what he did to her. I just—I lost it. I lost it and I—God!"

Another sob. Another surge of shame, curling tight in his chest like a vice.

María didn’t say anything for a moment, just let him cry into her shoulder, let him get it all out. Let him break.

Then, softly, she said, "We’re gonna fix this. You hear me? We’re gonna figure this out. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure the judge goes easy on you."

Max squeezed his eyes shut, tears spilling freely down his face.

But then she said the words that shattered him completely:

"Your dad’s been contacted. He’s on his way. So is a public defender."

Max felt his stomach drop.

His sobs hitched, turned more frantic, more desperate.

His dad.

God.

His chest tightened, a horrible pressure crushing down on him. His dad—his stupid, kind, goofy dad—was coming here. To the station. To see him like this. Like this.

His dad had always tried to see the best in him. Had always believed in him, even when Max himself didn’t. And now he was going to walk through that door and see his only son in cuffs, hands covered in blood, facing a goddamn felony.

And it was his fault.

His own doing.

His own mistake.

The thought was too much. It broke something inside him that he didn’t know could still break.

He collapsed into María’s arms, sobbing so hard his whole body shook.

"I—" His breath hitched. "I can't— I—"

"Shh," María hushed him again, rubbing soothing circles into his back. "Just breathe, kiddo. You’re not alone. Not in this."

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

His dad was coming.

And he didn’t deserve him.

The heavy steel door of the interrogation room creaked open again, and the second the figure stepped inside, the air in the interrogation room changed.

Max barely looked up, still lost in his own storm of guilt and exhaustion. María, however, tensed immediately, her jaw tightening as her gaze snapped to the doorway.

There, standing with perfectly rehearsed nonchalance, was a vulture in a suit that didn’t quite fit him. The fabric hung just a little too loose around his shoulders, his tie was crooked just enough to be annoying, and his glasses sat perched on his beak like they were two seconds away from sliding off, and his five-dollar haircut did nothing to hide the sleaziness that oozed off him. Everything about him screamed cheap. Worn. Manipulative.

"Ah," the vulture said, clearing his throat as he stepped inside, already rifling through a folder in his claws. "Detective Cabrera. Always a pleasure." His voice was oily, smooth in the way that made a person’s skin crawl.

María’s eyes narrowed. "Bradford Buzzard."

Bradford barely acknowledged her, already turning his attention to Max.

"Mind stepping away from my client, Detective?" He gave María a thin, practiced smile, then adjusted his glasses with a deliberate flick of his wrist. "Nothing personal, of course."

Max finally looked up, his head still pounding, his stomach still twisted in knots. "Who—?"

But before he could finish, María cut in, her voice sharp.

"Bradford Buzzard," she said flatly. "Defense attorney. You're a long way from defending the rich, Bradford, what are you doing here?"

Bradford sighed dramatically as he flipped a page in his folder. "I have been sent by an interested party." His tone was casual and dismissive; like he was ordering fast food.

María stiffened, eyes flashing. "Who?"

Bradford chuckled, that low, grating chuckle that had gotten so many people off the hook for so many terrible things. "Client-attorney privilege, Detective. You know how this works."

María’s jaw clenched. She hated him. She loathed him. If she could legally throw him into the sun, she would.

"You expect me to believe," she said, slowly, dangerously, "that someone just swooped in and hired you to represent Max Goof out of the goodness of their heart?"

Bradford wagged a talon at her, smirking. "Now, now. Let’s not get paranoid." He closed the folder with a smug little snap and tucked it under his arm. "The important thing here is that young Max is free to go."

Max froze.

María froze.

They both said it at the same time.

"WHAT?!"

Bradford’s smirk widened. He was loving this.

"You heard me," he said, waving a hand like he was brushing away an inconvenient little issue. "The Uppercrusts and the District Attorney are not pressing charges. Assault, deadly weapon, all those pesky little details? Poof! Gone. Like it never even happened."

Max felt his stomach drop. His head spun. His hands—still stained with Bradley’s blood—felt suddenly heavier.

María, however, looked like she was about to punch Buzzard in the face. "That makes no goddamn sense."

Bradford gave her a mock-offended look. "Detective Cabrera! Are you suggesting that the fine and upstanding Uppercrust family, with all their wealth and influence, might just… let this go for some shady, under-the-table reason?" He gasped theatrically. "For shame! That would be so… unethical!"

María took a slow, menacing step forward. "Cut the crap, Buzzard. Why?"

Bradford held up his hands in mock surrender. "Honestly? Beats me." His head tilted, eyes glinting with something too sharp, too knowing. "But if I were a betting man, I’d say someone very powerful just took an interest in your boy here."

Max’s chest felt tight.

María’s gut twisted.

Bradford clapped his hands together, rubbing them as he looked at Max. "Anyway! The paperwork’s been signed, red tape’s been cut, and all that jazz. So unless Detective Cabrera here has some personal vendetta against my client"—he shot María a knowing smirk—"then I do believe we're done here."

Then, finally, he looked Max dead in the eye.

"Let’s get you out of these cuffs, champ."

María reached into her jacket pocket, her fingers curling around the familiar weight of the handcuff keys. The cold metal felt heavier than it should.

Something wasn’t right.

This felt too much like last time. When Max and his friends had been miraculously cut loose after that bloodbath. An officer, dead. Civilians, dead. And somehow, Max and his two friends had walked away without so much as a slap on the wrist.

Now, here they were again.

She leaned in, close enough that only Max could hear her. As she slipped the key into the cuffs and started unlocking them, she whispered, her voice low, urgent.

"Max, if you need me, 24/7, call me, alright?"

The last cuff clicked open.

"Something smells rotten."

Before Max could react, a voice cut in, smooth and mocking.

"I am standing right here, Detective. I can hear you."

Bradford Buzzard hadn’t moved from his spot, arms folded, smirking like he owned the damn room.

María turned her head slowly, fixing him with a glare sharp enough to draw blood.

"I know you can hear me," she shot back. "I wanted you to."

Max rubbed his wrists, the soreness still there from where the cuffs had bit into his skin. He exhaled shakily and looked at María. Her face was a storm of emotions—concern, frustration, suspicion.

He swallowed hard.

"I will," he said. His voice was rough but genuine. "Thank you."

For a moment, María almost smiled.

Then, Buzzard moved.

A hand—too dry, too cold, too calculated—landed on Max’s shoulder. The touch was light, almost casual, but it made every hair on Max’s neck stand on end.

He didn't like it.

It felt wrong.

"Come now, Max," Bradford said, squeezing his shoulder just a little too hard. "You have some friends waiting for you."

Night crept in slowly, swallowing the last traces of daylight behind thick, rolling clouds. A cold wind slithered through the gravestones, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves.

A cat slinked between the tombstones. Thin, sickly. Its fur, what little remained, was patchy and mangy, the exposed skin underneath a sickly gray. Its movements were unnatural, almost disjointed, like something that had forgotten how a body was supposed to work.

It was looking for something.

Its milky, ruined eye gleamed in the dim light as it passed by an old mausoleum, its cracked stone covered in moss. Its tail; bent at an awkward angle, twitched erratically. Its breathing was a low, wet rasp.

At last, it reached the center of the graveyard.

A shadow stepped out from behind a tall, crumbling tombstone.

A girl.

She was young—no older than sixteen. Her dress had once been beautiful, but now it hung from her slender frame in tattered ribbons, a black Gothic relic torn and weathered by time. Her feathers were white, but in the twilight, they seemed ashen, ghostly. Her hair was short, jagged, unevenly cut, black as midnight. Her eyes, cold and sharp, gleamed with an unnatural light.

She crouched, tilting her head as she regarded the broken little thing at her feet.

The cat looked up at her.

And then, it purred.

A sound that should have been comforting but instead rattled like bones in a box.

The girl smiled.

"Oh, my poor little thing," she whispered, reaching down with delicate fingers to stroke its rotting fur.

The cat arched into her touch, its ruined body shuddering, something between pleasure and decay.

"Back where you belong."

Minima De Spell lifted the cat into her arms, cradling it like an old friend. The wind howled through the graveyard as she turned her gaze toward the distant city lights.

She had followed them through the Night Market's door.

And now, she was finally here.

Minima knelt in the damp soil, releasing the cat before pressing her fingers into the cold earth. The cemetery stretched out before her, an ancient resting place bloated with death. Time had forgotten these graves, let them sink and crumble, let the names carved into the headstones erode into nothing. But the dead had not forgotten. They never truly did.

Not if you knew how to wake them.

She inhaled deeply, letting the scent of damp rot and mildew fill her lungs. The air was heavy, thick with slumbering spirits, the weight of unlived years pressing down on her shoulders like a shroud. This was the perfect place. A wound in the world that had never healed.

Her nails carved crescent shapes into the dirt. Her lips curled into a small, knowing smirk.

"This will do nicely."

She straightened, smoothing out the tattered black dress that clung to her slight frame. Her feathered fingers twitched in anticipation. Paperelfo’s words echoed in her mind.

"Cause havoc. Draw out the Last Templar. Take her sword—by any means necessary."

This was a test. A test of her power. A test to prove she was worthy of the De Spell name.

Unlike that other one.

That traitor.

Minima’s jaw tensed. She would not fail. She would show Aunt Magica her loyalty, her strength. She would show them all.

With slow, deliberate movement, she raised her arms, spreading them wide as if embracing the night itself. A cold wind slithered through the graveyard, stirring the brittle autumn leaves into a slow spiral around her feet.

Her voice, when she spoke, was low, rich, and woven with ancient power.

"Rise, rise, from slumber deep,
No more shall you lie and sleep.
Flesh and bone, blood long dry,
Heed my call—awaken, rise!"

The ground shuddered.

A single crack split through the soil like a jagged wound, racing between the graves. A deep, hollow groan rumbled beneath the earth, a sound like something ancient stirring in its sleep.

Minima’s eyes glowed with a sickly green light. The wind howled louder. The tombstones frosted over in an instant, ice crawling up their faces in thin, spidery veins.

She tilted her head back, her pupils narrowing to slits.

"Come forth, ye lost, ye buried, ye cold,
Break your tombs, defy the old!
Bound no more by death’s cruel chain,
Walk again—bring fear and pain!"

The first hand broke the surface.

A skeletal fist; curled and clenched with rancid, yellowed bone, punched through the damp dirt. Then another. Then dozens.

Graves all across the cemetery erupted, bursting apart as the dead clawed their way free.

A coffin cracked down the middle, splintering open to reveal a corpse with sunken, rotted eyes and a mouth gaping in an eternal scream. Another figure, once a woman in a burial gown, dragged itself forward, its flesh peeling like wet paper. The stench of death rolled through the air in waves.

Minima watched, delighted.

They were stronger than she expected. Some had been buried for decades, their bodies little more than skeletons wrapped in remnants of cloth. Others were fresher, their faces still twisted in the expressions they wore when they died. Some bore wounds—a man with a caved-in skull, a soldier still in his tattered uniform, a woman in a wedding dress.

They turned their heads toward her, empty eye sockets staring, waiting.

Minima lowered her arms, smiling as she felt the weight of their obedience.

She took a slow step forward, the earth trembling beneath her feet. Her voice rang clear, sharp as a blade:

"Your slumber ends, your rest is done,
Now go and spread what I’ve begun!"

A silence.

Then—a roar.

Not from one.

From all of them.

A chorus of hellish groans, dry and rattling, voices long unused.

The dead were awake.

And Duckburg would soon know it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen - Drift

The police station lobby was a miserable place. Gosalyn had been in plenty of places like this before—even recently—gray walls, flickering fluorescent lights, the faint smell of stale coffee, and sweat lingering in the air. The chairs were uncomfortable, stiff plastic things bolted to the floor like they were afraid someone might steal them. A couple of officers milled about behind the front desk, talking in hushed voices, barely sparing a glance at her or Webby.

Gosalyn was not handling this well.

She sat hunched forward, elbows resting on her knees, fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her knee bounced restlessly, a rapid up-and-down motion she couldn’t stop, like a ticking time bomb wound too tight. Her stomach churned. She felt hot, pissed off, and helpless all at once.

Max was back there. In some holding cell. Maybe in cuffs. Maybe staring down a charge that would ruin his whole damn life.

And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do.

Her mind replayed the fight over and over in gruesome detail. The way Max swung that board. The rage in his face. The way Bradley collapsed, the awful sound of wood cracking against flesh and bone.

She’d seen that kind of violence before. Hell, she’d inflicted that kind of violence before.

She knew what it felt like to be on the edge, so damn angry that everything else faded away. When you didn’t think—you just reacted.

And she knew that if you crossed the line, there was no coming back.

Max hadn’t crossed it. Not completely. But he’d come so damn close.

She gritted her teeth and dug her fingers into her scalp, shaking her head. Why the hell had he lost control like that? Yeah, Bradley was a piece of shit, but five to ten years? Felony charges? It wasn’t worth it.

She exhaled sharply, sitting back in her chair and rubbing her face.

Across from her, Webby looked completely unbothered.

She was humming to herself, swinging her feet in her chair, bobbing her head to whatever was playing through her headphones.

"Oooooh woo-hooo! Ça plane pour moi!"

She sang under her breath, tapping her fingers on her knee to the beat. She was grinning; like she was just hanging out, not like they were sitting in a goddamn police station waiting to see if Max was about to get locked away.

Gosalyn scowled. “Are you serious?”

Webby blinked up at her and pulled one of her headphones off her ear. “Huh?”

Gosalyn threw her hands up. “Max is back there! Probably in a holding cell! He could be going to prison, and you’re just—what? Vibing?”

Webby tilted her head, looking at her like she had just said the dumbest thing in the world. “He’s not going to prison.”

Gosalyn let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Oh yeah? You know that for sure?"

"Yep." Webby popped the 'p' with full confidence, then went back to humming.

Gosalyn’s eye twitched. “How the hell do you—?”

Webby pulled her headphones off again and leaned toward her, voice softer this time. “You need to breathe, babe. You're about to explode.”

Gosalyn stiffened, her cheeks heating up slightly. Babe.

Webby had been calling her stuff like that more and more lately, and every time it sent something weird and electric through her chest. She didn’t know how to handle it.

And she especially didn’t know how to handle it right now.

She swallowed thickly, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t get how you can be so chill about this.”

Webby just shrugged. “Because I know things will work out.”

Gosalyn scoffed. "Oh yeah? And what makes you so sure?"

Webby just smiled.

Not her usual excitable, wide-eyed grin. It was smaller, steadier. Completely unshakable. Like she already knew the outcome, like she had already read ahead and seen the ending.

“I just do.”

Gosalyn opened her mouth to argue, but then the door to the back opened.

And everything changed.

Gosalyn’s head snapped up so fast it almost gave her whiplash. Max.

He stood there, looking completely drained, like he’d just walked out of a warzone. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, and his shoulders sagged like the weight of the world was pressing down on him. But he was here. He was out.

And beside him—some guy.

Gosalyn’s stomach twisted. She didn’t recognize the vulture standing next to Max, but everything about him screamed sleaze.

His suit was expensive but too big on his lanky frame, as though he’d bought it from a catalog but never bothered to get it tailored. His glasses were a little too reflective, hiding his eyes just enough to make him untrustworthy, and the way he smiled—a lazy, cocky smirk, like he was already three steps ahead of the conversation—set off every alarm bell in her head.

Gosalyn practically jumped out of her seat, rushing toward Max. “What the hell is going on? What happened?”

Max barely had time to process before the vulture spoke.

"What happened," he said, "is that your buddy here is free to go. No charges, no court dates, no nasty little marks on his permanent record. It's like the whole thing never even happened! Call it a miracle, call it justice, call it—” he made finger guns—“a damn good lawyer."

Gosalyn stared at him. Hard. “And who the hell are you?”

The vulture’s smirk widened.

“Oh, where are my manners?” He held out a hand like he was introducing himself at a dinner party. "Bradford Buzzard. Attorney at law, fixer of problems, master of legal loopholes—you name it, I make it disappear."

Gosalyn didn't shake his hand. She didn't even blink. She didn't trust him.

Max, still looking dazed, rubbed his temples. “I'm still not even sure how this happened.”

Then—

“Hi, Bradford!”

Bradford lit up.

He turned to Webby, his grin shifting into something almost genuine.

“Webbigail! Good to see ya, kid!” He adjusted his tie. “Tell Scrooge I’ll be expecting my payment.”

Webby beamed. “Already wired to your account! Thanks, Bradford!”

Bradford finger-gunned again. “That’s what I like to hear! You’re a gem, Webby, really. And tell ol’ McDuck if he ever needs a contract ‘reinterpreted’ again, you know who to call.”

With that, he snapped his briefcase shut, spun on his heel, and strolled out like he owned the place.

Gosalyn and Max?

Stunned.

Max just stood there, blinking. Gosalyn’s brain was scrambling to put the pieces together.

Then—slowly—she turned to Webby.

“…You. And Scrooge. Did this?”

Webby just chuckled like it was no big deal.

“Of course! How do you think we got out of trouble last time? Scrooge owns everyone. The DA, the Uppercrusts—hell, probably half the city.” She gestured toward the door Bradford had just walked out of. “Bradford’s just one of many useful people on the payroll.”

Gosalyn’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Max, still in a complete daze, just looked at Webby like he didn’t even know how to process this.

Webby, meanwhile, just grinned at them both.

“I always take care of my friends,” she said. Then, after a small pause, she added, “Even though you two are sort of my first.”

Max broke.

He suddenly grabbed her, hugging her so tight it nearly knocked the wind out of her.

Webby froze for a second—then relaxed.

Max wasn’t just hugging her. He was holding on for dear life.

“…Thank you,” he whispered. His voice cracked.

Webby’s grin softened. She hugged him back, rubbing slow circles on his back. "Anytime, Max."

Gosalyn, watching this unfold, felt her chest tighten.

Something about all of this was really, really wrong.

But for now… Max was safe.

And that was all that mattered.

The warmth of the hug lingered.

Despite her natural mistrust of vulnerability, Gosalyn gave in and wrapped her arms around both Webby and Max. For all her tough talk, for all the times she had been the one throwing the first punch—this wasn’t about that. Max needed this.

"We’re just glad you're not going to jail," she murmured, her voice softer than usual. Then she pulled back slightly, her sharp green eyes locking onto his. "But you wanna tell us what set you off?"

Max tensed.

Gosalyn didn’t miss it.

“I’ve never seen you like that,” she added, her voice edged with concern.

Max swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling over him. His hands balled into fists at his sides. He wanted to tell them. The anger, the sheer rage that had taken hold of him—it wasn’t just about tonight. It was everything that had been bubbling under the surface for weeks.

But before he could say a word—

“Max?”

His stomach dropped.

Oh no.

The hug broke apart instantly. Max turned, and there—standing near the entrance of the station, looking at him with deep worry—was his dad. His lanky frame was hunched slightly, his usual relaxed demeanor nowhere to be seen. This was a father looking at his son, seeing him shaken, seeing him hurt.

And just like that—Max felt the lump in his throat return.

For a brief moment, he felt ten years old again, caught doing something reckless, bracing for the scolding.

But Goofy didn’t say anything.

He just walked over and hugged him.

No words. No lectures. Just warmth.

Max froze—then collapsed into it. His body sagged as he buried his face into his dad’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of aftershave and motor oil.

"It's okay, son," Goofy murmured, rubbing his back in slow, comforting circles. "It's okay."

Webby and Gosalyn stood by, watching quietly.

Finally, Goofy pulled back, his soft eyes flicking to the girls.

"Max should be lucky he has two friends like you two," he said, his voice full of genuine gratitude.

Gosalyn and Webby shared a glance—then smiled.

Webby grinned. “He really is, huh?”

Gosalyn smirked. “Eh, don’t let it go to your head, Goof.”

Max let out a shaky chuckle.

Goofy, smiling warmly, gave his son’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “How ‘bout this—I’ll order some dinner, my treat. You girls come over, too. Let’s help push all this behind us.”

Max exhaled, finally— a small but real sense of relief washed over him.

His dad. His friends.

Tonight could’ve gone so much worse.

But here he was. Safe.

And for the first time since everything started, he let himself believe that was enough.

He had learned something today.

The power of friendship.

The power of family.

And the words Gosalyn had told him, the words that stuck with him even when his anger nearly consumed him—

Justice. Not vengeance.

Just as they turned to leave, a flurry of movement caught their attention.

Several cops rushed past, boots pounding against the tile floor, their faces tight with concern. María Cabrera was among them, her usual sharp gaze now filled with something different—something urgent.

Goofy blinked. “Gawrsh, I wonder what’s got them so excited?”

Gosalyn barely missed a beat.

“Twenty-five percent off donuts?” she quipped, smirking.

Webby snorted. Max, still emotionally drained, gave a half-hearted chuckle.

But as more officers hurried past, their radios crackling, their hands tense on their holsters, Gosalyn’s smirk faltered.

Something about the way they moved—too quick, too serious—made her stomach tighten.

It wasn't just some regular police call.

But before she could focus too much on it, Goofy gently nudged Max forward. “C’mon, kiddo, let’s get outta here.”

Max nodded, still feeling shaky, but with every step toward the exit, the weight on his chest grew a little lighter.

They stepped outside just as the last traces of sunset melted into the horizon, leaving behind only the deep purples and oranges of twilight.

A cool breeze swept through the streets.

Night had fallen.

And somewhere in the city, something was very, very wrong.

Detective María Cabrera’s unmarked police cruiser tore through the streets, sirens blaring as she swerved through late-evening traffic. Her grip on the wheel was tight, jaw clenched as she listened to the dispatcher’s frantic updates over the radio.

“Multiple injuries reported at Duckburg Mall. Unknown suspect—description unclear. Witnesses say they’re… biting people?”

María’s brow furrowed.

Biting?

This was Duckburg, not some meth-fueled back alley in St. Canard. If someone was biting people, they were either high out of their mind or had lost it completely.

The thought sent a ripple of unease through her, but she shoved it down. Just another psycho.

As she pulled into the sprawling parking lot of Duckburg Mall, the flashing red-and-blue of multiple cop cars bathed the pavement in color. Officers were already on the scene, forming a perimeter, and directing hysterical shoppers and employees away from the entrance.

People ran past her car, screaming.

A woman clutched a bleeding bite wound on her arm, her face pale and drenched in sweat. A man beside her had a gash across his cheek, shaking as he tried to explain what happened to an officer taking statements.

María parked, threw the door open, and stepped out.

The second her feet hit the pavement, she reached for the Glock 23 holstered at her hip, press-checking the slide with a smooth, practiced motion. Loaded. Safety off.

Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears, but her hands were steady. It was time to go to work.

She scanned the scene, taking in the controlled chaos.

A young officer—still too fresh-faced for this kind of shit—approached her, panting.

“Detective! We have people trapped inside. Most of the civilians are out, but—”

“Shooter?” María interrupted, keeping her voice level, professional.

The officer shook his head. “N-no gunshots, but something’s not right. People are saying the suspect… well, he ain't right.”

María stared at him.

“What?”

The officer licked his lips. He looked shaken. “They say it’s… like he's out of a zombie movie.”

María didn’t have time for bullshit.

“Get your people to secure the exits,” she ordered, already moving. “Nobody gets in or out except us. We’re going in.”

She turned toward the other officers gathered nearby—a mix of veterans and rookies, all looking toward her for leadership.

“We go in slow,” she instructed, keeping her voice firm, all business. “We clear the ground floor first, then work our way up. Whatever’s inside, we take it down. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, ma’am” rippled through the group.

María exhaled sharply and turned toward the entrance.

The automatic doors stood slightly ajar, leading into the mall’s dimly lit interior.

Beyond the threshold, only silence.

Her gut twisted.

She took point, sidearm raised, and stepped inside.

The air inside the mall was thick—a stifling mix of sweat, panic, and something far worse. Something metallic. Something rotten.

María moved slowly, her Glock raised, flanked by five officers, their weapons drawn, eyes scanning every darkened corner. The mall’s overhead lights flickered, struggling to stay on, casting erratic shadows across the sleek tile floors.

All around them, chaos unfolded.

Shoppers and employees still fled past, some crying, others too stunned to do anything but stumble forward in shock. A woman in a blood-smeared blouse clutched a young boy to her chest, whispering reassurances to him or to herself, it was hard to tell. A mall cop, face pale as a ghost, gripped his pepper spray like it was a lifeline—his eyes vacant, unseeing.

A man in a fast-food uniform collapsed nearby, his breathing ragged, his pant leg soaked red where a chunk of flesh had been torn away. He was shaking violently.

María ignored the pit in her stomach. Keep moving.

They cleared past the abandoned kiosks, the overturned displays, the scattered merchandise from stores that had been ransacked in the panic. A promotional stand for Mickey’s Ice Cream Delight had been smeared with bloody handprints, the cart knocked over, frozen treats melting into red-streaked puddles.

Then they reached the food court.

And everything stopped.

A scene from Hell.

Blood was everywhere.

It painted the white tile floor, streaked up the plastic seating, splattered across the menus above the counters. Some bodies were sprawled lifelessly in their seats, their heads slumped forward, entire throats missing. Others were on the floor, motionless except for the slow spread of crimson seeping from jagged wounds.

A severed arm lay near an overturned tray of nachos, the fingers twitching as if still reaching for help that would never come.

One of the officers, a younger guy, took one look and immediately turned away, doubled over, and vomited onto the tile. The sickening sound echoed in the otherwise deathly silent food court.

María’s hands tightened around her gun.

Something moved.

A hunched figure, crouched over one of the bodies, feasting. Gnawing.

The sick, wet sounds of tearing flesh filled the air as the figure’s sharp teeth ripped into the corpse’s midsection, digging for organs like a wild animal.

María’s stomach twisted.

“FREEZE!” she barked, training her gun on the thing, her fellow officers doing the same. “HANDS UP! NOW!”

It stopped chewing.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, slowly, the creature moved.

It stood, rising to its full height.

The dim light caught its features, and María felt her breath hitch.

It had once been a man, a canine, but now, it was wrong. Decayed. Rotting.

Its fur hung in clumps, matted with gore. Skin sloughed from its limbs like wet paper, exposing the tendons beneath. Its eyes—those yellow, predator’s eyes—were still there, but something was missing. No soul. Just hunger.

The thing licked its bloody lips, then grinned, exposing rows of jagged teeth, still dripping red.

María’s world tilted as recognition slammed into her like a brick to the chest.

“You...” she breathed, her grip on the gun shaking.

The thing tilted its head, almost mockingly.

“But... I killed you.”

The other officers whipped their heads toward her. Confused. Alarmed.

But María couldn’t take her eyes off it.

She knew this monster. She knew him.

Ten years ago. That night. The child predator.

The man who threw himself off the roof to avoid justice.

And yet, here he was.

Still hungry.

The creature took a step forward, its bare, clawed feet smearing blood across the food court tiles. The corpse it had been feasting on twitched as it moved away, but only because its weight had shifted off the body—not because there was any life left in it.

Right?

María could still hear the wet, sickening sound of flesh being chewed, the memory of it making her stomach churn. But her hands did not waver.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

And yet it was.

"DROP HIM!" she barked, voice sharp and commanding.

The mall exploded with gunfire.

Six officers opened fire at once, and the sheer volume of noise was deafening. The open, cavernous space magnified the sound, turning it into an almost physical force, bouncing off the tiled walls and glass storefronts in rapid, chaotic reverberations.

The first bullets ripped into the thing’s chest.

Dark, thick blood splattered across the remains of an overturned Taco Bell counter. A shot tore into its shoulder, sending a chunk of rotting fur and sinew flying onto the linoleum.

But it didn’t stop.

María squeezed the trigger over and over, feeling the rhythmic kick of her Glock in her hands.

Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud—

One officer’s rounds missed, shattering the neon sign of a Chick-fil-A, sending glass cascading like a waterfall of tiny daggers. Another bullet ripped through the air, blowing a hole straight through the soda machine, causing a geyser of sticky brown liquid to spray out like blood from a severed artery.

Still, the monster did not fall.

It shuddered with every impact, its body jerking like a marionette with its strings violently yanked, but each time, it corrected itself—spine bending at odd angles, but never breaking.

"What the fuck!?" One of the officers shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

María could hear the chaotic symphony of reloading.

Magazines dropped onto the blood-slicked floor.

Slides racking back.

Fresh rounds being chambered.

Her own movements were automatic—eject, reload, rack, aim—muscle memory guiding her while her brain struggled to accept the impossible.

She knew this man.

Knew what he had done.

The thing took another shambling step forward, its ruined mouth twisted into something that was almost a smile.

María lifted her gun higher, her aim steady, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Fine.

If the body wouldn’t die…

She would end it another way.

She took a breath, steadying herself, and whispered, "Go back to Hell."

BLAM!

The shot ripped through the monster’s forehead, snapping its head backward with a sickening crack.

For the first time, it stopped moving.

For a single, terrible second, it stood frozen.

Then, its legs gave out.

It collapsed onto the floor in a heap, arms splayed, mouth still twisted in that ghoulish grin.

The silence that followed was absolute.

María stood there, gun still raised, her breath slow, controlled—but inside, her mind was screaming.

The other officers were wide-eyed, frozen. One was still holding his gun out, hands trembling.

Another muttered, "What the fuck was that?" under his breath; as though saying it too loud would make the monster stir again.

The body did not move.

María let out a slow breath and holstered her gun, her fingers feeling numb against the grip.

The others were still standing in stunned silence, their eyes darting between each other; as if waiting for someone to say something that would make sense of this madness.

But no one did.

This was impossible.

She had seen death before. Hell, she had dealt death before. She knew what a bullet to the torso did. The thing should not have kept walking.

And yet—it had.

María shook off the thought, turning to her officers, trying to focus on what needed to be done.

"Check for survivors." Her voice was rougher than she intended. "If anyone's alive, we get them the fuck out of here."

The others hesitated for only a second before moving to obey. They spread out across the food court, stepping over torn limbs and pools of blood as they checked the bodies.

María stood in place for a moment, taking it all in.

So much carnage.

The food court was unrecognizable. The smell of charred burger grease and stale fries had been replaced by the stench of blood and rot. Ketchup mixed with gore on the floor, making it look like someone had been decorating with paint and viscera.

Overturned tables. Spilled drinks. A cell phone buzzing on the ground, its cracked screen still showing an unanswered text.

This wasn’t a crime scene.

This was a slaughterhouse.

Her fingers hovered over her radio. She needed paramedics, more units, something—

"I got a live one!"

The shout snapped María back into action. She turned just in time to see one of her officers kneeling beside a woman in a fast-food uniform, her yellow polo stained deep red.

María reached for her radio.

"This is Detective Cabrera, requesting immediate medical—"

The woman jerked upright.

The officer barely had time to react before her hands snapped around his collar, yanking him forward.

Then—her teeth sank into his neck.

A sickening crunch.

The officer screamed, thrashing, but the woman’s grip was like iron. Blood spurted in a thick, arterial spray, splattering across her face.

And her eyes—

Her eyes were empty.

Vacant.

Dead.

María ripped her gun free.

And took aim.

Goofy’s minivan pulled into the familiar gravel driveway with a slight sputter, the engine giving its usual lazy cough before it came to a complete stop. The sun had already set, and a cool wind blowing through the trees. The evening air was crisp, and as Max stepped out of the van, he felt an odd weight on his chest.

The playful chatter from the back seat faded into the background as he dragged himself out of the van. Gosalyn and Webby were already debating loudly about dinner choices, throwing out ideas for pizza, wings, and even sushi. Max wasn’t really listening. His thoughts kept drifting back to the fight earlier that day, the one he had with Bradley.

He could still feel the adrenaline pulsing through him. The anger had consumed him completely, making it impossible to think straight. He had wanted to shut Bradley up, sure, but the way it escalated... the rage, the physicality. When he’d grabbed Bradley by the collar and thrown him against the wall, something had snapped in him. Something primal. Max knew he’d gone too far, but the anger had felt justified, right at that moment.

The thought of Bradley’s face, his eyes wide with fear as Max closed in, still made his stomach turn. It was like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them, Max’s fists swinging wildly. And when he finally stopped, when the rage had finally subsided and he looked down, it was like he didn’t even recognize himself anymore.

The guilt hit him in waves now, after the fact. He had almost lost control completely. It was terrifying to think about what might have happened if Gosalyn hadn’t stepped in when she did; if Scrooge and his shifty lawyer hadn’t gotten the charges dropped. Max hated that he’d let it get that far. Hated how easy it had been to let the anger take over.

What kind of person does that? he thought bitterly. He wasn’t like his dad, the good-natured guy who could keep things in perspective. Max was just... angry. Too angry.

He let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head, trying to push the thoughts away. He knew it wasn’t healthy, but it was hard to focus on anything else when that nagging feeling wouldn’t let up.

As he leaned against the van, Goofy’s voice called out from behind him, full of his usual enthusiasm. “What’s it gonna be, Max? Pizza, wings, burgers?”

Max blinked, pulling himself out of his head for a moment. He turned back, giving his dad a tired smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Uh... pizza, I guess. The usual.” His voice sounded flat, even to him. He wasn’t really thinking about food. He wasn’t really thinking about anything at all.

“Great! I’ll call in the order!” Goofy’s voice lifted with his usual cheery optimism as he ambled up the steps toward the door.

Behind Max, Gosalyn and Webby continued their loud bickering, debating which pizza toppings were “acceptable” and which were “too weird” to even consider. Max wasn’t part of the conversation. He couldn’t bring himself to join in, the guilt still weighing on him like a stone.

“Max, you good?” Gosalyn called out as she followed Goofy toward the house, pausing just for a second to glance over her shoulder.

“Yeah, fine.” Max lied through his teeth, offering a weak thumbs-up. He could feel the tension in his jaw, the way his fists still clenched involuntarily. He needed to shake it off. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.

“You sure?” Webby’s voice followed close behind, her tone softer than usual. “You’ve been... kinda quiet.”

Max opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a figure caught his eye in the street, just as Goofy’s voice was fading inside the house. A silhouette moved toward him—a girl, walking down the sidewalk toward the driveway.

Max’s breath caught in his throat. His stomach tightened.

It was Pistol.

For a moment, Max didn’t know what to feel. A mixture of surprise and guilt and something else—something he didn’t quite understand. He hadn’t seen her since that morning; when everything had fallen apart. The look in her eyes as she confronted him... He hadn’t been ready for that. He wasn’t sure he was ready now.

The distance between them seemed to stretch on for an eternity. His mind raced with what to say, how to act. Should he apologize? Or just ignore everything and pretend like nothing had happened?

But the way she was walking toward him, her expression unreadable but purposeful, told him that this wasn’t going to be easy. She wasn’t here to just let things go.

Max found himself frozen for a moment, his thoughts still spinning.

Then he heard Goofy’s voice from inside, almost muffled by the door closing behind him. “Maxie, you want me to order extra cheese?”

Max didn’t respond. His focus remained entirely on Pistol, who was now just a few steps away from the driveway.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever was about to happen. He had to face it. The silence between them was about to break.

Pistol stopped in front of the driveway, not saying a word at first. She stood there for a moment, just looking at him. Max could see her hands tucked into the pockets of her hoodie, her posture tense but calm, like she was bracing for something.

Finally, she spoke.

“Hey.”

Max blinked, unsure how to respond. His heart skipped a beat, his pulse racing. He had no idea what to say. He was still trying to process the fact that she was standing there, in front of him, after everything. After what had happened that morning.

And just like that, the world seemed to shift, the conversation that would follow hanging in the air between them like a fragile thread.

Max stood frozen in the driveway, unsure of what to say. Pistol, still standing a few steps away, wasn’t making any move to close the distance. For a few long seconds, the air between them was thick with unsaid words, with emotions too heavy to lift. Max felt the weight of everything—the guilt, the confusion, the anger—and yet, he couldn’t stop looking at her. She looked the same, but somehow different, like she’d been carrying a burden he couldn’t begin to understand.

Finally, he found his voice, a rough whisper.

“Pistol, I… I’m sorry.”

Her gaze softened, her expression unreadable for a moment. Max could feel the apology choking him up, but he forced himself to continue.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that.” He took a slow breath, trying to steady his thoughts. “I didn’t want you to think I was... just some guy who... acts like that.”

She nodded slowly, looking at him with a mixture of understanding and something deeper—something that looked a little like pain, but also relief.

“I get it, Max.” Her voice was quiet, but firm. “I really do.”

Max blinked, caught off guard. He looked at her, his eyes searching hers. “You do?”

“Yeah.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, looking down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “For a long time, I just… I let Bradley do whatever he wanted to me. I didn’t know how to stand up for myself.” She took a shaky breath, her eyes flickering with vulnerability. “And then when you did… when you did what you did to him… I didn’t know how to feel about it. I just—” She stopped, her throat tight as she struggled to put the words together.

Max felt a knot twist in his stomach. The words she was saying hit him harder than anything he could have imagined.

“You shouldn’t have had to go through that.” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, trying to keep it together. “I should’ve known. I should’ve—”

“No, Max.” Pistol’s voice was soft but firm, her eyes intense. “I should’ve reached out sooner. I should’ve told someone what was happening. But I didn’t. I kept everything in because I didn’t want to drag you into this mess.” She paused, shaking her head. “I didn’t want to ruin your life too.”

Max frowned, his heart sinking at the idea. “Drag me into it? Pistol, you are my life. You were.” His voice softened, the edges of his anger fading as his words took on a quieter, more earnest tone. “We used to hang out all the time, remember? The summers, the stupid games we played... we were so close.” He smiled faintly at the memory, though it quickly faded. “I missed that. I missed you.”

Her eyes flickered with something like longing. She shifted on her feet, arms folding across her chest, and took a step closer to him. “I missed you too, Max. I missed it all.” Her voice cracked just slightly as she continued, her gaze falling to the ground for a moment before she lifted it again, meeting his eyes with raw sincerity. “I’m sorry that we drifted apart, that it took something like this to bring us back together.”

Max felt a pang in his chest. This was the real Pistol, the one he had spent so many summers with, the one he had laughed with, the one who had always been there. All of the years, all of the distance, all of the hurt seemed to dissolve in that moment, like something finally clicking back into place.

Without another word, Pistol stepped forward, and before Max could even think, she pulled him into a tight hug.

It was sudden, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Max stood there for a second, stunned, before he wrapped his arms around her. He could feel her warmth, the familiar scent of her hair, the weight of everything that had passed between them.

And for a moment, it was just the two of them—no violence, no confusion, just a connection that had somehow survived everything. The world outside seemed to fade away, the noises of the evening growing distant; as if nothing else mattered in that second.

Max pulled back slightly, just enough to look her in the eyes again, the weight of his words settling in.

“I’m really sorry, Pistol.” His voice was quieter now, sincere, almost pleading. “I just... I didn’t know how to help. I didn’t know how to deal with any of this.”

She smiled softly, though her eyes were still a little misty. “You helped. You helped more than you know.”

For a long beat, they simply stood there, taking in the moment. Max was acutely aware of how much time had passed since they had last been in each other’s lives like this. It felt like too much time, but here they were, still standing.

