A/N: Things You Need to Know
1. Part Four: Rebel finds out Chris is not dead, he worked for the wrong side, and Canard is still alive (LAE occurred, then Canard was recruited for the MIA, at which time he left Wildwing to find Nosedive. After finding Nosedive, the I-30 (aka the MIA) knew this was a problem, and Canard was supposedly killed. Nosedive found him later, held as a prisoner, when he returned to Puckworld and took down the MIA.). If you read this Epilogue, some of that will come into its own. If you still don’t understand, email me.
3. Rebel got the necklace in Part Four: Epilogue when the Mask and the Key met for the first time since Drake and Draven’s time. Wildwing and Rebel were transported back in time and saw D & D fighting their overlord.
4. Part Five: Wildwing was injected with a deadly disease in Part Five, hence the Mal/Reb fight.
5. There is more, I’m sure, but I seriously do not remember what else I wanted to say. See? This is what you get for studying too much. Any questions, my email is always open.
Anyway, thanks for sticking around and enjoy!
Dev
“Even the best fall down sometimes.” –Howie Day, Collide
Fighting Change
Epilogue: Reclamation
Chapter One: Out of
Place
For a moment, everything was as it should be. For a moment, the planet was free, after over a decade of oppression and totalitarian rule. For a moment, the bombs didn’t explode in a distance, their rumbling reflecting the casualties; the swords were silent, and the only noise that could be heard was a light, cool breeze that whistled past his ear and blew through his blonde hair. For a moment, the snowy landscape, the pine trees, the villages below, and the rocky mountains were motionless, the night evacuating any evidence of life or death—just existence. And for a moment, Draven’s world was right, and he didn’t dare breathe.
Behind him, familiar footsteps crunched in the patted snow, signaling another person to the top of the precipice. The welcome being came to stand next to him, a white-feathered mallard with short, white hair. He was dressed in a black, leather overcoat that folded from the left side to right, tying at his hip like a kimono. A teal undershirt was visible at the collar opening, while a sash of the same pigment was tied around his waist. The black material ran down his legs, cutting at the calf-high books. The white mallard sighed as he took off the golden Mask, revealing his sharp, blue eyes that attentively took in the landscape. In his hands, the Mask shimmered to white.
“You know, there were times I thought this day would never come.”
Slowly rubbing the artifact in his own hands—a crystal shaped to a point of the purest silver, encased in a pristine white handle—Draven didn’t answer. As his finger moved methodically up and down the handle, it glittered from gold to white, then back to gold again. About his neck, his Mask-shaped lavaliere glistened in sequence with the crystal’s handle.
The white mallard glanced down at Draven before once more looking straight. “Not much has ever made you speechless. You must really be upset.”
Draven blinked before timidly bowing his head and looking down at his Resistance uniform—a teal jacket that cut at his waist, same model as his brother’s, while a black undershirt peeked up at the collar. His dark pants and boots mimicked his brother’s uniform. Looking away as his eyes gazed over his left breast, he felt a twinge of lost at the Resistance’s logo—two crossing hockey sticks with the Mask over them. The Resistance had been his family since Drake had him saved from the gallows. It was a reassuring presence, soon to be lost to the new government. And then he…“I…I—I’ve…you know…never been…” He squeezed his eyes shut against the resurgent memories and the unwelcome tears.
A gentle hand clasped his shoulder, and fingertips lightly brushed against his beak. “Look at me, Draven,” the white mallard cajoled. Draven complied with tearful eyes, meeting the sad smile on his brother’s face. “The Saurians are gone. You are free, and that’s not a privilege, baby bro. It’s a right that is endowed by Your Creator and a right that the new government of our planet will secure.”
“But what’s going to happen next!? When’s the next battle?! What’s the next race to exalt its power over us?!” Draven blurted suddenly. He crosses his arms and looked away. “Who’s next to die, Drake?” He whispered gutted.
Drake DuCaine exhaled heavily and ruffled the hair of the younger of seven years. “That’s not it, is it, kiddo?”
Draven DuCaine rolled his eyes, but didn’t turn to face his brother. “I…Drake, I—I,” he cringed at the struggled to find the words. Finally, he confessed furiously, “I don’t know how to be free!” As soon as the sentence escaped his beak, he recoiled and felt ashamed. He knew Drake desperately wanted him to remember the three years that he was, but…he couldn’t. It was too long ago…a different time…
To Draven’s surprise, Drake burst out laughing. “That’s what’s worrying you?!”
Draven nodded.
“Oh, God, bro…*AH HA!*”
“Oh, fine, laugh it up, but now that the republic is free, it’s going to be looking for a leader, Prince Drake.”
Drake’s laughter depreciated to
giggles as he heaved in deep breaths. Slamming his younger brother on the
shoulder, he wiped his eyes from the tears. He bent down to be eye-to-eye with
his little brother. His eyes were steady, showing no signs of fear. “
“If you lose focus for five seconds,” Draven mumbled, reiterating Drake’s favorite reprimanding phrase from their practice sessions.
“No, wise ass,” Drake scowled good-naturedly.
His face relaxed, as he looked to shimmering stars in the sky. “He used to say,
‘You’ll know, my son. You’ll just know.’ And when the Saurians came, I did.”
Drake looked down at Draven and smiled. “This is no different. You’ll know,
Draven let the words sink in as he touched the H.O.C.-Key to his necklace, and the weapon vanished from his hands. Knowledge from his father…the father he only met once…the father who died trying to rescue he and his mother from the slave mines.
Drake watched his sniffling brother and wrapped his arms around Draven’s shoulders, embracing the seventeen-year-old firmly.
A whisper cut through the cold, night air, filling Draven’s ears. “You’re safe now. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.”
Draven opened his eyes and looked down at the valley below, as Drake’s squeeze tightened. Yet, as he beseeched to the stars, a nagging coldness seeped into his gut, and he wished for nothing more than it to end.
*^*^*
The Main Room doors opened with a whoosh, an almost comforting sound that was like second-nature. Stepping inside, Rebel felt a twinge of solace. He actually missed that noise when he returned to Puckworld. His nose perked up as the smell of buttered popcorn wafted about his nose holes. It was a déjà vu whiff that reminded him of the many times the Ducks had convened on Sunday nights.
