“Life After Earth”
Chapter Two: Burning Bridges
When you cried,
I’d wipe away all of your tears.
When you’d
scream, I’d fight away all of your fears.
I held your hand through all of these
years,
But you still have…
—“I never thought
I’d say this,” Nosedive laughed softly, mystified by the dying sunlight
lingering about the horizon.
“What?” An
equally quiet voice asked. Wildwing draped on arm over his brother’s shoulders,
drawing him closer.
The teen sighed
helplessly and laid his head on his big brother’s arm. “I’m going to miss
Earth.”
Wildwing chuckled
as a warm breeze blew his hair across his maskless face, and he turned toward
his brother fondly. “You know, I’d never thought I’d be agreeing with you.”
Nosedive snorted,
his bang brushing across his eyes. “Life wasn’t so bad here, you know? I mean,
besides from the zealots, crazed maniacs, out-of-whack scientists, and the
occasional invasion from the centuries-dead-bloodthirsty lizards, it wasn’t
that bad.”
“You forgot
kidnapping aliens whose either names rhymed or forced us to play a barbaric
version of hockey.”
Nosedive rolled
his eyes and grimaced. “How could I have forgotten the huge bug that tried to
squash me or the humongo salad that almost ate me? By the way, I’m a total
carnivore now.”
A brief laugh
escaped Wildwing’s beak before he sighed heavily. “The Atkins Diet, baby bro? I
thought you knew better than to clog your arteries.”
Nosedive elbowed
him slightly in the stomach, gaining a smile from his older brother. Looking
toward the subsequent night, Wildwing grew serious. “Hey, little brother?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you ever
regret joining the Resistance and coming to Earth?”
Nosedive remained
silent and just laid contently against his older brother. Wildwing peeked down
at him, realizing the tense pensive expression upon his brother’s face. He
didn’t push. The answer came so stellar after a few silent minutes that it
caught the older brother off guard.
A whisper. “Are
you?”
“…Depends,”
Wildwing retorted hesitantly.
“On what?”
He shrugged
noncommittally. “Whether you would have come or not.”
Nosedive lifted
his head from Wildwing’s shoulder and stared straight in his brother’s eyes.
“Are you saying that you have regretted all this—being able to be the next
Drake DuCaine, being able to save two planets from utter destruction, being
able to stop the most ruthless being that ever lived!— just because I wasn’t
here?”
A wistful smile
crept onto Wildwing’s face, and he nodded thoughtfully, “Yup.”
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
“You didn’t need
me,” the younger brother conveyed, dejected, but truthfully. “Half the time I
just got in the way; not to mention, I practically got killed by Mallory every
day.”
“You’re never in
the way, Nosedive,” Wildwing proclaimed matter-of-factly, boring his sincere
eyes into his brother’s, then tussling the youth’s hair. “And I’ll always need
you.” He shrugged and feigned annoyance. “Now, saving you from Mallory’s
clutches…yeah, I should have just let that happen!”
“WILDWING!”—
All of me…
—“Wildwing!”
Canard harshly whispered, elbowing his best friend in the stomach.
Wildwing awoke
from his sleep with a start, jumping in his chair and blinking wildly. “Huh?
Wha—?”
Canard motioned
with a frown toward the female lieutenant in the doorway, folder in hand, eyes
narrowed furiously at Wildwing. “The General will see you now.” She snapped
before turning on her high heel and clicking through the doorway.
Rolling his eyes
exasperatingly, Wildwing stood and forced himself to follow her, though he
really wished at the moment to be anywhere but the Capital’s—and planet’s
main—military base. However, after vast contemplation—three whole seconds of
listening to his father—about what career to follow now that he was back from
Earth, Wildwing had decided to at least let General Ganderflock state his case.
If General Featherburn was right, as his father normally was, the military was
very interested in recruiting the former leader of the Mighty Ducks, the person
who had orchestrated almost the entire resistance against Dragaunus.
