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themurphyzone · 1 year ago

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Son of Darkwing AU: Just Like You Epilogue

As promised, here’s the epilogue.

Warning for mentions of alcoholism, implied substance abuse, small amount of profanity. Rating of this fic has been bumped to a T.

AO3 Link

Trash littered the floor of his old apartment, flies buzzing around moldy pizza crusts and slimy, rotten apple cores. The stench of rot reeked through the air.

The pungent smell had long driven out all the other renters in the complex, except for that stubborn, ancient geezer of a mutt on the second floor who always watched that irritating Pelican’s Island farce of a show with the sound turned all the way up. He claimed to be hard of hearing.

But that old fart just enjoyed tormenting him through the paper-thin walls.

Perhaps he oughta visit tomorrow. Have a little friendly chat about being a good neighbor and pour him a cold one, just like old times.

He’ll even slip a razor blade into the can. Why not? He was in a giving mood. The mutt deserved a special treat.

A cockroach scuttled by his foot, and he crushed it with his heel. Its guts spilled out of its disgusting little body, its legs and antennae detaching as he wiped his heel along the stained carpet.

His landlord would’ve put that infamous tightwad Scrooge McSuck to shame with his cheapness. Never bothered paying for pest control service.

Now, how should he repay the landlord for renting such wonderful accommodations to the poor, down-on-their-luck beggars and hobos of society?

He wasn’t going to repeat his plan for the mutt. That sort of revenge was boring. Devoid of any creativity whatsoever.

No, the punishment should fit the crime. Hit ‘em right where it hurts most.

The landlord couldn’t bear to part with his money, now could he? Kept it all locked away in a safe beside his desk and refused to entrust it to a bank. Even had the combination password written on a sticky note for convenience and never bothered to memorize it.

Would be a crying shame if someone were to steal all that precious loot.

Hell, he’d let the landlord watch too. Let him be the audience to his first crime after his grand comeback.

And to convey his eternal gratitude, he’d give him the honor of being the first victim of his chainsaw.

The hum of rusty metal slicing into every obstacle in its path was music to his ears.

He obliterated the old, battered couch. Stuffing and fabric scattered everywhere as he thrust the deadly, whirring blade deep into the frame. The enormous cut was jagged and messy, just the way he liked it.

Then he turned to the coffee table. He picked up the remote and hurled it into the TV. The glass splintered with a loud crack, a gorgeous spiderweb forming on the screen.

He cleaved the coffee table in half, hacking away at the furniture until it was nothing more than useless scraps of firewood.

His chainsaw wreaked destruction upon everything it touched. It didn’t matter what he tore through. Wood, paper, glass, the foundation of the apartment itself.

Nothing mattered except for beautiful, destructive chaos.

To hell with the world. It didn’t give a damn about him, didn’t give him the adoration and accolades and admiration he deserved while he was in his prime. The shelf he’d reserved for his trophies was barren and filled with nothing but dust and cobwebs.

Though the memories were hazy, he remembered owning several golden, shining trophies at some point in his life.

They were gone now, most likely stolen by some thief looking to make a quick buck.

He sold the trophies himself. Cashed them in at a sketchy pawn shop in one of the roughest neighborhoods of St. Canard. Probably got less than their actual worth, but alcohol was alcohol.

He swung his chainsaw at the empty shelf, taking out the plaster and drywall behind it as well. Half of the shelf flew into a wilted, dying potted plant, knocking it down and spilling topsoil and leaves everywhere.

Despite this, a single leaf remained green, clinging stubbornly to life.

A useless effort.

The chainsaw sliced the leaf to an insignificant green pulp.

He laughed at its demise. Why bother trying to live if the rest of the plant was rotting away?

Why should he give a crap about anything when all the world had ever done was turn their back on him? He’d wasted so much of his life trying to entertain a fickle audience who would never give him what he wanted.

He’d pushed his body to its limits by performing all his stunts, broke his bones and bruised himself a million times over to make it look authentic, and for what?

To be forgotten as soon as the executives found a new cash cow show to mass produce toys for?

To never land any other major role in a TV show or movie, not even as a typecast, because they thought he’d ruin the show before it ever took off?