A slight smile etched itself onto his beak as he watched Mallory bend down at the multimedia center, pushing a DVD into the system. She pressed down the close button, and when it failed to do so, she clicked it again, which, of course, made it stay open. To the left was the love seat, where sat Tanya, watching Mallory attentively. Surely, she knew how to work the machine, but as Rebel could image, Mallory probably told her butt out already. Duke came around the back of the seat and handed Tanya a drink—a Starbucks coffee. Obviously Canard had returned, but hadn’t brought in the meal—or more precisely, buffet—of the night. Across from the love seat and over the coffee table were two empty recliners to be filled by the aforementioned duck and Grin, who had ventured with Canard out to the food industry of Earth. Lastly, on the couch sat Wildwing, freshly popped popcorn in his hands just waiting to be stolen.
Rebel hid the smile as best he could as a welcoming feeling swept over him. He was finally home. Still, his face fell a little and darkened as a nagging pulse tugged at his gut. For how long would that last?
Screaming mentally Shut up!, Rebel sank down onto the couch next to Wildwing, his wrist still in a cast from the Ducks’ latest battle versus Dragaunus. His short blonde hair was now trimmed into an actual hair cut instead of remaining shaggy from Siege’s blade, though his stubborn bangs still obscured his face. Digging his hand into his brother’s popcorn bin, he took careful note of the scars that still were scratched into Wildwing’s white face, though he knew they soon would disappear. The bandage remained thick under his brother’s sweatshirt, but most of it was hidden by his muscles. They came close, really close to losing each other, and suddenly, Rebel wanted nothing more than to tell Wildwing that.
Wildwing looked over, his eyes silently asking, “Are you okay?”
Rebel recoiled instantly, shoving a handful of popcorn into his beak. “What’s the movie today?” Raising an eyebrow at Mallory as she finally got the DVD in, he warned, “This better not be Yo Yo Sisters or something chick-flick-y.”
“No way,
kid!” Duke replied, falling onto the love seat next to Tanya. “Canard and Grin
picked it out. It’s gotta be something us guys would like. First Blood, or better yet, Charlie’s
Angels!”
Mallory winked toward Tanya and grabbed the remote. As she passed behind Duke’s chair, she swatted him in the back of the head with the device, while Tanya elbowed him the side.
“Hey, teammate abuse!”
“Well, at least they won’t be doing it to me! It’s neither of those!” Canard announced as he entered with Grin, holding a brown bag in his arms. Numerous plastic bags hung from his wrists. Balancing a box on his left shoulder, Grin carried three pizza boxes in his right hand. The two dropped the plethora of food on the coffee table in the middle of the furniture.
“Okaaaaayyy,” Canard’s voice dragged. Whipping out the notepad from his jean jacket pocket, he read off, “From Paradise Chinese Buffet, I have two orders of litchi and prawns, one order of General Tao’s beef, another order of lo mein, fried rice…” He dug inside the plastic bags and grabbed a small white bag. Tossing it to Rebel, whose eyes lit up immediately, he commented, “The wonton noodles I just couldn’t forget, and one order of—*ahem*— Dragon Thrusting Out of the Sea. From Mob Brudda’s Pizzeria, we have one pizza, half garlic and onion, half olive, ham, and pineapple; another pizza all broccoli, but only half red peppers; and one pizza, quarter white, quarter no cheese, quarter with everything the store has, and a quarter with only pepperoni.” Taking a deep breath, he checked off his list, “Two Subway sandwiches, one on Monterrey Cheddar with meatballs, onions, oregano, and sweet onion sauce and a Veggie Delight on Italian Herb with lettuce, onions, tomatoes, green, sweet, and hot peppers with three kinds of cheese. From the Mama’s Tomato Paste, because we just can’t order from Italian restaurant, we have three dinners: ravioli, baked ziti, and half an Italian sub, minus the tomato. From McDonald’s, we have a Big Mac, super sized French fries, and an Arch Delux without mayo. The Burger King repertoire called for an order of onion rings and a Whopper Junior without cheese—”
“I wanted cheese,” Duke interjected suddenly.
Canard stopped and huffed. Holding in his anger, he sent Duke an acidic glare. “You did not want cheese.”
Duke shook his head. “Yes, I did! How could you forgot my cheese!?”
“No whey! I would have wrote it down!” Canard waved the notebook in front of Duke’s face. “See? No cheese!”
“I don’t care what your little, inadequate, wrong notebook says. I ordered cheese!”
Canard’s hand twitched about his waist, and through his open coat, Rebel saw the puck launcher hanging from Canard’s waist. “You want cheese? I could give you some hot sauce with it.”
“Now, now, now!” Rebel urged, pulling his feet onto the couch and sitting cross-legged. “We all take turns going for the food. It’s all about teamwork and compromise. If one of us were to go out of turn or something, it would be pandemonium, and then a civil war would break out, and now where’s the teamwork in that, huh?”
Everyone blinked at Rebel as he popped a wonton noodle into his beak. “What?” He asked innocently.
“This coming from the kid who had a death wish,” Tanya blurted candidly.
“Yeah, Reb, like you’re one to talk about teamwork,” Mallory added.
Wildwing clasped his brother on the shoulder. “Come on, guys. Chill, alright?”
Shrugging, Rebel fell silent.
Canard narrowed his eyes heatedly at Duke once more before reading from his list. “From the Thai Land Golden Restaurant, we have spicy budoo, tom yum goong, pad thai, and ton mun. And finally,” he sighed heavily, “from the Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company we have two bags of Lay’s wavy potato chips, French onion dip, a bag of Snyder’s pretzels, personal cups of Jello gelatin and Swiss Miss chocolate pudding, and two bottles of Coco-Cola with Santa, three bottles of Mug root beer, one each of Sprite, Sprite Re-Mix, Sierra Mist—‘Because they are not the same!’—aaaaannnndddd Slice orange soda.” He slammed the notepad onto the coffee table and collapsed into a nearby chair. “Is that it?”
Silence.
*cricket noise*
Explosion.
“You missed my gummi bears!”
“Where’s the Sushi!?”
“How the heck could you forget the snowcaps!?”
“Didn’t I order pepper steak, not a Big Mac?”
“Who did order the Big Mac?”
“I hate movie night!”
The complaining halted. The open Thai fell to the ground. Soda flowed over the cup’s edge, Tanya oblivious to the spillage. Wonton noodles dropped from Rebel’s shocked and gaped beak. Grin’s muscles rippled as Duke instinctively reached for his sword. Slowly, everyone turned toward Canard.
