(Spoiler Alert!)
Before I do that, however, I'll just explain. The first part (or act as I have it labeled) is supposed to jump straight into the action hence the rather random suspense scene. I figured the director of the DIA wouldn't just phone Launchpad and say "Hey buddy, how's it going? That's great. By the way, we need you to basically drop everything your doing and go on this covert mission for us. You could totally die and oh, this chick you grew up with and broke your heart is gonna be there. Kthnxbai." I figured they would send another agent to nab him and take him back to HQ (plus, a totally valid excuse to introduce another OC). The thing is....I'm afraid I may have made it too....vague. Granted the chapter isn't done yet, but I don't know if at that second break (where the door opens and then the scene jumps back outside to focus on Morg and Drake's reaction to depressed Launchpad) I should have gone ahead and written an action sequence or just kept everyone wondering much like DW, Morg and the kids are when they race back to the house....
Anyway....actual story now:
Crossfire
Act one: “And we're caught up in the crossfire…”
There’s a still in the street outside your window
You’re keepin’ secrets on your pillow
Let me inside, no cause for alarm
I promise tonight not to do no harm
I promise you baby,I won't be no harm
You’re keepin’ secrets on your pillow
Let me inside, no cause for alarm
I promise tonight not to do no harm
I promise you baby,I won't be no harm
Moonlight bathed landscape, lush green blades of grass and long stemmed wildflowers dancing in a cool, spring breeze. The sweet scent of newly bloomed blossoms laced the wind and teased his nose. In the distance, he could hear the almost melodic chirping of crickets, the music of a babbling brook just beyond a quaint wooden fence and a thin tree line that separated the farm from a forest. Above him, starlight dappled a clear, almost black velvet sky, twinkling and shimmering. He should have felt at peace then.
Instead he cringed as another white blossom was crushed beneath his foot, a flurry of petals and leaves and dirt and grass flying up in his wake. The only thing he was feeling was an unsettling wave of nausea and panic.
“Run. Just keep running!”
Hazarding a glance over his shoulder, Launchpad felt his brow furrow as his eyes narrowed on the young woman running just beside and behind him. In this light, her blue eyes glowed, a mix of amusement and adrenaline dancing in those orbs; the soft light highlighted her wheat colored hair with browns and gold; and her white cotton dress, a flattering a-line that she saved for special occasions and church, made her look almost angelic. Almost because he doubted angels would be seen with grass stains and specks of mud on any of their clothing or with a tangled mess of wild curls sitting upon their head no matter what the situation.
He finally found his voice when the angry bellow of a bull echoed behind them. Much to his dismay, the bastard was gaining on them. “How do I let you talk me into these things?” he huffed. His legs started to ache, a twinge of pain travelling through his calves and thighs; the field was a hell of a lot bigger than he had initially thought. With a sharp intake of breath, Launchpad shook his head, clearing his mind of a stray thought. Right now was not the time to be wondering if his football coach would be disappointed to find out his first string running back was winded after a brisk jog. Never mind that he had scarfed down two cheeseburgers, a large fries and a chocolate milkshake only a half hour before Little Miss One-of-The-Guys dragged him out here and hadn’t planned on doing any running. He hadn’t planned on doing any physical activity after…
Okay, well, no. That was a lie or he wouldn’t have bothered tucking a box of Tic-Tacs into his jacket pocket before picking up Marty.
A breathless laugh brought him back to the moment at hand. “You can be pissed off at me after we hop the fence, babe,” she replied, managing to wink at him. “I’ll totally make it up to you.”
“Martina, I swear—oof!”
It was the most insignificant movement. The toe of his boot just scraped the top of the dirt wrong, digging just a centimeter too deep that it was caught on some invisible root. Something in his ankle popped and snapped and he went down. A strangled yelp of pain fought the thick knot lodged in his throat as he dug his fingers into the moist dirt.
Martina slid to a stop, wheeling about with her arms outstretched in a failed attempt to catch him. “Launchpad, are you alright?”
