The first thing Gosalyn decided was that purple sportswear had betrayed her.

Not in the abstract.

Not in the vague, philosophical sense.

Her outfit had personally, specifically, and maliciously turned against her.

The cropped athletic top had seemed practical when she put it on that morning. Lightweight. Flexible. Easy to move in. The shorts had deep pockets. The sneakers had enough grip to scale a fire escape if necessary. Everything matched. Everything looked cool.

Everything also left far too much of her sides exposed.

Which had become a serious problem approximately seven minutes ago.

"Ready to talk yet?" Quackerjack asked brightly.

Gosalyn glared at him from where Bushroot's vines had her suspended several feet above the floor of the abandoned greenhouse.

At least, she tried to glare.

One vine held each wrist above her head. Another looped around one ankle, keeping her leg awkwardly lifted whenever she tried to kick. Two more curled securely around her waist and opposite thigh.

And one particularly evil tendril was still skittering lightly through the puff of pale belly feathers exposed between her shirt and shorts.

Gosalyn's glare collapsed.

"D-don't—!"

The vine fluttered across her side.

A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it.

Quackerjack clapped delightedly. "Still adorable!"

"I'm going to break your stupid toy teeth!"

"Oh, she's threatening us again." Megavolt leaned against a rusted planting table, sparks snapping between his fingers. "That means no."

Liquidator flowed around a cracked ceramic pot, his watery body shaping itself into an exaggerated game-show-host pose.

"Why withstand another second of discomfort when one simple name can end your problems today?"

Gosalyn sucked in a breath and tried to flatten herself against the vines.

It did not help.

She was fluffy.

She had always been fluffy.

Usually this was not classified information.

Usually it was just something her dad teased her about when she came downstairs half-awake and looked like she had lost a fight with a dryer.

At present, however, every soft feather around her middle seemed determined to announce exactly where she was most sensitive.

"I told you," she managed, "I don't know who Darkwing Duck is."

Quackerjack gasped theatrically.

Then he held up a squeaky toy shaped like a lie detector.

It honked.

"Machine says you're fibbing!"

"That is a rubber chicken with a lightbulb taped to it!"

"It's scientifically calibrated."

"It has crayon on it!"

"That's the control panel."

Bushroot sighed from beside the central mass of vines. "Can we please focus? We've already established she's connected to Darkwing."

"Because I live in St. Canard?" Gosalyn shot back. "Half the city has been rescued by him!"

Megavolt pointed at her. "You yelled, 'My dad is going to fold you into a lawn chair.'"

Gosalyn froze.

Quackerjack slowly turned toward Megavolt.

Megavolt blinked.

Bushroot's vines paused.

Liquidator made a watery bubbling sound.

Gosalyn's mind sprinted directly into a wall.

"I call lots of people Dad."

Nobody spoke.

"That sounded better in my head."

Quackerjack's grin widened until it became genuinely alarming.

"So Darkwing's your daddy?"

"No!"

The vine at her side moved again.

Gosalyn jerked so hard that all the leaves around her rustled.

"Wait—wait, do not—!"

Bushroot lifted one hand.

The vine resumed.

Gosalyn dissolved into helpless laughter.

She kicked at empty air, twisting uselessly as the tendril fluttered over her side and through the exposed belly fluff. Her shirt had ridden up even farther, which was both humiliating and strategically disastrous.

"Stop!" she wheezed. "Bushroot, I swear—!"

"I'm not enjoying this," Bushroot said.

Quackerjack gave him a look.

Bushroot lowered his eyes.

"I'm enjoying it a little."

Gosalyn threw her head back with an offended groan that became another laugh.

This was bad.

Not merely because she was dangling in a greenhouse while four supervillains treated her like an especially angry feather duster.

That was already bad.

The real problem was Darkwing.

Sooner or later, Drake would come looking for her. WANDA would trace her phone, or Launchpad would notice she had missed three consecutive check-ins, or her dad would simply experience one of his supernatural parental panic attacks and know she was in trouble.

And if Darkwing arrived without Quiverwing—

Her stomach dropped.

The Fearsome Four knew Quiverwing worked with him.

They knew Quiverwing appeared whenever Darkwing was in serious danger.

They knew Gosalyn had been seen around Darkwing often enough to make her a target.

If Quiverwing failed to appear when Gosalyn was captured, even these four might eventually start counting the available vigilantes and civilians.

Quackerjack leaned close, dangling upside down from a vine he absolutely had not been invited to use.

"Whatcha thinking about?"

"How annoying your voice is."

"Wrong! You're thinking about Darkwing!"

"I am thinking about biting you."

"Also acceptable."

A low mechanical hum suddenly rolled through the greenhouse.

Every pane of cracked glass rattled in its frame.

The vines around Gosalyn went still.

Megavolt straightened.

Liquidator pooled lower to the ground.