Finally, Pistol took a step back, looking up at him with that same quiet sincerity.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Max.” She paused for a moment, and then, as though it was the easiest thing in the world, she kissed him on the cheek—soft, quick, almost like a promise. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

Max’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t know how to respond to that. For a moment, he just stood there, feeling something he hadn’t felt in so long. Something real.

“You wanna... we're ordering pizza, and like, you know? You can come in if you want.” Max asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

She smiled; a genuine warmth to it this time, her eyes glimmering with something he couldn’t quite place. “I just ate, but... I’ll text you later.” She waved lightly, backing away with a final look at him.

Max watched as she turned and began walking back toward the street. He didn’t move for a while, still trying to wrap his head around everything that had just happened. It felt like a door that had been closed for so long had finally creaked open again. And this time, he wouldn’t let it close.

As Pistol disappeared into the evening light, Max stood there for a moment longer, feeling a small but undeniable sense of peace settling into him.

The past might have been messy, but for the first time in a long while, he could see the future clearly. And that made all the difference.

Max exhaled slowly, his breath leaving him in a long, steady sigh. For the first time that night, he actually felt okay. Lighter, even. He had been carrying so much weight—anger, guilt, frustration—but now, after everything, it felt like he could breathe again.

Pistol had forgiven him. More than that, they had reconnected. Maybe things wouldn’t ever be exactly like they used to be, but at least now, the distance between them wasn’t so impossible anymore. That meant something.

He climbed the steps to his front door, stretching his arms behind his head as he walked. He could hear faint laughter inside—his dad and the girls, probably already arguing over food again. He smiled. After the day he’d had, that sounded perfect.

Reaching for the doorknob, Max was just about to step inside when—

WEEOOO! WEEOOO! WEEOOO!

The sharp wail of sirens cut through the air, growing louder by the second.

Max turned his head just in time to see three police cars flying down the street, red and blue lights strobing wildly, their engines roaring as they tore past the house at full speed. The tires screeched against the pavement as they swerved through an intersection, the urgency in their movements making it obvious—this wasn’t just some routine call.

Max furrowed his brow, watching them go.

"Huh," he muttered to himself, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Seems like the whole city is going crazy tonight."

But he didn’t dwell on it. Whatever was happening out there, it wasn’t his problem.

Turning back to the door, he twisted the knob, stepping inside just as the last of the flashing lights disappeared down the street.

Click. The door shut behind him.

The city raged on.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen - Pale

The wheels of the gurney squealed against the polished linoleum floor, the frantic thump-thump-thump of its movement echoing down the brightly lit hospital corridor. María Cabrera rushed alongside it, her feet pounding against the tile as she kept pace with the team of nurses and the attending doctor.

Her officer—Nick Wilde—lay on the gurney, his uniform shirt soaked in deep crimson, the wound at his neck still pulsing blood despite the pressure dressing hastily wrapped around it. His flesh had gone deathly pale under his fur, his breathing shallow and erratic. The damn bite had torn through his carotid artery, and every weak heartbeat sent more life spilling out of him.

“BP dropping! 72 over 40 and falling fast!” one of the nurses shouted, her voice tense but professional.

“Push two units of O-negative! And get the crash cart prepped!” the doctor barked back.

“Respirations at 10 and dropping!” another nurse called out, checking his vitals as they sped toward the OR.

“Damn it, he’s circling the drain—get that suction ready, we need to keep the airway clear!” The doctor’s words were sharp, commanding, but María could hear the edge of desperation in them.

They burst through a set of double doors, the sterile white lights of the hospital blinding after the blood-soaked horror of the mall. A nurse ran ahead, shoving open the doors to the operating room as another squeezed a bag of saline connected to Wilde’s IV line, trying to force fluids into his system faster.

This is insane.

María’s thoughts raced almost as fast as her feet.

This isn’t possible. This isn’t happening.

But it was.

She had killed him. That bastard. The child predator she had put in the ground ten years ago. She had seen the light go out in his eyes back then. But tonight—tonight she had seen him rise. Seen him move, feed, kill.

And then—

The civilians.

The dead civilians.

The woman in the fast food uniform who should have been a corpse, cold and lifeless, had jumped up and ripped into Wilde’s throat before anyone could react.

Dead people don’t move. Dead people don’t attack.

None of this made sense. None of it.

“Somebody get me more gauze, NOW!” the doctor’s voice snapped her back to reality.

They reached the doors of the OR, and María instinctively stepped forward, ready to follow them inside. But before she could take another step—

A firm hand pressed against her chest.

She looked up to see a nurse—dark circles under her eyes, expression unreadable—shaking her head. “You can’t come in, detective. You need to wait outside.”

María opened her mouth to protest, but no words came. What could she say? That she needed to be in there? That she had to see if he survived? That after everything that had happened tonight, she needed one thing to turn out okay?

Instead, all she could do was stand there—helpless—as the doors swung shut in her face.

Through the small window, she watched as they transferred Nick onto the operating table, the team immediately descending upon him, their gloved hands moving with surgical precision.

One nurse hooked up a blood transfusion. Another placed an oxygen mask over his face. The doctor grabbed a scalpel, barking orders to his team.

The monitors beeped rapidly. Machines hummed. The overhead light cast stark, cold shadows over the sterile room.

And all María could do was watch.

She clenched her fists at her sides, jaw tightening.

Because deep down, she knew—

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

María barely noticed the weight of Captain Jim Brantley’s hand on her shoulder, her gaze fixed on the operating room through the small glass window.

Brantley’s voice was low, gravelly, the weight of a long, hard career pressing into every word. “How’s he doing?”

María exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head. “Not great.” She turned slightly, meeting the bulldog captain’s tired eyes. “First Hopps, now him? What the hell is going on out there, Jim?”

Brantley sighed, rubbing the bridge of his broad snout, his wrinkled face etched with exhaustion. “I don’t know, María, but it’s not over. 911 is jammed—people are losing their damn minds. Random attacks, assaults, reports of people just… snapping. We got everyone out there right now trying to contain this, but…” He let out another sigh, heavier this time. “It’s like trying to hold back a flood with duct tape.”

María’s frown deepened as she watched the surgical team work. The rapid beeping of the heart monitor echoed in her ears. “Some new drug maybe?” she muttered. “Something we’ve never seen before? A biological attack?”

Brantley’s mouth set in a grim line. “No idea. But whatever it is, we need to get back out there. There’s nothing we can do here.” He glanced toward the operating room, then back at María. “We need to keep the people safe.”

And then—

The beeping stopped.

A single, drawn-out tone filled the air.

Inside the OR, the doctor immediately backed away from the table, his shoulders sagging. “We lost him,” he said, his voice almost drowned out by the monotonous flatline.

A nurse hesitated, glancing toward the clock. Then, quietly, she spoke.

“Time of death: 11:47 PM.”

María closed her eyes, cursing under her breath. “Damn.”

She watched as another nurse—her face drawn and weary—pulled a sheet over Nick Wilde’s still form, covering his bloodstained uniform and the pale, lifeless features beneath it.

Another officer. Gone.

She clenched her fists at her sides.

Brantley exhaled, shaking his head. “C’mon,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Let’s get back out there before more good cops die.”

María nodded.

They turned.

Started walking.

Made it maybe five feet before—

A scream.

Both officers spun back toward the OR.

Through the window, chaos erupted. The nurse who had covered Nick’s body was now on the ground, shrieking, her white uniform already soaked in blood.

Nick Wilde—his body still under the sheet but moving—was on top of her.

His hands gripped her shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh as his teeth—those once charming, sly, officer Wilde teeth—ripped into her throat with horrifying force. Blood sprayed across the OR.

His eyes—lifeless, empty, dead—stared past her, unseeing.

But he was moving.

Brantley barely had time to curse before both officers’ hands were on their holsters, drawing their guns in unison.

And then—

Blackout.

The house was quiet.

Goofy had left for work an hour ago, leaving Max alone with Webby and Gosalyn, who were passed out downstairs in the living room, sharing a sleeping bag. He could still hear their occasional murmurs and shifting in their sleep, the only sounds in the stillness of the house.

But up here, in his room, it felt too quiet.

Max lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His hands rested on his stomach, fingers twitching slightly; as if his body refused to settle. The dim green glow of the plastic stars above him cast a soft, eerie light over his room.

They’d been there forever. His mom had helped him stick them up when he was little, carefully arranging them to match real constellations. He remembered how she had turned off the lights, letting them shine for the first time.

"See? Even in the dark, you’ll always have stars to look up at."

His chest tightened.

That was before she got sick. Before everything changed.

He turned his head, glancing at his phone on the nightstand. He tapped the screen. No new messages.

Pistol hadn’t texted.

Maybe she fell asleep. Maybe she just needed space. Or maybe—maybe she didn’t know what to say to him now.

He let the phone fall back onto the mattress with a soft thud, running a hand down his face. His fingers brushed against the faint stubble on his jaw, a reminder of how much time had passed since he was that little kid staring up at plastic stars, thinking his biggest problems were nightmares and math homework.

Would his mom be proud of him now?

Would she be disappointed?

He had thought about her a lot tonight. More than usual. Maybe it was because of what happened with Bradley. The anger, the violence. The way he had wanted to keep hitting him, to make him hurt.

The memory of it made his stomach turn.

Pistol had thanked him, but what if she had only said that because she had to? What if, deep down, she had been afraid?

He swallowed hard.

With a slow breath, he shut his eyes, trying to push it all away. It was over. He was fine. Pistol was fine. Everything was fine.

And yet…

His eyes drifted back up to the ceiling. The stars above him glowed softly.

Max lay still, eyes heavy but mind restless. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he last checked his phone, but sleep still wouldn’t come. His thoughts kept circling, looping back to Pistol, to Bradley, to his mom, to the gnawing feeling in his gut that something about tonight was off.

Then—

Tap.

His breath hitched.

Scratch, scratch.

His entire body went rigid. The noise was faint but deliberate. Not the wind. Not the house settling. Something was at his window.

Another tap. Soft. Persistent.

A cold chill ran up his spine.

His mind raced. He had seen some shit lately—things that defied reason. The Mothman. The Night Market. And now, at one in the morning, something was at his bedroom window.

On the second floor.

Max barely breathed as he slowly sat up. His heart pounded against his ribs. His eyes darted to his desk, where an old wooden baseball bat leaned against the wall. He grabbed it with a firm grip, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

Barefoot, he padded across the floor.

The shadows swallowed him as he inched closer.

The noise came again—this time a soft tapping.

Max took a deep breath, gripping the bat tighter. He clenched his jaw, muscles tense, and in one swift motion, he yanked open the curtain—

And nearly screamed.

Standing on the other side of the glass, smiling at him like it was the most normal thing in the world, was—

"Pistol?!"

She grinned and gave him a small wave.

Max set the bat down, still reeling from the shock. He fumbled with the window latch before finally pushing it open. Cool night air slipped into the room, carrying with it the faint scent of damp grass and asphalt.

“Pistol?” he whispered, still half-convinced he was dreaming. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugged like it was no big deal. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Max stared at her. He poked his head out of the window, glancing down at the ground below. His room was on the second floor. No way she just casually climbed up here. “Okay, but how did you even get up here?”

Pistol smirked and pointed. “The ladder your dad left out since summer is still leaning against the garage. Climbed up there, then hopped onto your roof.” She tapped her temple. “Boom. Easy.”

Max blinked. "Easy?"

“Yup. Also, you guys really should be more concerned about home security. Anyone can break in, y’know.”

Max huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. This girl was something else.

Pistol tilted her head, expectant. “So, are you gonna invite me in or what?”

Max flinched.

She wanted to come inside? Into his room? In the middle of the night?

His face burned. Was this real life? Had he actually fallen asleep and was now having some kind of weird, late-night fever dream?

He swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how messy his room was, how he was only wearing track pants and a white muscle shirt, how this was definitely not a normal situation.

And yet, despite the million thoughts racing through his head, he found himself stepping aside.

“…Yeah. Yeah, come in.”

As Pistol swung a leg over the windowsill and climbed inside, Max panicked.

His brain snapped into overdrive.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

The room was a mess. More importantly, there were certain things lying around that should not be seen by the opposite sex under any circumstances.

Max scrambled.

In one swift motion, he grabbed the box of Kleenex and bottle of lotion off his desk, shoving them deep into a drawer like they were contraband. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his lewd anime figures. His soul nearly left his body. He snatched them up and stuffed them under his bed just as Pistol turned around.

Smooth.

When he looked up, he immediately regretted it.

Because damn.

Pistol looked fine.

She still had her signature pigtails, but there was something softer about them now, slightly undone from the day. She wore a tight tank top, the fabric riding up just enough to show a hint of tummy, and pajama pants that clung to her curves entirely too well.

Max suddenly felt… underprepared.

“So, seriously,” he stammered, trying to keep his brain from short-circuiting, “what are you doing here?”

Pistol just rolled her eyes, hands on her hips. “Oh, come on. You said it yourself—we used to hang out all the time.”

Before Max could respond, she wandered over to his desk, her fingers lazily trailing along the surface until she reached his laptop. His very recently used laptop.

His stomach dropped.

Pistol’s hand moved to the screen.

She was about to look at it.

Like a ninja, Max lunged forward and slapped the laptop shut before she could even blink.

“Cool, awesome, rad,” he blurted, his voice about three octaves too high.

Pistol raised an eyebrow. “What was that about?”

“Nothing!” he squeaked. “Absolutely nothing! Just, uh… nothing you need to see! Homework, yup, boring old algebra...”

Her lips curled into a teasing smirk.

“Uh-huh,” she hummed, unconvinced.

Max’s heart was about to explode.

Pistol just poked her tongue out playfully and flopped onto his bed, making herself way too comfortable.

“And where is the fun in texting?” she teased, stretching her arms over her head. “Yeesh, you act like you’ve never had a girl in your room before.”

Max rubbed the back of his head, his face heating up. “You mean… other than my mom?”

Pistol snorted. “Wow. That is tragic.”

Max groaned, covering his face with his hands.

This was going to be a long night.

Pistol leaned back against Max’s pillows, resting her hands behind her head as she let out a long, satisfied sigh. She looked so at ease there, like she belonged, like she had done this a million times before.

Max, on the other hand? He didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Or his face.

Or his entire body.

She glanced at him suddenly, a playful glint in her eye. “Hey… do you remember that one summer when we had that huge lemonade stand war?”

Max blinked. “What?”

Pistol grinned. “You know, back when we were, like, ten? You set up a lemonade stand with your dad—classic, simple, five cents a cup. Boring. But me? I had a whole business model. I had signs, a brand. I made strawberry lemonade, watermelon lemonade, blue raspberry—”

Max snapped his fingers. “Ohhh, now I remember! Yeah! And I got so mad because you were stealing all my customers!”

Pistol laughed, nudging him with her foot. “I was running you out of business. But then you got sneaky and told everyone my lemonade was made with bath water—”

“You started it!” Max defended, laughing now. “You told people my lemonade was made with dog spit!”

Pistol shrugged. “It was effective marketing.”

Max rolled his eyes. “It was straight-up slander. I didn't even own a dog!”

“Oh, please. You ended up winning anyway.”

Max smirked, puffing his chest out. “Damn right I did.”

Pistol let out a dramatic groan and covered her face. “I still can’t believe I lost! Your dad came outside with a tray of free cookies and boom—suddenly no one wanted my lemonade anymore!”

Max snickered. “Yeah, well, nobody can compete with Dad’s chocolate chip cookies.”

Pistol pouted, then sighed, a small, fond smile forming on her lips. “That was… a really good summer.”

Max just stood there, looking at her.

He remembered that summer perfectly. The way the sun never seemed to set, the smell of fresh-cut grass and warm pavement, the laughter that always carried through the cul-de-sac.

And her.

Pistol had been his best friend. His first real best friend.

And then… she was gone.

As if reading his mind, Pistol’s smile faltered. She looked down, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her tank top.

“I’m sorry, Max.”

His chest tightened.

She took a breath. “For, y’know… kinda ditching you when we got older.”

Max didn’t say anything. He just watched as she gathered her thoughts.

Pistol exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I was stupid. I wanted to fit in so bad, and I thought the only way to do that was to be part of the cool crowd. I thought… I don’t know, that maybe you were holding me back or something.” She grimaced. “God, that sounds so awful to say out loud.”

Max swallowed, forcing a small smile. “Well… I was a pretty big nerd.”

Pistol groaned and buried her face in her hands. “You weren’t, though! That’s the worst part! You were my best friend, and I threw that away just to impress a bunch of jerks.”

Max watched her, taking in the way her shoulders hunched slightly, how her voice had gotten softer, more vulnerable.

She meant it.

She really was sorry.

A few years ago, that apology would have meant nothing to him. It wouldn’t have mattered.

But right now?

Right now, sitting in his room at 1 AM, talking about childhood summers and lost time…

It did.

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Hey… it’s okay.”

Pistol looked up at him, eyes hesitant. “Really?”

Max hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sucked at the time. But… I guess I get it now. We were kids. And I missed you, Pistol. A lot.”

Pistol’s expression softened.

“I missed you too, Max.”

A quiet moment passed between them, thick with nostalgia, regret, and something softer—something unspoken.

Then, Max finally moved.

Slowly, he crossed the room and sat on the bed next to her, their shoulders almost touching.

Neither of them said anything.

They just sat there, lost in memories of lemonade stands and summers that never seemed to end.

Pistol shifted on the bed, tucking her legs up as she fiddled with a loose thread on her pajama pants. Then, after a moment of hesitation, she glanced up at Max and muttered, almost too casually—

“Soooo… do you, like, have any weed?”

Max let out a sharp laugh, so sudden and loud that Pistol flinched. “Ha! I knew it!”

Pistol groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Shaddup,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “I just need a little something to unwind, okay? And at least I came to you, ya big jerk.”

Yeah, at least she did.

Max smirked, shaking his head as he pushed himself up from the bed. “You are so predictable, you know that?” He made his way across the room, crouching next to his backpack. “Let’s see what we got…”

He unzipped the bag and rummaged through it, pulling out a couple of baggies. “Alright,” he said, holding them up between his fingers. “I got a couple of strains—'They're Coming, They're Coming', 'Gorilla Panic', and some good old-fashioned 'How Long Has That Van Been There'. Maybe we'll avoid that one.” He glanced back at her with a smirk. “However, just because we’re friends again doesn’t mean this is free. Fifteen bucks, little lady.”

Silence.

Max barely had time to register that Pistol hadn’t responded before he turned fully—

And nearly died on the spot.

Pistol was lying back on his bed, now completely topless, her shirt tossed somewhere to the side, her small breasts on full display. She propped herself up on one elbow, her smirk slow, lazy, confident.

“I was thinking maybe…” She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Something other than money?”

Max’s jaw hit the floor. His brain collapsed in on itself. The baggies of weed slipped from his fingers, tumbling onto the carpet.

“I— You— What— This— Pistol—?” He gestured wildly, looking between her, himself, the bed, the window—what the hell was happening right now?

Pistol giggled, clearly enjoying his absolute, total, spectacular meltdown. “What’s the matter, Maxie?” she teased, running a finger along his bedsheets. “Cat got your tongue?”

Max swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. His brain was a scrambled mess of alarms blaring and neurons short-circuiting.

“I just— I thought— You wanted to smoke?”

“Oh, I do,” Pistol purred, stretching slightly, the motion entirely too deliberate. “But, you know… I also thought we could have a little more fun than that.”

Max swore his heartbeat was loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. His hands twitched at his sides. Was this real? Was he already high?

Pistol giggled again, reaching for him, and before he could react, she hooked a single finger into the waistband of his track pants and gave a slow, playful tug.

That was it.

That was the moment Max’s brain officially quit.

The world blurred. The floor beneath him didn’t feel real. The only thing that existed was her—

And the stars above them glowed softly.

Bradley Uppercrust III lay motionless in his hospital bed, his body aching with every shallow breath. The dim fluorescent lights above cast a sterile glow, making the room feel colder than it already was. His right eye was swollen shut, his jaw wired so tight he could barely even breathe without feeling the tension pulling against the shattered bones. A steady beep from the heart monitor filled the silence, an irritating, constant reminder that he was still here. Still alive.

But this? This was worse than death.

Humiliation. Pain. Weakness.

His fingers twitched at his sides, nails digging into the stiff sheets as his mind burned with rage.

Max Goof.

That burnout. That nobody.

He did this.

A fucking loser. A poor kid. A stoner. Some nobody who shouldn’t have even been a blip on his radar. And yet, here he was—Bradley Uppercrust III, quarterback, king of the school, lying in a damn hospital bed because of him.

The rage that coursed through him made the pain feel distant, numbed by the pure hatred boiling in his veins.

He had it all. He had the school in his pocket. The parties. The respect. The fear. He was the big man, the star, the guy every dude wanted to be and every chick wanted to be with. And now? Now he was the guy who got his face broken in front of everyone.

Max fucking Goof.

And Pistol—his Pistol—she was to blame too.

She’d been nothing before he found her. Just another plain girl from the suburbs, an ugly duckling. He was the one who took her out of that life. He made her somebody. Put her at the top. Made her queen bee of Duckburg High.

And how did she repay him?

She walked away.

For Max.

For that piece of shit.

Bradley’s breath came out sharp and ragged, his broken ribs flaring in protest. They did this. Both of them. They thought they could just toss him aside like he was nothing?

No.

No, this wasn’t over.

Max was going to pay.

And Pistol?

She was going to remember who made her.

And who owned her.

The beeping of the monitor quickened as his blood pressure spiked.

Bradley didn’t care.

All he could see—through the burning, throbbing pain—was revenge.

Darkness swallowed the room.

The sharp buzz of the hospital lights cut out in an instant, leaving nothing but the steady beep-beep-beep of Bradley’s heart monitor.

For a moment, he thought he imagined it. Maybe he had drifted off and jolted awake too fast. But then—

A scream.

Far off. Echoing through the halls.

Bradley tensed. His fingers twitched at his sides. His throat tightened.

Then another sound. Pop. Pop.

His breath caught.

That was gunfire.

Something was wrong.

His fingers slammed on the nurse call button, rapid-fire clicks.

No response.

The beeping of the monitor was too loud now, hammering in his ears. Another scream—closer this time. A voice shouting something, then—silence.

Cold sweat prickled his skin. He tried to swallow, but his jaw was wired shut, forcing him to suck in short, panicked breaths through his nose. He winced as a fresh pulse of pain shot through his skull.

He had to get up. He had to see what was happening.

The sheets tangled around his legs as he swung them over the side of the bed. He nearly collapsed as his bare feet hit the cold tile. His ribs screamed in protest, and his body wobbled like he was made of paper. The pain was unbearable. It was humiliating.

Bradley Uppercrust III, the king of Duckburg High, reduced to this.

Rage curled hot and poisonous in his gut, drowning out the pain.

Another scream.

Closer.

His head snapped up.

The hallway was dead quiet now.

His pulse pounded against the inside of his skull as he staggered toward the door. Every step was slow, careful, dragging his battered body forward.

The darkness outside his room was thick, impenetrable. The tiny window on the door showed nothing but vague, shifting shapes beyond.

A shiver ran down his spine.

His hand found the metal handle. It was cold. Too cold.

Something about this wasn’t right.

He inhaled sharply and turned it.

Then—

BANG.

Something slammed against the window.

Bradley reeled back, a strangled sound ripping from his throat.

It was a face.

A cop. A fox.

His fur was matted with blood, his uniform was soaked in deep, dark stains. His mouth twitched, lips peeling back into something that was almost a snarl but not quite. His breath fogged the glass in rapid bursts.

Bradley’s legs locked up.

The officer’s eyes—

They weren’t right.

White. Clouded. Empty.

No pupils. No recognition.

Just hunger.

Bradley scrambled back, his spine slamming against the hospital bed.

His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps.

No. No, this isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This isn’t—

The door handle turned.

Slow. Deliberate.

The click of the latch releasing sent ice through Bradley’s veins.

The door swung open.

The officer stepped inside—no, lurched. His movements were wrong, jerky, like a marionette with half its strings cut.

A sound crawled from his throat—low, wet, inhuman.

Bradley's legs refused to move.

He had nowhere to go.

The fox’s teeth flashed in the dark.

Then—

Pain.

A crushing weight.

And then—

Nothing.

The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting an eerie, almost mystical light across the room. Gosalyn stirred in her sleep, her body shifting beneath the warmth of the blankets. She groggily rolled over, reaching out for Webby, but her arm fell against the empty space beside her.

Wait.

Gosalyn’s eyes blinked open, her heart skipping a beat as she sat up quickly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She glanced around the dim living room.

Where the hell was Webby?

The silence hung in the air, thick and heavy, save for the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Then, her gaze landed on the figure standing in front of the main living room window.

"Webby?"

Gosalyn’s voice came out hoarse and thick with sleep. She squinted in the darkness, trying to make sense of the scene. The moonlight shone down, illuminating Webby in a soft, silver glow. She stood there, still as a statue, her back slightly arched, her posture rigid in a way Gosalyn had never seen before.

It wasn’t like Webby to stand still for long—let alone look so... serious.

Gosalyn felt a twinge of concern. "What's going on?"

There was no immediate response, but Gosalyn's breath caught when she saw what Webby was holding: Lena, her enchanted sword, the one Webby was never far from.

What the hell?

"Uh, Webby, what are you doing?" Gosalyn asked, her voice shaky, a thread of unease crawling into her gut.

Webby slowly turned her head toward Gosalyn, the intensity of her expression sending a chill through the room. The playful, quirky energy that normally radiated off her was gone. In its place, there was something sharp, something... wrong.

“The city is in danger,” Webby whispered, her voice low and serious, eyes locking with Gosalyn’s in a way that sent a wave of unease flooding over her.

Gosalyn blinked, her mind fumbling for a response. “What do you mean... in danger?”

For a long beat, Webby just stared at her, the weight of the words hanging between them. But then—just as quickly as the serious look had arrived, it vanished.

The edges of Webby’s lips curled up into a mischievous grin. “Get dressed, I’ll go get Max!” she said with her usual spunky tone, her voice returning to that strange blend of innocent enthusiasm.

Without waiting for a reply, Webby darted past Gosalyn with a surprising burst of energy, rushing up the stairs with her sword clutched tightly in her hand. The sound of her footsteps grew faint as she disappeared into the upper levels of the house.

Gosalyn remained still for a moment, staring at the spot where Webby had been just seconds before.

She let out a soft sigh, shaking her head in disbelief.

"My girlfriend is so weird..." she muttered to herself, feeling a strange mixture of admiration and confusion.

It wasn’t often that Webby got so... serious. Gosalyn wasn’t sure what to make of it, but she had learned by now that when Webby said the city was in danger, she meant it. Whatever it was, it was coming.

With a deep breath, Gosalyn pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the side of the couch, the cool floor beneath her feet pulling her fully into wakefulness. She had no idea what was going on, but it looked like things were about to get weird. Again.

Gosalyn pulled on her hoodie, the fabric comforting against her feathers as she quickly tugged on her jeans, her movements sharp and practiced. She wasn’t used to taking her time—especially not when Webby was involved.

The second she finished throwing on her jacket, she heard it.

A scream.

Webby’s scream.

Her heart skipped a beat, and without thinking, Gosalyn bolted out of the living room, charging up the stairs two at a time, her webbed feet slapping against the wooden steps.

"Webby!" Gosalyn shouted, her voice laced with concern and urgency.

Her mind raced. What had happened? Had Webby encountered something dangerous? She couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just another late-night oddity.

As she reached the top of the stairs, she spotted Webby standing in front of Max’s door, her body frozen in place. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open as if she were trying to make sense of something—and whatever it was, it didn’t seem to make any sense at all.

Gosalyn’s instincts kicked in. She crossed the space in two long strides, grabbing Webby by the shoulders and shaking her lightly.

"Webby? What happened?" Gosalyn demanded. "Is it another monster? A vampire? A mummy? What the hell’s going on?!"

Webby’s lips parted, but nothing came out at first. She looked at Gosalyn with an expression that was a bizarre mixture of shock, confusion, and something else—something Gosalyn couldn’t quite place.

"Talk to me!"

Webby finally opened her mouth again, her voice trembling just a little. "I... I don't... they were..." She blinked, her gaze shifting nervously. Then, without another word, Webby pointed toward Max’s room.

Gosalyn didn’t hesitate. She followed Webby’s trembling finger, her stomach tightening with dread.

When her gaze landed on Max’s bed, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Max and... Pistol Pete?

The sight that met her eyes was nothing short of jaw-dropping. Max and Pistol were tangled together in the blankets, their bodies a mess of sheets and limbs, clearly trying to hide any trace of nudity. Gosalyn’s eyes went wide, her heart skipping a beat as she processed the scene.

"WHAT THE ASS?!" she shouted, her voice loud enough to shake the walls.

Max, still half-dazed and groggy, groaned as he looked over at her, his face flushed. "Didn't anyone teach you two to knock?!"

Pistol reached over to grab her shirt, yanking it on with irritation as she stood up from Max’s bed. She shot him an annoyed look. "If I would’ve known you were hiding other women around here..."

Max fell out of his bed, his face flushed. "Pistol! It’s not like that! They were just sleeping over..." His words sounded worse the more he said them. He tried to fix the mess he’d made. "Look, there’s no other women!"

Gosalyn, standing at the door with her arms crossed, let out a grumpy huff. "Hey!"

Max waved his hands in exasperation, his voice raising slightly. "You really think I would mess around with..." He gestured vaguely at Webby and Gosalyn, still struggling to pull himself together. "Them?"

Webby, who had been standing quietly in the doorway, suddenly piped up, her voice indignant. "Hey!"

Pistol just rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. She grabbed her jacket, pulling it on roughly, as she turned to Max. "Oh, really? So, you just have two other girls sleeping over because...?"

Max, now hopping around awkwardly as he tried to pull his pants on, stammered, "Because they're my friends!" His voice cracked slightly in his panic.

"Besides," Max continued, desperate to explain himself, "They’re, you know..." He made a scissor gesture with his fingers, mashing both hands together.

Both Webby and Gosalyn froze, their expressions going from confused to offended in unison as they both snarled, "HEY!"

Max blinked, looking at them both in confusion. "What?! I’m not lying here!" he protested. "And what are you two even doing?!"

Webby, now fully stepping into the room, held her sword firmly in one hand. Her posture was stiff and serious. The playful, chipper energy she usually carried had completely evaporated. She turned to Max, cutting him off. "The undead are here."

The room went dead silent.

Pistol just stared at Webby for a moment, her frustration bubbling over into a scoff. She rolled her eyes, walking toward the window. "Well, you have fun dealing with that," she said sharply, voice tinged with irritation. "I’m going home."

As she reached the window, she paused. Her hand still on the sill, she turned back, giving Max a pointed look. "Uh, Max..."

Max, still trying to piece together what was happening, leaned out the window. "Uhh, Spooky? Red? You may want to see this."

Webby and Gosalyn quickly moved to join him at the window, standing beside him as they looked down at the chaos unfolding outside.

The sight was horrific.

The streets were filled with the undead. Dozens of them. Their bodies were grotesque and mutilated, dragging themselves forward with stiff, unnatural movements. Some had limbs bent at impossible angles, others had blank, lifeless eyes.

Screams echoed through the air as people tried to escape, only to be caught by the relentless, shuffling corpses. A car had crashed into a nearby tree, its headlights casting long, eerie shadows before they flickered out. In the distance, a house was engulfed in flames, its burning structure illuminating the chaos below.

Max felt a lump form in his throat, unable to tear his eyes away from the nightmare unfolding in front of them. Pistol stood next to him, arms folded tightly across her chest, her expression a mix of horror and disbelief.

Webby, standing with her sword still in hand, glanced over at Max with a smug little smirk. "See? I told you so."

Gosalyn let out a long sigh, "Ah, phooey."

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen: No Cock Like Horse Cock

Gosalyn, Webby, Max, and Pistol huddled around Max's bedroom window, eyes wide as they took in the unfolding nightmare outside. The streetlights flickered, barely illuminating the twisted, shambling figures below. Zombies—actual, honest-to-God zombies—dragged themselves across front lawns, stumbled into mailboxes, and pounded on locked doors. A man sprinted down the sidewalk, screaming for help, before being tackled by three of the undead. Somewhere down the street, a car alarm blared, punctuated by more distant shrieks.

Max swallowed hard. “So… do we have a plan for this, or what?”

Webby didn’t even hesitate. “I need to get back to McDuck Manor. There’s a lot of dark magic in the air, and Scrooge will be able to help me figure out who’s behind this.”

Gosalyn, arms crossed, frowned in thought. “Yeah, but we’re gonna need weapons first. No offense, Webbs, but one sword against a whole army of zombies isn’t exactly great odds.”

Max nodded quickly. “Yeah, I’d rather not go into this with nothing but my charming personality.”

Webby huffed. “Hey, my sword is not just any sword—”

“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?!”

The three of them snapped their heads toward Pistol, who had her arms flung out in exasperation, looking at them like they’d all lost their minds. Her expression was somewhere between frustration and outright disbelief.

Max sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “Okay, so... Webby is a monster hunter, and it’s her sworn duty to protect the world from evil.”

Gosalyn jumped in, jerking a thumb toward the window. “Every monster you’ve ever heard of is real. Vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and apparently…” she gestured dramatically toward the carnage outside, “zombies.”

Pistol blinked at them. Then blinked again.

Finally, she pointed at Webby. “You—weird duck, the spooky one—is all this true?”

Webby, still gripping her sword, shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “Eh.”

The sheer nonchalance of it made Pistol’s eye twitch. “Eh?! That’s all you have to say?! There are freaking zombies outside, and you give me EH?!”

Webby just tilted her head. “Would you prefer a PowerPoint presentation?”

Pistol let out a frustrated groan, throwing her hands up. “This is insane! This is beyond insane! I was just having a perfectly normal night, and now you’re telling me that magic is real and the dead are walking the streets?! Do you people hear how crazy this sounds?!”

Max, arms crossed, deadpanned, “Oh, you mean crazier than you breaking into my room in the middle of the night?”

Pistol whirled on him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “DO NOT start with me right now, Max!”

Gosalyn snorted. “I think Max would rather you finish.”

Pistol turned back to the window, looking out again at the wreckage of their once-quiet neighborhood. One of the zombies tripped over a garden gnome and faceplanted into a bush. A little further down the street, a middle-aged man in a bathrobe was beating a zombie senseless with a golf club. Another one was being chased by someone’s golden retriever.

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. “Okay. Okay. Fine. This is happening. We’re doing this.” She pointed at Webby. “Monster hunter. What’s the plan?”

Webby’s expression brightened instantly. “Oh! I’m so glad you asked—”

Max groaned. “Oh no, you’ve activated her.”

Webby ignored him, already launching into an enthusiastic explanation. “Step one: we get to McDuck Manor. Step two: we gather intel. Step three: we kick undead ass!”

Max stared at her. “...That’s it? That’s the whole plan?”

Webby beamed. “Yup!”

Max turned to Gosalyn. “Do we really trust her to lead us through a zombie apocalypse?”

Gosalyn smirked. “Eh.”

Pistol groaned. “I hate you people.”

Max clapped his hands together. “Cool! Let’s go commit some war crimes against the undead!”

They made their way down the stairs, Webby gripping her sword with a look of determined focus, Max swinging his baseball bat over his shoulder, and Gosalyn cracking her knuckles like she was eager to punch a zombie in the face. Pistol, for her part, just followed behind with an expression that screamed, How did I end up with these idiots?

When they reached the front door, Max suddenly stopped short, his eyes widening in realization.

“Wait—” he turned to the group. “How exactly are we getting to McDuck Manor?”

Gosalyn immediately bonked him on the head. “Your car, dummy.”

Max, rubbing the sore spot, scowled. “My car, DUMMY, is still at school. You know—where I was arrested?”

Webby huffed. “Then we’ll walk!”

Gosalyn gave her a look. “Babe, we are not walking through an army of the undead.”

Max held up a finger. “Well, it’s not like we can just take an Uber.”

As the three of them descended into a mess of bickering, Pistol let out a long, very annoyed sigh. “Are you three serious right now?”

All of them stopped mid-argument and turned to her.

Pistol crossed her arms, unimpressed. “We’ll take my dad’s car.”

Gosalyn sighed. “Fine. Fine. But don’t start thinking you’re some kind of team leader or something, princess.”

Pistol raised a brow. “Well, someone has to be.”

They locked eyes, the tension immediately spiking as they squared off like two alley cats about to scrap. If looks could kill, they’d both be six feet under.

“You wish you were in charge.”

“At least I have a plan that doesn’t involve just punching things.”

“Yeah? Well, at least I don’t sound like I walked out of a rich-kid summer camp.”

“Excuse me for not solving problems by breaking stuff like some kind of delinquent.”

“Excuse me for not acting like I have a stick up my—”

They both suddenly turned at the same time, pointing at Max.

“Back me up here!” they demanded in unison.

Max opened his mouth, caught between the metaphorical fire of Pistol’s glare and the most likely literal fire that would burn him alive if he sided against Gosalyn.

Webby, without missing a beat, smacked a hand over his mouth.

“Probably not a good plan,” she whispered, wide-eyed.

Max, eyes pleading for salvation, nodded in agreement.

Webby released him and stepped between the two bickering girls, yanking open the front door. The quiet suburb, once peaceful, was now a waking nightmare. The street was crawling with zombies—groaning, shuffling, dragging themselves along with stiff, unnatural movements.

Webby turned back to the group and explained in a calm, almost chipper tone, “Good news! These are shufflers.”

Max blinked. “That sounds like bad news.”

Webby shook her head. “Nah, shufflers are slow, dumb, and easy to avoid. Not much of a threat on their own.”

Gosalyn leaned out past her, eyeing the street. “Yeah, uh, I count at least thirty.”

Webby nodded. “Okay, so together they can be a problem.”

Pistol groaned. “Great. Love that for us.”

Gosalyn squinted at the undead stumbling over lawns and sidewalks, then turned back to Webby. “Alright, so how do we, you know, kill them?”

Webby smirked and adjusted her grip on her sword. “Only one way—take out the brain. And don't let them bite you, or you turn into one of them.”

Gosalyn sighed. “Of course it’s the brain.” She turned to Max, narrowing her eyes. “Gimme the bat.”

Max instinctively clutched it to his chest. “Why do you get the bat?!”

Gosalyn raised a fist, barely even moving toward him, and Max immediately flinched.

She smirked, pried the bat out of his hands, and rested it on her shoulder. “That’s why, slugger.”

Max muttered something under his breath, scowling, but he didn’t argue further.

Gosalyn then looked between him and Pistol, wrinkling her bill like she’d just stepped in something gross. “You and… your… girlfriend, I guess, can just stay behind Webby and me.”

Pistol arched a brow. “Wow. Rude.”

Max, flustered, stammered, “Well, it’s not really, uh, official or anything! I mean, we haven’t put a label on it, so—”

Webby chirped in, frowning, her gaze going distant. “Not from what I saw.” Then, with a full-body shudder, she added, “I can still see it with my eyes closed.”

Pistol, clearly done with this conversation, rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

Gosalyn, giving the bat a few test swings, made a face. “Yeah, I don’t want to think about it either. Just stay behind Webby and me, and try not to die.”