It was tradition. Ever since there first week on Earth, the Ducks had gotten together on Sundays, at eight, to watch a movie. While they complained, argued on preferences and seating arrangements, movie night was sacred. It was never missed. The hockey schedule was even made around it, and by the off chance that they needed a Sunday game, it was always in the afternoon, so Sunday nights were free. And if Dragaunus attacked, well then, *shrug*, the world was just doomed.
Canard smiled sheepishly. “I—I didn’t mean it liked it sounded.”
“Really?” Tanya provoked. “Because, you know, it sounded a lot like, ‘I hate movie night.’ ”
“Well, yeah, that’s what I said, but—”
“How can we have misinterpreted that?” Duke baited, crossing his arms.
Grin shook his head somberly at Canard. “Worse karma ever spoken.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Canard defended desperately. “I just meant that you people are impossible to shop for all at once! I mean, seriously! How much food can we put away?!”
“We are professional hockey players,” Wildwing replied with a smirk. “And by himself, I think Rebel can eat more than all of us combined.”
“HEY!” shouted Rebel, snatching the bowl of popcorn from Wildwing. “Just for that, I’m holding the cornels! Just trying getting some, brudda!”
“So…” Canard squirmed under the scrutinizing glares of the team. “We cool?”
The team continued to stare for a few more intense moments until finally they relaxed and recommenced the binging.
Sighing, Wildwing eyed the popcorn, captive in his little brother’s hands. “You know, Canard, I’d hate for you to miss movie night, especially when you picked the movie.” He reached for the bowl, only to have his hand slapped away.
“Hand out of the cookie jar, looohs-er!”
Canard gasped. “What?! I wouldn’t have—”
“I was going to eject you.”
A skeptical look appeared on Canard’s face. “Yeah, right. Like you could have made me leave.”
Wildwing shrugged noncommittally as he reached for a piece of pizza with broccoli, letting go of any hope of getting popcorn. “Maybe, maybe not, but I surely would have gotten Grin to.”
“So, what is the movie tonight,
Canard?” Tanya looked down at her cup. “OH!” She ripped back the Sprite and
placed it down on the table.
“You’ll see,” Canard laughed. “I just hope you guys like vintage cuts.”
Mallory took a box of Chinese from the table and bounced down next to Rebel on the couch. Waiting until all the Ducks to have some sort of food, she finally hit the remote’s play button.
The screen faded from ESPN Sportcenter to black.
“By the way,” Duke’s voice chimed through the darkness, “I didn’t want cheese. Thanks Canard.”
A snort sounded from the opposite side of the room as a pretzel smacked into Duke’s beak.
The television flickered to life, void of any previews, as the song “Headstrong” blared through the speakers. On screen, Wildwing walked out from the locker room and skated onto the ice. Rebel’s beak gaped in shock and horror as he dropped the onion dip into his lap. Yet, he couldn’t pull away from the petrifying clips that flashed onto the TV from the first round to the final round of the 1997 playoffs. The Vancouver Cancuks, the Colorado Avalanche, the Minnesota Wild, the New Jersey Devils, it all replayed in front of his panicked eyes in the time it took for Trapt to finish their song, then pulsing fear sent shivers through his body. He gripped his shirt over his chest, as the Stanley Cup was raised above his head—no. As the Stanley Cup was raised above Nosedive’s head. This was before his life as a spy, before MIA, before Aerowing’s explosion, before… Rebel… Nosedive smiled and whooped, thrusting the trophy effortlessly into the air. Didn’t he know what was up ahead for him? Didn’t he know that he would be torn from his brother and team?
Didn’t he care?!
Next to him, Wildwing smiled, caught in the moment. His hand moved to pat Rebel on the knee—he felt the soft cloth of the couch cushion. He looked over at his brother—
Mallory looked back at him, equally as startled.
Rebel was gone.
*^*^*
Leaning against the back wall of the Pond, Rebel ignored the dying sun as it slowly seeped behind the snow-capped mountains in a distance, leaving a legacy of pinks, reds, oranges, and yellows to fight the subsequent night. His entire body shook violently as tremors quivered through his nerves. He shoved his hands into this jean pockets, desperately wanting it all to just end. He didn’t want to remember. That was a different time, a different life. Things were never going to be that way again. They couldn’t be…
He didn’t want them to be.
God, where were those cigarettes!?
Finally gripping the pack of Marlboro Reds in his left hand, he fought against his right pocket that endeavored to keep him from lighting up, from relaxing, from getting away from it all. A whispering whine escaped from his beak as he ripped the lighter from his pocket. Thank you!
Shaking, Rebel clasped his hands in fists, waiting for the shivers to end. It took a few seconds until his hands became steady enough for him to light up. Rubbed the gear on his jeans, the flame burned on the wick. As he breathed in the nicotine-filled air, a relaxing sensation flooded his body. Sure, they weren’t as good as the Rustica Pucks back home, but when he needed to satisfy the cravings or to cool his nerves, like now, oh…were they the Stanley Cup ticket.
Oh…yeah… Ahhh…
The metal door creaked open next to him as he blew out a puff of smoke. He didn’t need to look over to know who it was, and he really didn’t want to see the devastated expression on his brother’s face. So, he continued to stare ahead into the fading light sky.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, his head hanging, as he tried his best not to show the tearing emotions. “I just…I couldn’t…”
Wildwing stepped closer to Rebel and placed a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder. Fighting the urge to shake it off, Rebel realized…somehow, it felt right.
“I know that this is hard for you,” Wildwing confided softly. His voice was calm, soothing Rebel’s nerves better than any cigarette ever could. “If Canard pushed you…we can change the movie.”
“It’s not the movie,” Rebel replied flatly, glowering furiously at the burning, white stick in between his fingers. “It’s what the movie represents.” He inhaled another puff and blew out the sweet nicotine.
Wildwing coughed, repealing his hand and covering his beak. Pushing himself away from the wall, Rebel regarded the cigarette and his brother for a moment, looking surprised between the two. He immediately dropped it to the ground, then smashed it with the toe of his sneaker.
“Sorry, again. I keep forgetting not everyone is immune to the smell,” he spoke sincerely, smiling slightly as he leaned back against the Pond’s wall.
“You’re not *cough* immune. You’re addicted. *cough* *cough*”
Rebel shrugged noncommittally. “Same diff.”
Wildwing huffed in a few clean breaths before asking pointedly, “When did you start?”
Rebel blinked blankly, the question catching him off guard. He hadn’t been expecting that. Shrugging, he recalled hesitantly, “Um…I guess about a month after I left the hospital.”