“What are you doing? Keep running,” he grunted, struggling to keep his voice level. He pushed himself up and tears threatened to leak from the corners of his eyes. “I’m fine.”
She opened her mouth to protest when another bellow sounded and this time, he could feel the ground trembling beneath him. He managed a quick glance over his shoulder before the angry beast roared again. The bull had lowered its head, twin horns racing toward him as he struggled to his feet. Balanced precariously on his good foot, he shoved Martina to the side and out of harm’s way. Then, he braced himself to take a hit that never came.
Instead, he found himself stumbling sideways and just barely out of the bull’s path as it barreled onward. His back hit something solid and stiff and before he could register that it was the fence, he scrambled over it. He blinked, turning his attention away from the animal and to Marty, who stood off to the side, her arms wrapped around her torso as she stared down at the ground. The panic and nausea that had been tearing him apart was replaced with a sudden rush of guilt.
A thin sheen of tears covered her eyes, the tan feathers on around her eyes and on her cheeks damp. She trembled, taking in a shuddery breath as he hobbled forward to place a hand on her shoulder. Something in her eyes flashed, a dam of some sort broke within her, but not one of tears. Not tears of sorrow, anyway. Her face contorted into an angry glare and she shoved him away. “Idiot! What the fuck were you thinking? You could have been killed!”
He hopped back, steadying himself on his good foot. “Wait just a minute! You’re mad at me now?”
“Damn straight I am,” she snapped. “Don’t ever ask me to leave you behind again! Not ever!”
Launchpad snorted derisively. “Are you seriously angry because--”
She stomped forward, fisting her hand around his dirtied shirt front and yanked him closer. He found himself hunched over uncomfortably, the end of his bill brushing against hers as she glared at him. Swallowing thickly, he ignored the heat rising to his face and was silently thanking the powers that be that he had feathers to cover up the red that was spreading across his face. How much would she hate him if he faltered just the tiniest bit, slipped forward and inadvertently kissed her? Something in her eyes flashed and the idea was dashed. He knew better than to try anything when she was this upset. “Promise me.”
“I promise…” he mumbled. He felt her grip loosen on his shirtfront. He straightened, placing some weight on his throbbing ankle. It was swollen and aching, but thankfully not broken.
He lifted his eyes. His heart sank as she turned her back to him.
* * * * * *
“Earth to Launchpad! Hell-ooo…”
Launchpad blinked rapidly, squinting as the bright midday sun suddenly filled his vision. A frigid winter wind buffeted his face and hair, the crisp smell of freshly cut grass and something smoky—probably a grill--bombarding his nostrils. Out of habit, he swiped at the end of his bill with a gloved hand, willing the urge to sneeze to leave him. “Whoa. Now, that was weird,” he muttered as he massaged his temple.
“LP, are you just going to stand there or are we going to show these kids how it’s done?” He turned to see Drake and Morgana approaching, a beat up football tucked under the shorter mallard’s arm. Morgana paused, readjusting the collar of her knee length black coat with a small frown.
The pilot tilted his head slightly, confusion etched on his face. “Huh?”
Drake tossed the football at him, clapping his hands together. LP fumbled with the ball for a moment before getting a better grip on it and automatically tucking it close to his chest. “It’s just a little three on three, LP. Adults versus kids,” he explained with a grin. “And we can’t lose this time. Honker and that weird kid with the camera are already at each other’s throats and it’s not even kick off yet.”
Launchpad lifted his eyes, looking across the yard to where Gosalyn was playing referee between her friends again. He blinked, sepia toned memories surging forward. It seemed as if most of the games he, Loopy and Marty would play as children started off with an argument and his poor little sister trapped in the middle as well. Martina knew how to push his buttons when he didn’t even realize he had buttons to be pushed. It was just one of the many talents she had. He scoffed quietly.