Huh. That was
supposed to mean something, wasn’t it? Wildwing mused as he turned the bend,
mildly entertaining the idea of mimicking the lieutenant’s stringent turn. He
didn’t, realizing that the military wasn’t where humor was appreciated.
The military…Fighting
against Dragaunus ironically only involved one military personnel, and it
wasn’t he. So, why join now? Even thinking about the fight, he felt an
emptiness. It didn’t hold such a close place to his heart as it once did. Maybe
now that he was back on Puckworld, it didn’t matter what he once did. Maybe now
that he was actually going to enlist in the military, he didn’t care for it,
considering the Legion and the Mighty Ducks had two different protocols and
sanctions. If his time with Mallory and her training and restrictions and input
on procedure had told him, it was that he didn’t want to be in the military if
it meant that fighting for freedom and for what was right took second to
following the orders that were, at times, more restricting than useful and were
only implemented so that someone could enact his/her authority and power over
another.
Canard hit him
lightly on the shoulder and offered a reassuring smile. It was the same smile
his best friend had given him all his life when he had doubted his skills or
something to that nature. But he wasn’t doubting his skills now, nor was he
even caring if he was taken by the Legion. All he cared about was—
He stopped in mid
thought and crossed his arms. He looked away from Canard, not being to see his
best friend’s gaze, but knowing that it had changed to the pitiful glare that
Canard sent him when his best friend didn’t think he could see. He laughed
dryly internally for a moment. Like that really changed anything, buddy.
“You always said
Canard was bright. How, I’ll never know.”
Wildwing stopped
dead in his track; his heart froze. He held his breath.
“You okay,
buddy?” Canard’s voice demanded, tainted with more than just concern.
Swallowing hard,
Wildwing took a deep breath, the sweet air reviving his lungs as he slowly
turned to Canard. His hands shook violently as he grasped them in fists. “Tell
me you heard it.” His weak voice begged.
Canard eyed him
nervously, as though he had been expecting the question, but spoke in the
calmest of tones. “Heard what?”
Wildwing looked
toward the lieutenant, regarding her fearful face only as a side thought,
before looking behind him.
Oh, God…no one.
He shook his head
and looked up from the floor with trepidation. “Canard, I could have sworn I
just heard—”
“Featherburn!”
General Ganderflock called, feigned with courteous greetings. “Come in, why
don’t you?”
A chill shivered
up his spine, and Wildwing felt it.
Whatever it
was…there…it was there…
He stared to the
left of Canard, but there was only an empty space. He sighed deeply, the rush
in his body dwindling. It was nothing. He was imagining things…
With a slight
wince, he ignored Canard’s alarmed face and strode into the office. Canard shut
the door behind him as Wildwing shook the general’s hand forcibly before taking
a seat in front of Ganderflock’s desk. Canard exchanged a salute from the
general instead of a handshake and took a seat after being “At eased.”
“Well, well,
well, Featherburn. Finally deciding to follow in your father’s footsteps, I see,”
the General commented wryly. He opened the folder from the Lieutenant and
reviewed the contents.
“Not truly by
choice, General, but I honestly don’t know what the hell to do with my life now
that I’m back,” Wildwing articulated with a fleeting smirk.
“War has changed
the civilian,” decreed Ganderflock with a satisfied smirk.
Wildwing
disagreed. “War changes everyone involved, sir.”
“And makes some
into makeshift heroes.”
Canard furled an
eyebrow, but said nothing. He didn’t have to. Wildwing, even after these past
three months, had not lost his touch.
“A hero is
nothing more than a person who does the right thing,” the leader of the Mighty
Ducks informed sourly, “and a true hero doesn’t want to be a ‘hero.’ He/she
simply wants to be a good person and by doing so, ironically makes
himself/herself one.”
Ganderflock
nodded pensively, dropping the folder to the desk, and leaned back in his
chair, crossing his arms. “Then that is how you would describe your brother?”
Wildwing’s body
immediately tensed, his hatred-filled eyes baring into Ganderflock’s. He
growled through clenched teeth, “Leave my brother out of this.” His grating
tone left no room for argument.