A bewildered chagrin contorted Wildwing’s face. “Hospital?”
Nosedive nodded somberly. “Uh-huh. I was in the MIA hospital for four months after the Aerowing’s explosion. Well, scratch that. It was closer to seven months, really. I was in a coma for most of the first three. But...” He shook his head, as if remembering times he truly didn’t want to. “I left the hospital and was just really out of it. Wasn’t really thinking. Didn’t really care. Chris,” he scoffed, “didn’t really help, so…I guess you could say I fell into a self-destructive pattern.”
“I—I didn’t know that.”
“I know,” was the curt answer.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“That doesn’t matter, does it?”
Rebel snorted, finally turning to look into his brother’s eyes. They were serene, yet filled with fearful pain and concern. Rebel pulled away, unable to gaze into them anymore as the guilt surmounted. He looked at the smoke wafting from his crushed cigarette. “Why do you do that?”
Wildwing sent his brother a lopsided smile as he cocked his head to the side. “Do what?”
“Why do you care about me? Why do you take blame for my problems when they had nothing to do with you?”
Wildwing shrugged reticently and answered forthright, “Because you’re my baby brother and I love you.”
Rebel froze. He felt his heart slow as the world suddenly became still. His eyes didn’t shift from the resurgent stars above.
He couldn’t believe the honesty, faith, and conviction in those simple words. He couldn’t believe the love his brother still felt for him, after all this time. He couldn’t believe that Wildwing was still alive.
And he needed another cigarette.
Suddenly, he couldn’t stop as the words from secreting from his beak. “There were times I just wished to die, you know.” He sniffled, but didn’t look up as he played absentmindedly with the cigarette and his sneaker. “I didn’t think it mattered anymore, what I did or if I was alive.”
“Reb—”
“I don’t remember being tortured,” Rebel confessed, ignoring Wildwing’s outburst. He didn’t dare stop or else he didn’t think he would ever get it out. “I remember the pain. I remember the burning…I—I remember wanting to die because then I would be with you.” His eyes drooped shut from the onslaught of tears, yet his facial expression remained neutral. “I remember being happy when it was finally over, but it wasn’t, was it? It was just beginning.”
“Rebel—”
His eyes opened, yet he refused to look toward Wildwing. Tears glimmered on his cheeks. “We don’t connect anymore, do we?”
“Nosed—”
“You’re here, and I’m here, but it’s not the same. We can pretend in front of the others, but…it’s not there, not like it used to be.” Rebel demanded, brokenly, “Why does it have to be this way?!”
Wildwing reached out a hand toward his brother. “It doesn’t have to be.”
Rebel’s head slowly turned toward Wildwing—and halted. Staring at the hand, wide-eyed, he trembled noticeably. His eyes shifted upward, meeting Wildwing’s solacing ones timidly. He didn’t move forward.
“I don’t know what they did to you,” Wildwing began soothingly, “and I don’t know what happened to you while you were with the MIA, but that doesn’t matter anymore. You are my brother, and I love you, no matter what.”
Rebel studied him with tearful eyes, unmoving, silent.
“But you have to realize that you are no longer alone, and you don’t have be detached. We’re all here with you; it’s no longer you versus the world.
“You don’t to go through this alone.”
Rebel felt the tears trickle down his cheeks as the words resounded in his ears. He stared hopelessly at his brother, his heart tight, trepidation gripping his soul.
“You’re scared,” Wildwing continued simply. “I can tell by the way you fled and the look in your eyes. You’re running from something, some ghost from your past that I think you don’t even know, and…that’s okay. I’m here.” He smiled comfortingly, as he laid a hand on Rebel’s head. The former spy tensed, but then relaxed as Wildwing tussled his short, blonde hair.
“You used to confide in me. You used to tell me what was bothering you. I know that you didn’t have someone like that for five years, but that’s over now. You’re not alone, Reb. You never will be again.” He extended his hand farther out toward his brother, beckoning. “Let me help you. Let me know what you’re afraid of. Let me know what’s bothering you.
“Let me in again.”
Rebel gasped as he eyed the hand fearful, shaking. His lavaliere jingled about his chest. “I…I…”
Drake One’s alarm resounded from both their comm. units. Rebel looked away nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Duty calls, huh?”
Wildwing muttered a curse as he lifted his eyes from his comm. unit. “Trust me, Rebel. It’s going to be okay. We’ll discuss this when we get home, okay?”
“Yeah,” Rebel nodded and whisked his hand in the air. “Go. I understand.”
Opening the door, Wildwing motioned inside. “Aren’t you coming?”
“No,” he replied sharply. “I—not now. I just can’t.” He turned his back to Wildwing and closed his eyes.
A second later, the door clicked shut.
Rebel beseeched to the sky, as he silently prayed for his brother’s safety. Sinking to his knees, he covered his face and wept.
*^*^*
“He’s not ready,” Wildwing proclaimed prosaically to the team. “We can’t force him to fight.”
Sitting around the kitchen table, the Mighty Ducks, minus Rebel, nursed cups of coffee and hot chocolate. The battle had been more than stressful with not only three henchmen, but also a barrage of hunter drones. Traps and well-devised plans by Dragaunus were the worst combination.
Canard took a sip of his coffee and sighed. “True, but what about his responsibility?”
“Responsibility to this team?” Wildwing scowled. “He almost died in the Raptor, saving us and Earth. What more do you want?”
“He’s still in a cast,” Tanya pointed out, leaning against the wall. “He’s not even, you know, medically cleared yet to fight.” Her eyes sent a pointed gaze toward Wildwing’s direction. “Like other people who took a sword to the shoulder.”
Wildwing rolled his eyes, but smiled appreciatively toward her.
“Look, I agree with Canard,” Mallory returned to the conversation, waving her hand toward the door. “However, for now, we just have to let him assimilate. The last thing we want is for him to be rushing back into battle ill-equipped.”
“Or for Juliet to be without her Romeo, right sweetheart?” Duke snapped.
“Hey! Why you—”
“All right!” Wildwing shouted, pushing up on the table. The cups jumbled about the table top, but none split. He sighed exasperatingly as he dragged his hands down his mask-less face. “Look, we all want everything to be the way it was years ago, but it’s not going to be. We have to deal with the situation here and now. Rebel Drakeson might be part of this team, but he’s not fit for battle. Until Tanya or I clear him, there will be no discussion. Got it?”
