Anyway, in between my notes and assignments (and because my English professor has taken away my sketch book) I decided to try writing again. The following, while not really spoiling anything from Crossfire, is set after that story or would be set after it if I decide to continue with it. I'm not really sure right now since I haven't finished Crossfire. I really need to buckle down and stick to one project at a time rather than jump around. Either way, I wanted to get a better feel for writing Marty in a narrative format instead of script. Same with DW and LP. Hopefully, I'm getting better at it.
I don't even have a titled for this...
Marty yawned and stretched her arms above her head as she leaned back in her desk chair, silently running through an on-going mental To-Do list. A clock hanging above her cubicle slowly ticked away, interrupting her thoughts. She spared a bored glance at the clock before her eyes flicked up to stare at the ceiling. Her handiwork was still hanging from there--several sharp pencils stuck in the miniscule cracks of the tiles--and she allowed herself a small, satisfied grin. No, it wouldn’t hurt anyone. It would hardly annoy anyone. Gryzlikoff had dealt with her for close to six years now and pencils embedded into the ceiling would only elicit a simple eye roll and heavy sigh from the old bear. It made her feel better, though.
“Hey, Marty, a couple of us are heading over to that karaoke bar down on Main and 87th. Wanna join us?”
Marty blinked, lowering her gaze to the beagle peeking over the cubicle wall on her right. Without hesitation, she replied ‘Sure’ and told him she’d meet the rest of them in the lobby. As the younger agent disappeared, she dropped her feet from the corner of the desk and stood up. Stacking her case files in a neat pile, she pushed them to an empty corner of the desk before turning to retrieve her coat from where it hung on the corner of cubicle wall. The rattling of a fallen picture frame caused her to glance over her shoulder just as a pair of oddly dressed mallards walked past her.
“…LP, this is the last time I’m going to say this. STOP volunteering us to test out Dr. Bellum’s inventions!”
Marty crossed her cubicle, righting the frame carefully. Her gaze lingered on the smiling faces in the faded photograph before she released a quiet sigh. She turned the frame away from her. Her chest tightened under that innocent gaze and as she shut her eyes, she could see a pair of dark eyes filled with confusion and hurt as she whispered goodbye and climbed into the passenger side of her father’s truck.
“Aw, c’mon, DW. It’s not that bad.”
She felt a chill run between her shoulder blades as every muscle in her body tightened. There was a sense of someone standing just a few feet behind her. He—she was assuming—had paused. Maybe he peeked in. Then again, he would have seen her standing there and said something…
“Not that bad? I can’t see a thing! It was bad enough being blind once!”
Or maybe not. She frowned. Not even the right duck..dammit..
“She said it was tempora—Wall!”
“Wha—Oof!”
Her eyes darted to the left, towards the voices, but the two had already passed up her desk. Her shoulders fell and she fought back the frown tugging the corners of her mouth down. She shouldn’t be disappointed.
But she was.
* * * * *
“What were you expecting?”
Marty lifted her eyes briefly to regard the she-duck sitting on the bench across from her. She shrugged. “I don’t know. A simple ‘Hello, Marty. How are you?’ would have sufficed.”
The bar was quiet tonight which was never good for a karaoke bar. Music played in the background, but failed to entice any of the patrons to step on stage and sing along. The occasional clink of glasses being placed on countertops and stools scraping against the bare concrete floor echoed through the room rather than laughter and pleasant conversation. Instead, it seemed that the sparse crowd had taken to hiding in booths, ordering drinks and drowning in self-pity. Or that’s what Marty was doing, at least, as she lifted her half-empty beer bottle to her bill, tilted her head back and gulped down the bitter contents like water.
“It’s not like I was waiting for the guy to rush in, sweep the crap off my desk and--”
“Marty,” her friend scolded. Marty dropped the bottle on the tabletop with an unceremonious clatter.
She blinked. “Summer.”
Summer rolled her eyes and sighed. “Sweetie, you have to stop this. It’s not healthy,” she stated calmly as she reached over and patted Marty’s hand. “Trust me. I’m a doctor. I have seen what these kinds of binges can do to your liver. It’s not pretty.”