“Still hurts, doesn’t it?” The general
taunted, not even attempting to hid his smirk. He ignored the heavy breathing
that huffed from Wildwing and the piercing glare that tried to burn a hole
through his own cold eyes. “The number one reason why brothers aren’t put in
the same regiment and the number two reason why children aren’t allowed in the Legion. They’re too much hassle and
aren’t able enough to survive. Weaklings, are they not?”
Gripping
Wildwing’s arm, Canard restrained his best friend the best he could without
actually holding him back…not that he actually wanted to. “Sir, Nosedive wasn’t
a weakling,” he retorted sharply. “The boy was strong willed and able-bodied.
It was Dragaunus’s bomb and the crash that killed him.”
“Or was it lack
of leadership?”
Silence.
The fury in
Wildwing burned at his soul as he balled his fists, his heartbeat racing, his
breath ragged. He spoke no louder than a whisper. “Are you blaming me for my
brother’s death?”
The general
leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk. “As leader, you
are responsible for the safety of your team; are you not?”
Closing his eyes
briefly, Wildwing couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in his stomach. “…Yes.” He
answered tentatively.
“One of your team
members died; did they not?”
“General—” Canard
interrupted, only to be chastised.
“This is between
me and Featherburn, Bronzeplume! STAY OUT OF IT!”
Wildwing’s
breathing escalated as cold sweat dripped down his forehead. “General
Ganderflock—”
“Answer the
question!”
“Sir, I…—” He stopped suddenly, holding his breath and
staring at the disgruntled general before him. His eyes brimming with tears, he
shook his head dolefully. “Nosedive was
not only my responsibility as leader, but also as his older brother. I should
have protected him better as well as anticipated my enemy’s next move.” He
confessed softly.
“WILDWING!”
Canard protested. “How can you—”
“However,”
Wildwing’s voice rose volumes as it hardened. “My brother was never a burden to
the team.” His teeth grounded out every word threateningly. “If you believe
that, then you never knew my brother or his capabilities. Then you did not know
the strengths and weaknesses of your persons and that, General, is your downfall as a leader.”
The general
clapped prosaically. “Good speech, Featherburn, a very good speech. I suspect
you will give it at the Retired Leaders Convention, considering you will not be
doing it from behind a desk here.”
“No,” Wildwing
jabbed with a lopsided smile. “I’ll be giving it at the Gala next week when
Puckworld not only honors my team and me, but also my ‘makeshift hero’ brother.”
This took
Ganderflock by surprise. “Really? I was under the impression you’d be too
distraught to address the adoring people.” A sly smile etched itself onto his
beak. “Even if you are arguably Puckworld’s greatest hero, I didn’t think you
would be able to get over your brother’s funeral from the night before.”
Wildwing’s heart
stopped beating. A coldness seeped into his being.
Canard pushed
himself to the edge of his seat and demanded, “What the hell are you talking
about?!”
“What? General
Featherburn didn’t inform you?” Ganderflock leered, picking up a Styrofoam cup
from the side of his desk and holding to his beak. “I guess he completely
forgot. After all, I did just receive notice yesterday.” He took a satisfied
sip.
Wildwing just
stared at him, horrified.
—A flash of
lightning, the rumble of thunder, the Puckworld “warm” season hail pelted the
ground, his body, and the—
—Another blast of
heat, the wind pounding, the alarm blaring, the scream, the bloodcurdling
scream…
*GASP* —
It droned over
and droned over and over and over. It didn’t cease. It didn’t end. It never
did.
Wildwing scowled
at the general and let out the last three months of pent up anger, three months
of unending void, three months of burning…—
You used to captivate me
With your resonating light.
Now I’m bound by the life you left behind.
—The door smashed
against the wall, bringing a start to the encompassed general. Not so much as
cringing, the general shot from his chair and twisted his head toward the
supposed “no entry” door as he reached around his body toward his weapon. Two
armed military personnel officers crashed onto his desk, splashing papers
everywhere. Hand on puck launcher, he blinked in shock at the fully battle
geared duck, standing in the doorway.