Duke grumbled under his breath.
“Anything you want to add, Duke?” Wildwing shot.
Crossing his arms, Duke pierced, “What about the H.O.C.-Key?”
Inhaling deeply, Wildwing shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know, Duke,” he whispered, as he collapsed to his seat. “I truly don’t know.”
There was a moment of silence.
Duke broke it suddenly, “It’s his responsibility, Wildwing. You know that.”
Wildwing thoughtfully studied Duke for a moment, his blue eyes almost glowing. “He might be the keeper, but it’s not—”
“But it is!” Duke insisted, his teeth clenched. “With great power comes great responsibility! That key could end the war between us and Dragaunus for good! He has the burden to use it! If we lose this war because he refuses to—”
“If one’s heart is lost, then he/she is but a shadow, neither living or dead, but a lingering existence. It is only once he/she has reclaimed what he/she once lost can he/she find peace and the will to fight.”
Everyone turned to the bench where sat Grin, cross-legged, eyes closed, fore fingers and thumbs curled into circles.
“—fight, then not only is Earth lost but also Puckworld!” Duke persisted as if Grin never spoke. “Whether he is lost or WHATEVER! He needs to fight to save this place because it’s his obligation, damnit! If he’s the keeper of the key or even just a teammate, then he’s got to be there for us or what the hell is he doing here!?”
Tanya tugged at Duke’s long-sleeved shirt. “Duke…”
“No, Tanya! We could have been killed tonight! There were hundreds of hunter drones at that ammunitions arsenal, and we were sorely outnumbered! But does he care?! Not to mention Draguanus could have gotten away with all sorts of weapons and bombs to take over the world! We could have used his help instead of him staying home, doing whatever the hell was more important than saving the world and his friends!”
Duke huffed, his torso compressing and expanding visibly, as he leaned over the table. His eyes were focused solely upon Wildwing, who bored his crisp eyes into him. However, calmly, the leader leaned to the side and nodded beyond Duke.
Confusion enveloped Duke’s face as he twisted cautiously…and gasped. In the doorway stood Rebel in his flannel pajama bottoms and a tight tee-shirt that accented his muscles. He stared at Duke, a indistinct expression upon his face, yet his piercing azure eyes screamed, angrily and bitterly.
Duke cursed under his breath as Rebel bustled to the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of orange juice.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to disturb the team meeting I wasn’t invited to. I’m gone. Don’t worry.”
He was almost out the doors when Duke called, “Kid.”
Rebel stopped abruptly and cocked his head back. “Don’t worry about it, Duke. You’re right. I don’t give a shit.” He shrugged evenly before walking out.
Duke clenched his fists and shook his head. “I didn’t want him to hear that.” He stated flatly.
Wildwing slapped him on the shoulder as he headed out of the kitchen. “We’re all adjusting here. He knows you didn’t mean it, Duke. Just give him time.”
“Time,” Duke scoffed. “He’s going to need a millennia to forgive me.”
“Longer,” Mallory replied sharply as she followed Wildwing.
Duke shrugged and looked to Tanya, Canard, and Grin. “Well, yeah.”
*^*^*
Rebel raised a skeptical eyebrow as he stared in the mirror at his outfit. What was he wearing? A red long-sleeved tee-shirt bore the Abercrombie and Fitch name up the right sleeve, while his jeans were jet black. His yellow socks topped off the reject-suit-from-Hell. His eyes narrowed as he leaned closer to the mirror, his beak gaping. In the reflection he saw his black leather jacket thrown over the seat next to the door. Was that really what it looked like? Eww, talk about bad taste.
“Come on, Reb,” Mallory cajoled from outside the door. “Let me see.”
Blowing up his bangs, Rebel rolled his eyes and preceded to the door. Opening it, he leaned against the frame, his hand still gripping the top of the door. “Whadda ya think?”
She scrutinized him for a few moments before twirling her hand in the air. Smirking, Rebel shook his head. “No.” He replied spryly.
“Aw, come on, Rebel. We always used to turn for each other,” Mallory urged coyly, her eyes glistening a bright verde. “Now, come on, ballerina! Spin!”
He sighed heavily and reluctantly let go of the door. Pivoting about slowly, he spread out his wings to give her the full effect. As his backside faced her, she giggled, “Nice buns, Cinna!”
His hands immediately slapped to his sides, and he whirled angrily. “See! That is exactly why I didn’t want to model!” He slammed shut the door and pulled off his shirt.
“Oh, you are just modest!” Mallory laughed, her fingers dangling over the top of the door as she pulled herself up to see. “By the way, they really are nice buns.”
Rolling his eyes, he moved to unbutton his pants, until he saw her in the mirror. “Hey!” He twisted fiercely. “No fair peeking!”
“Aw, you’re blushing. You’re kinda cute when you do that.” She dropped out of sight, and Rebel bent over to make sure her feet were flat on the floor.
As he pulled down his pants and went to grab his faded blue jeans, he cocked his head to side, noticing the sweatshirt he had worn here under his jacket. It was teal and slightly bigger than he, considering it was Wildwing’s. Hey, if his brother didn’t want things stolen, then he shouldn’t have left them in public space—his bed.
“Mal?” He called, but quickly regretted the action. He was able to just muscle on his jeans and was actually zipping them when she peeked over the top.
“Yeah?”
Rebel tossed her the red shirt and the black jeans he had tried on. “Can you find the shirt in a dark blue or teal and the jeans in denim? Thanks.”
A audacious smile crossed her beak. “Can I pick some other stuff out for you to try?”
Sighing heavily, he waved his hand. “Yeah, sure whatever.” As he heard her feet pitter-patter out of the dressing area, he exclaimed, “Nothing too dressy! I’m not wearing silk!”
*^*^*
Scowling, Trash thought pensively of a way to truly hurt Rebel. He had let the duck move in with him when he was kicked out; he allowed Rebel to raid the DC Comics warehouse. Heck, he even lent the duck his motorcycle, which he had yet to see again. Between all that and the calls he was still receiving from the various scouts believing Nosedive Featherburn still wasn’t playing for the Mighty Ducks, well, he deserved to hurt Rebel. Severely.
Now, this favor, too? There was only so much a best friend could do, and he was reaching his limit. Reduced to errand boy for a professional hockey player…Rebel better be buying him one heck of a Christmas present; that’s all he had to say.
