The Last True Hero
by Amanda Rohrssen
Chapter Seven
Small, echoing plops broke the stillness of the forlorn cell. Four cold, wet walls gleamed dully in the green light that illuminated the room from above. There was no door, no window. The smell of blood, sweat, and urine hung thickly in the air combined with a faint electronic humming.
Darkwing reluctantly opened his eyes and waited for his vision to clear. Slowly he drew a breath, only to have his throat constricted when the nauseating stench met his nostrils. He groaned and rolled onto his back, a dull ache throbbing insistently across his ribs. Grudgingly he sat up and grimaced at the flashes of pain ripping through his body, then he drew in a few greedy gulps of air and waited for his head to clear.
How did I get here? he wondered. ...Negaduck. No, one of those things. Where am I, anyway?
“Well," he declared, pushing aside his pain as he rose, "there's only one way to find out." From his suit pocket he removed his magnifying glass and began inspecting his prison carefully. "Hmmmm," he mused aloud as he studied the floor, "no evidence of a trap door...no cracks in the rocks...it looks like whoever wants to keep me here knows how to cover their tracks." Dramatically he brandished his cape with a wry smile. "But they don't know they're dealing with the one and only Darkwing Duck!" He bent and examined the walls. "If I came in, there has to be a way out! Stone walls do not a prison make..." An irregular pattern carved into one of the sodden walls caught his eye. With a feathered finger Darkwing traced the grooves thoughtfully and raised an eyebrow. Why take the time to decorate a prison cell with patterns if it was only used to hold people captive?
He put away his magnifying glass, as it hadn't revealed any helpful information, and stared at the wall, trying to solve its hidden secret. Many theories crossed his mind before he decided to try and move each stone individually, searching for a trigger or doorknob amongst them.
Hours passed.
Darkwing's stomach roared angrily. He was beginning to feel a little weak, but he forced himself to keep his mind off of food and on escape. Each failed attempt to unveil any breakthrough added to his already sinking morale.
"How do I get outta here?!" he moaned. The wall glared back at him in haughty silence. "Well," he sighed, "I'll just have to move on to Plan B." That said, Darkwing sprang into action, punching and kicking the wall at random. It wasn't long before he was overcome with despair. His knees buckled and a wave of hopelessness washed over him as he fell to the floor. Lost in self-pity, he remembered how Bushroot had saved him from the Fearsome Four and the thanks he had given him. "My stupid pride. I should have listened to Bushroot. He may be a crazed felon, but he has helped me before. Now the citizens of St. Canard are doomed and it's all my fault. I should have seen it coming sooner. Launchpad NEVER makes perfect landings!" He heaved a sigh, his shoulders slumping as he exhaled. "Now what am I supposed to do?"
As if to answer his question, the lines winding along the wall suddenly glowed a fierce white, giving it the appearance of a jigsaw puzzle. Dumbfounded, Darkwing rose slowly to his feet, his jaw nearly hitting the floor. Beams of light streaked across his feathered features like frozen ripples and, as if in a trance, he stepped toward the wall. Gently he stretched forth his fingers and felt the grimy hardness, but as soon as he applied pressure, his fingers passed right through it. He inhaled sharply and yanked his hand back. Carefully he studied his fingers. They appeared to be okay...
With a deep breath, he clenched his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and stepped through the stone wall.
A gush of wind met him on the other side, nearly knocking him to the ground and blowing his fedora off of his head. He latched onto it protectively and braced his feet against the gust until it died just as suddenly as it began.
Cautiously he studied the outside. A long, brightly lit corridor curved out of view on either side of him. It was lined with a mirror-like metal on both sides and the metallic floor had been sculpted with dozens of small holes like that of a fire escape. Curious, he turned back to the wall he'd just walked through. His reflection stared back at him from a steel wall that merged in with the rest of the hallway as if no room existed behind it at all. Not the least bit surprised, he turned and steadily crept down the left passageway and prayed that he wouldn't run into any aliens until he could figure out how to get rid of them.
The metal tunnel ran on for ages and Darkwing nearly went crazy searching for a way out. He began to suspect he had been walking in circles. Just when he was about to break out his buzz saw cufflinks to try and cut a way through the tunnel, it fanned out into a vast chasm. From where Darkwing was standing it stretched out at least a mile in all directions. The vast metallic expanse was connected by a spider web of catwalks that twisted and turned toward every inch of the chamber. Darkwing tried to determine the number of levels, but kept getting lost in the jungle of paths. He shook his head to clear it then noticed almost directly across from him another large passageway diagonal to the one he'd just entered from that ran farther back into the ship. He tried to see as far as he could into it. It was considerably smaller in width than the one he was in now, and it didn't have any catwalks that he could make out. There was no sign of the aliens.
Anxiously he continued along the side of the walkway, suspecting that the aliens would ambush him at any minute. Ahead and to his right, yet another gigantic hallway's entrance came into view. This one was directly across from the one he’d seen earlier. Together these corridors formed one large cross.
Unless I miss my guess, this is the middle of the ship! Darkwing hypothesized as he neared the entranceway.
This new chamber was lined with thick beams that were carved intricately with the same pattern he had seen in his cell. He inched toward the corner, his back pressed against the wall. Slowly, he leaned his head over to make sure the coast was clear in the adjoining chamber.