Max mumbled something about this being the worst night ever, but Webby was already stepping forward, sword at the ready.

“Alright,” she said, grinning with excitement, “let’s do this.”

Webby stepped out first, her sword gleaming under the moonlight, eyes scanning the horde for the best path forward. Gosalyn followed right behind her, gripping Max’s baseball bat in both hands. Max and Pistol stuck to the porch, neither eager to throw themselves into a fight.

"Alright, stay close, move fast, and don’t let them surround you," Webby instructed, rolling her shoulders. "Oh, and aim for the head!"

"Gee, thanks for the hot tip," Gosalyn muttered, shifting her grip on the bat.

The nearest zombie—a bloated, middle-aged duck in a bathrobe, with its jaw half-detached and swinging loosely—let out a low moan and lunged.

Webby moved first.

With a swift, practiced motion, she pivoted on her heel and sliced her sword clean through the zombie’s neck. The severed head hit the pavement with a wet thunk, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop near Max’s sneakers. Its mouth still gnashed at the air.

Max let out a strangled noise. "Oh my god."

Webby grinned, twirling her sword like she was showing off. "One down!"

Gosalyn huffed. "Showoff."

A second zombie, this one a gangly canine in what used to be a delivery uniform, lunged at Gosalyn with jerky, unnatural movements. Its fingers, skeletal and missing chunks of flesh, reached for her.

Gosalyn didn’t hesitate.

She ducked under its grasp, pivoted on one foot, and swung the bat in a wide arc. The solid crack of wood meeting bone echoed through the street as the zombie’s skull caved in. Its body twitched, stumbled, then crumpled lifelessly to the pavement.

"Hah!" Gosalyn smirked, tapping the bat against her shoulder. "Home run!"

Webby, slicing through another ghoul, snorted. "Technically, that was more of a bunt."

Gosalyn scoffed. "Oh come on, at least a double play!"

They pushed forward, clearing a path as more zombies lurched toward them.

Webby spun, her sword flashing as she cleaved through another rotting corpse. The undead duck toppled, its headless body twitching before going still.

Gosalyn, beside her, swung the bat overhead, slamming it down onto another zombie’s skull. The force sent blood and brain matter splattering across the pavement.

Max, watching from a safe distance, looked vaguely nauseous. "I think I’m gonna be sick."

Pistol, arms crossed, gave him a look. "You’re gonna be sick? I just stepped in some brain juice with my new shoes."

Gosalyn wiped some of the gore off her shirt and grinned. "You better get used to it, princess. This is just the start."

More zombies shuffled forward, moaning hungrily.

Webby narrowed her eyes. "We need to move, now!"

With that, she and Gosalyn surged ahead, carving a path through the horde, cutting and smashing their way toward Pistol’s house.

Max had been doing a great job of staying out of the fight. That is, until fate—and a fully nude, undead horse-man—had other plans.

The zombie stallion came barreling out of nowhere, a hulking mass of rotten muscle, matted fur, and entirely too much anatomy. Its decayed lips peeled back in a hungry moan, revealing massive, square, yellowed teeth. Max barely had time to yelp before the undead equine tackled him, sending them both sprawling onto the damp grass.

Max hit the ground with a grunt, but that wasn’t the problem. No, the problem—the real problem—was the unspeakable horror now resting against his thigh.

A massive, hard, wiggling, undead, cock.

There was a moment of silence.

Then Max screamed.

"OH GOD, IT’S TOUCHING ME!"

He thrashed, trying to shove the zombie off, but the dead weight was immense. The horse’s heavy, half-rotten body pressed down on him, its lifeless eyes locked on his face, jaw snapping uselessly. But Max wasn’t thinking about the snapping teeth. He wasn’t even thinking about the possibility of being bitten.

He was thinking about the cold, dead, impossibly large zombie horse dong that was currently pressed against his leg.

"OH, WHAT THE HELL, MAN!?" Max howled, pure horror twisting his face. "WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!? WHY IS IT HARD?!?!"

He tried to shove the horse off, but the zombie barely budged, still moaning hungrily. Max’s hands flailed around, desperate for a weapon—anything—and they landed on the closest object:

A pink plastic flamingo.

"YOU LEAVE ME NO CHOICE!" Max declared, seizing the lawn ornament with both hands.

He swung.

PONK.

The flamingo’s hollow plastic head bounced off the zombie’s skull with a pathetic, anticlimactic thunk.

The horse stopped.

It stared at Max, its dull, lifeless eyes somehow perplexed, as if it too were thinking: Really, dude?

Max, in full-blown panic mode, swung again.

PONK. PONK. PONK.

The plastic flamingo bent slightly on the last hit. Max’s expression twisted into fresh horror.

"WHY ALWAYS ME?!" he wailed, still smacking the undead with the world’s least effective weapon. "SOMEONE HELP ME!"

Gosalyn, mid-swing with her bat, looked over and nearly dropped it. "Oh. Oh no."

Webby turned as well. Her eyes went wide. Then she made a strangled noise, clamping a hand over her beak. "Pfft—!"

"IS SOMEONE GONNA HELP ME?!?" Max screeched, still wildly flailing with the flamingo.

Webby, wheezing with barely contained laughter, choked out, "Gosalyn, you— You gotta—snrk—you gotta handle that one!"

"HELL NO!" Gosalyn immediately refused. "You handle it!"

"I AM NOT TOUCHING THAT!" Webby shot back.

"WHY IS IT SO VEINY!?" Max shrieked.

As the three of them continued to argue, Pistol—who had been following behind—let out an exasperated sigh. "Oh, for the love of—"

She grabbed a nearby ceramic garden gnome off the lawn, its chipped little face locked in a cheerful smile. Without hesitation, she slammed it down on the zombie’s head.

CRACK!

The gnome obliterated the undead horse’s skull like a smashed pumpkin.

The body went still.

For a long moment, nobody moved.

Max, still on the ground, visibly shaking, finally shoved the corpse off of him with a strangled noise of disgust. He staggered to his feet, taking several stumbling steps back, his face pale.

Gosalyn smirked. "So, uh… you wanna talk about it?"

Max pointed a trembling finger at her. "Never speak of this again."

Webby, still breathless, gasped out, "You were hitting it— with a flamingo—" before completely dissolving into laughter again.

Max groaned loudly and dragged his hands down his face. "I hate everything."

Pistol dusted off her hands and rolled her eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time tonight. "You’re welcome."

The group sprinted across the street, dodging outstretched, rotting hands as zombies groaned and shambled after them. Gosalyn swung her bat wildly, cracking skulls left and right, while Webby moved with surgical precision, slicing through undead flesh like it was nothing. Max and Pistol trailed behind, panting, tripping over their own feet as they barely avoided getting grabbed.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" Pistol screeched as she skidded up the front porch of her house. She grabbed the doorknob and twisted—

Locked.

"Oh, come on!" She pounded on the door. "Mom! Dad! Let me in!"

Behind her, Gosalyn let out an exhausted, "What? No spare key?"

Pistol shot her a look, already winding up to argue, but before she could—

The door flew open.

And with it—

BOOM!

A shotgun blast thundered through the air, missing the group by inches and obliterating the porch railing.

"WHAT THE HELL?!" Max shrieked, ducking behind Webby.

"DAD, IT'S ME!" Pistol screamed.

Standing in the doorway, holding a still-smoking double-barreled shotgun, was Pete.

The overweight feline squinted down at them, his belly stretching his too-small muscle shirt, his tighty-whiteys hanging on for dear life. He scratched his stomach, blinking at Pistol. "Pumpkin? What are you doing out he—"

Then his gaze shifted.

Right to Max.

Pete’s eyes narrowed.

"Goof."

Max gulped. "H-Hey, Mr. Pete, uh… nice night, huh?"

Pete’s grip tightened on the shotgun. "What in blue blazes is goin’ on out here!?"

Gosalyn exchanged a look with Webby. "‘Blue blazes’? Yeesh, talk about a boomer."

"Real ‘back in my day, we respected our elders’ energy," Webby muttered back.

Pete didn’t hear them—or didn’t care. He shook his head, his jowls wobbling. "The news says there’s monsters killin’ people!"

Before anyone could respond, a second figure stepped out of the doorway—Peg, hands on her hips, wearing a fuzzy pink housecoat, eyes blazing.

"Pistol Pete!" she barked, her voice sharp enough to cut steel. "There you are! I was worried sick! What are you doing out here in the middle of the goddamned night?!"

Peg’s irritation vanished the moment she spotted Max.

"Maxie! So good to see you!" she beamed, stepping forward. "It’s been forever and a day!"

Before Max could react, Peg grabbed his cheeks and gave them a hearty pinch.

"Uh—hey, Mrs. P—" he wheezed, his face turning red as Peg squished his face like a stress ball.

Pistol groaned, throwing her hands in the air. "Dad, we need to borrow your car."

Pete blinked.

Then he blinked again.

He looked at his daughter like she’d just grown two heads, then threw his head back and let out a booming laugh. "HA! My car!? Hahaha! Ain't no way, my li’l dill pickle pie!"

Pistol scowled. "Dad—"

Pete held up a hand, cutting her off. "Now listen here, young lady," he said, standing up straight and puffing out his chest, "That ain't just a car! That right there is a cherry pink, 1962 Thunderhead LeGrande Del Bravo!"

Both Peg and Pistol simultaneously rolled their eyes.

But Pete was already in full patriotic monologue mode, his voice booming with pride. "Limited edition, one of only fifteen in existence! Hand-stitched leather seats! White-wall tires! A V8 engine so powerful it can make a bald eagle weep!"

He threw his arms wide; like he could already hear the national anthem playing. "That there beauty gets a WHOPPIN' three miles to the gallon—THREE, I tell ya! Ain’t no new-fangled ‘lectric car got the soul of this machine!"

Webby raised an eyebrow. "Three miles to the gallon? But that's not very..."

"Don’t question it," Pistol muttered.

Pete wasn’t done. "When you drive that baby down the street, folks don’t just look, they SALUTE! You turn the key, and it don’t just start—it ROARS! A real American car! A machine so fine, so pristine, so—"

"Dad," Pistol groaned, "just say no and be done with it."

Pete finally put the shotgun over his shoulder and huffed. "Ain't no way, no how, any o’ yous are borrowin’ my car! You'll have to pry the keys out of my cold, dead hands!"

As if on cue, a zombie came stumbling around the corner.

It was a rotting, groaning, putrid mess of a former mailman, still wearing the tattered remains of his blue uniform. His hat sat at a crooked angle, soaked in something brown and crusty, and his skin had the sickly green-gray pallor of the long dead. One of his eyes was milky white, sunken deep into his skull, while the other was completely missing, leaving only a black, empty socket oozing something thick and viscous down his cheek.

His jaw hung loose, swinging unnaturally as he shuffled forward. The skin around his mouth had mostly rotted away, exposing yellowed teeth and dark gums as he gurgled wetly.

"GGGRRAAAAAAAHHHH!"

"MONSTERS!" Pete shouted, scrambling to reload his shotgun. His massive sausage fingers fumbled with the shells as he frantically tried to load them into the chamber. "Hold on—hold on—I got this! Just gimme a—"

CLATTER!

The shotgun slipped from his hands.

THUNK!

It hit the porch and skidded away, stopping just out of reach.

"GODDAMN IT!" Pete swore, his voice cracking slightly.

But before the zombie could take another step—

FWSSSH!

Webby sprang forward with explosive speed, her sword a gleaming silver blur as she swung it in a perfect arc. The blade sliced cleanly through the zombie’s neck, meeting zero resistance, as if it were nothing more than a wet paper towel.

For a fraction of a second, the zombie froze, still standing.

Then—

SCHLICK.

Its head popped off, spinning in the air.

Right as gravity kicked in—

CRACK!

Gosalyn swung her bat like a pro, stepping into it with a perfect follow-through. The bat connected with the airborne decapitated head with a sickeningly wet thud.

The head launched into the sky like a home run shot at the bottom of the ninth.

For a moment, everyone just stared as it sailed over the rooftops, turning into a tiny speck in the distance.

Then—

CRASH!

Somewhere far off, there was the shatter of a window breaking.

A distant, confused voice yelled:

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"

Still standing in battle-ready stances, both Webby and Gosalyn turned back toward Pete, their weapons still raised.

Gosalyn narrowed her eyes, gripping her bat. "Keys, fat man."

Pete blinked. His ears twitched slightly, his face frozen in a look of absolute shock.

Then, he laughed nervously. "Well, if ya put it that way..."

Without another word, he reached inside the house, yanked the keys from the wall-mounted key hook, and tossed them over.

Webby caught them midair with a bright grin, holding them up victoriously. "I’ll drive!"

"NO!" Both Max and Gosalyn shouted in unison.

Max immediately lunged forward, grabbing the keys from Webby’s hand before she could react.

Webby let out a small, disappointed whimper, clutching her sword close like a scolded puppy. "Aw..."

Pete’s furry face twisted into a deep glower as he turned his attention to Max. The burly cat snatched the keys from Max’s hands with a sharp yank, his thick fingers clutching them possessively.

"Ain’t no way a Goof is drivin’ my car!" Pete huffed, jabbing a finger into Max’s chest. "Over my dead— Y’know what, never mind, I ain’t jinxin’ myself again tonight!"

Max gulped, wisely keeping his mouth shut.

Turning away from him, Pete twirled the keys around his finger before flipping them over to Pistol.

"Here, spinach dip," he grumbled, "you drive yer little hooligan friends. Just get 'em the hell off my lawn before I regret this!"

Pistol beamed, catching the keys with ease. "Thanks, Daddy!" she chirped, already skipping toward the massive, pink convertible sitting shiny and untouched in the driveway.

Gosalyn groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "So we’re just lettin’ anyone come with us now?" she muttered, trudging after Pistol with Max beside her.

Webby, however, lingered for a second, taking a moment to flash a warm smile at the Petes. "It was really nice meeting you!" she chirped brightly.

Pete and Peg blinked, clearly not expecting that.

Then, with zero hesitation, Webby added, "You may wanna barricade your house! 'Cause if you get bitten, I’ll have to kill you!"

Peg’s mouth fell open.

Pete made a sound that was somewhere between a choke and a wheeze.

"Anyway, bye!" Webby said cheerfully, then spun on her heel and skipped after her friends, leaving the stunned Petes standing there, utterly speechless.

The group skidded to a halt in front of the oversized, gaudy behemoth that was Pete’s precious convertible.

The neon pink paint job gleamed under the streetlights, so polished it looked like someone waxed it daily. The leather seats, a gleaming white, had that classic, overstuffed luxury feel. The car was comically massive, the kind of thing that could crush lesser vehicles just by existing.

Gosalyn stood there, arms folded, glaring at it with undisguised disgust. "How old is this thing?" she muttered. "Does it run on whale oil?"

Pistol, already sliding into the driver’s seat, huffed. "Sorry it's not whatever jalopy your family drives."

Gosalyn’s eye twitched as she muttered under her breath, "Cunt."

She stormed forward, yanking open the passenger-side door to claim the front seat—only to freeze mid-step.

Max was already seated comfortably, fiddling with the radio.

Gosalyn blinked. "Uh, excuse you?"

Max looked up. "What?"

Gosalyn narrowed her eyes. "Why do you get shotgun?"

Max snorted, leaning back smugly. "Because she's MY girlfriend."

Pistol sighed, "Not your girlfriend yet."

Gosalyn’s grin was instant. "Heh," she chuckled.

Max flushed, fumbling for a comeback. "Well, she did say yet!"

Gosalyn, rolling her eyes, grumbled as she climbed into the backseat with Webby. She crossed her arms, clearly not thrilled about losing the battle for shotgun.

Webby, meanwhile, was amused as hell, watching the whole exchange with an entertained smirk.

Pistol turned the key, and the engine ROARED to life with a deep, throaty rumble, the kind that announced itself obnoxiously to the entire neighborhood.

"Alright," Pistol said, gripping the wheel. "Where to?"

Webby immediately opened her mouth. "McDuck Man—"

"My dad’s work," Max cut in sharply.

Webby turned to him, brows furrowed. "Wait, what?"

Max’s jaw was set, his usual easygoing demeanor gone. "Listen," he said. "The whole city is tearing itself apart and my dad is in danger. We go there first."

Gosalyn opened her mouth, ready to argue, but Max was already one step ahead.

"My dad has done everything for me," he said firmly. "The least I can do is make sure he’s safe. We’re going to the factory. What if it was your dad?"

That shut her up.

Her mouth snapped closed, and her arms folded tightly over her chest. She looked off in the distance, her thoughts churning.

Her dad.

Drake Mallard.

The retired Darkwing Duck.

None of them knew that. Not Max. But Webby… Webby had an inkling. She had a way of noticing things that others didn’t. Gosalyn had caught her watching her too closely sometimes; like she was piecing things together. She knew.

But Max’s question still echoed in her mind.

"What if it was your dad?"

Would she do the same?

Would she risk it all, drive into the dead center of a zombie-infested city, just to make sure he was safe?

…Of course she would.

But then again—

He was Darkwing Duck.

He could handle himself. Right?

…Right?

Gosalyn’s jaw tightened.

Her dad was retired, sure, but not weak. She had seen him in action—seen him take down villains, and defy death more times than she could count. The guy had a stubborn streak bigger than the entire city of St. Canard. If anyone could survive a zombie outbreak, it was him.

Still…

The thought of him hurt or overwhelmed made her chest feel tight.

With a heavy sigh, she finally looked at Max, her expression serious. "Fine."

Max blinked, a little surprised at how quickly she gave in.

"First your dad," she continued. "Then McDuck Manor. No other stops."

Max nodded, looking a little relieved.

Pistol, not wasting any time, shoved the car into gear, and the massive pink beast lurched forward, its V8 engine growling as they sped off into the night.

As the streetlights flickered past, the tension lingering between them, Webby suddenly perked up from the backseat.

"Can we get some music?"

The clock on the wall ticked softly, its rhythmic clicking barely audible over the rustle of papers and the occasional scratch of a pen.

Drake Mallard sat at the dining room table, hunched over stacks of paperwork, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his beak. He sighed, rubbing his temple as he glanced at the time—2:27 AM.

"Fantastic," he muttered, stifling a yawn.

A half-eaten sandwich sat neglected on a plate next to him, its bread slightly stale from sitting out too long. Beside it was a glass of Scotch, its amber liquid dulled by the long-melted ice cubes. He picked it up, swirled it absentmindedly, then took a slow sip, savoring the warmth that spread down his throat.

The Scotch was cheap, but it got the job done.

He sighed again, staring down at the dizzying numbers on the page before him.

"Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines," he grumbled.

Accounting wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. And at least it was safe.

No deathtraps, no supervillains, no nights spent bleeding in an alleyway, listening to the distant wail of police sirens while his body screamed at him to give up.

Just numbers.

Numbers didn’t punch back.

He drained the rest of his drink and set the empty glass down with a dull clink.

"Well, Drake," he muttered to himself. "You’ve done all you can do for the night."

He stood up, stretching his stiff limbs, and immediately winced as a sharp twinge shot through his left shoulder.

That old injury.

It had never healed right—one of many leftovers from his Darkwing days. There was a time when he’d shrug off pain like it was nothing, but these days?

These days, it lingered.

Drake rolled his shoulder gently, trying to work out the stiffness, then started gathering up the loose papers on the table.

His mind wandered, as it often did, to Gosalyn.

He was used to it by now—her staying out late, spending the night at her friend’s house.

Webby.

Drake wasn’t exactly sure what they were to each other.

Just friends?

…More than that?

It didn’t really matter.

He trusted Gosalyn. If there was something more there, that was her business, not his. And even if there was, well—

Love was love.

The thought brought a small smile to his face as he stacked the last of the papers into a neat pile.

Then, his phone vibrated against the table.

A message?

At this hour?

Drake frowned and reached for it—

The shatter of glass was the first thing Drake registered—then the howling rush of wind as shards of the bay window exploded inward, raining down over the dining room.

He barely had time to react before three dark shapes tumbled into the house, knocking over chairs, sending papers fluttering into the air. A cloud of dust and debris kicked up, obscuring them, making them little more than silhouettes against the dim glow of the kitchen light.

Drake’s instincts flared to life, honed by years of crimefighting, but for half a second—just half—he thought:

"Old enemies? After all these years?"

But then, as the dust settled, he saw them.

And they weren’t right.

Their flesh hung loose off their bones, gray and peeling, revealing glimpses of rotted muscle and splintered bone underneath. Joints jutted at unnatural angles, as though their limbs had been snapped and put back together wrong. Their clothes were torn and stained, reeking of something putrid—a stench so thick it made the air feel tangible; like it was pressing against his throat.

But it was their eyes that sealed it.

Or rather, the lack of them.

One had hollow sockets, filled only with darkness. Another had milky, unfocused orbs, rolling in its head like a doll with a broken mechanism. The third—what was left of its face—was a mangled mess of sinew, its lower jaw barely hanging on by strands of muscle.

They weren’t living.

They weren’t anything.

Drake set his jaw as the creatures staggered forward, groaning, their movements slow but deliberate, like marionettes on tangled strings.

"I don't know who you are," he muttered, cracking his knuckles. "But you just broke into the wrong fucking house."

The first lunged at him, a guttural roar tearing from its throat.

Drake sidestepped effortlessly, his body moving without thought, pure muscle memory. As the thing lurched past him, he grabbed the back of its torn jacket, yanked it backward, just as his other hand flung out and opened the door to his oven and—

WHAM!

With a single fluid motion, he spun, flinging the monster into the gas oven. Its torso crashed inside, wedging itself between the racks, its legs kicking wildly as it thrashed.

Drake didn't hesitate.

He slammed the oven door shut on the creature's lower half, jamming it in place, and breaking the glass. Then, with a twist of the dial, he flicked the burner on.

A soft click-click-click ignited into a burst of flame.

The smell of burning rot filled the air as the thing screamed, its body jerking violently, clawing at the inside of the oven door.

Drake barely spared it a second glance.

The second creature was already on him.

It swung a gnarled arm, aiming for his face, but Drake ducked, grabbing a carving knife from the block on the counter in the same motion.

The monster lunged again—

Drake stepped into its attack, bringing the knife up and over—

THUCK.

The blade plunged straight down into the top of the thing's skull, slicing through soft, rotting tissue like butter.

Its entire body shuddered, fingers twitching spasmodically, mouth hanging open in a silent, unfinished groan.

Drake yanked the knife out, and the corpse collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, slumping to the tile with a wet thud.

One left.

The third creature hesitated for only a second before rushing him, arms outstretched, its broken jaw wagging uselessly. Drake sidestepped, hooked his foot behind its ankle, and sent it crashing face-first onto the dining table.

It struggled, trying to push itself up, but Drake was already on top of it, grabbing it by the back of the head and slamming it down again—

THWACK!

The wood groaned under the impact.

The creature twitched but still squirmed, so Drake did the only logical thing:

He reached for the thickest, heaviest book on the table.

His accounting ledger.

A brick of a book, filled with rows upon rows of financial calculations.

Without hesitation, he shoved it straight into the thing’s mouth, prying its rotting jaws open. Its fingers clawed weakly at his arms, but it was too late.

Drake grabbed the cover of the book with one hand to brace it—

And slammed the palm of his other hand into the spine.

CRACK!

Bone snapped like dry wood.

The creature shuddered violently, then went completely still, its jaw crunched inward, the book lodged deep in its throat.

Drake took a step back, panting lightly, surveying the scene:

One monster was slumped on the floor, its brain leaking out in a dark puddle.

Another was motionless on the table, its head grotesquely crushed around an accounting textbook.

The last was still jerking weakly inside the oven, flames flickering.

Drake exhaled.

Then, rolled his shoulders, feeling the old injury twinge again.

"Tch," he muttered to himself, wiping his hands on his pajama pants, "Barely even a workout."

Drake stepped past the mangled bodies littering his dining room floor, making his way toward the shattered remains of his bay window. Jagged shards of glass still clung to the frame, catching the dim glow of the kitchen light. He barely noticed.

Outside, chaos swallowed the city.

Fires burned in the distance, their orange glow licking at the sky, casting long, flickering shadows across the houses and streets. The wail of sirens layered over one another—police, fire, ambulance—all screaming in discord. Somewhere, gunfire crackled in rapid succession. A car alarm howled before being drowned out by the distant, desperate screams of those trying to escape.

And then—

The creatures.

They shambled through the streets, dozens, maybe hundreds of them, lurching forward with that same grotesque, unnatural gait. Jaws hung slack, limbs twisted at wrong angles, their bodies moving with jerky, stuttering motions, like puppets with tangled strings. Some had no eyes at all, while others glowed with a dull, eerie light, flickering like dying embers.

Drake’s fingers curled into a fist.

This wasn’t random.

Something bigger was happening. Something bad.

But right now, none of that mattered.

Right now, there was only one thing that did.

Gosalyn.

His gut twisted as he scanned the streets. She wasn’t home. She wasn’t safe.

A dozen thoughts crashed through his mind at once—Where is she? Is she okay? Is she fighting? Is she hiding? Is she hurt?—but he shoved them all down, locking them away under years of hardened discipline.

Worry wouldn’t help her.

Action would.

Turning from the window, Drake stalked toward the hallway closet. With a sharp yank, he pulled the door open and reached inside. Old coats and jackets hung limply on the rack, and behind them, buried deep in the shadows, sat a locked metal case.

His fingers spun the combination by muscle memory.

Click-click-click.

The lock popped open.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty - Pet Sematary

A bitter wind whispered through Duckburg Cemetery, rustling the skeletal branches of dead trees and sending brittle leaves tumbling over forgotten graves. The moon, swollen and pale, hung low in the sky, casting long, eerie shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe like grasping fingers over the tombstones. Faint mist curled along the ground, creeping between the rows of weather-worn markers like a ghostly tide. Somewhere in the distance, the wrought-iron cemetery gate creaked on rusted hinges, groaning against the wind.

Minima lay draped across a nameless grave, her tattered black dress pooled around her like ink spilled over cold stone. Strands of her long, inky hair stirred in the wind, framing her face like a mourning veil as she idly plucked the petals from a bouquet of roses someone had foolishly left behind. Each crimson petal fluttered to the ground, staining the grave like droplets of fresh blood. Her lips, painted deep violet, curled into a faint, wistful smile as she sang softly, her voice like the wind through hollow bones:

"Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,
Your house is on fire, your children all gone.
All except one, and that’s little Ann—
She crept under the frying pan.”

Her voice lingered in the air, just a whisper above the restless night. At her side, the zombified cat let out a guttural purr, its half-rotten body shuddering as it rubbed against her leg. Its exposed ribs stretched the thin, decayed flesh of its side, and one milky, cataract-covered eye rolled lazily in its socket. When it meowed, the sound came out fractured and wet, like something that had forgotten how to live but still hungered for the warmth of a heartbeat.

Minima chuckled softly, running a gloved hand over the cat’s broken spine. "Such a good little beastie," she cooed, her tone sickly sweet. The cat tilted its mangled head, jaw unhinging slightly as if grinning.

Rolling onto her back with a sigh, Minima gazed up at the night sky. Her fingers danced along the grave’s surface, tracing the worn, unreadable name etched into the stone. "So many restless souls tonight," she mused, voice barely above a whisper. "What a lovely night for a resurrection."

She flicked the last rose petal into the wind, watching as it tumbled and disappeared into the dark. Somewhere, in the distance, a low groan echoed through the graveyard, followed by the sluggish scrape of something dragging itself free from the earth.

Minima grinned.

Tonight was going to be fun.

Then, the wind shifted.

A newspaper, yellowed and brittle, came skittering along the cobblestones, caught in the restless gale. But this was no ordinary paper.

The moment it landed near Minima, the cat hissed, its spine arching in alarm. The newspaper trembled as if something within it had woken up. Then, impossibly, it began to unfold.

The edges of the paper curled outward, splitting apart in sharp, angular movements. At first, it resembled an origami nightmare, crisp folds stretching and reshaping with unnatural precision. What had been a single sheet now layered over itself, bending, warping—pages multiplying in an impossible accordion of ink and parchment.

A shape began to rise from the chaos. A long beak cut through the folds, a feathered body of stark white against the black print of his former prison. A pair of gloved hands emerged next, snapping into place like marionette limbs, fingers flexing as if testing the air. More folds unraveled, stretching outward into the silhouette of a soldier’s coat—regal purple, adorned with golden buttons and epaulettes that shimmered despite the dim light.

His body twisted with a final, theatrical flourish, and suddenly, Paperelfo stood before her, fully three-dimensional, fully formed. He dusted himself off with sharp, impatient flicks of his gloved fingers, smoothing down the creases in his uniform. His violet eyes, narrow and irritated, locked onto Minima.

“Are you having fun?” he asked, voice dripping with disdain.

“Well, well, well,” she purred, rolling up onto her feet with an effortless grace. She turned to face the looming figure before her, the shadows barely clinging to his edges. His long, draping cape blended seamlessly into the darkness, and his sharp bill curled downward in displeasure. The faint glow of moonlight flickered in his eyes.

Minima grinned. “If it isn’t my aunt’s lap dog. And what brings you to the mortal realm, Paperelfo?”

The moment the words left her beak, his hand shot out, cold and unrelenting, and clamped around her jaw.

“I am no lap dog,” he snarled, his grip tight enough to send a dull ache radiating through her bones. His voice was a hiss, barely human, more like the rustling of old parchment. “And it would be best if you minded that insolent tongue of yours—or I’ll rip it from your beak.”

Minima let out a sharp, delighted laugh and pulled away, rubbing her jaw as though he had offended her more than hurt her. “You dare lay your hand on me, Paperelfo?” she scoffed, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Aunt Magica will not be pleased.”

Paperelfo simply scoffed, unfazed by her words. “Mistress Magica is the one who sent me here.” He stepped forward, his presence suffocating, his long fingers twitching at his sides like they were eager to do worse than grab. “The sword, Minima. Have you retrieved the sword?”

Minima hummed, skipping along the graves as though she were walking through a meadow of wildflowers rather than a field of the dead. Her fingers trailed along cold stone, the words on the tombs lost to time. She sang once more, swaying slightly, stepping carefully between the cracks in the path.

"Step on a crack, break your mother’s back…"

She paused and turned to face Paperelfo, her expression unreadable in the dim moonlight. “Soon,” she promised, tilting her head. “The Last Templar is probably already out there, dealing with my undead army. And when she’s weak?” Her smile widened, cruel and knowing. “I will strike her home and take it from her.”

The wind howled again, as if the night itself shivered at her words.

The zombified cat wove around Paperelfo’s leg, its half-decayed tail flicking against his knee. A sickly purr rattled in its throat, something between contentment and a death rattle. Paperelfo barely acknowledged the thing, staring instead at Minima.

"You make it sound so easy," Paperelfo muttered, his long fingers drumming against his crossed arms. His voice held no amusement, only a weary frustration. “Like we’re dealing with some meager hedge witch or a parlor-trick conjurer.” He shook his head, a sharp exhale escaping him as he turned his gaze toward the mist-choked cemetery gates, beyond which lay the cursed city that housed their greatest obstacle.

His lips curled into a sneer. “She’s not just some girl playing at magic. She’s the Last Templar of the Light. A legacy of war and steel, raised from the cradle to fight creatures like us. She doesn’t dabble in combat—she excels at it. Swords, knives, firearms, fists—doesn’t matter. She’s a natural-born killer. You blink, and she’s already three steps ahead.” His fingers clenched into a fist at his side.

Paperelfo began to pace, his boots crunching over the brittle remains of flowers long since left to rot. “And magic? Hah. She doesn’t just know magic—she wields it like a damn weapon. Runes, incantations, holy artifacts—she’s as much a scholar as she is a soldier. And worse? She’s reckless. Not in a foolish way, but in a way that makes her terrifying. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop to weigh odds. She throws herself into the abyss with the certainty that she’ll find footing before she falls.” His jaw tightened.

“I’ve seen her cut through things stronger than any of us without breaking a sweat. I’ve seen her smile while doing it.” He stopped pacing and ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

“She doesn’t fear the darkness, Minima. She hunts it.”

Webby mumbled in her sleep, her face buried against Gosalyn’s lap. “...what’s that about the frozen bananas?” she murmured before rolling over with a loud, undignified snore. Gosalyn flinched as Webby’s weight shifted, and her hand, which had been idly stroking Webby’s hair, hesitated for just a moment before continuing.

Pistol, her hands tight on the steering wheel as she guided Pete’s oversized pink monstrosity down the eerily empty streets, rolled her eyes. “We’re trusting the fate of the city and our lives to… her?”

Gosalyn let out a small chuff, her fingers still lazily playing with Webby’s short blonde hair. “Please. Webby is more useful than a cheerleader.” She glanced at Pistol in the rearview mirror with a smirk. “Which, come to think of it, isn’t saying much.”

Max, slouched in the passenger seat with his arms crossed, let out a snort but didn’t chime in. He was still tense, his mind elsewhere—most likely on his dad.

Pistol huffed. “You know I do more than cheerleading, right?”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like drive your sorry butts across town while you sit in the back petting your little girlfriend.”

Gosalyn instantly jerked her hand away from Webby’s hair like she’d been burned. “Yeah, well, maybe you're just jealous!”

Pistol smirked. “Right.”

Gosalyn growled under her breath, but Max cut in before she could snap back. “Can we just focus on getting to the factory?” His voice was quieter than usual, tight with worry.

Pistol’s smirk faded, and she nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I gotcha.” She pressed her foot a little harder on the gas, the massive engine growling as they sped through the darkened streets.

They pulled onto the perimeter highway surrounding Duckburg, heading toward the industrial district. The once-busy road was now a graveyard of abandoned cars—some crashed, others eerily empty, their doors hanging open like gaping mouths. Streetlights flickered weakly, barely cutting through the heavy, unnatural fog that clung to the road like a living thing.

Max sat in the front seat, arms crossed, jaw tight. His fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against his knee as Pistol drove. Then he suddenly straightened in his seat. His eyes widened.

“Stop the car.”

Pistol barely had time to react before Max’s voice sharpened with urgency. “Pistol, stop the damn car!”

She yelped and slammed on the brakes. The pink convertible shuddered violently, skidding sideways before coming to a screeching halt. The scent of burning rubber filled the air.

Webby jerked awake with a snort, grabbing for her sword. “What’s going on? Zombies?”

Max didn’t answer. He was already climbing out of the car.

Gosalyn, frowning, followed him with her eyes. “What the hell’s up with you?”

Max still didn’t respond. He was staring at something just off the road, down in the ditch—a dark silhouette barely visible in the thick mist.

It was a car.

No, not just a car. An unmarked police cruiser, crashed into the ditch at an awkward angle, the hood crumpled, the windshield fractured like a spiderweb.

Max’s stomach dropped. He knew that car.

Without another word, he started toward it.

“Max, wait—” Gosalyn called, but he was already moving.

As he neared, he saw her.

Detective María Cabrera.

She was slumped against the driver’s seat, motionless, her dark brown hair tangled, her light brown feathers matted with blood. The glow from the dashboard cast eerie shadows across her face, but there was no mistaking the stillness.

María Cabrera was dead.

For a moment, Max just stood there.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. His expression was unreadable, but his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

Behind him, footsteps crunched on the asphalt. The others had followed.

Gosalyn’s voice was quieter now, hesitant. “…Hey, I know her. Isn’t she—”

“María.”

Max cut her off before she could finish.

The name felt heavy in his mouth.

The one cop who gave a damn about him. Dead.

Pistol shifted uncomfortably. “Max, what the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just stepped forward, reaching for the door handle of María’s car.

Pistol’s voice rose. “She’s dead!”

Max nodded. He didn’t look away from María’s body.

“Her gun,” he said quietly. “We’ll need it.”

Max reached for the door handle, giving it a quick tug—locked. He let out a frustrated huff, then slipped his arm inside through the open window, fingers fumbling for the lock—

A cold, clammy hand clamped around his wrist.

Max’s brain short-circuited. His breath caught, heart hammering against his ribs. His stomach did a full somersault before he let out the most high-pitched, glass-shattering, utterly undignified scream.

“ZOMBIE! SHE’S A ZOMBIE! KILL IT! SOMEONE KILL IT!”

He thrashed like a cat caught in a bathtub, trying to yank his arm free. Gosalyn was already mid-swing with her bat, Webby’s sword had materialized in her hand, its blade shimmering in the dim light—

María groaned, hacking up something wet and metallic-smelling before giving Max the most exhausted, unimpressed look. “I’m not a zombie, you idiot.”

Max froze, panting. “Oh.”

Gosalyn rolled her eyes, lowering her bat with a smirk. “Way to keep your cool, champ.”

Webby sighed and let her sword vanish with a flick of her wrist. “I dunno, I think it was a very brave scream.”

Max, still trembling, sucked in a breath and muttered, “Shut up.”

María let go of his wrist with a weak chuckle, then groaned as she shifted in the car seat, trying to sit up. “Though, right now… I feel like the walking dead.”

That snapped Max back to reality. His panic melted into something more urgent as he scrambled to help her out of the car. Gosalyn and Webby moved in too, steadying María as she nearly collapsed against Max, her body weak and shaking.

For a moment, it was just the two of them.

Max pulled her into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around her like he was trying to hold her together. “I thought for a second they got you.” His voice was quiet, vulnerable.

María blinked in surprise, but then she hugged him back, ruffling his hair like an older sibling. “They almost did, kiddo.”

When they finally broke apart, María’s tired eyes flicked to Webby and Gosalyn. She frowned, rubbing at her temple. “Why is it… anytime there’s something weird going on, it’s always you three?”

Both Gosalyn and Webby shrugged at the same time and replied, deadpan:

“Eh.”

Pistol leaned out of the car’s open window, drumming her fingers impatiently against the door. “Are we going or what?” she called, her voice carrying easily in the night air.

María turned her gaze to Max. Her dark eyes flicked from him to Pistol, then back again, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “So,” she said, voice low and amused, “she must be the girl.”

Max flushed instantly. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying—and failing—to look casual. “Yeah, something like that,” he admitted.

Gosalyn frowned, glancing between the two of them. “Uh, what now?”

Before anyone could answer, María pivoted on her heel. “Hold on,” she said, raising a hand to halt them before they could get back to the car.

Without waiting for a response, she limped toward her own vehicle, her movements stiff but purposeful. She reached into the front seat, pulled the keys from the ignition, and then made her way to the back. Max, Webby, and Gosalyn followed, curiosity outweighing common sense.

The trunk popped open with a metallic clunk, and María stepped aside, allowing the trio to get a full view of its contents.

Gosalyn’s eyebrows shot up. Lined up inside, neatly arranged like a personal armory, was an assortment of weaponry. A pump-action shotgun rested against the side, an assault rifle lay beside it, and scattered among them were several boxes of ammunition. The faint metallic scent of gun oil filled the air.

Max let out a low whistle. “Well, damn.”

Gosalyn crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto one foot. “Lady,” she muttered, eyeing María with a mix of wariness and reluctant admiration, “I think you have some serious issues.”

María let out a short, dry chuckle. She reached into the trunk, grabbed the shotgun, and with an easy familiarity, racked it with a sharp, mechanical click. A smirk played at her lips as she glanced at Gosalyn.