Clicking his foot against the ground and checking his watch for the one hundred and eighty-second time, Thrash was peeved. He spotted the bell underneath the layers of cloth and different materials on the counter in front of him and instantly attempted to unbury it. He pressed his palm down on it.
*Ding*
Waited ten seconds.
*Ding*
Eight seconds.
*Ding*
Two secs.
*Ding*
Oh, what the heck?
*Ding*
*Ding*
*Ding*
*Ding*
*Ding* *Ding* *Ding* *Ding* *Ding* *Ding*
A graying, older man rushed out from the back of the room, cloth shreds hanging over his shoulders, a needle and thread in his hands. Startled and shocked, he stared at Thrash.
“Wha? Is everything okay? Am I being robbed?”
“Not getting robbed,” Thrash admitted impatiently. “Look, old timer, I’m making a pick-up.”
The man sighed and reached for the glasses perched upon his head. Looking through them, he pulled his head back in surprise. “Well, now, you’re just a young lad. You couldn’t have waited two seconds?”
Lad? Young? “Dude, I’ve got places to go, people to see, and a duck to hurt. Now, can I get my order, or do I have to ring the bell again?” Thrash raised a baiting eyebrow as he positioned his hand over the bell.
Slowly, the man slinked closer before snatching up the bell. Thrash’s hand slammed into the cloth and smacked something hard underneath. Something sharp!
“OW!” Thrash ripped away his hand and sucked his thumb. “What the heck do you have under there, grandpa?”
The old man chuckled, “Just a little safety, boy. Now, come on! I don’t have all day. What’s the order name?”
“Um…Drakeson,” Thrash finally decided. Yeah, that was it.
The man walked to the ancient cash register, golden with the pop-up totals, and pulled out a worn note card box from underneath it. Flipping through, he called out, “Dancer, Dabinski, De Laney, DeNile, DiVine, Doul, Downser, Draser, Drask, Drodeur…nope, no Drakeson.”
Thrash smacked his forehead. Of course! “Sorry, dude.” He stated the correct name, and the man quickly shut his box.
“Ah, yes. I remember that one! Called me up and asked for a rush order, willing to pay the extra and all.” He exited the room as he dribbled on, and Thrash wished he hadn’t taken the bell. He liked having security that the man would return.
Thankfully, the man reentered a second later, four hockey jerseys in his hands, two purple, two white. He opened each one up and showed Thrash the initial and surname of the player. Thrash nodded affirmatively, like he was really reading and caring what the heck it said, then opened his wallet as the man rang him up.
“What’s this costin’ me, Ol’ Ancient One?”
The numbers flicked up on the cash register.
Thrash’s eyes widened as he saw the total. “WHAT?!”
*^*^*
“Where do you want to go next?” Mallory asked as she
meandered out of American Eagle Outfitters.
Shrugging,
Rebel placed his shopping bags, all five of them, into one hand and draped his
right arm about Mallory’s shoulders. She nuzzled up against him and wrapped her
arm about his waist. Together, they sauntered carelessly in each other’s arms
though the mall corridor.
“Ah,
I don’t care,” he replied off-handedly. “I’m comfortable just being here with
you.”
Laying
her head on his shoulder, she sighed and traced his stomach lightly with her
finger. “I’m just glad you came back. We were all worried about you.”
Rebel
rolled his eyes, but remained silent. Content on just feeling her presence next
to him, he pulled her slightly closer.
Suddenly,
she pulled away from him, her warmth fleeting, then retaliated with a punch to
his stomach, too quick for him to block. Pain stabbed his abdomen as the bags
clattered to the ground, and he clutched his stomach. “What was that for?” He
winced, his voice weary from the pain. Sinking down onto a near-by bench, he
leaned backwards and laid upon the wood.
“You had
us all worried, and you don’t even care!” She fumed, hands on hips. “What is
wrong with you?”
Grimacing,
he struggled to breath, let alone speak. It hurt! “Y—You were dead,” he managed
to say, “and I had you worried. That’s a fair trade, you think?”
“Not
then, jerk! Now! You were still trying to kill yourself, and you wouldn’t
listen to Wildwing and you—”
His face
lost tension as he chuckled faintly, “When have I ever listened to Wildwing?”
Her eyes
narrowed dangerously toward him as her hands curled into fists. Pivoting on her
back leg, she twisted her right limb into the air effortlessly. Flipping over
the bench, Rebel avoided the attack and pounced, tackling her to the ground.
His legs upon her arms, his butt resting on her stomach, he smiled zealously
and dipped his chin to stare into her furious jade eyes. “You were saying?”
She
smirked. “So you want to play it that way, huh?” Kneeing him the butt, she was
freed as he was propelled over her head.
Flicking her body up and regaining her footing, Mallory straightened her
left hand in front of her, while bringing her right fist to bear at her
waist.
Rebel
rolled from his back onto his feet across the corridor from her, his left leg
positioned across the front of his body, his left forearm out, his right fist
brought beside his head. “We just can’t have a normal day, can we, honey?”
Leering,
she shook her head. “Sorry, Reb. Looks like we’re active people.”
Simultaneously,
they nodded once. Rebel immediately flicked back his shoulders and pulled off
his sweatshirt, revealing his new teal tee-shirt. As he rolled up his sleeves,
a soft cast appeared about his right wrist. He discarded his sweatshirt onto
the pile of shopping bags. Across from him, Mallory pulled off her tight black
overcoat and draped it over the bench.
Her designer jeans and high heels weren’t fighting clothes, but that
didn’t seem to faze her.
Each
returning to their respective starting points, they once more reverted to their
fighting positions.
Watching
her attentively, Rebel spared a glance about the corridor, noticing the people
starting to glare and encircle them.
“Looks
like we could sell tickets to this event.” A dark grin etched itself into
Mallory’s voice.
Rebel
proposed, “So, is it going to you or me?”
The
expression glistening in her saucy eyes, the way her tense body stood at the
ready, the bold smile upon her beak—she was radiant. Her body language screamed
she had just wanted a challenge, and he was the duck to give it to her.
It was
then that Rebel realized just how much he loved her.
And she
attacked.
Pivoting
on her left foot, Mallory swept her right leg along the concrete of the ground.
He flipped backwards in the air, her leg just missing his shins. Landing on his
hands, he thrust into the air as she fluidly shifted her weight on her back leg
and delivered a tornado kick. Landing on his feet, he blocked her attack with a
forearm, then retaliated with a punch to the jaw, which didn’t even make it
pass her robust arm. Rolling with his punch, Mallory caught wrist and twisted
violently. A beastly grunt escaped from Rebel’s beak as she forced him to his
knees, contorting his arm behind his back and applying pressure.