Fierce blue eyes
focused with destructive rage upon the figure.
“Why didn’t you
tell me?” Wildwing bit off through clenched teeth.
General
Featherburn’s body lost tension as he stared back at his disgruntled son. “This
is neither the time nor the place, Wildwing.” He proclaimed sharply.
A gauntleted fist
slammed down against table. “I’m making the time and the place!” Wildwing
exasperated, tears brimming his blazing eyes. “You told the entire military
before you told me!”
“Wildwing,” the
general sighed deeply, sinking into his seat and ignoring the unconscious
person on his desk. “Please, this is a delicate matter.”
“ ‘Delicate?’ So
delicate that you couldn’t even tell you own son, the person-in-question’s brother!?”
“Wildwing—”
“And above that
little, overlooked detail, you promised me the funeral wouldn’t be until I was
ready!”
“It’s been three
months, Wildwing!” Wilder Featherburn pierced back, regaining his military
stance. “Recovery won’t hold the body any longer! There was nothing I could
do!”
“You’re the
chairperson of the Executive Generals! You couldn’t have made an order, an
exception!?”
“Until when?” was
the flat response.
Wildwing’s beak
dropped open, and his eyes widened. Leaning away from the desk, he breathed
demoralized, “Excuse me?”
The general’s rigid poise faded until all that was left was a
despairing father—drooping, black bags under his eyes, dull blue irises, a pale
and languid complexion. Striding around his desk, he came to his son’s side and
rested a comforting hand on Wildwing’s shoulder. “Until when, Wildwing? Two
weeks from now? Three weeks? Six months? Will you be ready then?”
Wildwing grunted as he shook his head in disgust, “You can’t
just—”
“You’re never going to be ready, Wildwing,” Dad Featherburn
asserted forlornly. “You and I both know that.”
“That is for me to decide! You can’t tell me when I’ll be ready
and when I won’t, and you have no right—”
“And you have no right to deny him
the most sacred of rights!”
“What!?”
Taking hold of Wildwing’s gauntleted hands, Dad Featherburn sighed
and opened his beak, though no words followed. Finally, as the strength
depreciated to tears, he murmured, “Wildwing, I know this is hard, unfathomable even, and all you want
right now is stop it—the pain, the scream, everything. But…it’s never going to
get easier. Time, it doesn’t heal all wounds, especially those with whom you
are the closest, and when you love someone as much as you love your brother,
the pain…it will never leave. Today,
tomorrow, two weeks from Tuesday, it will always remain here.” He released one of his son’s hands and laid it upon
Wildwing’s heart. “Where you held Nosedive.
“But this…this isn’t right. Nosedive deserves the right to be
buried, to rest in peace, and not to be held in purgatory because the one person
whom he loved the most denies him eternity.”
Wildwing wrenched away. “You just want to dismiss him, get him out
of your life!”
“You know that isn’t true!” Dad Featherburn fumed, but quickly
recoiled. “This isn’t fair to him,
Wildwing, and it’s not fair to you.”
“Fair to me?”
“He’s gone, Wildwing. Ignoring him won’t change that. You have to
move on. Accept it.” His father grabbed both his shoulders and stared directly
into Wildwing’s fading blue eyes. “It’s time, Wildwing…”
Wildwing tore away and glowered at his father in absolute horror.
The general held firmly.
“It’s time to let go.”
Shaking his head in denial, Wildwing gripped his trembling hands,
then fled.
Hours later, sitting in the dark, General Featherburn held a
picture of his sons in his hand, his thumb rubbing up and down against the
glass. “You’re not the only one, Wildwing.” His father growled to himself.
“You’re not the only one.”
Your face it haunts
My once pleasant dreams.
— Vigorously, he
pumped his legs harder, pushed off his left skater quickly, then crossed his
right leg over his left stringently. Anything to get him farther away from his
father, General Ganderflock…it all!