“That’s what my therapist keeps telling me.”

María didn’t waste any time. She grabbed a handful of shells, stuffing them into her coat pockets with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times before. Then, she reached back into the trunk, pulling the assault rifle free and slinging it over her shoulder. Her movements were quick, precise—no wasted effort.

“I need to get you kids somewhere safe,” she said, her tone firm, like the matter was already settled.

Max, however, wasn’t having it. “No. To hell with that,” he snapped, his usual laid-back demeanor nowhere to be found. “We’re going to get my dad.”

María turned to face him fully, eyes narrowing in irritation. “Now is not the time to be acting like a man, Max,” she scolded. “It’s my job to keep this city safe—to keep all of you safe.”

Before Max could argue, Gosalyn cut in, arms crossed, chin tilted up defiantly. “Yeah? By the looks of things, you need our help more than we need yours.”

María let out a short, amused laugh. “I could just arrest you all.” She slammed the trunk shut with a heavy thunk and turned to face them, lips curling into a smirk. “Again.”

A tense silence followed.

Then, Webby stepped forward, her usual brightness nowhere to be found. When she spoke, her voice was cold—flat.

“You can try.”

María hesitated. Something about the way Webby said it made her pause, made her actually look at them. These weren’t just some dumb teenagers caught up in the madness. There was something else in their eyes—determination, defiance, experience.

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple as if to ward off an oncoming headache.

“Fine,” she relented at last. “We’ll go get your dad. But after that—”

“Yeah, yeah, somewhere safe. We get it, Inspector Clouseau,” Gosalyn interrupted with an exaggerated eye-roll.

María muttered something under her breath—probably a string of Spanish curses—before shaking her head and starting toward the car. The others followed.

As she neared the huge vehicle, she sighed, shoulders slumping slightly.

“I am getting too old for this shit.”

The car rumbled down the abandoned streets of Duckburg, its tires crunching over shattered glass and debris. The eerie glow of burning buildings flickered in the distance, casting long shadows across the pavement. The city was a war zone—sirens howled, distant screams echoed, and somewhere far off, an explosion rumbled through the air like a distant storm.

Inside the car, the atmosphere wasn’t much better.

María was crammed into the back seat, wedged uncomfortably between Gosalyn and Webby, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. It was clear she wasn’t happy about the seating arrangement—or the conversation that was happening.

“So let me get this straight,” María said, her voice laced with heavy skepticism. “Her—” she jabbed a finger at Webby, “—she’s the last thing standing between us and total world-ending evil?”

Webby grinned at her, all teeth, as if this was the funniest thing she’d heard all day. “Yes, ma’am!”

María slowly turned to Gosalyn, her expression a mix of disbelief and pure exhaustion.

“And you all expect me to believe this?”

Up in the passenger seat, Max simply shrugged, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “Unless you’ve got a better explanation for why the dead are crawling out of their graves.”

María opened her mouth, then closed it.

Yeah. That part was hard to argue.

Gosalyn leaned forward slightly, her arms resting on her knees as she turned to face María more fully. “Look, I get it. I didn’t believe it either—not at first. Thought it was just a bunch of crazy conspiracy nonsense. But I’ve seen things, María. We all have.”

María raised a skeptical brow. “Like what?”

Gosalyn let out a breath, running a hand through her wild red hair. “The first time I met you? That was right after we fought the Mothman.”

María blinked. “Excuse me?”

Gosalyn smirked. “Yeah. Big bastard. Red glowing eyes, huge wings, could lift a car with its claws. And that's only some of the things I have seen.”

“Bullshit.”

“Is it?” Gosalyn countered. “Because ever since then, I’ve been learning that the world we think we know? It’s only a tiny piece of the whole picture. The stuff we tell ghost stories about? The monsters we joke about to scare little kids?” She shook her head. “They’re real, Detective. All of them. There are things out there that go bump in the night—and they don’t just bump. They kill.”

María stared at her, expression unreadable, processing everything.

She wasn’t a stranger to weird cases, but this? This was insane.

Yet the city was falling apart. The dead were walking. And these kids weren’t scared—they were prepared. Like they’d been through this before.

María exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple.

“This is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard,” she muttered.

Webby beamed. “It’s only dumb until it bites you!”

María groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose as the car continued down the road, heading straight for the factory where Max’s dad worked.

The car rolled deeper into the industrial district of Duckburg, where the city’s glittering skyline gave way to looming steel skeletons and rusted smokestacks. The air here was thick with the scent of oil and iron, clinging like an old memory. Empty loading docks stretched out like concrete graveyards, and warehouse windows—many broken or boarded up—watched the streets like hollow eyes. Thick fog drifted between the buildings, mingling with the smoke from distant fires.

Inside the car, the tension grew with every passing block.

Max sat in the front passenger seat, hunched forward slightly. His knee bounced up and down in a constant rhythm, the movement fast, nervous. He was chewing on the edge of his thumbnail, eyes scanning the road like he expected to see his dad suddenly step out of the shadows. His foot tapped harder against the floor with every turn they took.

From behind the wheel, Pistol cast a sideways glance at him.

“I’m sure your dad’s fine,” she said softly, trying to reassure him. “Your dad’s... I mean, he’s a goofball, but he’s tough.”

Max didn’t answer right away. His fingers stopped fidgeting, curling into a loose fist in his lap.

“I know,” he said, though his voice betrayed the truth—he didn’t know. Not really. “But I have to make sure. He’s all I got.”

Pistol’s expression softened. Her lips parted like she was about to say something more, then closed again as she considered her words. Finally, she reached out with one hand—still steering with the other—and gently grabbed Max’s hand.

“No,” she said quietly. “You’ve got so much more.”

Max turned his head, surprised.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“You’ve got your friends here,” she added, voice a little shaky, but steadying as she went. “And... you’ve got me too.”

The car continued down the empty street, headlights cutting through the gloom. Max looked at their joined hands for a moment, then offered her a faint smile—small, but real.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “That means a lot.”

It was at that most tender, heart-achingly human moment—the kind where the world seems to hold its breath—that the universe, cruelly indifferent, decided to punch them in the gut.

BANG!

The car jolted violently as it struck something solid with a sickening, wet crunch. A spray of blood and ichor blasted up over the windshield—and, given that it was a convertible, all over the passengers too. A twisted limb flopped grotesquely over the hood before slipping off and vanishing under the wheels.

Pistol screamed, jerking the steering wheel and slamming her foot on the brake. The tires squealed, skidding across the asphalt as the car shuddered and lurched to a halt in the middle of the road.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” Gosalyn shouted from the back, wiping viscera from her face. “Pistol! Watch where you’re driving!”

“Excuse me?” Pistol barked back, eyes wide and hands still clenched on the steering wheel. “Maybe if you were driving we’d be fine, but oh wait—you just have that crappy 10-speed bike!”

“It’s a vintage ten-speed, thank you very much!”

“Oh yeah, that’ll be real useful against zombies, Gosalyn!”

“Enough!” María snapped, struggling to pull herself up and out of the back seat. “Save it for after we aren’t covered in someone’s intestines!”

While the two girls kept snapping at each other, Max and Webby had already jumped out of the car, brushing off chunks of gore and trying to assess the damage. Smoke hissed up from beneath the hood in thin, ghostly curls, and the front driver’s side tire was audibly leaking air, a soft, miserable hsssssss that cut through the night like a death rattle. A dark pool of fluids oozed out beneath the car, shimmering black under the streetlights.

Max ran a hand through his hair and groaned. “Great. Just great. We need to get to my dad now, not in three hours after we hoof it across town.”

María stepped beside him and placed a firm, grounding hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, voice low but calm. “We’re here.”

Max looked up—and there it was, looming ahead of them just a few dozen yards away. The ACME warehouse. Massive, shadowed, its corrugated metal walls rising like a fortress in the industrial gloom. The place was mostly dark, save for flickering lights above the loading bay door. Max could just make out the faded sign above the building, the giant red A in ACME half burned out.

But between them and that warehouse?

Zombies.

Dozens of them.

They shambled slowly around the perimeter like a broken carousel of death—rotting figures dragging feet, arms twitching, jaws slack and moaning. Some were pressed against the chain-link fence that surrounded the lot, reaching through the gaps with clawed, twitching fingers. A few had already spotted the car and turned, their heads jerking toward the new noise like wolves catching a scent.

Max’s throat tightened. “We’re running out of time.”

The moment turned electric—quietly, grimly charged—as they all stood facing the nightmare ahead.

Gosalyn stepped forward first, already gripping the baseball bat. She cracked it once against her palm, narrowing her eyes as she watched the undead sway in the distance. “Always gotta be the hard way, huh?”

Beside her, Webby exhaled slowly, then raised her hand. A faint shimmer pulsed in the air around her, and with a subtle flick of her wrist, her sword materialized, neartly oozing out of her palm in black tendrils. She held it in both hands, the glow from the blade casting strange shadows across her face. Her usual bubbly demeanor had drained away, leaving something steelier behind. “Don’t let them grab you,” she warned softly. “They’re stronger than they look.”

Pistol glanced from them to the horde ahead, then muttered, “I cannot believe I’m doing this,” and turned back toward her dad’s convertible. She popped the trunk and rifled through the clutter—old jumper cables, a spare tire, a faded beach towel—until her hand landed on cold metal. She pulled out a heavy tire iron, frowning at it like it personally offended her. “And I just got my nails done too,” she grumbled under her breath, slamming the trunk closed.

That left just María and Max.

María crouched slightly as she re-checked her arsenal. The shotgun was already loaded and set to the side. The assault rifle was gripped in her hands, a fresh magazine secured in place. Her sidearm—standard police issue—sat in its holster at her hip, cocked and locked. She moved with efficiency, the motions practiced and sharp.

Max watched her, nervous energy coursing through his limbs. “Can I have one of those?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the small armory she was carrying.

María didn’t even look up. “I’m not giving a gun to a teenager.”

“I’m eighteen!” Max argued, voice cracking slightly.

“You’re seventeen and a half,” she snapped, finally glancing at him with a raised brow. “Don’t lie to me, I read your police file.”

Max groaned and threw his hands up. “C’mon, man! What am I supposed to fight them with—good intentions?”

María stood, securing the last strap, the assault rifle now resting across her back. She cocked her shotgun with a solid ka-chak and gave him a level stare. “None of you are fighting anything,” she said flatly. “You just stay behind me.”

The group exchanged glances, each of them already shifting into battle-ready stances.

Max folded his arms. “Yeah... good luck with that.”

They moved as one ragtag unit, stepping into the fray like a scene ripped from the most unhinged B-movie ever made—half high school drama, half zombie apocalypse.

The shambling undead lurched toward them with jerking, unnatural movements, moaning as if the effort of existence pained them. Dozens clustered outside the ACME warehouse gates, clawing at the chain-link fence or swaying aimlessly. The smell hit them first—rot, copper, mildew. Gosalyn was the first to break ranks.

“Let’s fucking gooo!” she shouted, charging in like a red-haired hurricane, baseball bat held high.

She ducked under the swinging arm of the first zombie and cracked its skull with an uppercut strike that sent bone fragments flying. She pivoted, spun, and knocked the legs out from under another, finishing it with a brutal stomp as she moved forward, her ponytail swinging behind her like a war banner.

Webby was right behind her, graceful and eerily serene in the chaos. Her sword sliced clean through a zombie’s neck, the head popping off like a cork from a shaken bottle. Her movements were elegant, almost dance-like, every step precise. She slashed and spun, her blade glowing faintly with arcane light that sizzled as it made contact. One creature lunged at her from behind, but Gosalyn caught it mid-air with a swing of her bat and shouted, “Eyes up, Spooky!”

Webby grinned. “Thanks, beautiful.”

"Beautiful?" Gosalyn blinked, "Hey guys, she called me beautiful!"

"Good, great, grand, WONDERFUL!" Pistol screamed as she swung blindly at anything that came towards her. The tire iron made sickening whunk sounds with each impact, her eyes squeezed shut more often than open. “Oh my God, ew, I hate this! I HATE THIS!” she shrieked as she clocked a zombie square in the temple and then immediately gagged as some foul black goo splashed across her hoodie. “This is my favorite outfit, you bastards!”

Despite her horror, she kept pace, the panic fueling her. She brought the tire iron down on another, then whipped around to smack an approaching ghoul in the kneecaps with a wild side swing. “This is NOT how I thought tonight was gonna go!”

María moved with cold, tactical precision. She led from the center of the formation, barking quick orders—mostly ignored—but covering everyone nonetheless. Her shotgun fired with deafening BOOMs, blasting holes through torsos and heads like someone playing carnival games on hard mode. When the gun clicked empty, she slung it onto her back, yanked the assault rifle forward, and opened fire, carving a path straight through the horde.

“Keep moving!” she shouted, blowing the head off a zombie that lurched towards her. “Don’t let them surround you!”

Behind all of this chaos, Max trudged forward at an excruciatingly casual pace. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, head down, expression a mix of annoyance and boredom.

“Yeah, cool,” he muttered to himself, side-stepping a fallen body. “Everyone’s got swords and guns and magic and tire irons, and I get to be the guy walking behind like a goddamn intern. Yup. Real fair.”

A zombie stumbled toward him from the left. He didn’t even flinch. It lunged—and tripped over a loose chunk of asphalt, face-planting at Max’s feet, smashing its own head open. He nudged it with his shoe, unimpressed.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

They reached the factory gates. Gosalyn wiped sweat and gore off her brow with her forearm, panting, “That... wasn’t so bad.”

Webby nodded solemnly, twisting her sword in her hand. “The key is momentum. Don’t stop moving.”

Pistol leaned against the hood of a burnt-out car, gasping for air. “The key is to never leave the house again!”

María reloaded her rifle, casting a quick glance toward the factory doors ahead. Her jaw tightened. “Inside. Now.”

Max finally caught up, still looking vaguely annoyed, with a smear of zombie guts on his sleeve. “Cool. Factory time. Still no gun.”

Gosalyn clapped him on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. “C’mon, you did great, Max. Real solid ‘walking in a straight line’ out there.”

“Bite me,” he muttered.

“Not the best comeback considering our situation,” Webby replied with a smirk.

The warehouse swallowed them whole as María slammed the metal door behind them with a resounding clang just as more zombies began shambling into view from the parking lot. Inside, the air was cold and stale, thick with dust and the sharp tang of motor oil. The place was huge—industrial lighting flickered high above them, half-burnt fluorescents casting twitchy shadows across rows upon rows of towering crates.

The crates were stacked floor to ceiling, some labeled with ACME logos, others scrawled with cryptic alphanumeric codes. The aisles were tight, some barely wide enough to walk through single-file. Random tools, a forklift, and abandoned paperwork littered the floor. From somewhere deep inside, a metallic clank echoed—a sound too distant to be immediately alarming, but too strange to ignore.

“We need to block the door,” María said, already moving toward one of the larger crates near the entrance. “Max, help me with this.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Sure, now I’m allowed to lift things.”

“Don’t test me, Max,” she grunted, already putting her shoulder into the crate.

With a groan of wood, the two of them shoved it forward. It skidded across the concrete with a scraping scree and finally thudded into place, partially barricading the main entry. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it would buy them time.

María stood up straight, brushing dust off her sleeves. “Where would your dad be?”

Max ran a hand through his hair, anxiety creeping into his expression. “There’s only like five guys on the graveyard crew. They usually chill between shipments—either in the upstairs offices or the cafeteria on the south side of the building. If something happened, they probably holed up somewhere safe.”

“Alright,” María said, checking the load in her rifle. “We split up. Gosalyn, Webby—you take the cafeteria. See if you can find anyone or supplies. The rest of us will sweep the office section upstairs.”

Gosalyn grinned, already gripping her bat like she wanted round two. “Finally, some freedom.”

Webby gave a small nod, tightening her grip on her sword, her expression calm but alert. “Let’s stick close. These kinds of places? Too many places to hide. For us and them.”

María looked between them all, bill pressed into a hard line. “Be smart. Be quick. And if anything feels wrong—run.”

They turned to move, the group beginning to separate, shadows stretching long under the buzzing warehouse lights—

And then came the sound.

Not the scraping drag of a corpse.
Not the guttural moan of the undead.
No, it was...

“You can dance! You can jive! Having the time of your liiiiiiife!”

All five of them froze in place.

“What the actual hell is that?” Gosalyn muttered.

Pistol blinked. “Is that... singing?”

"No," María’s eyes narrowed. “That’s ABBA.”

They turned as one, weapons instinctively raised; well, Max just sort of stood there with his hands in his pockets, eyes locked on the dim corridor behind them. And from between the looming, shadow-draped crates, a figure emerged with the enthusiasm of a man entering center stage on opening night.

Goofy.

Wearing his grimy ACME factory coveralls, an old yellow Walkman clipped to his belt, and a giant pair of cracked headphones covering his ears, he strutted into view like he hadn’t a care in the world. His limbs swung in odd, noodly motions, his feet sliding and swiveling in a clumsy approximation of disco moves. He hummed loudly along with the music, missing about every third lyric, but belting the ones he did know with full chest-puffed confidence.

“Diggin’ the dancin’ queeeeeen!”

He twirled dramatically, nearly knocking over a precarious stack of boxes, then struck a pose—one hand on his hip, the other pointing skyward, eyebrows bouncing with the beat.

The group stood in stunned silence, as if they’d just spotted a unicorn in a gas station.

Max’s jaw dropped. “Dad?!”

Goofy finally noticed them and pulled down one earphone, his expression lighting up. “Gawrsh! Maxie! What’re you kids doin’ here? You look like you seen a ghost!” He let out a warm chuckle. “Or maybe twenty!”

Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Dad, there are literal zombies outside.”

Goofy blinked. “Zombies?” He looked around the warehouse, hands on hips. “Well, shoot, I didn’t see any zombies. Place’s been as quiet as a funeral. Figured the rest of the crew went on a long smoke break.” He tapped the Walkman affectionately. “So I just popped in a tape and got to reorganizin’ the bolt inventory. Y’know, normal graveyard shift stuff!”

He took a step closer, casually stepping over a blood smear on the floor without even noticing it.

María lowered her shotgun slowly, staring at Goofy like he was a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a total lack of situational awareness. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Max didn’t even try to hide his embarrassment. “Unfortunately, no.”

Goofy gave them all a big thumbs-up, completely oblivious. “Well, now that y’all are here, maybe we can knock out some of that inventory together! Teamwork makes the dream work, hyuck!”

Webby turned to Gosalyn and whispered, “How is he still alive?”

Gosalyn shook her head, incredulous. “Honestly? I think being oblivious is his superpower.”

Goofy beamed at them. “You kids hungry? There’s still a little coffee left in the breakroom—might be cold, though, as well as some donuts!”

Outside, the dead pressed against the warehouse walls, moaning for blood.

Inside, Goofy slid across the floor, twirling in a full circle.

“Friday night and the lights are loooow!”

María muttered under her breath, “I’ve officially seen everything.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One - Ghost

Max stood atop a stack of crates near one of the narrow warehouse windows, peering through the cracked glass. The emergency lights flickered overhead, casting jittery shadows on the maze of boxes and catwalks that filled the building. Outside, the world had become a slow-moving nightmare.

Behind him, Gosalyn approached, her bat casually resting against one shoulder. “How’s it lookin’ out there?”

Max didn’t glance away from the window. His voice was low, dry. “Not good.”

He finally turned, jumping down from the crates with a grunt.

“There’s at least a hundred of them,” he said. “Maybe more. Just… wandering. Blocking every path out.”

Gosalyn winced. “Great.”

That’s when Pistol and María came hustling around the corner from the back corridor, feet thudding against the concrete. Pistol looked particularly winded, one hand holding her side.

“I’ve got bad news,” she said, panting. “And… well… more bad news.”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Surrounded?”

María didn’t answer right away. She leaned her shotgun against her thigh and reached into her pocket for fresh shells. One by one, she started reloading, her expression grim.

“Like a fat man staring into a microwave,” María muttered, “waiting for his burrito.”

There was a beat of silence.

“And we’re the cold inside,” Pistol added.

Gosalyn stared at them. “What does that even mean?”

María racked the shotgun and stood up straight. “It means we ain’t getting out the back, either. Deadheads are circling that exit too.”

Max threw his hands up in frustration. “Awesome. We’ve got my dad, but now we’re boxed in with zombies on all sides and no way out.”

María slung her shotgun over her shoulder. “We’re gonna have to come up with something fast. Holding this place won’t last forever.”

She looked around at the others, her gaze lingering just a little longer on Max.

“Next move’s gotta be smart… or we’re gonna be the ones getting cooked.”

Webby had been standing quietly near the edge of the group, her sword still faintly shimmering with ethereal light, when she suddenly turned toward Goofy.

“Hey, Mr. Goof?” she called, trying to sound casual. “You wouldn’t happen to have a dryer anywhere in the building, would you?”

Gosalyn’s head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. She knew exactly where this was going. The Night Market.

Goofy scratched the side of his head beneath his headphones. “Hmm… Nope! We do all the laundry at home. Union’s still negotiatin’ fer in-house machines. Got real heated at the last meetin’ too—someone brought a slideshow.”

Max groaned, slumping dramatically against a crate. “Cool. We’re going to die because of corporate greed.”

He turned to Webby, an exasperated hand flopping in her direction. “What about some of your magic, huh? Maybe light ‘em up like you did with the Mothman? Boom. Flash-fried zombie kabobs.”

Webby looked horrified. “Oh yeah, great idea,” she said, sarcasm dripping. “Let’s just light everything on fire in a building filled with flammable chemicals, wood crates, and absolutely no working sprinklers.”

She gestured wildly at the ceiling. “It’s a warehouse, Max. You know what flaming zombies do? They don’t stop. They just get faster and hotter and screamier.”

“Okay, okay!” Max held his hands up in surrender. “Forget I said anything.”

Webby folded her arms, fuming, muttering something under her breath about people always assuming magic was a universal flamethrower.

Meanwhile, Gosalyn stepped away, pacing, eyes scanning the maze of crates. “So we’re stuck,” she said flatly. “No portal. No fire. No backup. Just a building full of slow-motion nightmares and one guy who thinks this is his Tuesday shift.”

Max pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “Then we’ve got two choices—wait it out, maybe the army shows up… or run for it.”

Webby let out a tight sigh, rubbing the side of her face. “The army won’t help. This is way beyond their pay grade. We need to find the source of all this. I have to get back to McDuck Manor.”

She looked at the others, anxiety flickering in her eyes. “Problem is, we don’t have a ride.”

Before anyone else could respond, Pistol snapped, “Don’t even try to blame that on me!”

She stormed forward, getting right up in Webby’s face, practically nose to nose. “You’re the spooky one! You’ve been talking about ghosts and ghouls and cryptids since minute one—it’s obvious this is your fault! You’re the reason these freaks are out there!”

Gosalyn was between them in a blink, shoving a firm hand against Pistol’s shoulder and pushing her back a step. “Don’t you dare blame this on Webby! Without her, we’d already be out there shambling around like leftovers.”

“Oh yeah?” Pistol barked, brushing Gosalyn’s hand away. “She's your little girlfriend, of course you would defend her!”

“Yeah, and?” Gosalyn growled, “She’s risked her life for people she doesn’t even know. That’s more than I can say for you right now.”

Webby tried to intervene, voice rising, “Guys, stop! We can’t—”

Max groaned, waving his arms. “Okay, can we not turn this into a fight club right now? Maybe focus on the zombies?”

Even María, who had been silent up to now, stepped forward. “Enough. We need to—”

The room exploded into overlapping arguments. Voices layered on top of each other like badly tuned instruments, each louder than the last. Pistol and Gosalyn looked ready to throw punches. Max and Webby were talking over each other. María raised her voice, but no one heard.

And then—

A voice boomed out like a thunderclap in a church.

“EVERYBODY SHUT THEIR PIE-HOLES—RIGHT NOW.”

It was Goofy.

He wasn’t yelling out of anger. No, this was something worse.

This was Dad Mode.

Capital D. Capital M.

Everyone froze mid-sentence, like someone had pulled the plug on the noise.

Goofy stood in the center of the warehouse with his Walkman hanging from one hand, expression steely. The man who had just been disco-dancing to Dancing Queen not ten minutes ago now looked like someone who had mastered the art of disappointed silence.

His eyes scanned the group—one by one.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into y’all,” he began, his voice calm but heavy. “But I do know this—arguin’, finger-pointin’, and barkin’ at each other like angry raccoons in a trash can ain’t gonna fix a darn thing.”

He pointed at Gosalyn. “You’re tough as nails, but you don’t gotta throw punches every time someone opens their mouth wrong. You’re better than that.”

He turned to Pistol. “And you—little miss attitude—if you spent half as much time helpin’ as you do yellin’, we’d already be halfway outta this mess.”

Pistol opened her mouth to object, but Goofy raised one finger. Just one. And she shut it immediately.

Goofy continued, pacing slowly in front of them like he was giving a lecture in a living room full of grounded teens.

“Webby, you’re smart and brave, but right now you’re lettin’ fear cloud your thinkin’. You don’t gotta carry the whole world on your tiny shoulders. We’re all in this together.”

He turned to Max next. “Maxie... you’re always lookin’ for the joke in things. That’s okay, it helps people laugh when stuff gets dark. But don’t hide behind it, son. You’re more capable than you think.”

And then—he looked at María.

A full-grown, combat-hardened cop.

“You,” he said softly. “Well, you have a gun so I won't say nothin', hyuck!”

Goofy clapped his hands once—sharp, sudden, and final.

“Now, unless anybody else wants to play the blame game some more, how about we all cool off, put our heads together, and figure out how to survive this.”

Silence.

The kind that only came after a moral reckoning.

Then Gosalyn muttered, “...Sorry, Mr. Goof.”

Webby nodded, sheepish. “Yeah, sorry.”

Pistol crossed her arms and looked down. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever. My bad.”

Max let out a long sigh. “Man… you’re scarier than the zombies. But this still doesn't solve our problem about getting to McDuck Manor.”

Goofy scratched the side of his head thoughtfully, then brightened. “Well, I do got my car parked out front. Not too far from here—just gotta hoof it past a hundred flesh-munchers.”

María crossed her arms, brows furrowed. “Still not ideal. We’re a little short on weapons if things go south.”

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Which they will.”

Max suddenly snapped his fingers, eyes lighting up. “Wait a sec—what do you mean, short on weapons? We’re standing in a freakin’ warehouse!” He gestured around at the massive, looming shelves stacked with wooden crates and dusty pallets. “There’s gotta be, like, tons of stuff we can use!”

Goofy nodded, a grin forming under his mustache. “Maxie’s right. We ship tools and machinery supplies all over the country. Power drills, jackhammers, pipe wrenches—heck, I think we even had a shipment of chainsaws come through last week.”

Gosalyn’s eyes lit up, her hands already flexing like she was trying out a grip. “Well then,” she said, cracking a smile, “let’s gear up.”

The group shared a collective look—equal parts anxious and determined.

Then they turned toward the crates.

Ready to open hell.

With hardware.

Crates cracked open like eggs under eager hands. Dust filled the air, hanging in the shafts of flickering warehouse light like smoke from a long-forgotten fire. The group moved with purpose, hunting through shelves and boxes for anything that could be turned into a weapon. If they were going down, they were going down swinging—and stylishly.

Gosalyn was the first to strike gold. She pried open a heavy wooden crate labeled MECHANICAL TOOLS—CAUTION: HEAVY. Inside, nestled among coils of industrial tubing, was a massive steel pipe wrench. The thing was nearly the size of a baseball bat, with a thick, red handle and steel teeth. She gave it a few test swings like a war club, grinning as it whistled through the air.

Pistol was already elbow-deep in a metal supply crate, tossing aside spare gears and broken tools until she found her treasure—a rugged welding mask with a fire-breathing skull decal on the side. She flipped it down with flair. But she wasn’t done. She turned and dove into another box, emerging with a cordless nail gun, still charged and ready. She gave it a shake, tested the trigger, and let out a delighted, unhinged laugh when a 6-inch nail came forth with a SNAP-HISS and lodged into a nearby crate.

“Fuck yeah.”

Goofy, meanwhile, strolled up last, hands in his pockets, humming to himself like he was gearing up for a fishing trip. He stopped in front of a half-open locker, peered inside, and let out a happy little “Hyuck!”

He pulled out a large metal snow shovel, polished from years of use. He gave it a little swing, the broad head whistling through the air.

“Always said I was good at cleanin’ up messes,” he said cheerfully. Then he spotted something else: a reel of cable. With some improvised knots and a carabiner, he fashioned a sling to hang the shovel across his back like a sword.

Max still hadn't found anything.

His gaze shifted to María, her shotgun glinting under the overhead lights, and he sighed.

“Things would be a lot easier if I could just have a gun,” he muttered.

María turned toward him, her frown deepening. She raised her shotgun, locking eyes with him as she racked the pump action, shell after shell clattering to the floor. She walked over, the heavy shotgun now empty, and handed it to Max, who blinked in confusion.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” Max asked, holding the weighty gun in both hands like it was some kind of strange, unspoken challenge.

María’s lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. “A club,” she said, shrugging. “Just don’t miss.”

"You really know how to take the fun out of a zombie apocalypse," Max sighed as he watched María collect the shells.

As the group finished gearing up, a tense quiet fell over the warehouse. The clang of metal and the shuffle of feet were the only sounds breaking through the thick, charged air. It felt like the calm before a storm.

Pistol, however, wasn’t content to stand idly by. She sauntered over to Max, the slight sound of her shoes tapping against the dusty concrete floor. With a playful, almost sly grin, she leaned in close, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Hey," she murmured, sliding something small and cold into his hand—a shotgun shell that María hadn’t seen her pocket. Max blinked in surprise, glancing at the shell before locking eyes with Pistol.

“Make it count,” she added with a wink, the kind of wink that made Max feel like he was part of some unspoken, dangerous pact. Her fingers brushed lightly against his as she pulled back, the exchange quick but loaded with meaning.

Max nodded, sliding the round into his pocket, his stomach knotting.

Max’s fingers tightened around the shell as he pocketed it. There was no telling when he might need it, but he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. A slight sense of urgency prickled his skin, but his focus was sharpened now. He looked up to see Gosalyn already looking at him, arms crossed and with her usual sarcastic smirk.

“Well, I guess we’re ready. So, what’s the plan, right out the front door or what?” she asked, the challenge clear in her voice.

Before anyone could respond, Goofy, who had been standing near a forklift, suddenly straightened and clapped his hands together as if struck with an idea. With a grin that could only be described as 'Goofy', he placed a hand on the sturdy frame.

“I have a better idea,” he said, his voice full of unexpected confidence.

Outside the warehouse, the night was unnaturally still, the only sounds the occasional moan, the wet shuffle of feet, and the scraping drag of limbs over pavement.

Among the horde stood what had once been Gregory W. Talbot, a regional manager for a modest but steady logistics firm. He had once worn pressed slacks and shined shoes, commuted every morning with a thermos of coffee, kissed his wife Marlene goodbye, and texted his teenage son after school to remind him to do his homework. He loved golf, hated paperwork, and secretly hoped to retire early to take up woodworking.

Now, Gregory's mouth hung slack, lips torn and stained red. His tie was soaked in gore and half-ripped from his neck. His name badge still clung to his chest, tilted sideways and cracked—GREGORY T.—the plastic smeared with blood. His once-crisp white shirt was now a tattered ruin, stiff with filth and dried viscera. His shoes, scuffed and soaked through, squelched with every dragging step.

He didn't know his name anymore.

He didn’t remember the warm kitchen with the smell of burnt toast. He didn’t recall the sound of his son's laughter when they built a birdhouse. He had no memory of traffic, or deadlines, or birthdays, or love.

Now there was only hunger.

The throb of it was constant—pounding behind what remained of his eyes, echoing in the hollow shell of his mind. It was a hunger that was not in his stomach, but in every nerve, every cell. An ache that only flesh could soothe. Warm, writhing, bleeding flesh.

Gregory groaned, a thick, wet sound, and his head twitched toward movement. The other zombies around him barely acknowledged his presence. A sea of lost souls, each bound together by the same primal need. There was no communication. No empathy. No strategy.

Only the urge.

He shuffled forward another few inches, stepping on a crushed soda can, dragging the bent remnants of his briefcase behind him. The briefcase had been empty for some time now—its contents long lost in the chaos. He didn’t know what it was, or why he still carried it. Maybe some part of his ruined brain still clung to old instincts. Maybe he was just a creature of habit, even in death.

The moonlight glinted off the cracked lens of his broken glasses.

Then something rumbled behind the warehouse doors. Something loud. Mechanical. The sound cut through the drone of moans like a chainsaw through bone.

Gregory’s head jerked up, what was left of his ears twitching. Somewhere in the recesses of his decayed mind, a spark of recognition flickered—not thought, not memory, but alertness.

More food.

He turned toward the noise, joining the other ghouls as the horde slowly pivoted, groaning in concert, feet scraping against the asphalt like a thousand dry leaves in the wind.

They didn’t understand the sound. They didn’t need to.

They just hungered.

But what came forth wasn't food.

The warehouse loading door burst open with a violent metallic clang, the sound echoing like thunder through the night. A blinding flood of white fluorescent light spilled out onto the dark pavement—and then came the scream.

“YAAAAAA-HOO-HOO-HOOIE!!”

The rusted yellow machine barreled straight into the crowd of undead, its headlights bouncing wildly as it surged over the uneven ground. The forks, glinting under the pale moonlight, rammed forward and impaled the first line of zombies with a sickening CHUNK. Rotting torsos were lifted into the air like grotesque scarecrows, their limbs flailing weakly before going limp.

Tires crunched over bones and bursting skulls, slick with gore and gravel. Brains splattered across the pavement like overripe fruit. Limbs were severed. Guts spilled like wet laundry.

Among the first to fall was Gregory T. Talbot.

He had barely taken a full step toward the warehouse before the forklift struck. One moment, his lifeless gaze was locked on the source of sound and light—drawn by the scent of living blood—then WHAM. The forks speared through his abdomen, lifting him clean off the ground. His briefcase slipped from his withered fingers and hit the pavement with a dull thud just before the forklift’s front wheels rolled over his head, bursting it like a rotted melon.

Goofy, perched proudly at the wheel, wore his usual wide-eyed grin, a pair of borrowed safety goggles crooked over his eyes. He had absolutely no idea how horrifying it all looked—he was just trying to clear a path.

The night lit up in a flurry of motion and chaos as the group burst from the warehouse behind the charging forklift, weapons raised and battle cries loud in the air.

Gosalyn and Webby moved like a unit, back to back in the thick of the horde. Gosalyn swung the pipe wrench with brutal precision, cracking skulls and shattering kneecaps. Webby slashed clean arcs with her sword, its enchanted blade humming with each strike as it cleaved through rotting flesh and bone like tissue paper. They didn’t speak—didn’t need to. Webby ducked, Gosalyn vaulted over her back and crushed a skull mid-air, landing in a crouch as Webby spun to cover her side. A ballet of carnage.

The forklift clattered to a halt just shy of the curb, metal screeching, its tires red with gore. Goofy kicked the emergency brake and leapt down like a man thirty years younger, his old work boots slamming to the pavement.

He grabbed the shovel on his back and gave it a quick test swing—WHOMP!—cleaving clean through the neck of a zombie still twitching on one of the forks. Its head bounced like a grotesque basketball, rolling to a stop near his foot.

“Yup,” Goofy muttered. “That’ll do.”

From behind him came the sharp pop-pop-pop of nail gun fire and the roar of María’s rifle. Ahead? A whole damn crowd of zombies.

Goofy squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and charged forward with a bellowing “HYUCK-AHHHHHHHH!”

The shovel swung like a warhammer, catching a ghoul in the jaw and sending its rotted head into low orbit. He pivoted fast, ducking low under a swiping arm and smashing the flat of the blade across a ribcage with a wet crunch. The thing folded like laundry.

One lunged at him from behind—but Goofy didn’t even look. He twisted with the momentum, spinning the shovel around in a wide arc like he was sweeping hay, and caught the attacker in the knees. It flipped ass over elbows and landed flat on its face. Goofy drove the shovel down with both hands, burying it in the thing’s skull like a fence post.

“Used to shovel manure back on the farm,” Goofy huffed, winded but smiling. “Y’all smell ‘bout the same.”

He turned and ran to regroup with the others, shovel still dripping, ready for more.

Pistol darted to their right, small and fast, using the chaos to her advantage. She unloaded nail after nail from the industrial-grade nail gun, the compressed hissing of the tool oddly surgical in the midst of blood and screams. She hit a zombie square in the forehead before rolling under a grasping set of hands and nailing another to a rusted-out dumpster, pinning its rotten wrist to the metal. “BAM! Home improvement, baby!”

María was all thunder and fury, her assault rifle spitting fire with practiced bursts. She moved like a soldier—low, fast, lethal—each step deliberate as she swept side to side. Zombies fell around her in waves, chunks of them blasted apart. “Move! Keep pushing!” she barked, dropping a spent mag and slamming in a new one without missing a beat.

Max stayed behind the group just a bit, covering their flank with the shotgun. With no shells loaded, he swung it like a baseball bat, catching zombies in the jaw and sending them flying. He didn’t look graceful—more like a pissed-off janitor on his last nerve—but he held his own. His hoodie was streaked with blood, and his breath came in ragged gasps. One particularly gnarly corpse lunged at him, and he bashed its face in with the butt of the shotgun, sending teeth flying.

Around them, the undead closed in, a sea of moaning, snapping bodies. But the group fought like they were one heartbeat, one desperate force of will. And just ahead—like a promise—the glint of metal.

Goofy’s car. Parked in the center of the lot.

It was only a few yards away now. But it might as well have been a mile.

Because the dead weren’t letting them go without a fight.

The tide shifted in a blink.

They were almost there—just yards from the car—when the horde thickened like a flood surge, more bodies pouring in from between rusted shipping containers and crumbling fences. The group was suddenly surrounded, hemmed in on all sides, their frantic momentum slowed to a crawl.

Pistol turned, raising her nail gun to fire—and that’s when it hit her.

A blur of pale skin and hospital gown, tackling her to the cracked asphalt with crushing force.

She screamed as she went down, her nail gun skittering out of reach across the ground. She slammed onto her back, breath torn from her lungs—and then he was on top of her.

His face was the first thing she saw. Half-decayed, jaw slack and dripping black rot, yet unmistakably him.

Bradley Uppercrust III.

Her body froze.

Even with the skin peeling from his cheeks and the empty void where his left eye used to be, she knew him. That perfect chin now cracked and sagging. That same smug, horrible mouth, now gaping and hungry. His fingers dug into her shoulders with the same bruising strength they once used to yank her arm hard enough to leave fingerprints. His knee pressed into her stomach, pinning her like he used to in private, where no one could hear her cry. His snarling breath was a rotted echo of the words he once whispered, hateful and sharp.

And now, he wanted to eat her alive.

Her scream got stuck in her throat, trapped behind a rising tide of panic and memory. The sound of the battle faded—the gunfire, the shouting, the clashing of steel and bone—drowned out by the thundering beat of her own terrified heartbeat.