“You do
realize,” she huffed into his left ear, “that Duke didn’t mean it.”
Grabbing
her right leg, he yanked, causing her high heel to spark along the ground and
her to slide to the floor. Her grip eased on his arm, and he twirled to his
feet. He rubbed his shoulder as she flipped herself to her feet.
Taking
one gulp of air, he lunged. “If he didn’t mean it, he wouldn’t have said it!” Ducking
her punch, he elbowed her in the stomach before grinning shrewdly and gripping
her arm above his head. She kicked her
left leg out to free her arm and gasped as he caught it easily and forced it
against his left hip.
“Not
bad,” Rebel commented, watching her tongue wipe her dry beak, “not bad at all.”
She
smiled appreciatively, “*huff* Thanks!” Grimacing, she dug her heel into his
hip, using it as a stepping stone as he cringed. She heaved her right leg into
the air, forcing it directly into his stomach. Thrown backwards into the air,
he immediately let go of her, and she smacked into the concrete ground as his
body collided with the bench.
Sinking
to the ground, he grimaced from the pain in his back and sucked in ragged
breaths. He winced as he placed his hand upon the ground and pushed himself
back to his feet. His back practically
arched over his upper body, rebelling from pain and agony sustained. Meanwhile,
Mallory slowly pushed herself to her feet, holding her shoulder.
“Had
enough?” She baited, righting herself and resuming her position. Behind her,
several male watchers chanted her name.
Yes.
“Nah,” Rebel retorted flippantly, and the women behind him cheered. Placing up
a hand, they silenced. “I haven’t even started yet, Mal. I’ve fought Viletrans
bigger than you.”
“Maybe,
but not half as cute.”
He
smirked. Well, that, of course, was true.
Inhaling
a quick breath, he felt the blood as it seeped from his hip. He touched his
shirt lightly. Hot crimson smeared onto his hand. All right, if that was the way she wanted it.
His turn.
Lunging,
he saw her left leg pulse and dove into a forward roll. Her left hook curved
over him, and he uncoiled, sending in an uppercut to her jaw. She rolled with
the punch, he saw, but it didn’t sway him. He attacked with an elbow, which she
blocked with her shoulder.
“He *wheeze* wasn’t wrong, *wheeze*
though…” He panted as he lunged again.
Mallory
leaned to the side, and his advancing fist bypassed past her head. She smacked
with an under cut, and pain flamed in his lower back area. “*pant* Really?
*wheeze* You don’t care *huff* if we live or *cough* die?”
Groaning,
he dealt a back hand to her face. As she stumbled backwards, he saw his opening
and dove toward her, ready to tackle. Her eyes flashed toward him, glowing
brightly, and he realized—she had him where she wanted. A smirk enveloped his
beak. He didn’t become the greatest spy on Puckworld by not anticipating his
opponent’s next move, did he?
Shifting her weight onto her back leg, Mallory twirled a roundhouse kick. Diving into a forward roll, he grunted as his arms scrapped against the concrete, ripping skin. Unrolling, he gripped her leg as it flew over his head and pushed up, unseating her. She fell unkindly to the concrete, smacking her back. Laying motionlessly, heaving in dry breaths, she didn’t get up. Her eyelids cracked open weakly, their vibrancy hardly noticeable against the sunlight.
Rebel moved over her, his body rebelling in pain—his hip throbbing, his stomach stabbing, and his back in agony. He tried to push it all back, but failed miserably. “I did care,” he rasped huskily, demoralized, unable to raise his voice louder than a whisper. “In fact, I cared so much that I couldn’t—I lost—I just…” He shunned away as his voice deteriorated, and he couldn’t finish.
As he
turned away and wavered toward his bags, a force cut into his knee caps,
knocking him to the concrete. Agony writhed his body, especially his damaged
hip, as he rolled over onto his back. Blinking upward against the burning sun,
he received a brief reprieve as a shadow cast over him—Mallory.
“You
couldn’t what?” She demanded.
He
breathed in and out, in and out and just couldn’t response.
She bent
down close to head, gripped his wrist, and wrenched him off the ground. He
wavered on his feet as he seethed in pain. She didn’t seem to realize—or was it
care?—that she had jerked the wrist she had twisted or that his body was
completely ravaged. Looking at her, he noticed her disheveled hair and the dirt
that smudged her right cheek. Blood leaked from the side of her beak, while her
pink tank-top-sweater-shirt was ripped by the hip. A black and blue added color
to her left shoulder.
“You
couldn’t *pant* what?” She repeated, equally as forcefully. She still was
huffing from the fight, he saw now.
Grimacing
as his back finally joined in on his torment, he turned to her, eyes ethereal
almost, yet his face was neutral.
He
spoke so low, so hoarse, so sincerely,
“I cared so much that…that…”
Leaning
forward, she cradled his head with her hand, closing her eyes.
His eyes
went wide as his body trembled—
The
theme of the Mighty Ducks played in electronica in between them. Mallory
stopped suddenly, her eyes lids rising slowly. “What was that?”
Sighing,
he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small, silver, rectangular
object with an antenna bulging from the left corner. Looking at the number on
the aqua screen, he flipped it open and hit the “talk” button.
“What,
Thrash?”
Mallory
rolled her eyes, irritated, and flung her arms in disbelief. He stuck up one
finger and turned his back to her. “Why are you calling me?”
Thrash’s
voice blared through the earpiece, and Rebel jerked his head away. “DO YOU KNOW
HOW MUCH THIS COSTS?!”
“Oh,
come on! I told you we’d square later!” He seethed. “What’s the prob?”
“Dude,
this is exuberant! This is highway murder! He’s stealing your money!”
Rebel
dropped his head back against the sky. “Dude, numero uno, I’m a millionaire. I
don’t give a shit how much it costs. Dos, it was a rush job. I’m just happy he
was able to do it in such short notice, ya know?”
“I’m
not paying this,” Thrash refused, his voice defiant. “You want them, you have
to come down here yourself.”
“Thrash,”
Rebel coaxed, but was obviously exasperated. “Please. Just pay now. I really need
these for opening night.”
“Reb—”
Thrash cut himself off, then sighed defeated over the phone. “Fine, but you totally owe me, dude. DC
Comics President, turned secretary, turned errand boy, now bank, I’m thinking
season tickets.”