Pretty good at running, too, he mused as a bitter grin threatened to spread across his bill. He shook his head lightly, waving the thought away. With wavering focus, he turned to the couple standing in front of him.
“Dark, I worry about you sometimes,” Morgana sighed, tugging the trim of her black gloves before folding her arms across her chest. “And why do I have to play? You know I don’t understand most of these games.”
“Oh, honeybunch,” Drake chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be easy. We’ll just have you go downfield. You just catch the ball when we throw it to you.”
Eyebrow delicately raised, Morgana let out a quick huff of air, disbelief flashing in her green eyes. “You mean ‘if’ you throw the ball to me.”
Drake frowned, opening his mouth to reply when Launchpad spoke up. “Sorry, but I’m gonna sit this one out, guys,” he muttered solemnly, handing the ball back to Drake before he stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. “My ankle’s acting up on me again. Probably shouldn’t push it.”
His excuse was met by silence. Morgana and Drake exchanged concerned glances before the shorter of the two stepped forward and placed his hand on Launchpad’s shoulder carefully. “You sure? It’ll just be a quick game,” Drake said, a half hearted smile on his face to hide his worry. “Once you start playing, your ankle will be fine. It’s just the cold. Same thing happens to my shoulder during the winter.”
Launchpad shook his head. Despite his best efforts to sound casual, Launchpad knew Drake was worried. And he hated it. He didn’t need his best friend to worry over him when there was no reason to. “LP, c’mon…”
“Please?” His eyes darted over to Morgana, spying a placating smile and pleading look in her eyes.
He was tempted to change his mind and just go along with it. A quick game would be fun and his focus always shifted into the sport when he was playing; there was no room in his mind for high school memories or runaway...well, he wasn’t sure what to call her. Marty had been his friend since as far back as he could remember, but by the time they were in their teens, she was much more. Or at least, he had always felt she was much more than a friend. He couldn’t really tell what she had felt for him, if she had felt anything. Launchpad felt his shoulders slump forward slightly as the heaviness that had been plaguing him for well over a week now came back full force. He exhaled loudly through his nose, shaking his head.
“Nah, guys. I’m out.”
He turned away from them and limped towards the house. Sliding open the patio door, he paused at the threshold and leaned against the frame. He had managed to shove those memories away for years. He was happier forgetting them or so he had convinced himself he was. Either way, he’d done everything he could to just shut down that part of his brain (although, most people would say he had shut his entire brain off ages ago). There was no reason for him to be suddenly thinking of that time, thinking of her.
Brow furrowed slightly and a frown turning the corners of his mouth downward, he entered the kitchen. He wandered over to where the island stood in the center of the room, preparing to hop onto to one of the stools set near it. He figured he would finish reading the newspaper—or rather, the Sunday funnies—when there was blur of movement at his side.
“Eh?” He lifted his eyes, glancing across the kitchen. His gaze fell on the door leading to the laundry room. The door trembled slightly as if someone had just passed through it. Muscles tensed, Launchpad swallowed hard against the knot forming in his throat and he could feel blood pounding against his eardrums, deafening him. His stomach churned; his nerves were getting the better of him. It bothered him that even though he could honestly say he’d been through much worse that pang of panic still gnawed at his gut. And it was just getting worst the longer he stared at the door.
Hesitantly, he took a step towards the door. Nothing happened. With an inaudible sigh of relief, Launchpad felt his shoulders loosen up just the tiniest bit and he chuckled weakly. Mentally, he scolded himself for getting worked up over nothing.
That’s when the door swung open.
* * * * *
“You see what I’ve been dealing with all week?” Drake huffed, turning his back to the house. “He’s just been moping around! Do you know how weird that is?” He tossed the football aside with a disgusted sigh before clasping his hands behind his head and pacing.
Morgana’s eyes tracked over to Drake, a pitying grimace set on her features. “It is unsettling, I admit,” she replied. “But Drake, have you just asked him what’s wrong?”