She clawed at him, kicking and thrashing, but it wasn’t enough. His weight crushed her. His face dipped low, jaw unhinged, yellowed teeth gnashing inches from her skin.

Pistol wasn’t on the battlefield anymore. She was at his house again. Trapped in that empty hallway. The one where he cornered her. Where he laughed when she cried. Where he told her she was lucky someone like him would even look at her.

Tears welled in her eyes. “No,” she gasped, barely a whisper. “Not again…”

Bradley groaned—deep, animalistic—and lunged for her throat.

And she couldn’t move. She just couldn’t.

Max heard the scream cut through the chaos like a knife.

He turned, heart lurching, and saw her—Pistol—on the ground, her limbs flailing wildly beneath the weight of a zombie. But not just any zombie.

Bradley.

Max’s blood turned to ice.

That smug bastard. That entitled piece of garbage. The guy Max had beaten half to death just that morning, his fists bloodied, knuckles cracked. After hearing what he'd done. After seeing the bruises she never talked about.

And now he was back. Rotting. Rabid. Hungry.

On top of her.

Max’s hand flew into his pocket, fingers scrabbling until they closed around the single shell Pistol had slipped him.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, fumbling with the shhotgun. His hands shook as he opened the loading port, his breath coming fast and shallow. He’d never actually loaded one before. Never fired one either. Only seen María do it. But there was no time to think, no time to doubt.

Across the lot, Pistol kicked and screamed, nails clawing at Bradley’s face. He was drooling black ichor onto the welding mask she wore, teeth snapping like a rabid dog. And Max could see it in her eyes—this wasn’t just fear.

This was terror.

He jammed the shell into the chamber, fumbled with the pump—clack-chack!—and then raised the barrel.

“BRADLEY!” Max roared.

The zombie’s head snapped toward him, rotted eyes locking on. There was something behind them—dim, hollow, but still there.

Recognition.

Hatred.

Even in undeath, Bradley remembered. He remembered the beating. He remembered Max's face, twisted with rage. And now, he knew exactly who to blame for this hell he was trapped in.

With an enraged, garbled scream, Bradley hurled Pistol off him like she weighed nothing. She crashed to the pavement, rolling hard, skidding until she hit the curb with a sickening thud.

Max stepped forward, heart thundering, shotgun raised.

Bradley charged.

Max didn’t flinch.

“That's my girl,” he growled.

BOOM.

The shotgun roared like thunder, echoing across the battlefield.

Bradley’s head exploded in a cloud of red mist and black ichor, chunks of skull and rotten flesh spraying in every direction. The rest of his body staggered forward for a half step, then collapsed, twitching, lifeless.

Max stood there, smoking shotgun in hand, chest heaving.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to.

Max dropped the shotgun with a heavy clatter as soon as Bradley’s body hit the pavement. His legs carried him without thought, sprinting across the cracked asphalt to where Pistol lay crumpled near the curb.

“Pistol! Hey—hey, I got you!” he shouted, skidding to his knees beside her.

She was conscious, breathing, but curled up and shaking, dirt and blood smearing her face. Her lip was split, her nails broken. Her eyes—red and wide—stared up at him like she wasn’t entirely back from wherever she’d just been.

“I’m okay,” she croaked, barely a whisper. “I think I’m okay.”

“Shit, I thought—” Max swallowed hard, voice cracking. “You scared the hell outta me.”

Without another word, she grabbed him—threw her arms around his neck, and pulled herself into him like she might fall apart otherwise. Her sobs hit fast, ragged, and unfiltered, muffled against his shoulder as she clung to him.

“I-I thought I was gonna die,” she gasped. “I saw his face and I—I couldn’t move, Max, I couldn’t—”

“Shh. It’s over,” Max murmured, arms around her tight; holding her like he could shield her from all of it. “He’s gone. You’re safe. I promise.”

She nodded against him, still trembling. And even though the battle still raged around them—gunshots and growls and screaming in the distance—for that moment, it was quiet. Just the two of them, breathing and shaking and alive.

Max helped her to her feet, looping her arm around his shoulders. She winced, but managed to stand, leaning into him as they limped together across the parking lot.

Ahead, Goofy’s car waited.

They weren’t out yet.

But they were together.

They all gathered around Goofy’s car, breathless, blood-smeared, bruised—but alive. The parking lot was bathed in red and orange from the fires burning in the distance, thick smoke curling against the starless sky. The moans of the dead were getting louder, closer.

Goofy climbed into the driver’s seat, hand shaking as he jammed it toward the ignition—then froze. His fingers fumbled the empty air where the keys should have been.

“Uh…” he said, voice tight with disbelief. “Folks? I… might’ve left the keys back in the warehouse.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Gosalyn exploded, her voice sharp and ragged: “You have GOT to be fucking kidding me right now!”

Zombies were everywhere. Crawling out of the proverbial woodwork. Pouring in from the alleyways and surrounding streets. Their groans rose to a sickening chorus, a tidal wave of death that would not stop coming.

María stood off to the side, shoulders heaving, her eyes sweeping the sea of corpses closing in. She gritted her teeth and checked the magazine on her sidearm.

“Six rounds left,” she said coldly.

Max scoffed, hollow and bitter. “Cool. One for each of us.”

She turned, deadly serious. “It’s not going to come to that.”

He stared at her. “What?”

“I’ll stay. Buy you time. Get the hell out of here. That’s an order.”

“The hell it is!” Max shouted, stepping toward her. “No one else is dying tonight!”

María’s face softened for a moment. “Max—”

But then Webby stepped forward, her sword at the ready, glowing faintly in the darkness. She held it like it weighed nothing. Her jaw was set, her eyes calm despite the chaos.

“No. He’s right,” she said, voice clear, sure. “This is my duty. This is what I was trained for. If this is the end, then I face it on my feet, sword in hand.”

Gosalyn moved beside her, gripping her wrench-axe tight. “You mean our duty. Ain’t no way I’m leaving your side. Not now. Not ever.”

Webby looked at her—and for a moment, just a flicker—there was something unspoken between them. Something tender and fierce.

Love.

The five of them stood shoulder to shoulder, backs to the car. María raised her pistol. Webby raised her blade. Gosalyn, her weapon. Max gripped the shotgun tight, Pistol leaning on him, teeth clenched despite the pain. Goofy, still in the driver’s seat, looked out at them, heartbroken.

All around them, the dead closed in.

A hundred pairs of hollow eyes. Clawing hands. Open jaws. Shambling, stumbling, moaning with that terrible, mindless hunger.

There was no escape. No plan. No hope.

Just each other. And the last stand.

And then—

—his voice.

“I am the terror that flaps in the night!”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Two - Anything, Anything

The end was closing in.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder beside Goofy’s beat-up sedan, chests heaving, weapons spent, bodies bruised and bloodied. Gosalyn had her bat raised like it would make a difference. Webby’s sword dripped ichor, trembling slightly in her grip. Pistol’s eyes were wide, terror overcoming her. María’s pistol was raised, but unsure of who to shoot first. Max gripped the shotgun like a club, jaw clenched, ready to swing.

Surrounding them, the horde pressed in. Dozens—no, hundreds—of the dead, dragging twisted limbs and slavering jaws, hemmed them in like vultures around a carcass. Their moans rattled the air. There was nowhere to go. No miracle left to pray for.

And then…

The voice.

Then...

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Small metallic spheres, barely larger than marbles, plinked from the darkness above. One landed on the scalp of a decomposing mailman. Another nestled in the tangled hair of what might’ve once been a cheerleader. Tiny red lights pulsed. The beeping quickened.

BOOM!

The night lit up.

Explosions ripped the front ranks of the horde apart—zombie heads vaporized into wet clouds of bone and brain. Limbs flew. Guts spattered in arcs across pavement and windshield. Several bodies toppled into piles of their own shredded meat. The air stank of gunpowder and rot.

And then came the bullets.

Gunfire. Clean. Controlled. Deadly.

From the smoke, something moved.

Fast.

Blindingly fast.

A streak of gray and violet surged through the gaps in the horde, cloak fluttering like wings, twin silver pistols barking out death. Every shot a headshot. Every. Single. One. Heads burst like melons being dropped from a tall building. The zombies didn’t even have time to groan—just a flicker of light, and then silence.

He landed on the roof of a nearby truck with a sharp clang, silhouetted by firelight and blood haze. The cape curled around him, a phantom in charcoal gray. A wide-brimmed hat dipped low, eyes hidden beneath the brim, glowing like twin embers.

He leapt again.

CRACK! He landed heel-first on a zombie’s face, flattening its skull like a boot on a rotten pumpkin. Before the corpse could fall, he flipped backwards over another and fired mid-air, dropping two more.

A zombie lunged.

He caught it by the wrist, twisted, and used its own momentum to shatter its elbow. It snarled—then silenced as a bullet bored clean through its cranium.

He flowed through the horde like a storm through dry grass. Spinning, striking, shooting. He didn’t speak. Didn’t taunt. He decimated.

Two more approached—he holstered both pistols in a blink, swept one’s legs out, and kicked the other so hard in the sternum it launched backward into a telephone pole. He turned back, drawing another mini-bomb from his belt, and lobbed it into a zombie’s open mouth. It exploded a second later.

Even María froze.

Her mouth hung slightly open, service pistol forgotten in her hand. Pistol was slack-jawed, barely able to comprehend the ballet of violence unfolding in front of her. Webby and Max stood silent, eyes wide.

Goofy scratched his head. “Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit…”

Only Gosalyn didn’t flinch. Her eyes tracked the figure’s movements like she was watching a familiar movie. As the gunslinger spun, cloak flaring, and kicked another zombie into a parked car with a crunch, she allowed herself a crooked smile.

She didn’t need to see the face under the hat.

Didn’t need the dramatic reveal.

She just muttered, soft and smug:

“So much for retirement, old man.”

The last wave of undead was staggering forward—just enough to finish the exhausted survivors still huddled by the car. But they didn’t get the chance.

The caped figure dropped to the ground, landing in a three-point crouch amidst the blood-slick pavement. His pistols gleamed beneath the flickering light of a street lamp as he reloaded. Then he moved.

A tall zombie lunged.

He didn’t even blink—just rolled beneath the grasping arms, spun, and drove a foot square into the creature’s spine. Bone snapped like a stalk of celery. As the thing dropped to its knees, he shoved one pistol under its chin and pulled the trigger.

BOOM!

The top of its skull erupted in a geyser of gore.

Three more came from behind.

He turned, grabbed the corner of his cape, and whipped it forward—metallic clasps on the inner lining flung sharpened quills, peppering zombie faces who dropped like marionettes with cut strings.

Another leapt at him from a crate. Midair.

He didn’t move.

He just shot it out of the sky.

The zombie’s head exploded mid-jump, its momentum carrying the twitching corpse harmlessly past him.

Two more. Bigger ones. Construction workers, by the looks of it, covered in grit and dried cement, strong and fast even in death. They charged side-by-side.

He holstered his pistols.

No bullets needed.

Instead, he ducked beneath an incoming swipe, stepped into the first one’s chest, grabbed its head like a basketball—and spun.

CRRRR-ACK!

The neck snapped with a sickening pop, the head turning a full 180 before the body crumpled to the asphalt.

The second zombie tackled him—bad move.

With a grunt, he used the momentum to flip over its back, ripped a wrench from the zombie's toolbelt, and brought it down across the zombie’s skull. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure.

When the last blow landed, the thing’s skull caved in like a deflated cake.

Silence.

The parking lot was a war zone—smeared with guts, brains, and corpses. Every zombie that had threatened them… gone. And standing in the center of it all, barely winded, was the caped figure.

Slowly, dramatically, he turned toward the group—his cape billowing, feet crunching over gravel.

Even María looked stunned; like she had just witnessed a ghost—or a weapon forged from myth.

He stopped just a few feet away from them.

No one spoke.

No one could.

And then… finally… he tipped his hat up just slightly.

Those glowing violet eyes scanned the group—and for the first time, the corner of his beak curled into a smirk.

The caped figure planted his hands heroically on his hips, his chest puffed out with pride beneath his billowing cape. “You’re safe now, citizens!” he declared, voice rich with theatrical gravitas.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Gosalyn took a slow, half-step forward, squinting at the figure. “What took you so long, Da—” she froze mid-word, then cleared her throat and threw her arms out dramatically. “—Darkwing Duck! Yeah. Darkwing. That’s definitely who you are. Yup.”

Max groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh c’mon, really?”

Webby rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of her skull. “Seriously, babe. Everyone knows your dad is Darkwing Duck.”

Gosalyn flailed slightly. “What?! No! What are you talking about?!”

Max gestured lazily toward the shadowy figure now rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s kind of obvious.”

Pistol crossed her arms and tilted her head, squinting thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it—yeah, that’s totally your dad.”

“How would you even know?!” Gosalyn snapped, looking around helplessly for support—none came. Even Webby raised a judgmental eyebrow and crossed her arms.

That’s when María stepped forward, calmly holstering her service pistol and nodding toward the figure in the cape. “While I normally wouldn’t let a masked vigilante run around my streets unchecked, I’ve gotta admit—we’re thankful for the help, Mr. Mallard.”

The masked figure—Darkwing Duck himself—smiled, “Not a problem, ma’—” he began confidently, then blinked. “Wait. Mr. Mallard?”

He stared at her. She stared back. His shoulders slumped.

“…Ah, shit.”

“HA!” Webby bounced in place, hands clapping together. “I knew it! I knew it!”

Darkwing groaned and buried his face in one gloved hand. “Phooey.”

Gosalyn just threw her hands up in the air. “Why do I even try?!” She then suddenly stopped in her tracks. Something didn’t add up.

She turned slowly to face her father, eyes narrowing. “Wait a damned second… how did you even find us? The whole city’s tearing itself apart, there’s no cell service, no nothing. So how, exactly, did you show up right when we needed you?”

Darkwing Duck froze.

There was the briefest flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual bravado. “Well, you see, after you and your friends got… uh… arrested…”

Gosalyn’s face twisted into instant fury. “You didn’t.”

Darkwing held up his hands as if warding off a storm. “Listen, kiddo, it’s not that I didn’t trust you, it’s just—okay, maybe I didn’t trust you fully—but it’s a father’s duty to—”

“I swear, if you say ‘keep you safe’ I’m gonna kill you myself!”

“Now you’re safe!” he finished lamely.

And that was it.

With an angry grunt, Gosalyn grabbed the hem of her shirt and yanked it up and off in one swift motion.

Max yelped and spun around so fast he nearly tripped over himself. “Gah! Uh—sorry!”

Goofy did a full 180 with a panicked “Gawrsh,” and covered his eyes, stumbling into the side of the car.

The others, of course, were completely unbothered.

Gosalyn stood there in her sports bra, seething, scanning the inside of her shirt. She found what she was looking for—a tiny plastic square hidden in the tag, glowing faintly.

She held it up like a fresh crime scene photo. “You LOJACKED me!?”

Darkwing winced. “I… prefer the term ‘proactively implemented a strategic tracking protocol’…”

“Oh my GOD!” Gosalyn shouted. “You chipped me like a stray dog?!”

“I was worried! You’re my little girl!”

“I used to fight crime right next to you, Dad!”

“And I taught you how to do it!”

Webby leaned over to Max and whispered, “This is somehow the most adorable and dysfunctional family meltdown I’ve ever seen.”

Max, still looking determinedly away from Gosalyn, nodded stiffly. “Can someone give her a towel or something?”

Darkwing glanced around at the bystanders—his daughter’s friends, some of whom were still visibly trying to unsee the last few seconds—and then back at Gosalyn. He cleared his throat and gestured. “Sweetie… could you please put your shirt back on?”

Gosalyn’s eyes lit up with fresh fire. “Oh, now you’re trying to control my body, too?! What’s next, you gonna slap a purity ring on me and lock me in a tower?!”

Darkwing recoiled. “That’s not—! I just—there are zombies! And public decency! And—”

“I will show my tits to whoever I damn well please!” Gosalyn snapped.

From nearby, Webby raised a hand, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Yes. Please.”

Max made a noise like a kettle boiling and remained turned away again, hands up, muttering something about needing therapy. Goofy coughed and politely examined a very interesting piece of asphalt.

“Okay, enough!” María barked, stepping forward and instantly reclaiming the room—or, in this case, the war zone. “As amusing as this whole Full House meets Family Ties meets whatever-the-fuck sitcom meltdown is, we have more pressing concerns.”

She raised a hand and pointed to the far end of the street.

Zombies. Not a handful. Not a pack.

An ocean.

A seemingly unending tide of the undead pouring over every car, every street sign, shattering windows and surging forward like a slow-moving tsunami of rot and hunger.

Hundreds of them.

Max took a reflexive step back. Gosalyn yanked her shirt on with a grunt, eyes wide. “Why us?” she breathed.

Webby’s face was grim. “Because they’re after me. That’s why. And we need to get to the mansion. It’s our only chance.”

Max nodded tightly. “Yeah, we established that — but the question is how? We’ve got a shovel, a nail gun, Gosalyn's tits, and a lot of sarcasm.”

“I may,” Darkwing said, eyes narrowing, voice dropping into that theatrical bravado he always carried, “have a little something that can help.”

He reached deep into his cape and pulled out something small—sleek and black, no bigger than a garage remote.

The others stared, confused.

He pressed the button.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then the air seemed to ripple.

A howl, mechanical and animalistic, thundered overhead. A blinding cone of light swept the area as something massive emerged from the low clouds above, turbines roaring like the engines of a war god.

The Thunderquack.

The sleek, avian-inspired jet—a fusion of cartoonish absurdity and pure, retro-cool style—swooped low and hovered just above the pavement. Its duckbill-shaped nose flared, parting to reveal the cockpit with a hiss of hydraulics. The forward canopy lifted in a smooth arc, gleaming under the streetlights and firelight. Twin mounted guns gleamed at its undercarriage, and beneath its wing panels, heavy-duty vertical thrusters kept it suspended with a thrum that rattled everyone’s bones.

Gosalyn grinned, "Keen gear."

María blinked at the flying craft. “Okay… that’s pretty cool.”

Darkwing gave a modest shrug, arms folded dramatically as his cape flared behind him in the breeze. “What can I say? I like to make an entrance… and an exit.”

One by one, they began piling into the Thunderquack, Goofy, Max, Pistol, Webby, Gosalyn. The interior was tight but sleek, a blend of crimefighter chic and comic book fantasy—polished chrome panels, flight harnesses, built-in monitors, and just enough space for them to huddle in as the engines hummed with quiet power.

But Darkwing wasn’t joining them.

He remained on the street, standing near the open access panel on the side of the Thunderquack’s body, his cape fluttering around him in the updraft. He reached inside and pulled out fresh magazines—.45 ACP for his twin 1911s—and began reloading.

Gosalyn, halfway into the cockpit, frowned and twisted back to look at him. “Uh, dad? What are you doing?”

He clicked the slide on one pistol, chambering a round with a satisfying clack. “Someone’s got to stay out here and keep the streets safe while you go save the world.”

Gosalyn blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed. For once, she didn’t have a snarky comeback. Just a soft smile. Okay. Maybe… maybe he did trust her after all.

"Thanks, dad," Gosalyn smirked.

"Just don't crash her," Darkwing replied as he cocked the other pistol.

María then stepped up beside Darkwing, peering into the open panel. Her eyes narrowed. “Is that an armory?” she asked, voice flat.

Darkwing smirked, not looking away from his reloading. “It’s more of a… mobile crimefighting support hub.”

Inside the compartment was a veritable arsenal—assault rifles, pistols, even what looked like a grenade launcher. María gave a low whistle. Without hesitation, she reached in and began loading up: a compact MP5 submachine gun, a pair of full mags for backup, and a couple of grenades.

Darkwing looked over, one brow raised. “Officer?”

María slapped the bolt on the MP5, priming the gun with a grin that could cut glass. “This is my city, hero. I plan on keeping it that way.”

Darkwing chuckled, sliding his second pistol into its holster. “Well then, the more the merrier.”

"I heard stories that you only used some gas-gun thing," María tilted her head at him, playful now. “I’m going to assume you have permits for all of these?”

Darkwing gave her a lopsided grin, tipping his hat just so. “Back at my house. I’ll show you after.”

Up in the cockpit, Max leaned over toward Gosalyn, brows furrowed as he stared down at the scene. “Wait a sec… is your dad… flirting with María?”

Gosalyn turned, saw it, and went absolutely pale. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

Webby grinned. “You should be used to it by now. You got some big guns of your own.”

Gosalyn groaned and covered her face. “This is my nightmare.”

“I call pilot!” Webby shouted, already half over the center console.

"Oh hell no!" Gosalyn didn’t even slow down. She hip-checked Webby out of the way like it was second nature and threw herself into the pilot’s seat, fingers flying across switches with a confidence that was maybe seventy percent real.

“Oh, come on!” Webby groaned from the floor. “You don’t let me do anything cool!”

"I let you do me," Gosalyn smirked.

"Can you two not be weird for five minutes?" Pistol was pulling her harness across her chest and clicking it into place with shaking hands. She glanced toward the cockpit, voice flat. “You do know how to fly this thing, right?”

“Pshhh,” Gosalyn muttered, flipping switches. “Of course.”

There was a pause.

“…It's just been a little while since I flew it solo,” she added, eyeing a row of buttons labeled things like GYRO BALANCE, FAN INTAKE OVERRIDE, and EJECTION SYSTEM – ARM/DISARM. Everything looked like it had been designed by someone with a grudge against logic.

Max, halfway through securing his dad’s seatbelt, let out a long sigh. “This is how we die. Inside a flying duck.”

“I’m sorry,” Gosalyn said without looking back. “You want to walk?”

“Just get it in the air,” Pistol muttered, clutching the armrests.

Gosalyn began her preflight like a ritual, hands steady even if her pulse wasn’t. “Okay… cabin pressure nominal… thruster coils are hot… inertial dampers charged… nav computer’s got a lock on the manor…”

She gripped the throttle and grinned with forced bravado. “Next stop: McDuck Manor.”

With a dramatic flourish, she flipped the ignition switch.

A heavy click… then silence.

The cockpit lights flickered.

A cough.

Then a klunk.

Then absolutely nothing.

There was a beat of silence — the kind that stretches into eternity.

Behind them, Pistol slumped in her seat. “Wow. I can actually feel the G-forces.”

Gosalyn’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes narrowed. “Just a soft start,” she muttered, flicking the panel hard. “Cold turbines. Happens all the time.”

Webby pointed to a blinking red indicator: ENGINE SEQUENCER LOCKED – INERTIA FAILSAFE TRIGGERED.

“Might wanna reset that.”

“I was about to,” Gosalyn snapped, slamming the toggle with unnecessary force. The light went out. She exhaled slowly. “Okay… now we’re cooking.”

In the back, Goofy offered his usual brand of support: giving two thumbs up and a dopey grin.

Gosalyn muttered under her breath, re-gripping the throttle like it had personally insulted her.

“You can do this,” she whispered to herself, jaw tight.

She shoved the ignition forward again.

Whrrr—CHHH-KA-WHUMMMM.

The engines caught with a roar that shook the entire hull. Lights flared to full brightness. The Thunderquack vibrated as its hover thrusters came alive beneath the reinforced duck-bill fuselage.

Gosalyn cracked her knuckles, a real grin forming this time. “Strap in, losers.”

The canopy sealed shut with a hiss, the moaning of the undead drowned out by the rising whine of power surging through the craft. Outside, María and Darkwing watched the cockpit light up — and from inside, Gosalyn gave one final look at her dad. Their eyes met.

He gave her the faintest nod. She returned it with steel.

No more hesitations.

She gripped the yoke, adjusted the trim stabilizer, and whispered—

“Time to fly.”

Duckburg Cemetery was ancient, older than the city that bore its name. Wrought iron gates twisted into leering gargoyle faces groaned in the wind, while crumbling mausoleums jutted from the mist-choked earth like teeth in a rotting jaw. The headstones were crooked, sunken, or shattered — moss-stained obelisks marking forgotten lives. Ravens watched in silence from leafless trees, and somewhere distant, the city burned, casting a faint orange glow that danced through the fog like firelight on a crypt wall.

Minima de Spell lay draped across a crumbling angel statue like a cat on a windowsill, a grin played on her lips, unreadable and sharp.

So far, everything has been going according to plan.

Well, with one minor inconvenience.

“Chaos. Disorder. Anarchy.”

The voice came from the crest of a hill just beyond, deep and cold and clipped.

Paperelfo.

He stood with military precision atop a cracked marble tomb, silhouetted by the burning skyline of Duckburg. His long coat and cape fluttered behind him like wings torn from a raven. His gloved hands were clasped neatly behind his back, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

“Your aunt might actually be proud of you, Minima,” he said, his sharp eyes not leaving the smoldering city. “All this death, this unraveling… it suits her legacy well.”

Minima tilted her head, her long lashes fluttering mockingly. “Compliments, Paperelfo? How charming. Shall I pretend to blush?”

He snorted, a derisive sound. “I don’t give compliments. I state facts. And the fact is: for all the lovely fire and smoke, you still don’t have the sword in your hand.”

Minima’s smile sharpened as Paperelfo floated to the ground soundlessly.

“The sword waits. As all things should.”

Paperelfo turned toward her, his boots crunching bone-dry leaves beneath the weight of his disdain. “Dawn comes in a few hours, Minima. You’ll have to slink back to your little Night Market den, and your patchwork horde will crumble to ash and dust when the sun finds them. So tell me—”

He stepped closer, eyes glittering.

“Do you actually have a plan? Or are you just playing sorceress dress-up in your aunt’s old hand-me-downs?”

The air between them tightened, cold as a sealed crypt.

Minima slowly sat upright, resting her chin atop her folded hands on the angel’s head. The wind caught strands of her dark hair and sent them dancing like shadows.

“I don’t wear Magica’s robes,” she said, her voice low and silken, “I inherited them. Along with her power. Her blood. Her ambition.”

She stood, graceful and slow, every movement coiled with promise and venom. “You think I don’t see you, Paperelfo? The lapdog too proud to realize the leash is still around his neck. My aunt’s shadow. But I am not Magica. I am Minima. And my reign won’t end when the sun rises.”

She raised her hand, and the air crackled — raw magic coalescing in her palm like a storm ready to be unleashed. The grass around her blackened. Headstones cracked.

Paperelfo didn’t flinch. He stepped forward until they were inches apart,

“You may be blood,” he said, voice colder now, lower, “but blood alone is not command. You’re reckless. You trade fear for theatrics. Fire for control. And if you fail to acquire the sword…”

He let the silence speak.

“…this city will consume you along with everything else.”

Minima leaned in, her breath ghosting across his cheek. “Do you want to fuck me, Paperelfo?”

A moment passed — both unmoving, statues carved of shadow and spite. Then Paperelfo stepped back, cape swirling.

He looked again at the city, flames now brighter, the air growing thick with distant screams.

“You wouldn't enjoy it,” he said. “But enough flirting, I am going. In case your show burns out before the curtain call.”

Minima didn’t watch him go. She just stared at the horizon, eyes glowing faintly, her fingers twitching with contained sorcery. The cemetery moaned around her. Somewhere beneath her feet, something ancient stirred.

And in the sky above Duckburg, the stars seemed to dim.

Minima stood alone in the grave-choked heart of Duckburg Cemetery, and for the first time tonight, she was silent.

Paperelfo’s words coiled around her mind like serpents.

Do you actually have a plan?
She clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles cracked.

You’re reckless.
Her lip curled.

Blood alone is not command.
Her jaw set, eyes glowing a sickly yellow.

“How dare he…” she hissed aloud to no one. “How dare he speak to me like that. Like I’m some apprentice… some wayward candle-flame in Magica’s shadow.”

She turned her gaze skyward. The clouds rolled like bruises across the moonlight. Somewhere out there, Webby Vanderquack was hiding — cowering — clutching the sword that was rightfully Minima’s. Pretender. Faker. She wore the cloak of destiny like a child in her father’s coat.

Minima’s nostrils flared.

No more.

She dropped from the statue with a whisper of silk and raven feathers, landing upon the cracked marble like a curse come to life. Her fingers reached to her sash, withdrawing a dagger carved from obsidian, inlaid with bone runes etched by Magica herself.

She held it skyward, slicing her palm open with practiced grace. The blood didn’t drip. It flowed — unnaturally, pooling at her feet, hissing against the dead grass.

And she began to chant.

The wind stilled. The mist thickened. The very earth seemed to listen.

“From crypt and clay, from dust and bone,
By blood once spilled and flesh once sown.
Rise now, horror, my wrath to wield—
From hallowed grave and rotted field.

By root and stone, by moss and mark,
In cursed soil cold and dark—
A giant hand, a vengeful fist,
To crush the soul that would resist.

Worm-wrought sinew, tomb-born frame,
Awake, O husk, and take thy name!
Grave-born golem, monster vast—
Serve thy mistress. Rise at last!”

The ground trembled.

Her blood seeped between the cracks of the earth, vanishing into the soil as if devoured. Thunder cracked above, lightning spidering through the clouds without thunder, and with it came the awful sound — the tearing, groaning wrench of the earth itself.

The graveyard shuddered. A crypt exploded from within as stone slabs tumbled aside. Dirt churned, and then the ground burst. A massive, root-choked limb rose from the ground like a mountain being born. Bones embedded in its bark-like skin, coffins splintered and fused into its forearms. A skull clacked loose from its shoulder and rolled to Minima’s feet.

She didn’t flinch.

Another hand surged up — fingers the size of trees, tangled with iron fencing and roots. Between them, a torso emerged — enormous and vaguely humanoid, built from packed soil, deadwood, ancient roots, and broken headstones. Names of the long-dead were carved across its ribs. It bled dust and moaned with a windless breath.

Then the head — little more than a jagged gravestone split down the middle, moss dripping like rotted hair, a crooked mouth cracking open to release a deep, hollow roar.

It stood, towering over the mausoleums — twenty feet tall, a giant of the grave.

Minima floated into the air and landed upon the monster, perched between its shoulders. “McDuck Manor. Destroy anyone who stands in your path. Bring me the sword.”

The Graveyard Golem roared again, the trees bending in its wake.

Minima stood upon it, the fire from the distant city reflecting in her eyes. “Let’s see Paperelfo question my power now.”

And with that, her monstrous servant turned, and with footsteps like thunderclaps, began to march toward Duckburg.

Dawn was coming.

But so was death.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Three - Monster

The Thunderquack sputtered, shuddered, and finally dropped onto the back lawn of McDuck Manor with all the grace of a refrigerator being hurled from a helicopter. The landing gear dug into the grass hard enough to leave a crater, and one of the plane’s panels popped open with a metallic pong as if in protest.

Inside the cockpit, Gosalyn gave the controls a final slap and exhaled. “Nailed it.”

“I think my spleen is upside-down,” Max muttered, unlatching his harness.

Pistol snorted from the back. “Yeah, if your definition of ‘perfect’ is ‘mild crash.’”

Gosalyn twisted around in her seat. “If you’d like to fly next time, be my guest.”

“Please,” Pistol scoffed, already unbuckling her harness. “I’d have landed us perfectly.”

Max leaned between them, trying to keep the peace. “Can we, ya know, not do this while the engines are still on fire?”

“They’re not—” Gosalyn started.

A small puff of smoke drifted up from the dashboard.

“Okay, they’re barely on fire,” she corrected.

Goofy, bless him, simply murmured, “That was fun,” while trying to stand with legs wobblier than a newborn deer.

Webby didn’t say a word. Her eyes were already on the house.

She scanned the dark shape of McDuck Manor ahead—its tall, shadow-choked windows and curling ivy climbing the stone walls like skeletal fingers. A gust of wind swept across the lawn, carrying dead leaves and the faint, coppery tang of something rotten.

She felt it. Danger. Evil. Close.

At the top of the steps stood Duckworth, unmoved by the drama of their landing. His tailcoat fluttered slightly in the breeze, but otherwise he stood like a statue chiseled from weary dignity. He held a lantern in one hand, the golden light flickering against his gaunt cheekbones and sunken eyes.

“You’re late, Miss Webbigail,” he intoned dryly.

Webby stalked toward him, her sword slung across her back like a challenge. “Stuff it, Duckworth. Where’s Scrooge?”

“In the Vault,” Duckworth said without pause. “Where he believes he may be of the most use. Come. All of you.” He turned with the grace of someone who had seen the end of the world once or twice already and expected to be home in time for tea.

The trek through McDuck Manor was like descending into the belly of a beast carved from history and ego. Duckworth led the way with unfailing precision, his lantern casting long, swaying shadows along the high-vaulted corridors. The manor creaked and groaned under its own age, every footstep echoing against old marble and dusty tapestries that hadn't felt sunlight in decades.

Past the grand staircase. Through a portrait-lined gallery filled with grim ancestors glaring down like they'd rather haunt than help. Down narrow servants' halls behind false paneling. Each layer they passed felt colder, heavier, like the building itself knew what was coming.

At last, they reached the lower levels, where the air turned metallic and stale. Duckworth came to a halt before a great steel door embedded in the wall like a tombstone meant for gods. It was massive—at least ten feet high and thicker than a city wall, circular in shape, with a turning wheel the size of a ship’s helm at its center.

With a grunt of effort, Duckworth spun the wheel. Locking mechanisms hissed and thudded inside the frame—dozens of them—before the door finally rolled open with a seismic rumble.

And then: gold.

The Vault glowed with it. Piles and piles, as if Midas had vacationed here. Golden coins, ancient crowns, emerald-encrusted chests, statues of forgotten pharaohs, weapons that hummed with old power. Tapestries looted from fallen empires. Priceless art leaning against the walls like forgotten decor. It was overwhelming.

Max staggered to a halt. “Holy shit,” he breathed, gripping the doorframe.

Goofy placed a steadying hand on his son’s shoulder, blinking around in awe. “Shucks, that’s a lotta pocket change.”

In the center of it all sat Scrooge McDuck.

His wheelchair faced a row of security monitors cobbled together from different eras—some grainy black-and-white, others in crisp high-definition. Footage streamed from across the manor and the surrounding land. Fires. Shadows. Movement. Death.

Without turning, Scrooge rasped, “You’re late.”

Webby stepped forward, chin high, but before she could speak, Scrooge added, “I told you to come back to the Manor the moment things went sideways. Instead, you galivanted across the city like some comic book vigilante. What in blazes were you thinking, girl?”

Gosalyn immediately bristled, stepping in. “We were thinking about not getting eaten alive. There were zombies, in case you didn’t notice.”

“There are always zombies!” Scrooge barked, finally wheeling around, his sharp blue eyes like twin drills. “Or ghosts. Or vampires. This is Duckburg, not Disneyland. That’s no excuse for disobedience.”

Webby didn’t flinch. She just crossed her arms and stared back at him, letting the silence stretch.

Pistol muttered under her breath, “Geez, no wonder she’s the way she is.”

Scrooge finally wheeled to face them all, squinting like he’d just caught a whiff of something foul. His voice was pure gravel and contempt.

“Not only are ye late, but ye bring around layabouts! Strays! Freeloaders!” His bony finger jabbed in Max’s direction, then Gosalyn’s. “Wot do you think this is? A shelter for the homeless? I see slack jaws and dirty boots. No discipline, no sense!”

Gosalyn took a step forward, fists clenched so tight her knuckles were white. She was vibrating, buzzing with rage, about to let loose a nuclear string of swears that would make a sailor blush. They had done this before, back when he tried to take Webby out of school. But now? Gosalyn was ready to beat some manners into him.

But she didn’t get the chance.

“SHUT UP, SCROOGE!”

Webby’s voice cracked like thunder through the vault.

Everyone turned, stunned. Even the stalwart Duckworth raised an eyebrow.

Webby stood tall at the center of the gold-soaked chamber, and she was glowing. Not metaphorically. A faint, pulsing light radiated from her skin, humming low like distant machinery. Her eyes blazed with energy, the hilt of the spectral sword Lena humming faintly at her side, responding to her fury like it lived off it.

“I am so tired of this! I am the Last Templar,” she snarled, voice shaking with fury. “Not you. You sit in this tomb of gold barking orders at people who still fight. You tried to strip me of my friends. My freedom. My life.”

Scrooge opened his mouth—but Webby wasn’t done. She stepped forward, voice climbing to a crescendo.

"You know what, Scrooge? Fuck you!" she spat, “You just shut your goddamned mouth while me and my friends take care of this problem. While you hide down here. Just like you did the first time.”

A beat.

Gosalyn’s eyes narrowed. The first time?

Even Max caught the phrase and turned to Webby, brow furrowed. Pistol muttered something under her breath, but even she sounded caught off-guard.

But Webby wasn’t slowing down.

“I have given everything!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “My body! My soul! My fucking family! To all of... this!” She gestured around—at the vault, the cameras, the weight of legacy and failure pressing down on them all.

“So if you want me to be the Last Templar, then get off my ass... and let me be it!”

Silence.

The kind that echoed off ancient walls and settled in your bones.

Duckworth stood frozen. Goofy looked like he didn’t quite understand what had just happened, but even he could tell the air had changed. Pistol, arms folded, just exhaled a slow, “Damn.” Gosalyn stared at Webby with new eyes—shocked, proud, a little scared.

Scrooge’s face was stone. His jaw clenched once, then again.

The tension that had gripped the room like a vice finally began to loosen.

Scrooge’s shoulders sagged, and for a heartbeat, the fire in his eyes dulled to something mournful. He looked down at his trembling hands, gnarled with time, then slowly shook his head.

“I’ve only been hard on ye... because I was tryin’ to protect ye, lass,” he muttered, voice low and worn like old leather. The Scottish burr softened it, made it sound like a bedtime story cracked with regret. “The world out there—it's cruel. It takes things. I've lost more than I care t'remember.”

Webby didn’t flinch. “I don’t need your protection,” she snapped, but there was a catch in her voice. Not anger. Hurt. “I need them.”

She turned, eyes sweeping over the room—past Max, whose brow was furrowed in sympathy, past Pistol, who was trying not to roll her eyes, past Goofy, who simply stood awkward and unsure.

And then her gaze stopped on Gosalyn.

She swallowed hard.

"I need her."

Something raw flickered between them—quiet, weighty, electric. Something older. Deeper. Two people who had stood back-to-back in the fire and found truth in each other. Something unspoken passed between them. Something sacred.

Gosalyn blinked, mouth parting just a little. “Webby…” she said, barely audible.

Webby smiled. Just a small, broken thing.

Scrooge’s weathered eyes followed her gesture. He looked at Gosalyn—this firecracker of a girl who barely contained her fury most days—and he saw something in her. Something he hadn’t understood before. Then his eyes went back to Webby, and all that gruffness collapsed into quiet shame.

“I’m sorry, my child,” he said, his voice trembling. “I am. I’m an old fool, hangin’ on to glories long gone, tryin’ to cage a flame so it wouldnae burn out…”

Webby stepped toward him slowly, her feet slapping against the gold and stone. She kneeled beside his chair, reaching up to place a steady hand on his thin shoulder.

“I love you, Uncle Scrooge,” she said, barely above a whisper. “But I need my own life too.”

He looked at her with eyes suddenly misted. She continued.