Bushroot turned toward the huge double doors at the far end of the building.

Quackerjack grinned.

"Oh," Gosalyn whispered.

Purple smoke began curling beneath the doors.

Her relief lasted exactly half a second.

Then her panic came roaring back twice as strong.

No.

No, no, no.

Dad, please tell me you thought this through.

The doors exploded inward.

"Let go of my daughter!"

Darkwing Duck emerged from the smoke with his cape spread wide, hat tipped low over his mask and gas gun already raised.

Gosalyn closed her eyes.

He said daughter.

Of course he said daughter.

Why would he not say daughter?

Quackerjack looked from Darkwing to Gosalyn.

Then back to Darkwing.

Then to Gosalyn again.

Gosalyn laughed once, nervously.

"See?" she said. "Lots of dads."

Darkwing's head snapped toward her.

There was a brief, terrible silence.

Gosalyn mouthed, Work with me.

Darkwing recovered.

"She is a daughter of St. Canard!"

Gosalyn stared at him.

Megavolt stared at him.

Bushroot stared at him.

Liquidator slowly raised one watery eyebrow.

Quackerjack whispered, "That was awful."

"I am aware," Darkwing muttered.

Gosalyn's entire secret identity flashed before her eyes.

She was never going to hear the end of this.

Violet would make a chart.

Lena would call it the stupidest cover story in recorded history.

Dewey would—

A dark shape dropped from the greenhouse rafters.

Gosalyn's brain stopped.

A hooded figure landed beside Darkwing in a crouch, one gloved hand pressed to the floor.

Purple cape.

Black mask.

Compact bow already drawn.

Quiverwing Quack slowly rose.

The voice modifier in the mask hummed.

"Step away from the girl."

Gosalyn forgot how breathing worked.

The voice was hers.

Not her normal voice.

The other voice.

The one the modifier created when she wore the hood and mask. Lower. Sharper. Smooth in a way that made every sentence sound deliberate. Dangerous. Confident.

Quiverwing turned her masked face slightly toward Gosalyn.

"You all right?"

Gosalyn stared.

Quiverwing's silhouette was perfect.

The shoulders were held exactly the way Gosalyn held hers when she wanted to look taller. The bow was angled at the right height. Even the hood had been adjusted to cast the proper dramatic shadow over the mask.

And that voice.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Gosalyn had heard recordings of herself before, obviously. News clips. Grainy phone videos. The occasional fan compilation Dewey found at three in the morning and sent her with seventeen exclamation points.

But hearing it live—from the outside—was different.

She suddenly understood the posters.

She understood the fan accounts.

She understood the dramatic edits set to embarrassingly intense music.

She understood Violet.

Quiverwing drew the bowstring another inch.

"I asked you a question."

Gosalyn's face heated.

"I'm fine."

Quiverwing tilted her head.

Gosalyn nearly choked.

That was her head tilt.

Why did it look like that?

Why was it—

No.

Absolutely not.

She was not finding herself attractive.

That was impossible.

Probably.

Quackerjack glanced between them.

Then he began to grin.

"Awww."

Gosalyn's stomach dropped for an entirely different reason.

"What?"

"Our little hostage has a hero crush."

"I do not!"

Quiverwing's hood turned toward her.

Even through the mask, Gosalyn could feel the smugness.

The deeply familiar, catastrophically Dewey-shaped smugness.

Oh, she was going to kill him.

Not literally.

But creatively.

"Really?" Quackerjack asked. "Because you got all quiet when Birdie Number Two showed up."

"I was assessing the situation!"

"Your feathers puffed."

"They are already puffed!"

"Extra puffed."

Liquidator rose into the shape of a heart around his own face.

"Hero attraction can strike without warning! Symptoms may include staring, blushing, denial, and sudden hostility!"

"I am always hostile!"

Quiverwing's shoulders shook.

Gosalyn narrowed her eyes.

She knew that silent laugh.

She had heard that silent laugh every time Dewey successfully stole one of Louie's hats and blamed it on gravity.

Quiverwing spoke again, voice smooth beneath the modifier.

"Focus, civilians."

Gosalyn's beak fell open.

Civilians.

He had called her a civilian.

Dewey Duck had exactly three seconds left to live.

She opened her mouth.

"Pretty—"

Quiverwing instantly drew and released.

The arrow flew past Gosalyn and buried itself in the vine supporting her ankle.

Foam burst outward, locking the tendril in place before it could tighten.

The meaning was clear.

Do not finish that nickname.

Gosalyn clamped her beak shut.

Quackerjack's eyes narrowed.

"Pretty what?"

"Pretty..." Gosalyn's brain scrambled. "Pretty accurate shot."

Quiverwing gave her an exaggerated little bow.

The movement was so offensively familiar that Gosalyn wanted to scream.

"Thank you."

That voice again.

Dayum.