Then there was the greatest offense of all, to never be invited to reprise his role in what would’ve been the greatest comeback in the entire entertainment industry, snubbed by his fans who claimed to worship the ground he tread upon and that prissy wannabe director who had no respect for the franchise.

And there was the worst of the lot…an ungrateful, selfish duck he’d raised from an egg and once called son.

He’d grown into a mockery of Darkwing Duck’s legacy, a pale imitator of the original. A cunning thief who’d stolen his identity, his life, and his fans.

He bellowed in rage, ripping the phone and answering machine from its wires and hurling them out the broken window. The phone broke through the fragile glass and tumbled three stories to the ground. But the answering machine laid in shambles, a shrill beep and distorted, mechanized voice emitting from its speakers.

“You have ninety-one missed messages. If you’d like to hear these messages-”

He slammed his fist against the machine. But instead of shutting off, a voice, one so insultingly timid and meek, filtered through.

“Hi, Dad. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me right now, and again, I’m really sorry I couldn’t convince Boorswan to at least give you a cameo appearance…but I was kinda hoping we could catch up? It’s been a while since we did something togeth-”

His chainsaw cut through the machine, silencing it forever. The whirring blade lodged into the floor beneath the destroyed nuts and bolts. He yanked on the handle, but the chainsaw wouldn’t budge.

Cursing, he shut the chainsaw off and kicked it in frustration.

All that buzzing had given him a headache.

He needed a damn drink. The brand didn’t matter. It just needed to be strong, bitter, and kill the migraine that pounded away at his skull.

A sharp pain traveled up his spine as he stumbled to the kitchen. He was forced to rely on the wall to keep his balance, and he loathed it with every fiber of his being.

Dirty dishes filled the sink and spilled onto the counter. He’d never gotten around to tying up the trash bags and taking them to the dumpster either. While the odor might’ve been off-putting to anyone else, it failed to compare to the Duckburg sewer he’d escaped through.

He rummaged through the refrigerator until he found a can of beer that had gotten wedged in the back. His sleeve was covered in old food stains as he pulled his arm out, but he didn’t care.

There was a voice somewhere in the back of his mind, some quack doctor straight out of med school warning him not to drink while on his painkiller prescription, listing out all the horrible side effects, and how that could affect him in the long run.

That doc could kick rocks for all he cared.

He popped a handful of painkillers into his mouth and guzzled down the beer. He’d survived things that would’ve killed other ducks a million times over. He wasn’t about to drop dead from this.

If he wanted to go out, he’d do it in a blaze of glory. He refused to die as some nameless nobody.

He crushed the empty can and tossed it aside.

It was the last one he had. Nothing else except the painkillers had any value attached to them. He shoved the bottle into his pocket, figuring it was best to keep it for his personal use.

The only other items he found that would be remotely useful were several kitchen knives, scattered haphazardly through several drawers. Small enough to conceal within his clothing, and lethal enough when he was ready to slash and stab and hack away at anybody who dared cross him.

He slipped the smaller knives into the inside pockets of his jacket. Then he tested out the largest blade in his hands.

It had a long, serrated edge, and its jagged shape would increase the risk of his enemies hurting themselves if they tried to knock it out of his hand.

If he wanted to be flashy and draw everyone’s attention to himself, then his chainsaw was the perfect tool to induce terror and create mass chaos.

But the daggers were more personal, a method to convey his hatred and deliver vengeance to everyone who wronged him. Yet a simple stab wound wouldn’t even make them feel a fraction of the pain they’d put him through.

He’d have to build up a weapon collection, but for now, this would do.

He dragged the knife along the table, the counter, the wall, and across any solid object in reach as he left the kitchen, leaving behind a horrid, shrill screech and thin white scars along every obstacle in his path.

There was only one place left to visit before he burned down this dump for good.

He had some cash stuffed somewhere in his bedroom. It wasn’t McSuck’s Money Bin, nor did he plan to pay for his fix at the next mom and pop convenience store he passed, but having a little greenery was better than nothing.

He plunged his dagger into the underside of his mattress, lifting it into the air. There was a small collection of torn, crumpled bills and dull pennies. In this economy, the paltry amount wouldn’t cover the cost of a single stick of gum.

But it would be a useful lure. Money was a powerful motivator for any poor, desperate sap.