He glided across
He stopped
curtly, his hands falling into fists at his sides. The howl of the wind blew
through the darkened, empty city. He pleaded to the sky.
“Why must it be
this way?” He beseeched softly, a solemn tone. Swallowing, he held back the
tears that threatened to fall.
Fallen snow
gusted up from the ground, encircling the duck. The small flakes flurried down
as the harsh wind ceased, the frozen water gently sprinkling Wildwing.
Focusing upon the
flurries, he recalled how his little brother had missed snow on Earth and how
much he truly enjoyed the ice season.
It tore at his
heart.
“WHY?” He demanded, his eyes blazing at
the silent heavens. He raised his shaking fists. “WHY DID YOU TAKE HIM?”
A blinding light
shone directly into his eyes, cutting off his tirade. He muttered a curse
before blinking a few times to regain his vision. He froze in utter elation and
terror.
The Corner Pizzeria…
He gasped a
shivering breath and clutched his heart. Narrowing his disbelieving eyes,
Wildwing knew it couldn’t be true. He had to be dreaming.
The light was on
at this late hour. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the person behind
the counter…
Long blonde hair,
about five foot seven, dressed in teal shirt and denim jeans, an apron about
his waist…
It was his
brother.
“NOSEDIVE!” He beckoned, frantically skating across the
road.
It can’t be… It
just can’t be…
As the person
turned around and Wildwing touched the sidewalk, the lights of the shop snapped
off. The person was engulfed by the darkness.
“No…” He
whispered, slamming his palms flat onto the window of the closed shop. “NO!”
Desperately sobbing, he slowly dragged his hands down the window, wincing.
Gradually forming fists, he pounded the glass relentlessly.
“NO! YOU CAN’T DO
THIS! DON’T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS!”
In one punch, he
broke through the window, shattering it utterly.
He scrambled away
as the shreds fell, covering the street and the interior booths. The alarm
blared in his ears.—
Your voice it chased away
All the sanity in me…
—He cautiously
flexed his fingers, wincing at the pain that ensued. Masochistic he wasn’t,
Wildwing promptly stopped the movement.
He pulled himself haggardly into a sitting position. Rubbing his right
hand with his left, he suddenly scowled in pain at the shreds of glass that had
imbedded themselves into his knuckles. If he had only been wearing his
gauntlets…
Shaking off the
once more flowing blood, he stood and scanned the almost empty alley. In the
morn’s light, it was all too familiar to him.
As much as he willed himself not to, images of times that he, his
brother, and Canard had ventured out early to shoot here before school forced
themselves into his mind.
A ghost of a
smile found its way onto Wildwing’s face. To the far left lied the once
makeshift goal net—two metal barrels—on their sides, bent and dented, even
burned from what looked like Saurian blasts.
Most of garage doors were exploded through, leaving only jagged shreds
of metal, probably from the lizards looking for more slaves to capture. He noticed with alarmed vigor the dark navy
vest, abandoned in the far corner, stained by blood. It reminded him so much of
his little brother’s…the same vest that the teen had worn the day that Wildwing
had been wrong…
“Drake DuCaine
was the greatest duck to ever quack! Flat out!”
Wildwing sighed
deeply. He couldn’t have just heard
that. He tried to tell himself that. First the general’s office, the Pizzeria,
now here? Was his brother stalking him?
Slowly, he turned
on his heel…
…no one was there.
His heart slowed
from its rapid thumping as despair once more sunk into the pit of his stomach.
A brief, musing thought flashed through Wildwing’s mind—I’m going crazy.
*BANG!*
He twirled toward
the garbage cans—one of them suddenly bouncing across the ice surface, sliding
to a stop against the alley wall.
No…it couldn’t
be…
A laugh behind
him—
—He twisted fast—
—A teal blur
disappeared!
He spun upon his
skates, imploringly encompassing the whole alley. Please…please…
Empty.