He stiffened. His frown deepened as he shot her a look that screamed ‘Duh!’, but she held her tongue. If she changed the subject and called him out now, she knew they would be arguing all afternoon long about something as trivial as a facial expression when Launchpad was in obvious need of help. No, she could let this one slide. “Yes. I’ve been asking him,” he muttered. “I’ve asked him every day since he started acting this way.”
“And?”
He sighed and shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. “He won’t tell me anything other than he’s just feeling burnt out or his ankle is bothering him,” he paused, catching sight of a disapproving look forming on her face. “And before you blame me, it’s an old injury. If he had gotten hurt while we were patrolling the city, I would have taken him to a doctor. But according to him, he tore some of the ligaments in it when he was in high school.”
“Well, maybe it’s really bothering him now.” Morgana offered, glancing back at the house. “Pain can make people act differently.” She tilted her head. Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her, but it almost looked as if the pilot had been startled by something inside the house. She shook her head, casually rubbing the corner of her eye.
Drake shook his head. “This is Launchpad we’re talking about. He walks away from plane crashes without a scratch, a limp, or a split personality. It makes no sense.”
Morgana turned to look at him, but said nothing. What could she say? Drake had a point and she couldn’t argue it any further. Neither of them had ever dealt with the pilot like this. Launchpad did not get depressed. Not inconsolably so, anyway. There had been that time when Pelican’s Island had been canceled, but Launchpad had gotten over it quickly once he discovered the series on DVD. Even when he was feeling under the weather health-wise, he was hardly cranky. If anything, he was just a bit lethargic, but still ready and willing to hit the streets with Darkwing despite it. Hell, Dark usually had to sneak out on those rare occasions LP was sick; the element of surprise is usually lost when criminals and the like can hear you coughing and sniffling from the shadows, after all.
With a sigh, Drake looked away from her. Paused. His brow lowered, his forehead crinkled with worry as he stared past her shoulder. She blinked, turning her head to follow his gaze at the house. By now, Launchpad was no longer in view, having disappeared further into the house. Or so she assumed he had. Suddenly, she felt a wave of uncertainty mixed with nausea wash over her. Earlier, she had pushed aside what she had seen, Launchpad stumbling back as if he had been frightened by something, to focus on her conversation with Drake. What if something had actually happened? “Dark…?”
CRASH!
“Crap,” Drake hissed, barreling past her to the house. She followed him, a sudden pang of fear striking her in the center of her chest as the sound of hollow steel colliding with hard tile rang out from the house, like a bell chiming, signaling the end of an hour. From the corner of her eye, she could see the children still standing on the other side of the yard, staring wide eyed at Drake and her. Suddenly, Gosalyn broke away from her friends, sprinting across the yard towards them. Honker and the other girl, Sophie, weren’t far behind.
Morgana collided with Drake at the doorway, but he braced himself on the frame before he could topple over.
The kitchen was destroyed. Pots and pans were strewn across the floor, some dented and bent awkwardly. The shattered remains of several plates and tumblers littered the ground; a few were dappled with red specks. Others were dripping in the crimson liquid, bright red pools of the stuff surrounding the jagged pieces of ceramic and glass. Morgana gasped, her hands flying up to cover her bill as Drake raised a hand, silently signaling her to keep quiet. Gosalyn appeared at her side then, scrambling to get past her father when the older mallard shot her a stern look and shook his head.
“Stay.”
“Dad, what about Launchpad?” she blurted out, her voice cracking slightly.
He threw a sidelong glance at Morgana. “Stay out here with the kids,” he murmured. He stepped over the threshold, carefully avoiding the broken clock that had been knocked from the wall.
Now it was Morg’s turn to shake her head. She reached forward, her fingers wrapping around the loose fabric of his jacket tightly. “No. You are not going in there alone.”
“Don’t argue with me right now,” he snapped as he shrugged her off. “There’s no time for it.”
“But Dark--”
On the other side of kitchen, the sound of glass crunching beneath heavy boots approaching silenced them.
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