“I will keep being the Last Templar. I’ll do my duty. But we agreed—I could have my friends back after the Night Market.”

There was a pause—thick, emotional, final.

Scrooge gave a slow nod.

“Aye,” he said. “We did. And I’ll keep my promise.”

The old man placed his weathered hand on hers, gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back.

Behind them, Gosalyn watched with something heavy settling in her chest. Pistol looked awkward as hell but kept quiet. Max gave a soft, understanding nod. Even Duckworth, standing ramrod straight, dipped his chin in subtle respect.

The vault, for the first time in a long time, felt still.

But that stillness... would not last.

The entire mansion trembled with a low, guttural rumble, like a distant thunderstorm tearing through the foundations of reality itself. The walls of McDuck Manor groaned, sending a shudder through the air. For a moment, it seemed like the tremor would pass... until it grew stronger.

Goofy, who had been looking at the security monitors, suddenly yelled with wide eyes. "What the fuck is that?!" His voice was strained, panicked even—and the cursing something entirely new from him.

The others rushed to the screens, crowding around. Their faces went pale as the image on the screens flickered with static before clearing. What they saw nearly made their stomachs drop.

A giant, grotesque silhouette loomed just beyond the gates of McDuck Manor. It was massive—towering, at least twenty feet tall. Its form was half-buried beneath a mound of shifting earth, roots and gravestones breaking through the soil like sickly veins in a rotting corpse. Massive arms hung at its sides, the tips of its hands gnarled into claws that scraped the ground with terrifying force. The creature’s face was a twisted mosaic of jagged stone and broken, moss-covered headstones. Eyes, glowing an unnatural green, blinked like eerie lanterns beneath a cloak of cobwebs and grave dirt.

It was an abomination—an ancient, elemental thing, born of nothing but death and decay.

The Graveyard Golem.

Behind the beast, a horde of zombies shambled in an endless tide. Shattered, moaning corpses, some still in tatters of their old clothing, followed the golem in a slow but relentless march. Their vacant eyes flickered with a primal hunger. As they drew closer to the Manor gates, the very earth seemed to crawl beneath them, trembling at their passage.

Webby’s eyes narrowed as she stared at a monitor, bill curling into a thin line. "Minima de Spell," she whispered, her voice low but deadly, recognizing the source of the madness.

On the shoulders of the Graveyard Golem, perched like a queen surveying her army, was Minima. She was a striking figure, despite the twisted terror she commanded. Her silhouette was framed against the chaos she’d unleashed, a cruel smile playing at the edges of her lips. Her dark robes billowed in the wind, glinting with faint, otherworldly energy. Her eyes locked onto the mansion as she surveyed her impending victory.

The eerie, unnatural storm of power she radiated sent a chill through the group. For all the devastation she had wrought, there was something calm about her. As if she knew that everything had already been decided. That her triumph was inevitable.

"This can't be good," Pistol muttered under her breath.

Max stood still, his eyes wide, his mind racing. He could feel the weight of it—the gravity of what was coming. "I take it we're not friends with her?"

"With that cunt?" Webby said, her voice sharp with authority. "No."

She clenched her fists, stepping forward, ready to face whatever came next. But her eyes, still burning with resolve, kept flicking back to Gosalyn. It was like they were talking to each other without a word.

Gosalyn was staring, but not at Minima. She was staring at the golem, her jaw tight. It was the biggest, most frightening thing she had ever seen. The ground itself had been twisted into something malevolent, something alive in the worst way possible.

Duckworth cleared his throat, his face grim. "We’ll need to prepare," he said, the urgency in his voice betraying how dire the situation truly was. "The Vault’s not enough to withstand this kind of assault."

Scrooge, who had been silent for a long while, suddenly wheeled around, locking eyes with Webby. "Aye," he muttered, "Get ye friends together. If Minima's brought this thing here, then it’s time we stopped hiding. We’ve still got some tricks up our sleeves."

Webby nodded firmly. She turned to her friends—Max, Gosalyn, and Pistol. “We’ll need everything. I’ll take care of Minima, but the rest... We need to take down that golem. Fast.”

"Bro," Max sighed, "I don't know if you noticed, but that's an entire graveyard coming for us. How exactly do you expect us to deal with... that?!"

Pistol, arms crossed, scoffed dramatically. “Duh. We’ve got that super plane parked out front, remember? We just hop in and, you know—pew-pew!” She mimed twin machine guns with her arms, complete with over-the-top sound effects.

But then Goofy’s mouth twisted into a worried frown. “Might be a small problem with that…”

Everyone turned as he pointed to the security monitors. The grainy black-and-white footage shook and glitched slightly as the massive, lumbering form of the Graveyard Golem plodded toward the front lawn. Its foot came down like a meteor. The Thunderquack was crushed beneath a hulking stone heel.

BOOM!

The Manor trembled violently, dust pouring from cracks in the ceiling. Onscreen, the Thunderquack erupted in a gout of fire and scrap, its sleek futuristic form reduced to twisted wreckage beneath a mound of dirt, rubble, and tombstones.

Gosalyn dragged her hands down her face. “My dad is going to kill me…”

Scrooge gave a low, satisfied chuckle from behind them. “Plastic toy garbage, that thing was. Shoulda flown a Spitfire.”

With a grunt, he wheeled himself across the vault, the old tires squeaking faintly against the stone floor. He came to a halt at what looked like an unassuming pile beneath a thick, dust-covered tarp. He yanked it off with dramatic flair—and a puff of mildew and age—revealing a veritable arsenal of weapons.

Max took an involuntary step back. The rack bristled with old-world firepower—muskets with bayonets, heavy bolt-action rifles with well-worn leather straps. There was even a full WWI-era Lewis gun propped up in one corner next to a box of tarnished grenades.

“Now these,” Scrooge declared proudly, “are real weapons.”

Max gingerly picked up a rusted musket, blinking at it like it might fall apart in his hands. “Is everything in this place ancient?”

Scrooge didn’t miss a beat. He leaned forward in his chair, reaching down with stiff fingers and lifting an M1 Garand from the pile like it was an old friend. He pulled the bolt back with a crisp shik-shik and grinned like he was twenty again. “Killed many a Nazi with this. A few o’ them Japanese, too.”

Pistol wrinkled her nose. “Cool. Old and racist. You got a white hood in there too, old man?”

Scrooge’s head whipped toward her. “You watch yer tongue, lass. I fought for the North in the Civil War! The good guys!”

Gosalyn turned to him slowly, one eyebrow arched halfway to her forehead. “Jesus. How old are you?”

But before Scrooge could answer, another deep rumble echoed through the walls—this one sharper, closer. The floor pitched slightly, a groan of ancient beams overhead. Dust rained down in light showers, followed by a louder crack as a portion of the ceiling shifted under the strain.

Webby’s eyes locked on the screen again, where the Graveyard Golem was now pressing its gnarled, jagged fists into the Manor. Stone screamed against metal, the walls buckling, the whole structure ready to snap like twigs.

"We're running out of time," Webby muttered.

Max grabbed a WWI service revolver from the pile and tried to open it. “So... we’re really doing this, huh?”

Gosalyn, already slipping on an ammo belt, reached over and plucked the revolver from his hands. “You’re gonna shoot yourself in the foot,” she muttered, popping open the revolver properly. She showed him how to load it, click it shut, and hold it without looking like a complete idiot. “Here. Like this.”

Max gave her a crooked smile, sheepish. “Thanks.”

Pistol, meanwhile, had tossed aside every firearm she tried and finally landed on a Civil War cavalry sword. “Now this is more my speed,” she said with a flourish, slicing the air and nearly clocking Max in the head.

“Watch it!” Max ducked, hands up.

“Oh please, you’re not that tall.”

Gosalyn let out a low whistle and slung a Tommy gun over her shoulder. “Okay. I’m feeling better about our odds.”

At the vault door, Webby stood silent and focused, her hand on the hilt of Lena. The sword shimmered faintly in the dim light, the power within it like a second heartbeat thrumming through the room.

She didn’t look back when she asked, “We ready?”

Goofy raised one hand from his corner, looking sheepish. “I think I’ll just, uh... stay here. Guard the vault or somethin’.”

Max walked past him without missing a beat, revolver in hand. “That’s the idea, Pop.”

Webby gave a small, approving nod. Gosalyn racked the Tommy gun with a satisfying ch-chak. Pistol rested the flat of her blade on her shoulder, grinning like she was about to crash a wedding.

Behind them, Scrooge rolled his chair to a stop and watched them line up at the door. His eyes narrowed, his old hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly.

“Aye,” he said, voice low but clear. “Go give that cursed wench a proper McDuck welcome... and don’t ye come back without her head.”

Duckworth, ever composed, stepped forward and pulled the vault lever with a heavy clunk. The door began to grind open, thick gears whirring as a gust of cold air blew in from the mansion above.

The manor shook again.

Scrooge grinned as he watched the door slowly open:

“Show 'em what legends are made of.”

And off they went.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The look they exchanged said it all.

Duckworth stood by the lever, watching them ascend into the dark corridors of McDuck Manor. As the last footfall faded, he reached out with gloved fingers and began to close the vault door.

CLANK.

From inside, the steel wheel began to turn, locking the old world behind them.

In the stillness that followed, Goofy looked around awkwardly, then turned to Scrooge, offering his hand with a lopsided smile. “We were never properly introduced. George G. Goof. But folks just call me Goofy, hyuck!”

Scrooge looked at the extended hand like it had personally insulted his ancestors.

“I am sure they do,” he muttered.

The main floor of McDuck Manor was barely holding together.

Centuries-old wallpaper hung in tatters, chandeliers swayed dangerously overhead, and the once-ornate ceiling cracked and wept dust with every thunderous impact from the Graveyard Golem outside. A bookshelf toppled in the foyer, shattering against the floor. The air reeked of mold, smoke, and impending doom.

The four emerged from the staircase, weapons drawn and eyes darting.

BOOM.

The house shuddered under another impact, a portrait of some forgotten McDuck ancestor tumbling from the wall and crashing at Max’s feet. He jumped, heart hammering, then exhaled and muttered, “Y’all remember normal?”

He looked first at Webby—her face grim, the hilt of her sword gripped tightly in her hands. She moved with a purpose, with that quiet rage burning in her spine, a girl raised by shadows to fight monsters before she was even old enough to walk.

Then Max’s eyes shifted to Gosalyn—cool, steady hands on the tommy gun like she’d been born holding it, eyes narrowed and laser-focused. The adopted daughter of a vigilante, a teenage bruiser who probably knew fourteen different ways to kill someone with a pencil and fifteen more with just harsh language.

“…Okay,” Max muttered, “Forget that. Pistol, do you remember normal?”

Pistol turned to him with a manic gleam in her eye, her cavalry sword resting against her shoulder, her teeth bared in a grin that was all chaos and no brakes. If she’d had a war cry, she’d be screaming it already. Her whole body was practically vibrating with anticipation.

Max stared at her.

Her left eye twitched.

“…Right,” he sighed, shoulders slumping as he tightened his grip on the ancient revolver. “Fuck normal I guess.”

A thunderous impact sent a cabinet full of dishes flying through the next room.

Webby didn’t flinch.

“I'll take Minima,” she said. "Pistol, Max, you're on zombie detail. Babe?"

Gosalyn looked at Webby, "Let me guess, the walking cemetery?"

"Well, no," Webby smiled, "I was gonna ask where you want to go on our one-month anniversary next week, but yeah, that too."

Pistol just rolled her eyes.

Webby kicked open the front doors.

They exploded outward with a deafening CRACK, splinters of old wood and rusted hinges scattering across the cracked stone steps. Webby stood at the threshold, sword in hand, framed by her friends.

“GO!” she shouted.

The team surged forward like a flood. Screaming bloody murder, the four burst into the chaos outside—into a night choked with smoke and undead howls.

They split without a word.

Max veered left, firing the revolver wildly. The old weapon bucked in his hand like an angry mule, every shot a test of luck. He hit one zombie between the eyes, and it collapsed to the ground. “Okay!” he shouted, half-shocked. “I meant to do that!”

Pistol peeled off beside him, gleefully shrieking as she launched herself into the fray, her cavalry sword slicing through rot and sinew. She twirled like a dancer on methamphetamine, hacking and swinging with terrifying grace. “THIS. IS. AWESOME!” she screamed as she cut through a zombie torso.

To the right, Gosalyn skidded into a crouch and leveled the Tommy gun. She squinted up at the towering monster—the Graveyard Golem—its twenty-foot frame towering over her.

She unloaded.

The Tommy gun roared like a chainsaw made of thunder, brass flying. Bullets stitched across the golem’s chest, dislodging moss and dust, but barely making a dent.

The golem stopped mid-step. Its head turned toward her.

Gosalyn swallowed hard. “Well... shit.”

And then, light exploded behind her.

Webby rose into the air, hoisted not by wings or wires, but by sheer magical force. The sword—glowing with pale blue fire—burned in her hand as the very air shimmered with heat around her.

Across from her, floating just as effortlessly, was Minima.

The young de Spell reclined midair as if lounging on an invisible chaise, her black robes flowing like ink in water, her eyes glowing the same color as the sigils scarring the golem below. She smiled, slow and cruel.

“Well, look at you,” Minima purred. “Hovering around like you’re in some sacred painting. But that sword—that sword—isn’t yours.”

Webby said nothing. Her eyes burned brighter.

Minima’s smile widened. “It belongs to my family. To me. My aunt bled and burned for it. And you—what are you? A lost little duck with an identity crisis?” She circled slowly in the air, hands gesturing as if conducting some unseen orchestra of shadows. “You think that sword chose you? That she chose you?”

Webby’s voice cut through the storm like steel. “No. I know she did.”

She raised the blade, and the light from it split the night like lightning. The fires below flickered in its glow. The wind surged around her like it was answering her call.

“You don’t get to take it just because you were born into the right family. That sword chose me. Because I earned it.”

Minima’s expression cracked. Just for a second. Then it hardened.

“Then let’s see if you can keep it.”

With a shriek of arcane syllables, Minima hurled a bolt of raw magic at Webby, and the sky turned violet as the battle of bloodlines and legacy ignited in the air above the battlefield.

Below them, Gosalyn rolled aside as the golem slammed one tree-trunk arm into the spot she’d just vacated, the ground erupting in a spray of stone and dirt. Max screamed something incoherent as he and Pistol struggled to keep the zombies at bay.

Max ducked behind the shattered remains of a marble column, fumbling with the revolver. His hands shook, bullets slipping from his fingers and clattering uselessly to the ground.

“C’mon, c’mon, damn it,” he hissed, trying to jam a round into the chamber as the groans of the undead grew louder.

A snarl erupted behind him.

He barely turned in time to see a half-decayed zombie lunging for his throat—

GLUCK!

Steel flashed in the dim firelight, and suddenly the creature jerked and went limp. Pistol stood just behind it, her cavalry sword shoved clean through the back of the zombie's head and out of its mouth, just inches from Max's face. She gave the blade a twist and yanked it free with a wet shlup.

She grinned, feral and wild, blood speckled across her cheeks. “You need to keep up, I’m winning.”

Max stared at her, breathing hard, then finally snapped the cylinder shut with a click. “Since when are we keeping score?”

THUCK! Pistol spun, decapitating a zombie that had come too close. The body stumbled forward a few steps before falling flat.

“That's six,” she called over her shoulder. “What are you at?”

Max frowned, stepped out from cover, “Uh… two?” Then his eyes widened. “Wait!”

A stumbling ghoul shambled toward him, and Max unloaded the revolver into its face—BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!—each shot echoing across the ruins of the yard. Chunks were torn off the zombie's head until it fell over, ichor and brains splattering across the grass.

Max stood there, panting, smoke curling from the revolver’s barrel. “Three!”

Pistol just smirked, wiping her blade against her shirt. “Gonna need to do better than that, cowboy.”

Max looked down at his now-empty weapon, sighed, and muttered, “Why is every woman I know insane?”

Nearby, Gosalyn hit the ground in a roll, landed on one knee, and let loose a vicious burst from the tommy gun. The bullets lit up the night like a string of firecrackers, the barrel smoking hot in her hands as she tore through a cluster of zombies advancing on her flank. Casings rained to the ground like metallic confetti, her bill clenched.

She spun, backpedaled, ducked low under the grasping hands of another ghoul, then turned and blasted it, emptying the magazine as she turned its head into pink mist.

"Running low on ammo!" she snapped, swapping magazines with a flick and slamming a new one home.

Above her, the Graveyard Golem loomed—its patchwork body a grotesque monument to death, bone and stone and rotting limbs, all bound together by dark magic. Its hollow eye sockets glowed with green hellfire as it let out a roar that shattered windows and shook the trees. With a slow, deliberate swing, it brought its arm down on a nearby gazebo.

KRUNCH.

Wood exploded. The entire thing disintegrated into splinters and kindling, debris flying in every direction. One particularly rude chunk of bench caught Gosalyn on the side, sending her tumbling backward through the dirt and landing hard on her stomach.

For a moment, she just lay there—groaning, gasping, coughing up a mouthful of grass and soil as she began to roll over.

Then her eyes narrowed.

“Okay,” she growled, pushing herself up and wiping grime from her face, “fuck this!”

She grabbed the Tommy gun, kicked the head off a crawling zombie trying to get a bite of her ankle, and started marching toward the house with purpose.

Across the yard, Max popped another round into a zombie’s eye socket and caught a glimpse of her. “Where the hell are you going?!”

Gosalyn didn’t slow down, didn’t look back. “I need a bigger gun!”

And with that, she was gone, charging up the steps of McDuck Manor, Tommy gun slung over her shoulder, fists clenched, eyes locked forward.

The Graveyard Golem let out a confused snarl and then turned its attention to Max.

Max looked up, way up, trying to see the creature in its entirety. He let out a sigh, "Fuck me in the ass."

Above the chaos, the night sky crackled with magic. Webby and Minima hovered in midair, wind and arcane energy spiraling around them in a maelstrom of light and shadow. Below, the zombie horde clashed with the living; the Graveyard Golem crushed what it pleased—but none of that mattered up here.

Up here, it was personal.

Webby hurled a bolt of searing white light that shattered the black shield Minima conjured. Minima retaliated instantly, a ribbon of violet fire lashing out and slicing past Webby’s arm—close enough to singe, but not enough to stop her.

“You don’t deserve that sword!” Minima snarled, her eyes burning with rage. “My Aunt made her! It should’ve been mine!”

Webby didn’t flinch. She gripped the hilt tighter, the sword glowing a soft, steady blue in her hand. “Maybe it was forged by your family,” she shouted back, dodging a spear of shadow, “But her soul is devoted to me!”

Minima screamed, “She's our blood!”

Webby’s jaw clenched. “And she's my friend.”

Another blast—Minima sent shards of bone rising from the earth below, whipping through the air like jagged blades. Webby spun, Lena slicing the magic into harmless mist. The blade moved with her—not as a weapon, but as something alive, responsive, like it knew what was coming before she did. It glowed brighter the angrier Minima became, as if feeding off Webby’s courage.

Minima hovered higher, her robes flapping violently in the wind. “You don’t even understand what you’re carrying! What it’s capable of! She was meant to conquer nations—not to be some toy for a spoiled little orphan!”

Webby’s glare sharpened, and for just a moment, the glow of the sword reflected something else in her eyes. Something deeper.

“I’m not an orphan,” she said quietly. “Not anymore.” The sword pulsed again—just once, faintly, like a heartbeat. Webby raised it in front of her as wings of white fire flared from her back. “And Lena will never belong to you!”

Minima’s expression twisted—grief, fury, maybe even a flicker of fear.

“I'll eat your fucking heart!” she shrieked, and launched herself forward, all of her dark magic focused into one blinding, burning strike.

Webby met it head-on. Their spells collided midair in an eruption of color, light and dark battling for dominance as the sky above McDuck Manor split with thunder.

Inside the Manor, Gosalyn’s feet slapped heavily down the winding steps of McDuck Manor. Every second felt like an eternity as the ground shook under the massive stomps of the Graveyard Golem. Her heart pounded in her chest, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins from the earlier fight. But it wasn’t enough. She needed more. She needed something bigger, something that would make a difference.

“Scrooge!” she roared, her fists hammering against the vault door with an intensity that made the old stone walls tremble, "SCROOGE!"

The door creaked open with a reluctant groan. Duckworth stood on the other side, his brow furrowed as he looked her over, his voice low and steady, “What now, Miss Mallard?”

Gosalyn didn’t even spare him a glance as she stormed in, her frustration burning hotter than the fire in her veins. She barely acknowledged Scrooge and Goofy sitting at the large oak table, both of them sipping tea as if the world outside wasn’t crumbling apart.

“I need another weapon,” she demanded, tossing the Tommy gun away.

Scrooge didn’t flinch. Instead, he lazily lifted his teacup, gesturing toward the pile of old weaponry that took up one corner of the room.

Gosalyn didn’t waste time. She dove in, sifting through the pile with a focused determination that only a life lived in chaos could breed. Rifles—too slow. Pistols—too weak. She tossed them aside in search of something more. Her fingers brushed over the hilt of a Viking axe, but something else caught her eye. Something that made her pause, her breath catching in her throat.

She pulled it out of the pile, her eyes widening. “Is that a...?”

It was. A relic of destruction—a WW2-era Bazooka. The weight of it felt just right in her hands, its cold metal practically humming with potential. She raised it up, examining it like it was a long-lost friend. Her lips curled into a smirk as her eyes flicked back to Scrooge, who was still lounging, utterly unbothered by the impending apocalypse.

“Ammo?” she asked, voice dripping with determination.

Scrooge lifted his teacup again, barely acknowledging her as he pointed it in the direction of a nearby crate.

Gosalyn didn’t need to be told. She marched over to the crate, yanking the top off with a single, swift motion. Inside were the rounds—stovepipe bazooka ammo, just waiting to be loaded. A grin spread across her face, sharp and predatory.

She spun back toward Scrooge, already feeling the weight of the weapon shift in her grip. “Let’s. Get. Dangerous.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Four - Master of Puppets

The world around them was chaos.

The sky, once deep black, was bleeding into a bruised shade of pink, soft tendrils of light brushing the horizon—but there was no beauty here. Only the gnashing of teeth, the reek of decay, the ground quaking beneath the Graveyard Golem’s every stomp.

Max and Pistol stood back-to-back, their breathing heavy, sweat and grime streaking their faces. Max fired the last round from his revolver with a crack that echoed off the crumbling manor walls. The bullet punched through a zombie’s forehead, sending it spinning back—but more took its place, shambling with dead eyes and grabbing, clawed hands.

Max cursed under his breath, snapping the revolver open and finding it bone dry. No time. No bullets. He gripped the heavy pistol by the barrel and swung it like a club, catching a zombie across the temple with a sickening crunch. It collapsed, but more pressed in.

Meanwhile, Pistol was a whirlwind of steel, her Civil War saber flashing in the dim light, the blade slick with black, brackish blood. She hacked and slashed, carving a brutal path, but even her wild ferocity was slowing, her muscles screaming for a break she couldn’t afford.

Another zombie lunged. Max ducked under its grasp, ramming the butt of the revolver into its jaw with a desperate grunt. His heart hammered in his ears, drowning out everything but the frantic sounds of battle and the endless, shuddering booms of the Graveyard Golem tearing the world apart nearby.

Max stumbled a step back, nearly losing his footing as the ground trembled. "Perfect time for Gosalyn to run off!" he shouted over his shoulder, sweat stinging his eyes.

Pistol, her sword flashing as she lopped the head off another undead, barked back, "Yeah, real good friend she is!"

She spun, slicing through another neck, breathing like a bellows, and for a moment, they locked eyes—shared a grin. It wasn’t anger. Not really. Just the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion and terror of trying to survive another minute.

The Graveyard Golem roared, a sound like tombstones grinding together, and they both ducked instinctively as a spray of shattered wood and stone rained down from the Manor’s roofline.

“Keep movin’!” Pistol barked, grabbing Max’s jacket and yanking him along. “Stick together or we’re mulch!”

Max nodded, chest heaving, tightening his grip on the battered revolver. They sprinted across the cracked, corpse-strewn lawn, dodging falling debris and the sluggish swings of rotted, grasping hands.

The first hints of dawn kissed the ruined landscape, unnoticed, as two friends fought for their lives, shoulder to shoulder, against the tide of death.

And somewhere, not far away, salvation was coming.

They just had to survive long enough to see it.

Above, in the shattered sky, Webby and Minima clashed like gods at war.

Bolts of golden light and streaks of black magic tore across the air as they hurled spells at each other, missing by inches, slamming into trees, statues, and sending shockwaves across the ground. Webby moved with deadly precision, dodging crackling tendrils of shadow and answering with lances of pure light.

Minima hovered effortlessly, her tattered clothing whipping in the wind, laughing—a high, vicious sound. She danced around Webby’s blasts, flinging her own curses back with feral glee.

"You think you can save them?" Minima shrieked over the roar of magic, her eyes glinting. "You can't even save yourself!"

Webby narrowed her eyes, clenching her bill as she forced back another wave of dark energy.

Minima only grinned wider. She soared down, and with a savage motion, she tore a metal cross loose from the Graveyard Golem's hunched, rotting back—wrenching the holy relic free like it was paper. Her magic writhed around it, warping it, twisting it, until the metal blackened and shrieked into the shape of a jagged, unnatural sword, dripping with cursed energy.

"You are weak, Templar!" Minima spat, gripping her new weapon with both hands. "Relying on your little friends like crutches! And soon, they’ll all be dead—just like you!"

Webby raised her weapon—her true sword, her steady companion—and the two collided, steel to steel, with a deafening crash.

The impact threw sparks like fireworks, each clash rattling the air, each strike of blade against blade sending shockwaves rolling through the broken manor grounds. Their movements were blurs—Webby pushing forward with trained, precise strikes, Minima answering with wild, vicious swings meant to maim and crush.

"You’ll fail them!" Minima hissed as their swords locked, their faces inches apart, fangs bared.

"I will never abandon them!" Webby roared, forcing Minima back with a powerful shove.

The next spell caught Webby clean across the chest.

She barely had time to throw up a shimmering shield of protection before the force hit her like a freight train. The blast hurled her backwards through the sky, a screaming comet of gold light, slamming her through one side of McDuck Manor, shredding the old stone and wood like paper, and blasting her out the other side.

She hit the ground with an earthshaking crash, the impact carving a crater into the cracked lawn.

For a long, heavy second, she didn’t move. The world spun wildly around her. Every nerve in her body screamed; her hands trembled as she pressed them into the dirt, trying to push herself up. It was like her bones were singing with pain.

Above her, the battle raged on.

The Manor — her home, her sanctuary — was a crumbling ruin. Walls sagged inward, towers cracked and toppled. Chunks of debris littered the grounds like bones from some ancient battlefield.

Minima hovered in the broken sky, laughing—laughing—her voice shrill and triumphant, drinking in the destruction like it was the finest wine.

The Graveyard Golem stomped and smashed its way across the field, a grotesque titan tearing the earth apart with every step. Entire patches of garden and stone paths were flattened into pulp beneath its rotting bulk.

Max and Pistol fought like mad below, back-to-back, barely keeping the tide of zombies at bay. Max clubbed zombies with the spent revolver wildly, while Pistol hacked and slashed with her cavalry sword, blood and gore flying in brutal arcs.

But they were tiring. Max was moving slower. Pistol’s swings were getting desperate.

Where was Gosalyn?

Webby lay there, watching, her heart hammering against her bruised ribs.

Was this it?

All her training. All her discipline. Every lesson burned into her soul about courage, honor, and protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves. All the years spent alone, working, fighting, becoming the Last Templar of the Light.

It was supposed to mean something.

And yet—here she was. Broken. Weak. Watching everything she loved fall apart around her.

A cold, black voice crept into her mind.

You were never enough.

Her fingers curled weakly into the torn dirt. Her chest ached. Tears burned at the edges of her eyes—not from the pain, but from the helplessness.

She had failed them. All of them.

Was it all for nothing?

The sky above cracked with more black lightning as Minima unleashed another wave of darkness, her silhouette a monstrous shadow against the bleeding dawn.

And Webby—little, battered Webby—lay in the ruins, her sword just inches from her hand, unsure if she had the strength to pick it up again.

The, from the gaping, ruined mouth of McDuck Manor, a figure stormed out through the smoke and debris.

Gosalyn.

She wasn’t running. She wasn’t ducking for cover. She was marching — slow, deliberate, like she had all the time in the damn world — a massive, battered bazooka balanced on her shoulder like the scythe of some grim reaper.

The chaos around her — the screaming undead, the shuddering earth under the Golem’s monstrous steps, the collapsing mansion — none of it touched her.

She stomped forward through the battlefield, boot feet sinking into churned-up mud and shattered brick, eyes locked on her target like a hawk sighting prey.

"Alright you pile of grass clippings," Gosalyn growled under her breath, a savage smile curling across her lips. She shifted the bazooka into firing position, sighting down the iron sights with one furious, squinting eye.

"Smile for the fucking camera."

FWOOSH!

The bazooka roared like a living thing, the backblast hammering a storm of debris and smoke out behind her in a searing gust. The entire courtyard lit up in a flash of orange fire and streaking steel.

The rocket howled across the battlefield, trailing a comet tail of smoke—and KATHOOM!

It slammed straight into the Graveyard Golem’s twisted, misshapen face, detonating with a thunderous blast that shook the ground under their feet.

The Graveyard Golem staggered, huge hunks of bone, rotten cloth, and shattered gravestones exploding off its body in a grisly rain of filth.

But Gosalyn was already moving, mechanical and methodical, like she’d done this a hundred times. She dropped the bazooka down, cracked it open with a metallic clank, and pulled a fresh round from a satchel hanging from her.

Grunting under her breath, she wrestled the shell into place, eyes never leaving the smoldering monster.

"I was having a quiet night with my girlfriend, we ate some pizza, had some laughs..." she snarled, snapping the launcher shut with a vicious jerk, hoisting it back onto her shoulder in one fluid motion.

Behind her, the battlefield was chaos — Max pistol-whipping a zombie, Pistol hacking her way through a snarling horde — but Gosalyn was a storm all her own.

"...but noOoOoOoO, somebody just had to go and raise the goddamn dead!" she barked, nearly foaming at the mouth in rage, steadying her aim.

The Graveyard Golem, half its face blown off, lurched toward her with a roar of grinding stone and snapping bone.

Gosalyn didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She stared down the iron sights and took aim once more.

"So instead of getting finger-banged..." she hissed through a savage smile, "...I gotta blow your giant, crusty ass back to hell!"

FWOOSH!

The second rocket tore loose, trailing a spiral of smoke and fire through the shattered dawn. It slammed dead-center into the Golem’s torso —

BOOM!

Chunks of rotted debris rained down like black snow, and through it all, Gosalyn stood — defiant, cocky, a spitfire with death on her shoulder.

Minima hovered in the sky, her twisted black blade dripping with dark magic, smirking coldly at the chaos beneath her.

And then—

BOOM.

The Graveyard Golem took a direct hit to the face.

BOOM.

Another blast ripped through its torso.

Minima’s smile faltered as she watched her towering champion groan, teeter...and then collapse like a mountain of rotted wood and shattered tombstones. The earth shuddered as the Golem’s remains hit the ground in a smoking, broken heap.

Her hands clenched into claws of fury—

—and that's when the first thin beams of light cracked over the eastern horizon.

Golden morning light cut through the gloom, slashing across the battlefield like a blade. It touched Minima’s outstretched hand—

And her skin immediately began to dissolve.

Her fingers crumbled into black dust that scattered on the rising breeze. Her eyes went wide — too wide — as she jerked back, clutching at herself.

"No...!" she gasped, voice cracking with panic. She looked at her other hand — it too was turning to dust, the blackness unraveling in the growing sunlight. "No! This isn't how it ends! This isn't—!!"

Her body shuddered, hair whipping in the rising wind, horror clawing its way across her sharp, beautiful features. She tried to retreat, tried to summon some last spell—

But it was already too late.

SHLUCK.

A flash of silver, a burst of wet, sickening sound — Webby’s sword rammed straight through Minima’s back, the gleaming steel bursting from her chest in a bloom of black blood and dark magic.

Minima gasped, a thin, broken sound. She coughed violently, black ichor spilling from her mouth in thick, ugly gouts. Her sword fell from her dissolving hands as her magic faltered.

Gasping, Minima turned her head, desperate to see her killer—

Webby.

Battle-scarred. Bloodied. Burning with a fury hotter than the rising sun, her hands tight on the hilt of her sword, her face a mask of grim finality.

Webby leaned in close, whispering in Minima’s ear, her voice a low growl:

"You come to my home,
attack my friends,
my family..."

With a savage wrench, Webby twisted the sword inside Minima’s chest. The dark witch shrieked in agony, the sound wet and ragged as more black blood gushed from her mouth.

Minima’s legs kicked feebly, her fading body wracked with pain, dissolving by the second.

Webby yanked the sword free with a harsh, tearing sound. Minima staggered forward, choking, clutching at the mortal wound in her chest, her mouth working uselessly as she tried to form a plea — a spell — anything.

Webby’s voice rose, slicing through the battlefield like a warhorn:

"I promised Uncle Scrooge something..."

Minima's terrified, crumbling face turned to her, broken, desperate—

—and the last thing she ever saw was a blur of steel.

SHHHRRIP.

In one clean, brutal motion, Webby severed Minima’s head from her shoulders.

Black blood misted in the golden light as Minima’s body crumpled, disintegrating into dust and ash before it even hit the ground.

Her head tumbled once through the air, and Webby caught it, glaring into the dead, fading eyes.

She leaned in, whispering one last word into the empty air:

"Your head."

Gosalyn sprinted across the ruined courtyard, falling into step beside Max and Pistol just as Webby touched down in a crouch, her sword still dripping black blood.

The four stood shoulder to shoulder, ragged and bloody, breathing hard.

Across the lawn, the zombie horde—hundreds strong—still staggered forward, an unstoppable wall of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth.

Max looked out at them with hollow exhaustion, lifting the heavy, empty revolver in a limp fist. "Oh, great. The Wicked Witch is dead, and they're still coming!"

Pistol, wiping sweat and grime from her forehead with the back of her sword hand, glanced at Gosalyn. "You got any more of those bazooka shots left?"

Gosalyn shook her head, short and sharp. "You try carrying ‘em up, like, twenty flights of stairs!" she snapped.

Webby frowned, chest heaving, voice grim, "The sun's almost up. When it breaks the horizon... they'll crumble."

Pistol let out a ragged, bitter laugh. "If we make it that long!"

There wasn’t time to argue. The zombies surged closer, faster now, moving like a living tide. Max swung the revolver like a club, cracking skulls with desperate, clumsy blows. Pistol hacked and slashed with her cavalry sword, the blade glinting in the growing light. Webby, calm and deadly, fought with the precision of a knight, her every movement efficient and brutal. And Gosalyn? Gosalyn started throwing hands, punching rotted jaws and kneeing collapsing corpses without hesitation, pure feral energy.

But it wasn’t enough. They were outnumbered. Outmatched.

A low rumble cut through the chaos—faint at first, then louder, louder, a building roar that sent vibrations through the ground.

Max stumbled, frowning. "What the hell is that?!"

Through the broken gates of McDuck Manor, a motorcycle roared onto the battlefield, engine howling like a banshee.

The Ratcatcher — purple, battle-scarred, and belching smoke — came charging through the courtyard like an iron horse from hell.

At the handlebars, trench coat flapping behind him like a battle flag, was Darkwing Duck, teeth gritted in a savage grin, and riding shotgun in the battered sidecar, gripping a massive weapon almost as big as she was, sat María.

The sunlight caught the gleaming barrels of the M134 Minigun mounted on the sidecar, spinning up with an electric whirr.

Gosalyn’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. She turned and screamed at the top of her lungs, "EVERYBODY DUCK!!"

They dove for cover as the Minigun spun to life with a high-pitched WHIIIIIRRRR—

—then unleashed hell.

BRRRRRRRAAAATATATATATATATAT!!!

A wall of firepower ripped across the battlefield. Bullets tore into the zombie horde, shredding rotting bodies into chunks of meat and bone. Heads exploded. Torsos disintegrated. Limbs flew into the air like broken puppets.

María laughed — a wild, exultant sound — as she swept the gun side to side, the rotating barrels belching out streams of lead. Shell casings poured from the gun like a golden river, clinking and smoking as they rained down around the sidecar.

Max huddled behind a broken chunk of stone, eyes closed as he shielded Pistol. "JESUS CHRIST!" he yelled over the roaring gunfire.

Pistol just whooped, grinning ear-to-ear, Webby, hunkered beside her, smirked in savage approval.

The courtyard filled with smoke, debris, and the awful, sweet stench of pulverized undead. The zombie horde, once endless and unrelenting, was now a field of twitching, broken corpses.

The sky continued to lighten — pale pink bleeding into soft orange — and the few remaining zombies began to crumble into ash where they stood, the sun’s first real rays touching them at last.

Victory — sudden, bloody, beautiful — was within reach.

And one by one, the undead crumbled where they stood, collapsing into heaps of dust and ash. Groans cut off mid-sound. Fingers reaching out for flesh fell apart before they could grab.

It was over.

Max, exhausted beyond words, helped Pistol to her feet. Without hesitation, he pulled her into a desperate hug, holding her tight against his chest. Pistol dropped her bloodied cavalry sword, the blade clanging uselessly to the ground, and buried her face in Max’s shoulder. They said nothing. They didn’t have to.

Across the destroyed courtyard, Darkwing killed the Ratcatcher's engine with a heavy cough and a stuttering clunk. Smoke and dust rose around him as he climbed off, stiff and limping slightly. María clambered out of the sidecar, her hands relasing the fixed grips of the mounted M134 minigun bolted to the Ratcatcher’s frame. Smoke drifted from the minigun’s barrels, the scent of hot metal and gunpowder thick in the air.

She let out a shaky breath and stared at the devastation they’d wrought — the broken broken ground, the crumbling zombies, the ruined McDuck Manor itself.

Darkwing placed a hand on her shoulder briefly, a silent acknowledgment of the hell they had just survived.

And a little apart from it all, standing bathed in the new morning light, were Webby and Gosalyn.

They turned toward each other slowly, every movement aching from exhaustion and battered bodies.
Gosalyn’s hair was a wild mess, her face streaked with grime and blood, her fists still clenched and ready for another fight if she needed it. Webby looked no better — clothing scorched and in tatters, blood running down one arm.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

Then Gosalyn gave a shaky, exhausted grin, "Next time we do a sleepover," she rasped, voice rough with smoke and fatigue, "let’s not almost die, yeah?"

Webby let out a soft laugh, part sob, part relief, "I'll make a note," she whispered, blinking hard to clear the tears stinging her eyes.

Webby stepped forward, and Gosalyn met her halfway, colliding in a fierce, desperate kiss.

There was nothing soft about it — no shy hesitation, no careful grace. It was raw, furious with life, tongues clashing, beaks bumping, arms tangling. Gosalyn’s fingers curled into the remains of Webby’s shirt, anchoring herself there like she never wanted to let go. Webby wrapped her arms tight around Gosalyn’s waist, holding her with everything she had left.