Marty’s eyes narrowed and she slipped her hand back and away from Summer. “I’ve only had one,” she muttered.
“Really?” Summer’s eyes drifted to the far end of the table. “Because I counted six over there.”
Marty frowned. “Well, I’ve only had one bottle of this brand in particular,” she replied curtly and lifted her hand, signaling to the bartender to keep the drinks coming.
“No!” Summer grabbed her wrist and yanked her hand back down. “No more, Marty.”
“Y’know, Wade already drank himself into a stupor,” she snapped. “Look at him!”
Both women ducked under the table to see their co-worker curled up and sleeping. Summer exhaled loudly as a mix of disappointment and disgust flitted across her features. She muttered the word “Idiot” breathily and sat up. Marty followed suit, giving the doctor a smug grin and motioning to the bartender. “I win.”
Summer scoffed as she placed her elbow on the table and leaned her chin into her open palm. “Whatever. I’m sure Launchpad digs beer bellies,” she murmured. “That’s just so sexy, y’know.”
Marty’s grin slipped away and she lowered her hand. “Summer, could we just not talk about him anymore?” she asked quietly, staring down at the table top and focusing on the glare from the dim lights hanging around the bar.
“Martina, what exactly is going on with you two?” she asked quietly.
Her eyes flicked up to meet Summer’s gaze. She prayed it was dark enough in the bar that she couldn’t see the tears of frustration threatening to spill down her face. “Nothing. Nothing’s going on,” she replied unevenly, lowering her eyes again. “That’s the problem.”
Summer’s expression softened as she sighed. “Sweetie--” Marty stood up suddenly, stuffing her hands into her pockets as she stalked past the doctor and towards the back of the building. “Where are you going?”
Her eyes drifted over to glance at her friend and shrugged. “It’s a karaoke bar. Where do you think I’m going?”
* * * * *
Stakeouts were usually boring. Before he had met Darkwing Duck, the life of a superhero just seemed like it would always be exciting and fraught with danger. And it was…just not all the time. Launchpad had come to realize that most nights were relatively quiet unless the police scanners in either the Thunderquack or the Ratcatcher picked up something. Even then, most of the crimes reported were simple cases of criminal mischief. At times, they could count on some grand destructive display by one of the less stable criminals in the city. But mostly, nothing happened and that was fine by him. Quiet nights meant they were doing their job right. He released an inaudible sigh as he leaned against the wobbly metal railing of a fire escape. Tonight, he could have used the distraction to keep him awake.
He yawned and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against cold, damp metal. Maybe DW was right. Maybe he was trying to do too much at once and spreading himself thin. True, no one had forced him to sign on as a full time employee of SHUSH, but he figured that way it would be easier for him to continue participating in the I.M. project. Plus, Darkwing really couldn’t stop him from volunteering if he was getting paid to volunteer. Or at least, Launchpad didn’t think he would.
That wasn’t to say he didn’t see the added benefit of working alongside Marty now. Something had changed during those couple of days they had spent together recovering Dr. Bellum’s plans and the flight suit prototype from F.O.W.L. He just wished he knew exactly what had changed. Was she waiting for him to make some sort of grand gesture now? Would that freak her out if he did? A thoughtful frown spread across his bill. The more and more he considered all the things he could do to let her know how he felt, the more and more he wondered if any one of those things would send her running again. He lifted his head slightly as the grate beneath him rattled slightly. A soft thud caused his eyes to dart to the left just as Darkwing stepped out of the shadows.
The shorter drake sighed, mirroring Launchpad’s pose against the rail. “I hate these slow nights.”
“Tell me about it,” the pilot muttered.
At this, Darkwing shot his sidekick a sidelong glance before allowing his eyes to drift forward again. “So,” he began. “Has Agent McFly walked out yet?”
“Nope, she’s still in there…” His words trailed off as his brow shot up in surprise. Then, he winced, bumping his fist against his forehead while he mentally scolded himself. He turned to look at Darkwing, taking in the knowing grin on the masked mallard’s bill. Busted.