A blaze of orange-yellow flashed in front of him and he toppled backward in surprise, a strangled shout escaping from him.
It was a small ball of fire suspended in the air. A torch. Darkwing raised an eyebrow. Who would need a torch in a well-lit place like this?
His eyes widened when they glimpsed the torch's owner and he scrambled to his feet.
“Bushroot," he hissed, still unsure of the aliens' whereabouts.
The plant-duck let out a startled cry, but relaxed when he recognized him.
Darkwing eyed the criminal scientist warily. "What are you doing here?"
Bushroot squared his shoulders. "I- I'm helping them escape," he declared.
Darkwing raised an eyebrow and looked past the plant duck, a look of utter and complete surprise overcoming his face.
A seemingly endless throng of people stood behind Bushroot, looking like a sea of ghosts in the eerie, dim light.
“H-how did you . . . ?” Darkwing started, still too overcome with disbelief to form the rest of his question.
Bushroot held up the torch.
“I used this. They don’t like fire, and neither do the walls.” He raised the flame to one of the walls along the passageway and it shrank back in a frantic ripple of silvery metal.
“That’s it?!” burst the mallard. “That’s their weakness?! Then why didn’t the army, o-or the police, or SHUSH-“
“They were all taken over before anyone even knew what was going on,” Bushroot replied. “Say, how did you get out if you didn’t know about the fire?”
Darkwing paused, tapping a finger on his lower bill.
“I’m not sure . . .but I think it had to do with these weird patterns carved on the cell walls. Like those!” As if eager to prove he wasn’t lying, Darkwing pointed up at the strip of carved runes lining the top of the walkway they were all standing in.
“Gee, I wonder what those-"
Bushroot was cut off when a shrill, high-pitched squealing pierced the air. Everyone covered their ears and grimaced in pain.
“What’s that?!” shouted Darkwing over the din.
“I-I don’t know!” the mutant returned. Quickly he jerked the torch into the nearest person’s hand. “Follow that walkway down to the end, then use this to get everyone out!”
The man didn’t have to be told twice. Immediately he charged off in the direction Bushroot had pointed, the rest of the populace close on his heels.
The plant duck made his way over to the caped crusader, now having to yell above both the shriek of the alarm and the thudding of numerous pairs of feet.
“We have to blow up this ship! It’s the only way!”
“Well,” Darkwing replied with a snide sneer, “thanks for the info, Dr. State-the-Obvious, but the question is how are we going to do it?”
“Here!” Bushroot shoved some tiny metallic balls into his hand, ignoring the rudeness in the duck’s tone of voice. “I’ll put some on this side, and you do that side!”
“But what are these-"
“Bombs!”
“And how do I-"
“Trust me! Here’s the detonator if you don’t believe me.” Bushroot thrust a tiny silver rectangle into his hand. “I’ll meet you back outside with the others!”
“How are we supposed to get-"
The botanist extended a long piece of wood toward him. Another torch.
“But how do I-"
A lighter came next.
Darkwing frowned. “Cut that out!” He grabbed hold of everything Bushroot had given him, his arms nearly full.
“Any more questions?” Bushroot asked with the slight hint of amusement in his eyes. Another torch had appeared in his hand along with a lighter gripped in the other.
The hero shook his head.
“Do you trust me now?”
Darkwing turned the cold metal detonator over in his fingers, but the wailing siren didn’t allow him much time to deliberate. He nodded swiftly, then hesitated before shifting everything to one arm and putting a hand on Bushroot’s shoulder.
“I misjudged you Bushroot . . . and I’m sorry.”
The plant duck smiled gratefully and nodded. “Hey, I knew you’d come around!” He turned around the corner and raced down the catwalk, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll see you outside!”
Facing the corridor Bushroot had appeared from, Darkwing gripped the group of little bombs against his chest and set off with a grim expression, the siren still whining overhead.
It wasn’t until a few moments later that an unsettled feeling crept into his gut. Why haven’t I seen any aliens yet? Don’t they hear their own blasted alarm?
What felt like hours later, Darkwing placed the second to last ball in the nook where one of the metallic columns jutting from the wall joined the floor. Glancing about him warily, he rose to his feet and clutched the remaining ball tightly in his fist. The siren had ceased shrieking a while ago and still he had seen no sign of anyone since Bushroot had departed.
Just where were they at? Could they turn invisible now, too?
Someone giggled.
Darkwing whirled around, startled. His eyes widened. “Gosalyn?”
The red-head grinned mischievously at him before racing away, calling over her shoulder, “Can’t catch me, Dad!”
“Gosalyn?” he repeated, thoughts of anything else flying from his mind at the sight of her. She was okay! “Gosalyn! Come back! This isn’t the time for games, I have to get you out of here!”
At once he took off after her, chasing her down zigzagging pathways into darker and darker territory as they neared a doorway that looked to Darkwing like the entrance to a black void.
“Gosalyn, stop!” he shouted, just as her pigtails vanished through the door and into the darkness. Skidding to a stop just outside of the doorframe, the masked mallard peered into it cautiously. Barely audible footsteps echoed softly from within. Darkwing took a slow, deep breath before stepping into the nothingness.