“WHAT!?
THAT’S EXUBERANT!”
“Hey,
millionaire, you don’t give a shit.”
Rebel
scowled, “Buy the jerseys; we’ll negotiate your terms later, k?”
Slapping
closed his phone, he turned, noticing the pack of girl cheerleaders who had
rooted him on, waving at him, but the one girl he wanted was gone.
*^*^*
The
doors to the Pond swished open, and Rebel bristled through them—then halted.
There stood Mallory, now dressed in a fresh pair of sweatpants and tee-shirt.
Her face twisted into a spiteful frown.
“Cared
so much that you couldn’t—?” She asked pointedly, her shoulders raising, urging
his response.
Rebel
dropped his bags to the floor. “What do you want to hear from me, Mal?
He spouted bitterly.
“The
truth.”
Taking a
deep breath, he rubbed the back of his neck as he slowly let out the
drawled sigh. “Look, Mal—”
She rushed toward him, almost toppling him over as
she wrapped her arms about his neck and leaned into him. Her eyes opening,
boring into his, she tilted her head to the side and poised her beak about his.
Rebel shunned away, swallowing hard and turning his head to the side. Hesitantly, he pulled away from her approach. His muscles tensed, as her body pressed against his, and she sunk to the floor. Her arms unwrapped from his neck.
“You’re
not ready for this, are you?” She asked, dismayed, as her eyes flickered with
despair.
He
didn’t meet her gaze as he swallowed hard. “Y—you don’t understand, Mal. It’s
not like that.”
“Then
what is it?” She pressed, crossing her arms.
Resilient,
Rebel didn’t answer as he looked to the ground and fought the urge to grab a
cigarette and just lit up.
Her
question cut through the silence, softly, but as dejected as it was somber and
desperate. “What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing!”
He exploded in frustration, flipping his wings wide. “I’m not afraid of
anything!”
“Then
what? What is it? Why are you holding back?”
“I—I
don’t know, okay?!” Defeated, he leaned over Drake One’s console, eyes drooping
shut. “I don’t know.”
“What
is this?” She ventured after a silent moment, lightly touching his shoulder.
“What are we doing here?”
He
turned to her, his beak clamped, yet his eyes glimmered with tears, anything
but silent.
“I
love you, Rebel,” she continued, her voice filled with misery, as her eyes
reflected the same anguish in his, “but I don’t know if you just don’t feel the
same way or that you can’t.”
He
froze. His beak gaped as he shook his head in disbelief. His muscles flushed
rigidly as his face burned hot. In front of his eyes, it flashed—
The Mask…covered with blood…the screams…he
could hear the bloodcurdling shrills…
“Please, Mal.” His trembling hands grasped her shoulders,
as he beseeched gently, “I…I can’t lose you. I—Please don’t do this. Please…”
Taking
hold of his hands, she brought them tenderly between herself and Rebel. As she
looked at him, sparkling tears trickled down her red cheeks. “We came together
in a crisis, Rebel. You were afraid of losing your brother, and I was afraid of
losing a friend. But,” she breathed deeply as her voice choked in her throat.
“No,
no!” Rebel pressed, gutted.
“It’s
over, Rebel,” she cried softly.
“NO!
I—I…”
“You
can’t say it!” Mallory exasperated as she tore her hands from his. “Please,
don’t make this harder than it is! You know this is never going to work!”
“Because
you’re willing to give up on it!”
She
stared incredulously at him. Anger and hurt vied in her eyes. “How dare you?”
“Mal,
wait—”
“No! If
anything, I have supported you, stood up for you, and even took abuse from this
team to be with you, and you accuse me
of giving up?” She smacked away his hand as he tried to grip her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me!”
“But
Mal—”
“You—you don’t get it, do you?! You don’t
understand this at all, do you?” She laughed dryly. “How could I expect you to
understand love when you don’t even care about your friends, your own family?”
“What?!”
“Come on,
Reb. Admit it. You really don’t give a shit about us, do you? Sure, you came
back, but what does that show? That you couldn’t make it on Earth by yourself?”
Poking him in the chest and ignoring his flinching, she persisted, “In your
possession is possibly the greatest power in the universe, and all you do is
wear it about your neck like jewelry. To you, it’s a decoration, but for the
rest us, it could be salvation.”
Stunned,
Rebel blinked, speechless. His eyebrows arched as he regained his wits.
Irritated, he spat, “Well, at least I don’t have to rely on others to save me.”
*smack*
Throbbing
pain stabbed his cheek as Mallory sputtered, “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you are not
the person I thought you were, and you are definitely not half the drake I knew
years ago.” Shaking with uncontrollably fury, she stormed to the door. As the
doors opened automatically, she turned toward her astonished teammate. “You
changed, Nosedive, and not for the better. I don’t know what happened to you in
those five years, but get over it and yourself.”
Turning,
she bristled out of the Ready Room, leaving him alone.
Rebel
stared at where she left, rubbing his flushed face absentmindedly. Slowly, his
face hardened. His hands hanging limply at his sides curled into fists as a
strangled cry escaped his throat. Raising them above his head, he slammed his
fists down into control panel. The lights in the Ready Room dimmed briefly
before the generator bypassed the surge.
He
didn’t register the door whooshing open.
He
didn’t register the screams of panic from his brother and teammates—minus
Mallory.
He
didn’t register Tanya’s fussing about his waist or Wildwing’s scolding, yet
concerned questions.
Suddenly,
Wildwing patted him on the back, then took his hands, yelling to Duke to go for
ice. Rebel blinked, and his bleak eyes focused on Wildwing. Tears welled up.
“S—she
doesn’t understand,” was the broken whisper.
Wildwing
looked at him, bewildered. “What?”
“Neither
do you,” Rebel implored. He tugged slightly to free his hands, but Wildwing
held fast.
“Rebel,
what are you—”
“Don’t
you see?” Rebel pleaded desperately. “Don’t you see that I can’t? Don’t you
understand?! I want to so much that
it hurts! You have no idea, but I
just can’t! I don’t want it to be the same! I’m not the same! And then you’ll
just—and she’ll—and you’ll all—I can’t go through that again! Don’t you understand? I won’t!” With a wild thrust, he broke
free from Wildwing and tore toward the hanger.
“REBEL!”
Wildwing screamed, but it was moot.
A
second later, a lone Duckcycle screeched from the hanger, fleeing the Pond.
To Be Continued…