Then who—? He had
heard the voice; that much he was sure. He knew it…better than his anyone’s,
better than his own.
He never thought
he would hear it again.
His thoughts
ricocheted to his brother in the window last night. Was someone trying to drive
him crazy, or was he already there?
No, he finally
resigned, sparing the alley one seething gaze. His brother was…was…
*SMACK!*
Wildwing opened
his eyes and lifted his head. As if in slow motion, he twirled about on his
skate. He met his adversary with a flick of his hand, directing the vulcanized
rubber onto the ice, away from himself and the makeshift goal.
“Always the
greatest goalie, huh, Drake?”
Cocking his head
to the side, Wildwing shook his hand slightly to elevate the stinging. “What
are you doing here?”
“Didn’t think I’d
ever come here again,” Canard replied as he skated into the alley. He whistled
softly at the damage. “You know, the Saurians couldn’t leave one thing
untouched. Horrible manners.” He said with a grin. “I came to get you; thank
you very much. After you punched General Ganderflock and ran out, I found your
dad, and well…I’ve been following your trail ever since.”
“I’m fine. I just
went for a walk,” Wildwing growled.
“And a break-in at
the Corner Pizzeria,” Canard interjected lightheartedly.
Wildwing adverted
his glare and crossed his arms. “You don’t understand.”
Nodding
thoughtfully, his best friend countered, “You’re right. I don’t know what
you’re going through.” He shrugged indifferently. Though his body manner didn’t
change, his voice lowered gravely. “I just knew the kid for twelve years. I
just watched out for him, helped him to shoot better, picked him up from
practice, and taught him fractions. Heck, why would I be hurting?”
Eyes blazing,
blood boiling, Wildwing snapped hoarsely and unforgivably at Canard, “How dare
you?”
“Wildwing—”
“Don’t.” Wildwing
threatened coldly. “You have no idea
what I’m going through.” His clenched beak bit out each word as if it could
pierce his friend just as much as he was hurting. Disgusted, he skated pass
Canard and toward the entrance.
Face hard, Canard
twirled his stick in the air, smacking Wildwing directly in the gut,
successfully collapsing the other mallard to his knees. “Will you just listen
for two seconds, huh? I know I don’t have an inkling as to what you’re going
through, but…” He sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck. “Your dad’s
right. You have to let go.” He tried to hold back his emotions, but his voice
betrayed him. “Wildwing, it’s hard to comprehend and even harder to accept,
but…God, Wing. Nosedive’s gone. The kid’s dead,” he strained, as if finally realizing the veracity of his
statement. His own tears brushed his
face as he shunned away, his shoulders trembling.
Wildwing shook
his head in disbelief as he focused unkindly at the ice. A horrible, searing
pain writhed through his veins, burning at his soul. He breathed raggedly, his
hands slowly forming fists on the ice. He squeezed his eyes shut against the resurgent
memories.
The
bloodcurdling scream!
“NO!” Wildwing
shrilled as if to stop the shriek, but it didn’t end. It just kept screaming,
blasting his ears, tearing at his heart.
He pushed off the ice and whirled toward his best friend. Not even
caring to notice Canard’s own tears, Wildwing lunged, pinning his best friend
against the alley wall, pressing his elbow directly into the other’s throat.
Canard gagged
from lack of air, his face flushing into dark shades of pink, red, and purple.
“Wild…
wing…” He croaked, but to no reprieve.
“He’s not gone,
Canard!” Wildwing snapped.
Clawing
desperately at Wildwing’s grip, Canard tried to alleviate the force that
deprived him of precious life.
“I won’t believe
it!” A mad look overcame Wildwing’s usual calm eyes, and hysteria infiltrated
his voice. “You, my father, General Ganderflock, you’re all wrong!”
Face red, lungs
screaming for air, Canard gripped his stick hard and stabbed it with force into
Wildwing’s stomach. Instantly Wildwing’s hold loosened, while the stick
clattered to the ice. Throwing down the captive arm, Canard punched his best
friend in the face. “Nosedive left us!”