The world around them — the dust, the blood, the shattered Manor, the silent witnesses — all faded away.

It was just them.

Alive. Together. Unbroken.

The sun climbed higher behind them, painting the sky with a furious blaze of gold and red.
The battlefield still smoldered, but the fight was over.

And against all odds —

they had won.

The ruins of McDuck Manor were eerily still, the only sounds now the occasional groan of shifting rubble and the distant crackle of flames still lingering in the debris. From the depths of the shattered building, Scrooge, Goofy, and Duckworth emerged, their expressions a mix of exhaustion, relief, and mild disbelief.

Goofy surveyed the carnage with a wide-eyed stare, his voice breaking the silence with a quiet "Gawrsh..." He looked around at the decimated estate, the remnants of the battle still smoldering in the air, and then back to the ragtag group of heroes who had just saved them all.

Scrooge followed Goofy’s gaze, his sharp eyes catching Webby and Gosalyn standing together, finally breaking apart after their kiss. His frown deepened slightly as he looked at the two of them, but he didn’t comment.

Webby looked at Gosalyn for a moment longer before turning her attention to Scrooge. A sly smirk stretched across her beak as she reached down, picking up Minima’s severed head from the dirt. She strode over to Scrooge, a defiant gleam in her eye. “Uncle Scrooge,” she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

Scrooge, ever the picture of authority, raised a bushy eyebrow, his bill curling into a small smirk of his own. “Webbigail,” he greeted her, his tone both fond and vaguely reproachful.

Without missing a beat, Webby handed the head to Scrooge, and he examined Minima’s head with a faint, almost detached curiosity before turning to Duckworth, who was standing at attention nearby. “Put it with the others, Duckworth.”

Duckworth glanced at the head in disgust, but as ever, his expression remained dutiful. “As you wish, sir.” He gingerly took the head, turning on his heel to walk away.

Max overheard the exchange, standing with Pistol by his side. His eyebrow arched as he looked from Scrooge and Duckworth to Webby. “Others?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

Before anyone could answer the pressing question, Goofy shuffled over to Max. He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, his expression full of concern but also pride. “You doin’ okay, son?”

Max glanced up at his dad, his face a mix of exhaustion and quiet contentment. He nodded, the weight of the battle still settling in. “I’m good, Dad,” he said, his voice steady. Then he glanced at Pistol, who was standing beside him, her arm looped through his. A soft smile touched his lips, and he looked back at Goofy. “I’m perfect.”

Pistol gave a small, playful nudge to Max’s side. “You better be, or you’re not taking me to prom this year.”

Nearby, Gosalyn stormed up to her dad and María, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. Darkwing was leaning toward María, whispering something in her ear, a rare, soft smile on his beak. The sight of it hit Gosalyn like a freight train, and she didn’t hold back.

“Oh hell no!” she barked, pushing her way between them, her voice full of indignation. She glared up at her dad, hands on her hips. “Dad... uh, Darkwing...”

Darkwing glanced at her, unfazed, a smirk playing at the corner of his beak. “Sweetie, I think we’re past the point of secret identities now.”

Gosalyn snorted, her expression hardening. “Whatever,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. Then, she turned back to her father, practically seething. “I just want to know what you’re doing, all whispering sweet nothings into the ear of a police officer!”

Darkwing stumbled over his words, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly caught off guard by her outburst. “Uh, well, it’s... It’s not what it looks like, kiddo. I mean...”

Before he could finish, María flashed a grin and took control of the situation. “Your dad, sorry, Darkwing Duck here, was just asking me if I wanted to come over for dinner sometime.”

Gosalyn froze. Her mouth opened and closed as she processed the words. Dinner? Dinner?! Her dad—the notorious, vigilante hero Darkwing Duck—was asking a cop to dinner? It was like the universe had just turned upside down.

She stared at them, wide-eyed, unable to believe what was happening. “Wait... what?” she finally managed, still in shock. “You—you... dinner? With him?!”

María chuckled and reached up to ruffle Gosalyn's hair affectionately, her voice teasing but warm. “Don’t worry, I said yes.”

Gosalyn’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t even process a coherent thought. This was the most absurd thing she had ever heard. The world felt like it was spinning wildly out of control. She looked between her dad and María, trying to make sense of it, but her mind couldn’t keep up. Her eyes locked with her dad’s, and she blinked a few times, trying to speak, but no words came out. She was... flabbergasted. The legendary Darkwing Duck, hero of the streets, just asked a police officer to dinner.

Finally, the words tumbled out of her in disbelief. “Has the world gone insane?” She crossed her arms and stared at him, still frozen in shock. “You’re asking her out for dinner? You’re—what, now you’re normal?”

Darkwing, clearly a bit embarrassed but trying to play it cool, just gave a shrug. “I mean, hey, even vigilantes need a little... companionship, right?”

Gosalyn let out a sharp breath, her shoulders sagging in resignation. "I can't even... I can't believe this." She looked up at María, still ruffling her hair, and finally, with a defeated sigh, she muttered, “This is too much.”

But María just winked at her, all playful confidence. “It’s just dinner. Don’t worry about it.”

Max, Pistol, and Webby sat on some nearby rubble, their exhaustion settling in as they watched Gosalyn continue to bicker with Darkwing. Max couldn’t help but mutter under his breath, “Yeesh, you would think María and Mr. Mallard are getting married with how Red is acting.”

Pistol leaned her head on Max's shoulder, a teasing grin curling on her lips. “You think that’s bad?” she said with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Just wait until I tell my dad I’m dating a Goof.”

Webby couldn’t hold back a soft giggle, her eyes bright as she watched the scene unfold before them. Max’s ears drooped, his shoulders slumping as Pistol’s words hit him like a ton of bricks. His mind instantly jumped to the looming conversation with her dad.

He sighed heavily, looking over at Pistol, then down at his feet. “Shit,”

Both Webby and Pistol laughed.

The wreckage of McDuck Manor lay nearby, smoke still curling lazily from the ruins, but the silence that had settled in was almost peaceful. The ground, once torn apart by the stampede of zombies and the crushing weight of the Graveyard Golem, now seemed almost serene as the world shifted from the chaos of night to the calm of dawn.

Max, Pistol, and Webby sat there, worn, bloodied, and bruised, but alive. Their eyes followed the rising sun, each lost in their thoughts, feeling the weight of the night slowly lift, even as their bodies protested the movement. The wind picked up just enough to stir the dust around them, but it wasn’t enough to mask the quiet relief in the air.

The once-barren and broken world around them now held the promise of something new—a fresh start. A new day.

As the sun climbed higher, the shadows of the past battle melted away, and the horizon stretched out before them, untouched, full of possibility.

A new day had dawned.

Chapter Text

Horace Horsecollar sat in his threadbare armchair, the springs groaning every time he shifted his weight. The old farmstead creaked and moaned under the lash of a rising winter wind outside, the wood-framed windows rattling in their panes. The only light in the dim living room came from the flickering television, casting long, twitching shadows across the scuffed wooden floor and the faded, brown plaid wallpaper. A half-empty mug of black coffee steamed weakly on the end table beside him, forgotten and cooling.

On the television screen, Roxanne Featherly’s polished, cheerful voice fought to bring some order to the chaos of the world. The beautiful blond duck, dressed in a crisp blue blazer, smiled too brightly as she concluded her latest report.

"...while the general public still can't agree on the events that happened, Mayor Hogwilde has gone on record saying it was nothing but a case of mass hysteria that led to riots and looting. And now we go to the weather, and as we're heading into Christmas week, it looks like we may have more snow on the way..."

Horace grunted, a sound somewhere between annoyance and disbelief, and stabbed the TV’s power button with a gnarled finger. The screen snapped to black, leaving the room cloaked in cold, gray twilight.

He sat there a moment longer, listening. The old farmhouse groaned again, as if agreeing with his sour mood. Horace wore a pair of battered denim overalls stretched over a heavy flannel shirt, the colors faded from too many seasons under sun and rain. His broad, horsey face, lined deep with years of labor and weather, twisted into a scowl as he heard it — a noise out past the barn.

At first it was just the wind howling low and mean through the bare trees, but then something else...

"Razza-frazzin', dip-thonged, butt-ugly..." Horace muttered a string of curses under his breath and heaved himself up out of the chair. His bones cracked and popped with the effort. Grabbing the old shotgun that leaned against the doorway — loaded, as always, with rock salt — he shrugged into a heavy parka, the fabric stiff with age. From the coat pocket, he pulled a heavy-duty flashlight, thumbed the button, and watched the beam cut a narrow path through the gloom.

The screen door banged against its frame as he stepped out onto the porch. Instantly, the wind slapped him across the face with a cold, wet hand. Snow whipped across the open fields, stinging his eyes, masking the stars. The farm stretched out before him, a dark, skeletal landscape under the heavy sky, broken only by the hulking shapes of the barn and the livestock pens.

He gritted his teeth and started forward, the snow crunching under his boots. The flashlight beam jerked and swayed with his steps. He muttered again about "damn coyotes" and "good-for-nothin' kids" as he trudged across the yard, but deep down, a knot of unease had started to form in his gut.

The noise came again, louder now. Sloppy, wet. Over by the sheep pen.

Horace swallowed, adjusting his grip on the shotgun. He angled the flashlight toward the pens, the white beam skating over the rickety fence, the frozen ground, and then—

He froze.

The pen was a massacre. Sheep carcasses were strewn across the snow, their bodies ripped open, their wool soaked red and pink, the entrails steaming in the frigid air. It looked less like the work of predators and more like some grotesque, deliberate act of violence.

Horace’s mouth went dry. His hands tightened on the shotgun until his knuckles showed pale through his fur.

"Who's there?!" he barked into the storm, his voice snatched and scattered by the wind. "I swear, when I find ya—!"

The flashlight flickered — and then caught something.

Movement.

There, near the corner of the pen, partially hidden in shadow: a figure. Seven feet tall at least, draped in tattered white cloth that flapped and billowed in the wind like the remnants of a wedding gown. Strands of withered, blackened flowers clung to the creature’s head, which was crowned with something pale and sharp — a skull. A horse’s skull.

The creature turned toward him. Burning white eyes glared from within the sockets, their light sharp and inhuman. Its long, ragged arms hung at its sides, dripping with blood.

Horace stumbled back, gasping, heart hammering against his ribs. His gut screamed at him to run, but stubbornness and pride rooted him to the spot. He raised the shotgun, voice breaking into a hoarse scream.

The creature lunged.

The last thing Horace saw was the nightmare face of the nightmare creature rushing toward him through the swirling snow, and then the darkness took him.

Episode 4: I Won't Be Home For Christmas

Chapter Twenty-Five: You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch

CRUNCH.

The boards rattled as Gosalyn slammed an opposing player into them, stealing the puck with a quick jab of her stick. The boy, at least a head taller than her, collapsed into a heap as Gosalyn pivoted with sharp, practiced ease, sprinting down the ice.

It still made her laugh sometimes, remembering the stunned look on the girls’ team coach’s face during tryouts. "Too rough," he'd said, trying to sound diplomatic even as he nursed a sprained wrist she'd accidentally given him during a demonstration drill. Gosalyn didn’t blame him exactly; he had a team of girls who loved figure skating as much as hockey. They wanted to twirl and glide. Gosalyn wanted to hit. Hard.

So here she was, suiting up with the Duckburg Greenbacks — the boys’ team — and making sure nobody forgot it. She didn't mind being the only girl on the ice. If anything, it made every solid check, every fast break, every goal she scored feel even sweeter.

From the stands, she could hear the cheers, familiar voices shouting her name: Max, Pistol, and Webby all packed into the front row, waving homemade signs. Gosalyn smirked to herself. Focus, she thought, skating faster, eyes locked on the opposing net.

The game wasn't over yet.

The clock ticked down, a relentless countdown with every second slicing through the frigid air of the Duckburg Arena. 2-2. The Greenbacks and the New Quackmore Saints were deadlocked, and there was no time left to waste. The icy surface felt like it had grown slipperier with the weight of the moment. This was the final game before Christmas break, and Gosalyn wasn’t about to let it slip away.

Her breath came out in quick puffs, her chest rising and falling with every powerful stride. The puck danced on the blade of her stick, a mere fraction of a second away from being intercepted by one of the Saints. The game had been rough from the start, and the Saints had played with every dirty trick they knew. But Gosalyn thrived in chaos. She always had.

With a loud clack, her stick made contact with the puck, sending it flying toward center ice. Her opponent, a lanky forward from New Quackmore, lunged for it, his long arms reaching but just missing. Gosalyn was already there, her skates cutting through the ice with precision. Her heart pounded in time with her rapid footfalls. She was closing in on the Saints’ goalie — a large duck with thick goggles perched on his beak — a wall of feathers and padding that had stopped her every time she'd charged in before.

But not this time.

As the clock ticked under 10 seconds, she feigned left, her stick pulling the puck in that direction. The goalie shifted his weight, expecting the move. A sharp, reflexive grin pulled at her beak.

You’ve been played.

With the lightest touch, Gosalyn flicked the puck to her right, sweeping it behind her body to the far side of the net. The goalie, momentarily caught off guard by her swift movement, made a desperate lunge. The gap was narrow — too narrow. Gosalyn’s stick connected with the puck just as the goalie’s glove reached out to deflect it.

Thwack!

The puck sailed toward the net, gliding across the frozen ice like a comet. The goalie flapped his arms, but it was too late. Time seemed to slow as the puck slid past his outstretched leg and into the corner of the net with a satisfying clink.

The arena erupted in chaos.

Gosalyn’s teammates slammed their sticks against the ice in celebration, their voices drowned in the roar of the crowd. She threw her arms up in the air, letting out a triumphant shout that reverberated through the rink. Max, Pistol, and Webby were on their feet in the stands, clapping and cheering wildly.

The score flashed on the scoreboard: Greenbacks 3, Saints 2. The game was over. Gosalyn had won it.

She skated a quick lap around the rink, her heart still racing, the adrenaline still buzzing through her veins. The lights of the arena seemed to shine brighter now, her victory illuminating the ice beneath her.

But even in the rush of her success, a small part of her couldn’t help but feel the weight of the week ahead.

The clock was ticking toward Christmas, and there was no time for rest.

It was Webby's first real Christmas.

As Gosalyn skated off the ice, the adrenaline from the game still coursing through her, she could hear Webby’s voice cutting through the crowd. "Gosalyn!" Webby’s excited yell rang out, and Gosalyn’s heart fluttered as she turned towards the stands. Wobbling over on her skates, Gosalyn leaned up slightly, craning her neck to meet her girlfriend’s eager gaze.

Webby’s face lit up with that endearing smile Gosalyn had grown so fond of, and without missing a beat, she leaned over the side of the stands, cupping her hands around her mouth. Their bills met in a swift but tender kiss, a simple but meaningful gesture after all the chaos of the game.

Gosalyn couldn’t help but think how much Webby had changed since they first met — from the reclusive conspiracy theorist who used to bury herself in research to a young woman who was out with friends, living life more fully. Sure, she was still a bit of a conspiracy nut, but she wasn’t holed up in McDuck Manor, and that was a win in Gosalyn’s book.

Their kiss was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious sound — popcorn raining down on them from the bleachers. Max was standing there, laughing and calling out, "Get a room, you two!"

Gosalyn flipped him off without missing a beat, grinning as she pulled away from Webby. "I’ll meet you after I get changed," she said, tossing a wink at Webby before making her way toward the locker room. The rink’s harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she shed her gear, her mind already drifting to the thought of consuming an entire pizza or a couple of burgers after such a good game.

Gosalyn made her way toward the locker room, the buzz of the game still reverberating in her veins. She wasn’t the only one heading for the locker rooms — but she was, of course, the only girl on the boys' team, and her changeroom was always a little farther down the hall. As she turned the corner, she froze.

There, standing just outside the locker room, was a figure.

A female duck, mid-20s, with messy red hair that fell just to her shoulders, looking like she hadn’t bothered to comb it — a rebellious kind of messiness. Her cream-colored feathers stood out against her casual but undeniably stylish outfit: tight jeans, a purple t-shirt under a worn black leather jacket that oozed confidence.

At first, Gosalyn wasn’t sure if she recognized her, but something about the way she stood and the self-assured posture made it impossible not to take notice.

The woman turned, giving a slow grin as she spotted Gosalyn. "Just watched you play for a bit. Smooth moves out there, kid."

Gosalyn’s heart skipped a beat. No way.

Her mind clicked into gear as recognition flooded over her. "Wait… you’re… you’re Mallory McMallard."

The woman’s grin widened, and she nodded. "The one and only." There was a playful edge to her voice, but it was clear she knew exactly how impressive her presence was. "I’ve been watching you. You’ve got the moves — got the talent. I think you’ve got the ability to turn pro, if you’re serious about it."

Gosalyn blinked, trying to keep her cool, but her pulse raced, excitement and disbelief bubbling up inside her. Mallory McMallard, the Left Wing for the professional DHL team, the Mighty Ducks, was standing right here, talking to her. Gosalyn had been a fan for years, and now Mallory was complimenting her!?

She couldn’t stop herself. "You really think so? I only play because it’s a way for me to work off all the, you know, aggression." She felt awkward saying it, but it was the truth. Hockey was her outlet — her way of breaking free.

Mallory’s chuckle was warm, reassuring. "Hey, the best players are the ones who play for the love of the game, no matter what’s driving them. I get it. And you? You’ve got it, kid. You’re dominating out there."

Gosalyn’s heart nearly stopped. Mallory McMallard just called her a dominant player. It sounded too good to be true.

"I— Could you… Could you sign my hockey stick?" Gosalyn asked, her voice barely above a whisper, but it came out more desperate than she intended.

Mallory raised an eyebrow, but her grin only grew wider. "Of course. What's your name?" She took the stick from Gosalyn’s outstretched hand, scribbling "To Gosalyn, much respect, Mallory McMallard" in bold, confident strokes.

When Mallory handed it back, she added, "Anytime you want to practice with me, give me a call. I’m always down for helping out the next big thing."

Mallory handed a piece of folded paper to Gosalyn, and upon opening it, Gosalyn's eyes went wide.

She could hardly believe it. Mallory McMallard had just given her her number — and all because of her hockey skills. It felt unreal, like a dream she never wanted to wake up from.

"Thank you so much," Gosalyn stammered, her hands still trembling as she clutched the signed stick and paper.

Mallory gave her a friendly, encouraging clap on the shoulder. "No problem, Gosalyn. Just keep at it. Who knows? You might just see me on the ice with you one day."

Gosalyn nodded, barely able to process the whirlwind of emotions flooding her. As Mallory turned and walked down the hall, Gosalyn couldn’t stop staring at the autograph on her stick, her heart still racing. This was real. Mallory McMallard just gave her advice, her number, and a whole new sense of possibility.

She could barely breathe.

Gosalyn took one more look at the stick, as though the autograph and number might vanish if she didn't, and she muttered, "Keen gear."

Gosalyn walked out of the locker room, her gear now replaced by her usual jeans and a hoodie, the excitement still buzzing through her. Webby was leaning against the wall near the exit, listening to music on her headphones. When she looked up and saw Gosalyn, a wide grin spread across her face as she pulled them off.

"Hey, superstar," Webby greeted, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. "That was incredible. I don’t think I've ever seen you take control of a game like that."

Gosalyn gave a modest shrug, but the pride was evident in her eyes. "Eh, just doing my job." She gave Webby a playful nudge. "But it was pretty sweet."

As they walked outside and toward the parking lot, Gosalyn spotted her dad leaning against his car, arms folded, looking like he had just finished some heavy-duty work. Typical Darkwing, Gosalyn thought with a smile.

He straightened up when he saw her and waved. "Hey, kiddo!" he called. "Sorry, I couldn’t make it. You know how it is. Work’s been... a lot." His voice held a tinge of apology, but Gosalyn wasn’t one to hold grudges about it.

"It's okay, Dad," she said, smiling as she approached him. "I’m not some angsty teenager who’s upset because you couldn’t see every single game. You’ve got your thing, I’ve got mine."

Her dad chuckled, a little relieved. "That’s my girl," he said, giving her a quick hug before pulling away. "But, y’know, I wouldn’t mind a little heads up if you’re gonna start scoring game-winning goals, or at least some other parents told me such. Might have made an exception."

Gosalyn raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Sure, you would’ve." She leaned on the car, arms crossed, teasing. "So, which job kept you busy today? I mean, I know you’ve been doing… other things." She said the last part with a mischievous glint in her eyes, knowing full well he was out there as Darkwing Duck again.

Her dad shot her an exasperated look, though there was a playful smile on his face. "Gosalyn, I told you before. I have my hobbies, you have yours. It’s called balance."

"Balance, huh?" Gosalyn smirked, not buying it for a second. "Is that why the back of your car smells like smoke and there’s that weird scorch mark on the side? Did a villain show up or were you just… balancing some ‘work’ a little too close to a fire?"

Darkwing sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. "I really wish you wouldn’t pick up on all my clues, kid. Ruining my whole secret identity bit."

"Right. Totally ruined it," Gosalyn said sarcastically, grinning.

Webby, who had been standing a little off to the side, couldn’t help but laugh at the exchange. "You two are ridiculous," she said, shaking her head but smiling.

Drake shot her a wink. "Ah, don’t get any ideas, Webby. I’ve got my own parenting style." He reached into the car and pulled out a bag. "Speaking of which, I grabbed some burgers on the way here. Thought you might be hungry after the game."

Gosalyn’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food, and she grinned. "Now that’s what I call a good dad move."

"You know it," Darkwing replied with a wink. "Now, let's get out of here before the press finds out I'm still kicking the ass of the criminal element."

Gosalyn rolled her eyes as she packed her gear into the trunk and then climbed into the back, Webby following suit beside her. She couldn’t help but feel a little bit of warmth inside as she settled into the comfort of being around people who cared, even if her dad had a few secret hobbies of his own.

Gosalyn shoved half of a burger into her mouth, chewing with gusto like it was the last meal she’d ever get. She was so hungry after the game that she barely registered the mess of ketchup and mustard on her chin until she wiped it off with the back of her hand.

"Slow down there, yeesh," Drake said from the front seat, glancing back over his shoulder with a smile. "You’re gonna choke on that thing."

"Don’t care," Gosalyn mumbled around a mouthful of food. "I’m starving. If you wanted me to eat slowly, you should’ve brought a bigger meal."

Webby, sitting next to her, giggled at the scene. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this hungry before."

"Don't be jealous of the burger," Gosalyn muttered, finally finishing the last bite and wiping her mouth. She slouched in her seat, staring out the window as the city lights of Duckburg flickered past.

"So, girls," Drake piped up from the front, turning the volume down on the radio. "I was thinking, maybe we could hit up the Christmas parade downtown. What do you say?"

Gosalyn groaned, sinking deeper into her seat. "Ugh, seriously? Dad, I’m not five years old anymore. A parade? That’s a little… juvenile, don’t you think?"

Webby, however, practically bounced in her seat, her face lighting up at the mention of the parade. "Wait, there’s a Christmas parade? I’ve never been to one! I mean, I’ve heard about them, but I’ve never actually seen one!"

Gosalyn blinked, momentarily taken aback by Webby’s reaction. She looked over at her, noticing how wide-eyed and excited Webby was, practically sparkling with the kind of childlike enthusiasm that Gosalyn used to have… back when she was younger, before everything got a little too complicated. Webby was so open, so eager.

For a split second, Gosalyn felt a pang of guilt. Webby hadn’t had much of a normal childhood, not like she had. There were no Christmas parades, no joy of waking up to presents, no baking cookies with her family in front of a fireplace. Webby had been cut off from that whole world for so long, kept hidden away by Scrooge and all the secrets. And now, she was just getting her first taste of something that every other kid took for granted.

Gosalyn sighed, giving Webby a soft, almost apologetic look. "You know what?" she said, her tone softer now. "Fine. We’ll go. You deserve to see it. You’ve never had a normal Christmas before. We can make it a thing."

Webby’s eyes lit up even brighter, her hands clasping together in excitement. "Really? You’re not just saying that to get me to stop talking?"

"Nope," Gosalyn said with a smile, leaning back in her seat, still grinning at Webby’s excitement. "We’re going. I want you to have the full Christmas experience, even if that means freezing our tail feathers off."

"EEE!" Webby let out a small, high-pitched squeal of joy, practically pouncing on Gosalyn and kissing her face all over. "Thank you, thank you! I can’t wait! It’s going to be so much fun!"

Gosalyn couldn't help but chuckle as she playfully shoved Webby back, seeing that innocent joy in her face. She knew this week would be about showing Webby what Christmas was really about—something simple, something genuine. It was about traditions, and laughter, and even the silly things like parades that most people took for granted. For Webby, it was all new. And Gosalyn would make sure that this Christmas would be one to remember.

"Alright," Gosalyn said, sitting up straighter as the car turned onto the main road toward downtown. "But you better not drag me into one of those ridiculous elf costume photo ops they always have. You’re on your own if you do."

Webby laughed, "Deal!"

And as the car pulled into the festive chaos of downtown Duckburg, the bright lights, the sounds of Christmas music from stores, and the promise of hot cocoa in the air, Gosalyn couldn’t help but feel a little lighter. Maybe Christmas didn’t have to be a hassle after all. Maybe, just maybe, it was about making memories—

—and she was more than happy to help Webby make hers.

Max’s Camaro rumbled up the quiet suburban street, headlights cutting across festive Christmas lights and blow-up reindeer on tidy lawns, before he pulled up in front of Pistol’s house. He threw the car into park with a heavy sigh, glancing over at her apologetically.

"Sorry for making it an early night," Max said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "But I gotta open at Funso’s tomorrow. Bright and early. Long day of cleaning up puke."

Pistol unbuckled her seatbelt, but didn’t move to get out yet. She crossed her arms, frowning a little. "I get it," she said. "Still sucks though."

Max shrugged, flashing her a crooked smile. "Could be worse," he said. "I could still be stuck at that hellhole of a school."

Pistol’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flash of anger crossing her face. "It’s still so messed up they expelled you for that, for Bradley." She muttered.

Max just shrugged again, like it didn't matter — though deep down, it still stung a little. "It was worth it," he said firmly. "You were worth it."

Pistol softened instantly at that. "Yeah, but still," she said, voice low. "We saved Duckburg. You think someone would’ve said thanks instead of handing you the boot?"

Max let out a short laugh. "According to Mayor Hogwilde, it was all just a big ol' hallucination." He wiggled his fingers in the air, putting on a spooky voice. "Ooooh, mass hysteria!"

Pistol giggled at that, the tension breaking. Then, grinning slyly, she climbed over the center console and into Max’s lap, the driver's seat groaning under the sudden shift. Max blinked, caught somewhere between laughing and completely distracted.

Pistol cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs stroking his cheeks. "At least you do look cute in that walrus outfit," she teased, referring to the ridiculous mascot costume he had to wear at Funso’s.

Max chuckled, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. "Maybe I should bring it home sometime?" he said with a playful wiggle of his brows.

Pistol smirked. "Ooo, kinky," she whispered before leaning down to kiss him deeply.

Within seconds, the windows started to fog up as the two melted into each other, the cold December night outside forgotten in the warmth they found together.

Max and Pistol made out in the dim glow of the Camaro’s dashboard, hands roaming but staying mostly innocent—mostly. Max was lost in the feeling of her fingers running through his hair when he let his hand trail under the hem of her sweater, feeling the warm skin of her back before sliding his palm to the front and starting to move upward when...

Knock, knock, knock.

The sudden rapping at the driver’s side window made both of them jump like they'd been caught robbing a bank. Max yanked his hand back so fast he nearly elbowed Pistol. Pistol sighed loudly, already knowing who it was. She climbed off his lap, grabbed her purse from the floor, and yanked open the passenger door, her boots crunching against the snow on the driveway.

"I'll call you later," she said over her shoulder, giving Max a rueful little smile.

Max, still trying to calm the sudden hammering of his heart, nodded mutely.

Pistol turned and leaned slightly over the roof of the Camaro, glaring at the heavyset figure standing there in a plaid jacket and slacks. "Daddy," she said, her voice sugary but tight.

Pete, arms crossed and mouth set in a disapproving scowl, responded in his usual gravelly voice, "Hello, pumpkin doodle. Why don't ya head on inside while I have a word with your boy here?"

Pistol narrowed her eyes at him, clearly wanting to argue, but finally just huffed and trudged toward the house. Max watched her go until she disappeared inside, leaving him alone with the shadow looming outside his car.

Pete bent down and tapped two fingers against the glass impatiently. Max swallowed, rolled the window down with a creak.

"What's up, Mr. Pete?" Max said, trying to sound casual even though his palms were starting to sweat.

Pete leaned his beefy arms on the open window frame, looming even closer. His voice was low but packed with unmistakable warning.

"Listen, kid," he said, his breath fogging in the cold air, "Pistol's a good girl. She's got a future ahead of her. She's gonna get a scholarship, go to a good school, get a degree, make somethin’ of herself."

Max nodded stiffly, unsure where this was going but already feeling the dread pooling in his stomach.

"And you," Pete continued, his eyes narrowing, "you're... well, you're a Goof."

Max opened his mouth, but Pete cut him off with a quick shake of his head.

"Don't even try, son. You might think you're good for her now, but you ain’t. You're workin’ at some kiddie arcade wearin' a walrus suit, expelled from school, gettin' into fights — you really think that's the kinda guy my daughter needs to be wastin' her time on?"

Max’s throat went dry. "Sir, I—"

Pete leaned in closer, voice dropping to a growl. "Stay away from Pistol. Don’t make her choose between her future and... you."

Max stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell Pete he wasn't just some loser — that he loved Pistol and would do anything for her. But the words stuck, useless, in his throat.

Pete straightened up and patted the roof of the car like he was sealing a deal. "Or else," he said simply.

Without waiting for a response, Pete turned and lumbered back toward the house, leaving Max sitting alone in the car, the engine idling and the Christmas lights blinking mockingly around him.

Max sat there for a long moment, jaw clenched, fighting a losing battle with the lump rising in his throat. He pounded the steering wheel once in frustration before finally shifting into reverse and pulling away from the curb, feeling smaller than he had in a long, long time.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Six: Christmas in Hell

The streets of downtown Duckburg were blanketed in a soft dusting of snow, fresh from a flurry earlier that morning. The sidewalks were packed with bundled-up families and clusters of teenagers, everyone jockeying for a good spot behind the temporary rope barriers strung along Main Street. Hot cocoa steamed from paper cups, carolers dressed in matching scarves and mittens filled the air with familiar harmonies, and vendors wheeled carts selling roasted chestnuts, glowing light-up wands, and peppermint fudge.

It wasn’t anything massive or overblown — no professional floats or celebrity hosts — but it was cozy, familiar, and filled with small-town warmth. The Duckburg Christmas Parade was a tradition that stretched back generations, and even the cynics who claimed to be “too old” for it found themselves showing up year after year.

Including Gosalyn.

Marching bands from the local high schools came first, brass instruments gleaming under the streetlamps as they belted out holiday standards. Gosalyn winced at the Duckburg High’s slightly off-key rendition of Jingle Bell Rock, but Webby clapped along with unfiltered glee, scarf bouncing with each movement.

Webby looked like she might actually explode.

She was practically vibrating, eyes darting from float to float, her gloved hands gripping the rope in front of her like a kid half her age. Her cheeks were flushed pink with the cold, and her breath puffed little clouds as she pointed and gasped with every passing spectacle.

A modest float rolled by shaped like a gingerbread house, followed by a group of local elementary school kids dressed as elves, some clearly distracted by the crowd and others waving wildly to anyone who made eye contact. A giant inflatable snowman swayed slightly in the breeze, tethered by two nervous-looking volunteers. One of the local ice cream parlors had a float with a mechanical scoop dishing glittery foam into oversized cones, and the crowd cheered when it “served” one to a surprised kid up front.

Gosalyn stood a few feet back, hands in her hoodie pockets, rocking slightly on her heels. She wore a small, patient smile — the kind that didn't scream excitement but spoke volumes. Watching Webby take it all in, seeing the wonder in her face, made it more than worth being out in the cold.

“You look like you're about to burst,” Gosalyn teased, nudging her girlfriend with an elbow. "Or pee your pants."

Webby’s eyes were still locked on the next float — a sleigh pulled by kids in cardboard reindeer antlers. “This is amazing,” she whispered, like she couldn’t bear to raise her voice and break the spell. “I didn’t think it would be... this real.”

Gosalyn glanced over at her dad, who stood off to the side sipping from a steaming cup of coffee, his breath curling up into the crisp air. Drake wore a long coat and scarf, looking every bit the tired but content dad as he watched the parade with half-lidded eyes.

He caught Gosalyn’s glance and raised his cup slightly, mouthing, Having fun yet?

She rolled her eyes, but smiled, mouthing back, Yeah, yeah.

Webby let out a delighted squeak when someone passed out candy canes to the crowd. She clutched hers like a trophy, turning to Gosalyn with shining eyes. “Thank you for this, it's perfect,” she said, practically glowing.

And Gosalyn, still standing in the middle of the chilly crowd, surrounded by the glow of Christmas lights and the hum of music and laughter, nodded once. “Yeah,” she said softly. “It really is.”

Webby was still savoring her candy cane when Gosalyn nudged her, nodding toward a familiar figure weaving through the crowd — tall, duck, serious face under the brim of a patrol cap.

“Hey,” Gosalyn said, cracking a grin. “Look who’s out walking the beat.”

María, dressed in full Duckburg PD blues, maneuvered through a group of children chasing bubbles from a vendor cart and approached the trio. She looked tired, but her expression lifted slightly when she saw them.

“Hey there, girls,” María said, giving Webby a gentle wave before looking at Gosalyn. “Enjoying the parade?”

“Sure,” Gosalyn said with a smirk. “So… blue now? Things went that bad, huh?”

Drake let out a quiet sip from his coffee behind them. Webby glanced nervously at the exchange, but María answered with her usual dry candor.

“Temporary reassignment,” she said, folding her hands behind her back. “Turns out telling the mayor he was full of it in front of three city council members is a great way to get demoted.”

Gosalyn snorted. “You? No.”

“I tried to push for more transparency after the… incident,” María continued, her tone flattening. “He wanted a clean, quiet version for the public. Said mass hysteria was a better headline than the truth.”

Webby’s expression soured. “So you're the only one who tried to tell the truth?”

María gave a short, wry smile. “Apparently. And now I get to keep Main Street safe from parade loiterers and people selling illegal knockoff elf hats.”

“You gonna write me up for standing too close to the curb?” Gosalyn teased.

“Only if you try to steal a second candy cane,” María replied. “I’m watching you.”

Despite herself, Gosalyn chuckled. Webby did too, though her gaze lingered on the woman’s uniform with sympathy.

“It could be worse,” María added, glancing out toward the crowd. “Could’ve been meter maid duty. At least this way, I still get to be where the action is. And it’s only temporary… I hope.”

Drake, finally stepping in, gave María a respectful nod. “It’s good to see someone still out here trying to do the right thing. Even in blue.”

María returned the nod, a small, knowing smile spreading across her bill. “Comes with the badge. Whatever color the... uniform.”

They stood in a comfortable silence for a moment as a float rolled by playing a choir version of Silent Night. Kids giggled nearby, and bells jingled on someone’s dog harness.

“Anyway,” María said, stepping back, “I’ve got about six more blocks to patrol before I can call it a night. Just wanted to say hi. And… happy holidays.”

María had just turned to leave when a sharp, high-pitched scream split through the festive air.

All at once, the cheerful murmur of the crowd fractured. Parents pulled children close. Vendors stopped mid-sale. Gosalyn's muscles tensed even before she spotted the source.

A man stumbled forward from a gap between two floats, pushing past the parade barrier like he didn’t see it. He was tall — equine, unmistakably — with shaggy brown fur flecked with frost. He wore a heavy flannel jacket half-buttoned and soaked near the hem, overalls caked in old snow and mud. Slung loosely in his trembling hands was a shotgun.

“Horace?” María breathed, taking a slow step forward.

“Who is that?” Webby whispered, clutching Gosalyn’s arm.

“Horace Horsecollar,” María muttered, not taking her eyes off him. “Owns a farm way out on Route 17. Used to be a stable guy, went reclusive after his wife died. Drinks too much… but this…” She trailed off.

Horace’s eyes looked wrong. Not drunk, exactly. Not angry either. Just… lost. Hollow. Like he wasn’t fully there. His movements were jerky, like he wasn’t used to standing.

He turned in a circle, gun wobbling. “It’s… it’s not real… none of this… they’re still out there… still in the dirt…”

“Horace!” María called, hands raised, slow and measured. “Horace, it’s María. Officer María Cabrera. You’re in town, there are kids here. You need to put that down, okay?”

The gun dipped toward the pavement, but he didn’t release it. His jaw worked silently before his voice returned in a crackling, slurred drawl. “They… they got back up, didn’t they? I saw ‘em. I heard them. They don’t sleep… not in the cold…”

Webby tightened her grip on Gosalyn, who was already easing her body in front of her girlfriend. She didn’t take her eyes off the man. “He’s going to shoot someone.”

“Not if María gets through to him,” Gosalyn muttered. "Stay behind me."

María kept her tone calm, even as she slowly unclipped her holster. “Horace, buddy, no one’s after you. No one’s here to hurt you. But you need to give me the gun. Let me help you.”

Horace twitched again, eyes flickering toward her. “You… you don’t see them, do you? You didn’t see the dirt move… they’re under it… they talked to me—”

He raised the shotgun a few inches.

That was all the excuse María needed. In one fluid motion, she drew her Glock and leveled it.

“Drop it, Horace!” she barked.

The crowd had gone deathly still. Somewhere nearby, a small child began to cry. Webby clutched onto Gosalyn's sleeve. Gosalyn’s stance widened, her eyes scanning for civilians too close. Drake, just a few feet behind the girls, quietly slid a hand inside his jacket. His fingers curled around the grip of the 1911 tucked into a shoulder holster. He didn’t draw it. Not yet. But if Horace lifted that gun even a little further—

“Horace,” María said again, her voice lower, more urgent now. “You don’t want to do this. You’re confused. You’re cold. Let me help. But I need you to drop it.”

Horace shivered violently. His lips moved. “The snow… the ground is full of bones… I hear them whisperin’…”

And then, in one strange, sudden motion, he turned the shotgun on himself — not quite aiming it, but pressing the cold barrel to his chest as if trying to warm it.

“I can’t stop,” he mumbled. “Not since I saw her…”

Everyone held their breath.

Horace’s eyes rolled back and then—

He screamed.

The sound was unearthly. It wasn't a cry of pain or fear. It was something deeper, primal, and ruptured, like the sound of ice splitting over a grave. His scream pierced through the crisp December air and silenced everything. The crowd froze. Children stopped crying. Even the wind seemed to still.

In one abrupt jerk, Horace lifted the shotgun, eyes wide, empty. Not drunk. Not confused. Something else. Something far worse. He turned the barrel, fast and precise, and leveled it straight at María.

Then—he moved.

María saw it coming and reacted with trained instinct. She fired. Three shots rang out in perfect rhythm — crack, crack, crack. Center mass. Horace staggered back, hit clean. His shotgun tilted skyward and fired into the air.