He snatched up the cash and shoved it into his pocket, letting the mattress slam against the frame. But the dagger remained wedged inside, forcing him to brace his foot against the side of the bed as he yanked the stubborn blade out.

Finally, the knife yielded to his demands and came out of the mattress. He cursed and lost his balance, tumbling onto his back. His elbow smacked against the leg of his bedside table.

The booze and painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet, so it still felt like some asshole set his arm ablaze.

A picture frame that was perched precariously on the edge wobbled before falling onto his kneecap, as if he hadn’t dealt with enough insults to his injuries. He snatched up the frame with the intent of hurling it out the window, but a splash of color caught his eye before he could follow through.

Within the cracked glass, there was an old drawing of-

The frame slipped out of his hands and fell to the ground. A wave of dizziness overtook him, one that he couldn’t quite chalk up to the alcohol in his system.

He was hunched over the drawing, his hands and knees on the floor like a pathetic beggar, the heroic gaze of a duck clad in purple boring through him.

A forgotten memory resurfaced from a decade long past. He’d been at the peak of his career then, the brightest star in the night sky, one that was impossible to miss.

He saw a small, timid duckling with an awkward bill that was too large for his face. Who looked up to him with adoring, shining eyes, like he’d created the entire world from scratch.

A voice, tiny yet filled with powerful determination, proclaiming his life’s dream.

“When I’m bigger, I’m gonna be a hero just like you!”

The duckling became an adult. Young, bright-eyed, and hopelessly naive to the true nature of his chosen career path.

“We’ve had our arguments. I…I know I said things I regret. But I just want you to know, you were my inspiration growing up, Dad. That’s why I’m playing Darkwing now. I’m gonna show this new generation who Darkwing Duck really is, a beacon of hope in the darkness! If a kid falls on hard times, they can look to Darkwing Duck to help them stand up and keep fighting! So come work on the movie with me! Let’s inspire everyone, together!”

His son was nothing more than a filthy traitor, an awful impostor, a cunning thief who stole his entire life, identity, and legacy.

If that backstabber wanted to become a superhero so badly, so be it. But he would have to lose those ridiculous ideals and morals about inspiring people and helping them stand on their own.

Rage boiled in the pit of his stomach, his fingers tightening around the knife’s hilt.

If his son wanted to be a bleeding heart and help people so badly, then why couldn’t he have started with his own father?

His knife ripped through Darkwing Duck, destroying his image forever.

End AN: This AU is still a tragedy for the relationship between Jim Starling and Drake Mallard. But while Drake eventually becomes a hero and adds LP and Gosalyn to his family, Jim can’t see past the end of his own beak and still becomes Negaduck in the end.

Drake had a fallout with Jim in his late high school/college years because Jim wasn’t taking care of himself and couldn’t let go of his glory years as Darkwing Duck. Jim started drinking to cope and shut out any attempts to help from Drake and his old coworkers. Jim also developed health issues later on, partially because of his unhealthy lifestyle and because of the injuries he accumulated during the original run of DWD. That said, Drake still loves his dad and wants to reconcile with him, but Jim keeps ignoring him.

As much as I love The Duck Knight Returns, one nitpick I have with the episode is that the main characters don’t find out about the movie until the day the episode takes place, and Boorswan states that the production is almost finished. I can believe that Darkwing First Darkness most likely ran on extremely tight budget constraints and didn’t have a lot in the way of promotional materials and advertising due to Scrooge McDuck being the head executive. But with Launchpad being the DWD superfan, I believe that if there were any news at all of Darkwing getting its own reboot movie, he’d be following all updates on the movie religiously and talking everyone’s ears off about it.

I can excuse Jim Starling for not finding out about the movie straight away. In this AU, Drake tried to tell him about being scouted and his plans to audition for DWD, but Starling wouldn’t listen and later accused Drake of hiding all this info from him. Throughout the movie’s production, Drake tried to contact Starling and update him about happenings on the set, advice on his stunts, and sometimes just wanting to know how he’s doing, but Starling never picked up the phone and didn’t speak to Drake until LP brought him to the studio to watch the filming of the climax.

#ducktales 2017 #jim starling #drake mallard #son of darkwing au #darkwing duck fanfiction #tw alcohol #tw implied substance abuse #warning for profanity

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