He growled, his voice gruff. “He’s not coming back!” Clasping his arms around
his Wildwing’s waist, Canard forced him to the ground.
The air was
forced from Wildwing’s lungs.
—*GASP*
He reached out,
his arm stretched so far that it hurt. The metal constriction dug deeper into
his stomach, but he pushed past the pain. That wasn’t important. He had to get
to his brother…his dying brother…
— His eyes welled
with tears as Wildwing punched out with his left fist, connecting with Canard’s
beak. A knee to the stomach, his best friend was thrown off of him and wheezing
from the sudden lack of air. Slowly, the tears trickled down his flustered
cheeks as Wildwing regained his footing. “You have no idea what you’re talking
about!”
Pulling himself
haggardly to his feet with a quick shake of the head, Canard leveled,
“Wildwing, listen to me!” He ducked the punch that was aimed at his head and
countered with an uppercut to the jaw, sending Wildwing stumbling backwards.
“Nosedive is
dead!” He spurted brokenly. “Nothing you
do will ever change that!”
Elbowing his best
friend in the face, Wildwing swore, “He can’t me leave! This isn’t over! He
knows that!”
Blood trickled
from Canard’s jaw, as he lunged once more at Wildwing. “It’s hurts,
okay?! But you have to accept it!”
Grabbing Canard’s
fist in one hand, Wildwing swung his leg around, kicking his best friend in the
stomach.
“You don’t know
the puck of it!”
Wildwing followed
his kick, lunging at his best friend. Holding his midsection, grimacing in
pain, Canard inhaled sharply and straightened his body. He ducked the attack punch from Wildwing and
retaliated with a back hand to his friend’s beak. Blood spattered onto his
hand. “He’s gone!”
“NO!” Wildwing
aimed for Canard’s beak, but missed as Canard fell to the ice and swept his leg
across the ground.
“LET…”
Wildwing jumped
over the attack and blocked Canard’s advancing fist with a forearm. “He’s
still—!”
“…HIM…”
Canard snatched his best friend’s arm at the wrist and twisted it violently. A
beastly howl reverberating through the alley—Wildwing.
“…DIE
…”
With an elbow
jut, Wildwing freed himself, but Canard didn’t wait for him to recover.
Pivoting on his back leg, he delivered a round-house kick, hitting directly
into his best friend stomach.
“IN
PEACE!”
Wildwing’s body
twisted backwards in the air as he flew toward the alleyway, clattering
callously into the garbage cans.
Small, puffy
clouds of hot breath formed in front of Canard’s beak as he huffed, his lungs
burning. His hands remained fists, watching attentively his best friend across
the alley. Wildwing winced as he struggled to his feet, holding the side of face.
He pressed his back against the wall as he glowered unkindly at Canard, then
sighed, his entire chest heaving up and down.
Exhausted, he
panted, his anger deplored to tears; his eyes focused heavenward. “I still see
him, Canard,” Wildwing whimper through the cries. “I still hear him.”
Strong arms
wrapped tightly around Wildwing, squeezing comfortingly. “It can’t be him,
Wildiwng…it can’t be. He’s…gone.”
Wildwing closed
his eyes gravely and sobbed into Canard’s shoulder. The macabre scream
resonated in his head, reverberated deathly within his ears. It tore at his
heart; it seared through the bond that was severed.
And it didn’t
end. It would never end.
A muted scream,
no louder than a whisper, befell upon Canard’s ears. “He’s not coming back, is
he?”
The tears were
evident in Canard’s voice as Wildwing was overcome by the darkness of the
abyss.
“…I’m sorry.”
The two best
friends just stood there, neither of them willing to let go, neither of them
wanting to go through it alone.
From the end of
the alley, a shaggy blonde-haired duck stood solemnly, watching the scene with
a mixture of guilt and sorrow. Shunning away, he blended, unnoticed, into the
crowded streets of the reconstructing Capital Metropolis.
To Be Continued…