“You like her.”
“Tch, no,” Launchpad replied with a weak chuckle. “…Er, maybe. I don’t know.”
Darkwing shook his head. “LP, why don’t you just go down there and ask her out already?” he suggested before adding, “That way I can get back to doing what I do best—defending the city from--”
“Bushroot!”
“Well, if you want to be specific,” DW replied huffily. “Sure, let’s go with Bushroot.”
Launchpad shook his head rapidly, grabbing the shorter duck’s shoulders and twisted him around so that he could see the rooftop of the building beside them. Beyond the concrete barrier that surrounded the rooftop, vines whipped about wildly in a chaotic dance. As they watched, one of the thicker vines shot out towards them and slammed down on the fire escape causing the structure to rock dangerously.
LP clung to the railing, feeling the contents of his stomach lurch upwards with every jerk of the fire escape. He forgot that often the rule ‘Wait an hour after you eat’ applied to patrolling the city as well as swimming especially when half of the nut jobs they encountered had the ability to turn a slow night into a twisted rollercoaster ride in a matter of seconds. He squeezed his eyes shut, listening to the metal screech and squeal, feeling bits of brick and dirt rain down him. Beside him, Darkwing lost his grip on the railing and stumbled backwards, hitting the wall hard before ending up sprawled across the floor on his stomach. With a loud groan, he pushed himself up and swiped the back of his sleeve across the end of bill, wiping away a few stray droplets of blood.
“Is it just me or are these guys getting more and more—ack!—violent?” Launchpad rasped unevenly, tightening his grip.
Darkwing managed to grab the railing again and pulled himself up. He didn’t answer Launchpad’s question. He had no time as another vine barreled towards them and with a great sweeping arc, sending the masked mallard flying over the rail and across the street. At the same moment, Launchpad released the rail, scrambling forward in an effort to grab Darkwing’s cape when the vine swept back and slammed into him. He collided with the unyielding wall, his head snapping back to smack the bricks. Pain shot through his ringing skull, dulling his senses enough that he didn’t feel the vine twist around his ankles until it yanked him forward and up into the air.
* * * * *
Drake could count the number of times he had an out of body experience on one hand. The first happened when he was sixteen and the football team got a bit carried away while dunking his head in a toilet in the boy’s bathroom on the second floor of St. Canard High School. The second, he had been wrestling with Taurus Bulba atop the St. Canard Tower when it exploded. The third he had found himself flying into a brick wall with no helmet.
It was different than having his life flash before his eyes. That happened frequently and it was always the same- flashes of familiar faces and then an eerie, but calming warmth as the memory of the day he adopted Gosalyn entered his mind. It was strange, yet he didn’t seem to mind the idea of dying with what was one of the happiest moments in his adult life so far. But as he flew through the air, Drake was suddenly aware of two things: 1) He could see himself and 2) He was referring to himself as Drake rather than Darkwing.
He winced loudly as he watched his body sail across the street, hit the ground and slide before coming to a stop at the entrance of the bar Launchpad had been staring at earlier. “Ouch,” he hissed before floating down to the limp figure. Judging from the sound of the impact, he already knew it would be a few hours before he’d wake up. He hovered around his body for a moment, taking note of the various bumps and bruises and nicks and cuts before he saw the way his arm was awkwardly bent. He frowned. It was just his luck that he’d be the one flung two hundred feet and end up with his arm broken. Had it been Launchpad, he would have had the same crash landing and would have been on his feet in no time…
Wait. Where was LP?
He whipped around. His eyes tracing over the flight path his body had taken. The fire escape was now leaning against the next building over, bent and smashed much like his arm. Dangling high above it, he could see Launchpad hanging by his ankles high above the street and trying his best to get loose from a monstrous vine, but to no avail. Drake opened his mouth to yell only to remember his vocal chords were useless at that point. No one could hear him. No one could see him. Instead, Drake Mallard could only float helplessly as his sidekick—his best friend—disappeared over the rooftops...
No comments:
Post a Comment