Screams erupted from the crowd, chaos unfurling in a wave. People bolted in every direction. Vendors abandoned carts. Children were scooped up by terrified parents. A float veered sideways as its driver ducked. All around them, Christmas lights twinkled on, blissfully ignorant.

Horace crumpled, his shotgun clattering on the pavement beside him. A bloom of red spread beneath his flannel shirt.

María rushed to him, eyes wide, adrenaline cutting sharp through her veins.

Drake was at her side in seconds, his 1911 drawn and ready. He kicked the shotgun away and barked, “Gosalyn, cover it!”

Gosalyn ran to the weapon, crouching over it with a tight glare, scanning for more threats. Webby was close behind, heart pounding.

María dropped to her knees and pressed two fingers against Horace’s neck. Nothing.

“Damn it,” she muttered, already grabbing her shoulder radio. “Dispatch, this is Officer Cabrera — shots fired, suspect down. Need EMTs at my location, corner of Main and Lockridge, immediately!”

She tore open Horace’s jacket and flannel, baring his chest. “Come on, come on—” she whispered, starting chest compressions, hands rhythmically pressing into his ribcage.

Gosalyn was shaking slightly, watching María fight to bring the man back to life. Drake hovered near the officer, his eyes scanning the rooftops and alleyways.

But Webby…

Webby had gone still.

She stared at Horace’s chest, just above where María’s hands were pumping. Her pupils shrank. Her breath caught in her throat.

There, burned into his pale, dead flesh, was a perfect black imprint — not from the bullets. No wound had done this.

A hoof print. Singed into his skin like a brand, the edges blistered and cracked.

Webby’s lips barely moved. “Mari Lwyd…”

Gosalyn turned to her sharply. “What did you say?”

Webby’s eyes locked with hers, deadly serious. “We need to find Max.”

A few hours later, Max’s Camaro rumbled down a narrow rural road just outside Duckburg. The warm glow of the city was a smear on the horizon behind them, replaced now by endless rows of frostbitten fields, sagging fences, and the dark silhouettes of empty barns. The hum of the tires on cold asphalt filled the silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the suspension over a pothole.

Gosalyn sat in the passenger seat, her breath fogging the window as she leaned on her elbow, scanning for anything that looked like it might be Horace Horsecollar’s place. “Can’t believe this guy lived all the way out here. No wonder he went nuts.”

In the backseat, Webby leaned forward between them, the glow of her dashboard illuminating her face. “He didn’t go nuts,” she said firmly. “He was marked.”

“Right, right—by the Mari Lwyd,” Max said, keeping his hands steady on the wheel. “Explain it again. Real slow this time, because I am still not over the fact it’s a ghost horse.”

“It’s not a horse,” Webby corrected automatically. “It’s a spirit. An ancient one. A Herald of the Dead Season.”

“Which means what exactly?” Gosalyn asked, raising an eyebrow.

Webby sighed at having to explain it again, “It comes from a time before Christmas. Before light and warmth, and family were things people could count on in winter. Back then, winter meant death. Hunger. Isolation. The world shrank down to whatever warmth you could find — and whatever you couldn’t was left for her.”

“The Mari Lwyd,” she said. “She walked in those months. People didn’t celebrate her. They feared her. Welcomed her only as a warning — that the season of death was here, and it was no time for joy.”

Max frowned. “So why now?”

“Because Duckburg’s filled with exactly what she hates,” Webby said. “Light. Laughter. Celebration. A town brimming with Christmas spirit is like an insult to her. It drew her here — like a moth to flame — and now she wants to snuff that flame out.”

They drove in silence for a moment, the Camaro’s wheels crunching frost-covered gravel. The old road curved gently toward a sagging wooden sign, barely hanging by rusted chains: Horsecollar Family Farm – Est. 1929.

“This is it,” Gosalyn said, sitting up straighter.

Max turned up the long dirt driveway, headlights cutting through patches of thickening fog. Ahead, the farmhouse stood hunched in the dark, its windows black, its porch draped in silence. Not a single wreath. No holiday cheer. Just rot and shadow. A barn stood nearby, doors open like a yawn in the cold.

Webby’s breath fogged the glass. “Whatever happened to Horace… it started here.”

Max pulled the car to a slow stop. The engine ticked as it cooled, and for a moment, none of them moved.

Then Gosalyn asked what they were all thinking: “Okay. So, how do we stop her?”

Webby hesitated. “She’s powerful. She can manipulate minds. She’s strong enough to kill with her bare hands. She commands the cold itself. If we don’t stop her, she’ll take over everyone. The whole town, one by one — until there’s nothing left but her voice in everyone’s heads.”

Max swallowed. “Okay. Still waiting for the good part.”

“There’s one way,” Webby said. “Her soul — what keeps her anchored here — it’s stored in a phylactery.”

Max blinked. “A what-a-what?”

“It’s an object,” Webby replied. “An item that holds a soul. Kill the body and she comes back. Break the phylactery? She’s gone for good.”

Max looked at her, dread sinking in. “Okay... so what is it? Some cursed amulet? A haunted crown? Giant skull?”

Webby shook her head grimly. “It could be anything. That’s the trick. It’s hidden in plain sight.”

Gosalyn groaned. “So we’re looking for a needle in a stack of needles.”

“Yeah,” Webby said. “But it’s either that… or everyone in Duckburg becomes her puppet.”

Max glanced at the house through the windshield, his jaw tightening. “Well… let’s hope Horace left us a clue.”

The Camaro’s doors groaned open, and the trio stepped out into the brittle cold. Frost crunched beneath their boots as they trudged through the snow-swept yard. The farmhouse loomed silently ahead, its windows blind and dark, the wood siding weather-beaten and gray. A single porch light flickered uselessly above the door, barely pushing back the surrounding gloom.

Max jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and muttered, “Man, this place gives me the creeps.”

“Good,” Gosalyn replied, scanning the shadows. “Creepy usually means we’re close.”

They started moving toward the barn, its half-collapsed doors swinging gently in the wind like the jaws of some sleeping beast. As they crunched through the snow, Max kept a few steps behind the girls. Then, hesitating, he spoke.

“Hey… can I ask you something?” he said, his voice low.

Gosalyn glanced back. “Sure.”

Max rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s about Pistol’s dad. Pete.”

Gosalyn’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she kept walking.

“He cornered me after I dropped her off,” Max said. “Told me to stay away. That I’m not good enough. That I’ll ruin her future or something.”

Gosalyn exhaled through her nose. “Sounds like a douche."

Max gave a dry laugh. “I mean… maybe he’s right. I’ve been expelled. I dress like someone who sleeps in the stock room at the Salvation Army. And now I’m working birthday shifts at a shitty restaraunt in a sweaty walrus suit.”

“Yeah,” Gosalyn said flatly. “Real catch.”

Max made a face, but she smirked and nudged him with her shoulder.

“Look,” she continued, more gently, “I’m not Pistol’s biggest fan. But you like her. And you’re not trying to screw her over or hold her back. That counts.”

He looked at her. “So what do I do?”

“Be honest. Don’t get defensive. But don’t let Pete run your life either. He’s just scared she’ll get hurt.”

Max nodded slowly. “Thanks.”

They trudged a little further before the smell hit them.

Webby stopped first. Her breath caught in her throat, and she lifted a hand. “Wait.”

Gosalyn looked ahead — and then saw them.

Frozen shapes in the snow. Small. Dozens of them.

They moved closer, the crunch beneath their feet more hesitant now. What they found made Max gag, one hand flying to his mouth.

The sheep — or what was left of them — lay scattered in the drifted pasture beyond the barn. Their wool was stiff with frost and torn red in slashes. Eyes frozen open, limbs twisted unnaturally, steam still faintly rising from their ruined bodies.

Gosalyn muttered, “What the fuck?"

Webby crouched beside one, her eyes darting over the blackened veins visible beneath the skin, the unnatural curl of its spine. “She fed on them,” she said quietly. “Consumed them for energy.”

Max’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Why sheep?”

“She’s growing,” Webby said. “Getting stronger. Every drop of warmth she devours brings her closer to full strength. First animals. Then people.”

Gosalyn stepped back, disgusted. “We’re on a clock.”

Webby stood and looked toward the treeline, where fog was starting to curl in slow spirals through the brush.

“She’s not done yet,” Webby said. “This is just the beginning.”

Max swallowed hard, glancing back at the Camaro like he might want to run for it.

But then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and said, “So where do we look next?”

Webby didn’t answer right away.

She turned, stepping ahead of them and toward the center of the frostbitten field. The moon hung low above the trees, and as she stopped, its light caught her in silhouette — her coat fluttering slightly in the cold wind, her hair a pale shimmer.

She stood there, motionless, the chill air swirling around her.

And then she said, quietly but firmly:

“I don’t have any goddamned idea.”

Saturday morning.

The sunlight shimmered off the snowy rooftops like sugar dusted over gingerbread houses. Streets bustled with last-minute shoppers, their arms cradling wreaths and gift bags, the air humming with distant carols and jingling bells. Cars inched along the slushy roads, tires crunching over packed snow as exhaust clouds curled into the crisp morning air.

Inside a beige sedan crawling down the street, Pistol Pete slouched in the passenger seat, boots up on the dash, head tilted against the frosted window. She wore a fluffy pink coat over a t-shirt, earbuds dangling uselessly from her collar, arms crossed in that perfect cocktail of teenage defiance and mild irritation.

In the driver’s seat, Peg Pete was maneuvering through traffic like a seasoned pro, one hand on the wheel, the other balancing a grande peppermint mocha wedged between her thick thighs clad in white stretch pants. Christmas shopping bags rustled in the back seat like restless passengers.

“Do we really need to hit every store before lunch?” Pistol groaned, watching a group of kids pelt each other with snowballs in a park.

“We’re making memories,” Peg said with a grin, though her voice was already weary.

“Yeah, I’ll cherish this forever,” Pistol deadpanned. “Being dragged through twelve stores so you can compare prices on socks.”

Peg smirked, but it faded quickly when Pistol added, “You know Dad told Max to stay away from me?”

Peg’s lips tightened. “He’s just trying to protect you, honey. You know how he gets.”

Pistol rolled her eyes. “Right. Nothing says protection like threatening the one guy who actually treats me like I matter. Do you even like Max?”

“I think Max is… sweet,” Peg said after a pause. “But your father sees the world a certain way.”

“Yeah, and in that world, unless a guy’s rich or terrified of him, he’s not good enough for me.”

Peg glanced at her daughter, the light from the windshield catching just how much Pistol looked like her — same eyes, same stubborn jaw. “He’s scared. About your future. You’ve got a scholarship. College. You’re going places.”

“And Max is holding me back?” Pistol scoffed. “He's a great guy, Mom. But apparently the only thing that matters is his last name.”

Peg didn’t answer right away. The car coasted to a stop at a red light, and for a long moment, they sat in silence. The windshield wipers clicked once, brushing away a spray of powder.

“You ever ask yourself if you’re happy?” Pistol asked suddenly. “Like… really happy?”

Peg stiffened. “What?”

“I’ve seen you cry. Heard you. Some nights Dad sleeps on the couch, you barely talk to each other. Are you happy, Mom?”

Peg stared straight ahead, her fingers tightening slightly on the steering wheel. The red light flicked green, and she eased the car forward, slower than before.

“Sometimes… love doesn’t stay a bright flame,” she said finally. “Sometimes it flickers, dims. But it still burns. It’s not perfect, but… it’s something.”

Pistol looked at her mother — really looked — and saw the exhaustion in the corners of her eyes, the faded smile she wore like a mask.

“Doesn’t sound like enough,” she said quietly.

Peg didn’t respond. She just kept driving, letting the silence settle between them like the snow blanketing the city outside.

They turned another corner, the radio softly playing some cheery rendition of “Deck the Halls,” and Peg reached over to adjust the volume. Pistol sighed and stared out the window, watching a kid struggle to pull a sled up a snowbank.

“I’m just saying,” she muttered, “if Dad actually trusted me, he’d let me make my own decisions.”

Peg gave a sympathetic hum. “It’s not about trust, sweetheart. It’s about fear. You're his little girl. Always will be.”

“I’m almost eighteen.”

“That just makes him more afraid,” Peg said, pulling into a snow-dusted parking lot.

Pistol sat up straighter. “Wait… is this a church?”

The sign out front read: St. Winifred’s Annual Thrift and Craft Sale – Hot Cocoa, Knits, and Blessings!

Peg beamed. “They’ve got homemade pies! And doilies! It’ll be fun.”

Pistol groaned. “You said we were hitting the mall!”

“This is on the way,” Peg said innocently, putting the car in park. “Come on. Be festive.”

Inside, the church basement was a swarming sea of card tables and crocheted tablecloths. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. There were paper angels on the walls, and the faint scent of cinnamon barely masked the more dominant aroma of mothballs, boiled cabbage, and—Pistol’s nose wrinkled—whatever that “old person smell” actually was.

“This place smells like death,” Pistol muttered under her breath as Peg practically skipped to the first table.

“Ohhh, look at this snowman tea cozy!” Peg squealed. “Isn’t this just precious?”

Pistol trailed behind like a hostage.

They passed jars of homemade jam, plates of sugar cookies wrapped in plastic wrap, knitted scarves, and framed cross-stitch quotes about Jesus and joy. Peg chirped “Oh, how cute!” and “This is adorable!” every thirty seconds.

That was when Peg stopped short, her eyes landing on something sitting on a corner table beside a tray of slightly burnt gingerbread men.

It was a strange bowl — wide and ornate, clearly old. The glazed ceramic was cracked in a few places, the rim decorated with faded paintings of snowy hills and… horses. No, not horses exactly. Horse skulls. Each one painted in ghostly white with trailing ribbons and empty eye sockets.

“Oh my word,” Peg gasped. “This is so kitschy! I love it.”

A woman seated behind the table — bundled in a fuzzy red sweater with a brooch shaped like a pinecone — smiled warmly. “That’s a wassailing bowl, dear. They used to use it during midwinter festivals. Long before people had eggnog and carolers.”

“Wassailing?” Peg asked, lifting the bowl and turning it to admire the painted images.

“Oh yes,” the woman nodded. “Old tradition. You’d fill it with spiced cider and sing to the trees or go door to door offering blessings in exchange for treats. This one’s very rare — I think it’s hand-painted. See the little skulls? That’s part of the old symbolism. Something about winter spirits and scaring off the darkness.”

Pistol stared at it warily. “That’s… not creepy at all.”

“Oh hush,” Peg said, already fishing out her wallet. “This is a conversation piece.”

“Five dollars,” the old lady said with a wink.

“Sold!” Peg chirped, slapping a five onto the table and cradling the bowl like a found treasure. “This’ll look adorable on the table during our Christmas party!”

Pistol shifted uncomfortably beside her, “Do we really need to bring home something with… skulls on it?”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Peg said with a cheerful wave of her hand. “It’s just folk art, honey.”

Still, as they turned to leave, Pistol glanced back one more time at the bowl cradled in her mother’s arms. The painted skulls seemed dull and lifeless under the fluorescent lights… and yet something about them made her skin crawl. Maybe it was the way the eyes were painted — not hollow, exactly, but deep. Too deep. Like you could fall into them if you stared too long.

She shook it off. Just some weird thrift-store energy. Nothing more.

But even as they stepped out into the cold December sunlight, Pistol found herself walking just a little faster… and casting one more glance at the bowl before her mom tucked it safely into the trunk.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Angels We Have Heard on High

The Mallard living room was a cheerful mix of clutter and Christmas prep. Sunlight spilled across the floor, catching on half-strung garlands. Drake stood atop a slightly wobbly stepladder near the front window, muttering under his breath as he tried to anchor a string of multicolored lights to the curtain rod.

“Why is it always this strand that’s tangled beyond comprehension?” he growled, tugging on a knot. “I swear these things tie themselves in the attic.”

Down on the couch, Gosalyn was perched with a plate in her lap, mid-bite of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She wore a hoodie over her flannel pajama pants, and though her body was relaxed, her eyes weren’t. She stared off at the blinking TV, playing a hockey game, not really watching it.

She chewed slowly, her fingers absently fidgeting with a piece of paper tucked beside her on the cushion.

Drake finally managed to secure the lights, stepping down from the ladder with a victorious huff. “That’s one window done. Only, what, eight hundred to go?” He cracked his back and wandered toward the couch, plopping down on the armrest beside her.

He glanced at her, noting the quiet in her posture. “So…” he said gently, “you and Webby ran off last night.”

Gosalyn gave a slow nod, still chewing. “Yeah. Something weird with that guy who got shot.”

“Supernatural weird?” he asked, already bracing for the answer.

“Yeah.”

Drake let out a long sigh, rubbing his face. “Gos, I used to think a bad night was the Fearsome Five trying to rob a museum. Now you’re telling me the town's got… things crawling out of the shadows.”

“You didn’t seem to mind the zombies,” she said, managing a crooked grin.

“I minded plenty,” he said with a chuckle, “but I had you watching my back. Still do.” His voice grew a touch softer. “You’ve got good instincts, and you're tougher than most grown adults I know. I trust you, kiddo. Just…” he looked at her seriously, “be careful. That kind of weird? It doesn’t follow the rules. And I can’t always be there to help.”

“I will. Promise.”

They sat in a companionable silence for a moment, broken only by the soft jingle of the radio switching over to a slow Bing Crosby tune.

After a beat, Drake glanced at the pile of half-unboxed decorations. “You know… I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should invite Webby over for Christmas.”

Gosalyn turned, surprised. “Wait. Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, poor girl’s never had a real one, right? Might be good to give her the full Mallard family Christmas. Bad jokes, sugar overload, awkward carols — the works.”

Gosalyn grinned wide, “She’d love that.”

“Well, she’s family now, isn’t she?” he said, standing up and brushing off his hands. “And in this house, we take Christmas seriously.”

“You’re gonna make her wear the antlers, aren’t you?”

“She doesn’t get a choice,” he said proudly, reaching for a box of garland.

Drake was halfway into the garland box when something caught his eye — the scrap of paper that Gosalyn picked up and narrowed her eyes at.

“What’s that?” he asked, “Not part of my perfectly chaotic decorating scheme.”

Gosalyn rolled her eyes, “Oh. That’s just... a number. From someone I met at the hockey game.”

Drake raised an eyebrow, pausing mid-pull of tinsel. “Someone? Does Webby know?”

“Not like that,” Gosalyn said with a frown, stuffing the paper in her hoodie pocket. “Her name’s Mallory McMallard. She plays on the Mighty Ducks. Said she saw me out there and thought I had potential. Said she’d train me if I was serious.”

Drake blinked, then let out a low whistle. “Mighty Ducks? The Mallory McMallard? She's a beast on the ice. Has a slapshot that could shatter teeth and egos.”

Gosalyn chuckled. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

He gave her a knowing look. “Well, I think you should call her.”

Gosalyn leaned back against the couch cushions, arms folded. “Dad…”

“No pressure,” he said, holding his hands up. “But look, you’re great on the ice. You’ve got talent, Goz. And more than that, discipline. Maybe this is something real. You could go pro if you wanted.”

She looked at him, quiet for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t want to be a star. That’s not what I’m chasing.”

He nodded slowly, already knowing what she was going to say.

“I want to keep helping Webby,” she continued. “I want to fight the bad stuff. I want to do some good, y'know? Really do it. Like you did.”

There it was — the invisible line between them, drawn again. Drake’s smile faded just a little as he sat back down beside her.

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “I get it. I really do. But that life — the vigilante, hero, night-stalking thing — it’s not… it’s not everything.”

“But it’s what you did.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said. “Or at least, that’s what I told myself. But I look at you, and I see someone who has a future. A real one. You don’t have to carry that same weight.”

Gosalyn looked away, “But what if this is the only way I feel like I matter?”

Drake exhaled. “You matter, Gos. You matter because you’re you. Not because of what you do, or who you fight. I love the girl who argues with me about cereal brands. Who doesn't give a damn about what anyone thinks of her. Who is strong and beautiful, even if she does have hair like a rat's nest.”

She gave a small laugh, brushing her hair back behind one ear.

“I’m proud of the hero you’re becoming,” he added. “But I also want you to grow up and have a life. A messy, joyful, ordinary one. With friends and awkward dates and maybe… someday… someone who loves you for everything you are. Like Webby.”

There was a long pause between them.

Gosalyn looked down at the paper in her hoodie pocket, rubbing the crease with her thumb.

“…I’ll call her,” she said quietly. “Not to be a star. But maybe she can help me get better. And maybe… maybe I could use some advice from someone who’s already lived a life.”

Drake reached over and ruffled her hair gently. “That’s all I’m asking, kiddo.”

She smiled. “You’re still a sap.”

“I’ve always been a sap,” he said proudly, rising from the couch. “Now grab a string of lights, because this window’s not going to decorate itself.”

The little bell above the door jingled as Gosalyn stepped into the cozy downtown Duckburg coffee shop, her breath turning to mist in the cold air behind her. The sun had started its slow descent, casting amber light through the frost-ringed windows. She glanced around nervously until she spotted her — sitting alone at a corner table, sipping from a ceramic mug.

Mallory McMallard.

Gosalyn approached, heart hammering a little. “Uh, hey. Mallory?”

Mallory looked up, smiled, and stood to shake her hand. “Gosalyn! You made it.”

Gosalyn nodded, trying to match her cool but feeling more like a shaken-up soda can. “Yeah. Thanks for meeting me.”

“Of course.” Mallory gestured to the chair across from her. “Grab a seat. Coffee’s on me. Anyone who makes a goal like you did last night deserves a caramel latte and a shot at the truth.”

Gosalyn laughed a little, slipping into the chair. “Thanks. I’m still kinda surprised you remembered me.”

Mallory sipped her drink. “Hard to forget someone who moves like that on skates. You’ve got instincts. Not just speed — awareness. Most kids your age don’t have that.”

Gosalyn’s cheeks flushed beneath her feathers. “I mean… I’ve trained a lot. Not just for hockey. For… other stuff too.”

Mallory’s eyes narrowed slightly with curiosity, but she let the comment pass. “Well, however you got it, you’ve got something. But talent’s just the start. If you’re thinking about taking this seriously, I won’t lie to you — it’s not an easy road.”

Gosalyn nodded, now listening intently.

“It’s a grind,” Mallory continued. “Tryouts, politics, conditioning, sponsorship drama, fans who love you one week and forget you the next. And yeah, it’s a male-dominated world. You’ll deal with being underestimated, sidelined, second-guessed, all while skating circles around guys who think your presence is charity.”

Gosalyn frowned slightly, “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Mallory said with a grin. “But easy isn’t always better. I didn’t lace up my skates to be comfortable. I did it because I wanted to push back. Because the challenge meant something.”

She leaned forward a little. “You want to be great? You can be. But not if you’re waiting for the world to hand it to you.”

Gosalyn smiled, still starstruck but now with a spark of something deeper. “I don’t want easy. I want real.”

Mallory raised her mug in salute. “Then you’re already halfway there.”

Outside the window, Christmas lights twinkled on a nearby lamppost as the afternoon faded toward twilight — and for the first time in a while, Gosalyn didn’t feel pulled in different directions at once.

She just felt seen.

They got coffee and bagels, and the conversation continued, drifting effortlessly between slapshots and skates, bad referees, and locker room stories. Mallory had this easy way about her — the kind of confidence that wasn’t loud but still magnetic. Gosalyn found herself leaning in, laughing more than she expected, forgetting just for a little while about the weight of ancient spirits, monsters, and the creeping dread of winter.

It was nice. Really nice.

Then, somewhere between a story about Mallory breaking her thumb in a playoff game and Gosalyn talking about how her dad didn't like all the hockey puck dents on the garage door, it happened.

Mallory reached across the table.

Her fingers brushed Gosalyn’s — soft, callused, deliberate. Not accidental. It lingered.

Gosalyn’s words caught in her throat.

Her heart jumped. Not with fear. Not exactly. It was more like that sudden zip of adrenaline when she heard the click of a puck against the boards right behind her. Mallory was looking at her now, eyes steady, a quiet smile tugging at the edge of her beak. It wasn’t overt, wasn’t pushy.

Her heart jumped. Not with fear. Not exactly. It was more like that sudden zip of adrenaline when you hear the click of a puck against the boards right behind you. Mallory was looking at her now, eyes steady, a quiet smile tugging at the edge of her beak. It wasn’t overt, wasn’t pushy.

But it was something.

Was Mallory… flirting?

Gosalyn stared at their hands. Hers wasn’t moving away.

But inside, she knew why she hesitated.

Because her heart — the messy, loyal, complicated thing that it was — already belonged to someone else.

To Webby.

She didn’t say it. Didn’t need to. Something in her expression must have shifted, because Mallory’s smile faded into something softer. A little embarrassed.

Mallory pulled her hand back. “Sorry,” she said gently. “I read that wrong.”

Gosalyn shook her head quickly. “No, it’s okay. You didn’t— I mean— It’s just... complicated.”

Mallory gave her a half-grin. “Story of my life.”

There was a pause, quiet but not awkward. Then Mallory stood, zipping up her jacket.

“Hey,” she said, “if you’re free tomorrow night, I’ll be at Duckburg Arena. Ice time’s at seven. Come skate. Bring that slapshot.”

Gosalyn hesitated, then added, “I’ve got… a friend… staying with me for the week. For Christmas.”

Mallory paused, then smiled with an easy nod. “They're welcome to come, too. Plenty of ice to go around.”

Gosalyn smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

Mallory gave her a warm pat on the shoulder — professional now, respectful — then turned and headed out into the cold, the bell above the coffee shop door jingling softly behind her.

Gosalyn stayed seated, the rest of her bagel long forgotten, the warmth of her coffee cooling in her hands.

Outside, the snow sparkled like a painting. Peaceful. Still.

Inside, though, her thoughts churned. Twisting with emotions she couldn’t quite pin down — excitement, guilt, longing.

She liked Mallory. A lot.

But she loved Webby.

And love wasn’t supposed to be this complicated.

Was it?

Max sat hunched at his desk, the soft hum of his old desktop computer the only sound in his dimly lit room. The glow of the screen painted his face in pale blue as he scrolled endlessly through news articles, forums, and message boards. All of it was vague, dead ends. Nothing screamed Mari Lwyd.

And even if it had, he wasn’t really paying attention.

His mind kept drifting — not to the frigid woods or to some haunted container, but to Pistol. To her laugh, to her quick wit, to the way she lit up when she got excited about something. To the way Pete looked at him. Like he was a cockroach. Like Max Goof — working part-time at Funso's Fun Zone, still figuring out his life — would never be good enough for his daughter.

A sharp jolt of frustration hit his chest, and he clicked aimlessly on a new tab, but the words blurred together.

“Dinner’s in the fridge!” his dad’s voice called from downstairs, muffled through the floorboards. “I’m heading out — night shift!”

“Alright, thanks, Dad,” Max called back automatically.

A moment later, the front door opened, shut, and he was alone again. The silence settled heavy, pressing in from all sides.

He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars him and his mom put up there when he was a child looked back down at him.

Maybe that said it all.

He hated that Pete had gotten under his skin. Hated that it mattered what the guy thought. But it did. Because Max wanted this to work. With Pistol. And not just because she was pretty or fun or made him feel like somebody, but because, for once, things felt like they were finally clicking. They had rekindled their friendship, and it had blossomed into something more.

And now… he didn’t know.

Was he going to have to choose between her and a future where her dad didn’t glare at him like a mistake?

Or would she get tired of fighting her own family and walk away first?

Max rubbed his face with both hands, groaning softly into his palms.

Outside, snow fell in lazy spirals past his window. A Christmas card scene. Peaceful. Quiet.

But inside, Max’s chest was a storm. Love, confusion, helplessness — and under it all, a simmering, growing anger.

He looked back at the computer screen, the news articles still waiting.

“Great,” he muttered. “A dead horse ghost and a dead-end love life. Merry fucking Christmas.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Max nearly fell out of his chair.

The sound came from his window, second story, right above the sloped, snow-covered porch roof. He scrambled up and peered through the frosted glass, squinting past the reflection of his own startled face.

“What the ass?!”

She was crouched there on the narrow ledge, bundled in her puffy coat, a knit hat yanked low over her ears, cheeks flushed from the cold and the climb. She tapped again with a gloved knuckle, grinning like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Max yanked the window open, the icy air blasting into his warm room.

“Are you crazy?!” he hissed. “You could’ve broken your neck! It’s a sheet of ice out there! I have a front door, you know!”

She shrugged, her breath curling into the room like smoke. “Didn’t care. I wanted to see you.”

“Pistol…” He stepped aside and helped her inside, steadying her as she swung one leg over and dropped onto the carpet with a little thump. Her boots were wet, her hat askew, but she was beaming.

Max shut the window behind her, then turned to face her, exasperated. “What about your dad? If he finds out you’re sneaking out to see me—”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” she said firmly, voice dropping. “Not anymore.”

He stared at her, unsure of what to say.

She pulled off her gloves and rubbed her hands together, pacing the room in small, anxious circles. “We went shopping today. Me and Mom. Christmas crap, y’know? And we talked. Actually talked. She tried to defend him — again — but I could see it in her eyes, Max. The sadness. The way she looked when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.”

Pistol stopped in the middle of the room, looking up at him. “She settled. For him. Because he got her pregnant with me. Because it was what people did. And now? She’s stuck in a house with a man who doesn’t listen to her, who barely sees her, and who keeps trying to control my life the way he’s controlled hers. The way Bradley tried to do with me.”

Max’s heart was pounding. He didn’t say anything, didn’t know how to. The pain in her voice hit harder than anything he’d seen from her before.

“I don’t want that life,” she whispered. “I don’t want to look in the mirror in ten years and realize I let someone else decide who I was allowed to love.”

She stepped closer, her hands trembling as she reached out and touched his. “I choose you, Max. Not because it’s easy. Not because you’re perfect. But because when I’m with you, I feel like I’m actually me. And I don’t want to give that up just to make my dad sleep better at night.”

Max swallowed hard, her words landing deep. He felt his throat tighten, chest burn.

“You mean that?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Pistol nodded, her eyes glassy but defiant. “Every word.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Then Max stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly as if letting go would undo it all. She pressed her face into his shoulder and breathed out, the tension in her frame finally beginning to loosen.

And then she leaned up and kissed him.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss, nor was it a tentative one. It was fierce and full of conviction, a declaration of what she felt and what she wouldn’t compromise on. Her cold lips met his, and the warmth of her breath mingled with his own, sending a shiver down his spine. Max’s arms tightened around her, pulling her closer as if he could absorb every ounce of her determination into his own soul.

They broke apart, both panting slightly, eyes locked. Pistol shrugged off her jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. Her eyes never left Max’s as she stepped out of her boots and peeled off her gloves. Max felt his heart racing, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he took in the sight of her, standing there, so certain and so beautifully unyielding.

They moved as if in a dance, each step measured and filled with purpose. Max reached out and took her hand, leading her to his bed. It was a simple room, with posters of rock bands and comic book heroes peeling at the edges, but at that moment, it was the only place in the world he wanted to be.

Pistol's eyes searched his, looking for reassurance. Max felt it in every fiber of his being—he didn’t just want this; he needed it. He needed her. He leaned down and kissed her again, more gently this time, feeling the warmth of her mouth and the beat of her heart against his chest. Her hands found their way to the buttons of his shirt, one by one undoing them, her touch setting his skin alight.

"I need you," Pistol moaned against her mouth as she peeled away his shirt and ran her hands up his body, from his abs to his chest.

Her touch was like a spark in the dry grass of his longing, igniting a fire that spread through every nerve. Max’s skin tingled and his heart raced as he felt the warmth of her palms pressing into his back. He pulled her closer, his own hands gripping the hem of Pistol's shirt and lifting it away. Her nose caught on the collar of her shirt, and Max gave her blind kisses before fully removing it.

There she was in a pink bra, her small, perky breasts cupped perfectly. The bra was adorned with delicate lace that matched the set of her underwear peeking out from under her jeans. Max’s eyes traced the curves of her body, the swells and valleys that were now open to him, and he felt his heart swell with desire.

Their kisses grew more urgent, more demanding. Pistol’s hands slipped down to the waistband of his track pants, her cold fingers brushing against his skin before finding their way inside. Max gasped into her mouth as she began to stroke him, her touch light but insistent. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body and making him want to pull her closer still.

He responded in kind, his hand moving to the front of her jeans to mirror her movements. Through the thick fabric, he could feel the heat and dampness of her arousal, and his own desire grew more intense. The friction of her hand on him was maddening, making him ache with need. They ground against each other, the fabric between them the only barrier to their desperate hunger.

Her teeth grazed his neck as she whispered, "I want to go all the way."

"Are...are you sure?" Max leaned back to look her in the eyes.

They had been here before, over the past few weeks, touching, kissing, but now she was asking for something more.

Max felt the gravity of her words. It wasn’t just about sex. It was about crossing a threshold, about saying goodbye to the fear and the doubt that had held them both back.

"Yes," Pistol’s cheeks flushed deeper, "I am sure." She reached down and unbuttoned her jeans, sliding them down her legs, leaving her in nothing but her lacy underwear and the cold air of his room. Max’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of her.

She stepped out of her jeans, and he could see the tremble in her legs as she stood over him. Max’s own pants felt tight, his body responding to her every move. He took her hands in his and kissed her knuckles before standing. He released her and reached for the waistband of his own pants, fumbling for a moment before pulling the drawstring. He stepped out of them, and they stood there, just in their underwear.

Her bra was next, as the straps fell down her arms. Max’s eyes traced the path of her collarbone down to the swell of her breasts. He reached out and touched her gently, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. They both gasped as they pebbled under his touch. Pistol leaned in, her hands fumbling with the clasp of her bra until it fell away, revealing her to him in all her glory. Max stepped closer, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs teasing the sensitive peaks. She arched into his touch, her breath hitching as his mouth followed the same path his hands had taken. His tongue traced the edge of her nipple, leaving a wet trail behind. He felt her tremble and knew he was driving her crazy. He hooked his thumbs into her panties and slid them down, letting them pool around her ankles.

Max stepped back for a moment to appreciate her, her legs slightly parted, her body open to him. She was so beautiful, so vulnerable, and so fiercely strong. He didn’t know how she did it—how she managed to be all these things at once. But she did. And she was choosing him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. His own boxers grew tighter, straining against his erection.

Pistol spread herself out on Max's bed once more, her panties hanging from one ankle as she beckoned him over, a mischievous glint in her eye. Max stepped out of his own boxers and approached her, his cock standing tall and proud. She reached out and took him in her hand, her grip firm and sure, and he groaned at her touch.

"Condom?" She looked up at him.

"Shit, sec," Max nodded and dashed to his nightstand, his hand fumbling with the drawer. He hadn’t anticipated this when he’d bought them, but he’d hoped. He grabbed a foil square and brought it back to her, his heart hammering.

Pistol took it from him with a wicked smile as she tore the packet open with her teeth. The sound of the plastic ripping through the quiet was like a gunshot. She rolled the condom onto him with surprising deftness, her hands sure despite the tremble in her fingers. Max watched, his breath coming in shallow gasps, the anticipation giving him gooseflesh.

They tumbled onto the bed, their limbs tangling as they kissed, her legs wrapping around his waist as he settled between her thighs. The mattress creaked softly under their weight, the only sound other than their ragged breathing and the muffled thumps of their hearts. With a gentle nudge, Max pushed inside her, her eyes widening with a mix of pleasure and surprise. She was tight, so tight, and her walls gripped him like a fist, sending a bolt of pure sensation shooting through his body.

He stilled for a moment, giving her time to adjust, his eyes searching hers for any sign of pain or regret. But all he saw was want, pure and unbridled, and it was all the encouragement he needed. He began to move, slow at first, letting her get used to the feeling of him filling her up.

"Fuck you feel so good," She murmured as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in deeper with every thrust. Max felt himself losing control, his body moving on instinct alone, driven by the desperate need to be with her, to show her that they belonged together. Her legs tightened around his waist as she matched his rhythm, urging him on.

She was also his first.

Max watched her face, the way her lips parted on gasps and her cheeks flushed a deep red, and he knew that he would remember this moment for the rest of his life. The way she looked at him, the way she felt, it was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. It was raw, it was real, and it was all-consuming.

"Faster," Pistol demanded, "You're not going to hurt me, Max."

Max obeyed, his hips moving faster, each thrust hitting a spot inside her that had her toes curling. The cold had left her body, replaced with the heat of passion. His breath was hot against her neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there, sending shivers down her spine. Pistol’s nails dug into his back, leaving half-moon marks in his flesh, but he didn’t flinch. He only pushed harder, driving them both closer to the precipice.

Her body tensed, muscles tightening around him like a vice, and she arched her back off the bed with a gasp that was almost a scream. Pistol’s climax washed over her in waves, her sex pulsing and clenching around his cock, milking him, urging him closer to his own peak. Max's own orgasm built, a crescendo of pleasure that grew and grew until it was all he could feel, all he could think about.

With a roar, Max let go. He slammed into her one final time, feeling his cock swell and spurt, releasing his hot, sticky cum into her welcoming warmth. His vision swam with stars, his mind a haze of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Pistol’s nails raked his back, her body shuddering with the aftershocks of her own climax as she took all of him, holding onto him tightly as if afraid he would slip away.

For a moment, they lay there, panting, hearts racing in tandem, the cold forgotten. Max’s weight on top of her was grounding, a reassurance that she was real, that this was happening. He kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth, his hands smoothing over her hips, her stomach, her breasts. Every touch was a silent promise, a declaration that he would fight for them.

"You okay?" Pistol asked him, touching his face with her trembling hand.

"More than okay," Max whispered, kissing her palm. He rolled off her and onto his back, pulling her with him so she was nestled against his chest. They lay there, skin sticking to the cooling sheets, their breaths slowly syncing up again. The quiet washed over them like a blanket, comforting and warm. Max felt her heart racing, her breasts rising and falling with each breath, her legs tangled with his, and he realized that this was it. This was what home felt like.

"That was my first time," He finally admitted, his voice a low rumble against her skin.

Pistol tilted her head up to look at him, her eyes misty. "I wish it was mine..."

"Shh," He kissed her neck, "I would be a fucking idiot if I thought I was your first, Pistol. But you're the first to mean something to me like this. That's all that matters to me. Not who you were with before."

Pistol nodded, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. Max knew that she’d been hurt before, that her ex Bradley had been an abusive prick, and he hoped that she knew that he was different. That he’d never cause her pain like that.

"Hey, Max?" Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, as she traced a line down his chest with her fingertip. Max's eyes fluttered open to find Pistol propped on her elbow, looking at him with a gentle smile. The room was dim, the only light now coming from the glow-in-the-dark stars above, and he could see the soft glisten of tears in her eyes.

"What's up?"

"Is it alright if I, you know, spend the night here?"

Max's heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t expected that, but he liked it. He liked that she felt safe enough to ask, to want to stay. "Yeah," he said, kissing the top of her head, "I'd like that."

"Thank you."

The words were simple, but the emotion behind them was vast. Max wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, feeling her breathe against his chest.

And there they would remain until the morning.