Gosalyn's eyes widened in horror.

No.

She did not think that.

She refused to have thought that.

The voice modifier was doing most of the work. Technically, she was finding advanced audio engineering attractive.

That was perfectly normal.

Probably.

Darkwing fired a gas capsule at Megavolt.

The greenhouse erupted into motion.

Megavolt blasted the capsule out of the air. Liquidator surged forward in a wave. Bushroot's vines shot across the room while Quackerjack pulled a spring-loaded boxing glove from nowhere.

Darkwing vanished into smoke.

Quiverwing rolled beneath a vine, came up on one knee, and fired two arrows in rapid succession.

Gosalyn watched despite herself.

Dewey was good.

Not as good as her.

Obviously.

His footing was a little too wide, and his draw was not completely even, and he added an unnecessary cape flourish after every shot.

But he had practiced.

He had practiced enough to imitate her rhythm.

Enough to make the Fearsome Four believe Quiverwing was standing in front of them.

Enough to protect her identity.

Something warm flickered beneath Gosalyn's embarrassment.

Then Fake Quiverwing spun beneath Liquidator's arm, kicked off a planter, and landed dramatically on the railing.

"All wet," he said through the modifier.

Gosalyn's warmth vanished.

"Oh, come on!" she shouted.

Everyone looked at her.

She coughed.

"I mean...that line was terrible."

Quiverwing pointed an arrow toward her.

"You're welcome for the rescue."

"You have not rescued me yet!"

"I'm building suspense."

That was Dewey.

That was absolutely Dewey.

No one else in the world could sound exactly like Quiverwing Quack and still somehow communicate such overwhelming Deweyness.

Quackerjack noticed Gosalyn's expression.

"Oh, she really likes you."

Gosalyn's face burned hotter.

"I do not like Quiverwing!"

Fake Quiverwing placed a hand over his heart.

Darkwing, currently wrestling a giant vine, looked offended on Gosalyn's behalf.

Bushroot blinked.

Liquidator gasped.

Megavolt stopped charging a blast.

Quackerjack whispered, "Harsh."

"I mean—I like Quiverwing!"

The villains exchanged looks.

Gosalyn wanted the greenhouse to collapse.

"Professionally!" she added. "As a hero! She is a very competent and normal person!"

Quiverwing's shoulders began shaking again.

"And not attractive!" Gosalyn snapped.

The shaking stopped.

A beat passed.

Then Quiverwing slowly turned toward her.

The mask hid Dewey's eyes.

It did nothing to hide the insulted posture.

Gosalyn realized what she had said.

Her own ego immediately rose from the grave.

"Not that she isn't attractive!"

Darkwing made a strangled noise.

Quackerjack sat down on the floor to watch.

Gosalyn was now arguing publicly about whether her own secret identity was hot.

This was the worst day of her life.

Quiverwing crossed his arms.

"Well?"

Gosalyn glared at him.

She could not say his name.

She could not reveal the disguise.

She could not explain why he had better stop enjoying this immediately unless he wanted his entire browser history projected onto the side of McDuck Enterprises.

So she settled for the only available threat.

"I know who you are."

Quiverwing tilted his head.

"So do I."

Gosalyn's eye twitched.

That was it.

He was dead.

Darkwing finally tore free of the vine and hurled a smoke bomb between Bushroot and Megavolt.

"Quiverwing! Less flirting, more rescuing!"

"We are not flirting!" Gosalyn shouted.

Fake Quiverwing fired an arrow toward the vines around her wrists.

The shaft split apart midair, releasing two small blades that sliced neatly through the tendrils.

Gosalyn dropped.

Another arrow struck the floor beneath her and burst into a cushion of expanding foam.

She landed with a soft bounce.

Before she could stand, Quiverwing stepped through the smoke and offered her a hand.

Gosalyn stared at it.

Then up at the hood.

The modifier hummed faintly.

"You're safe now."

For one deeply humiliating second, her brain went completely blank again.

Dayum.

She grabbed his hand and let him pull her up.

Then she yanked him close by the front of the cape.

"Enjoy this while it lasts," she whispered.

Behind the mask, Dewey made a tiny startled sound.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You are enjoying this way too much."

"I'm saving you."

"You called me a civilian."

"It was method acting."

"You stole my voice."

"Borrowed."

"You stole my suit."

"Also borrowed."

"You did the head tilt."

"I studied."

Gosalyn narrowed her eyes.

Dewey leaned closer, the modifier turning his whisper into Quiverwing's dark, confident murmur.

"You were blushing."

Gosalyn shoved him backward into a planter.

He landed in it with a crash.

Quackerjack pointed excitedly.

"Lovers' quarrel!"

"HE IS NOT—"

Gosalyn stopped herself so violently that her entire body jerked.

Dewey sat among the crushed ferns, one gloved finger held warningly to the front of his mask.

She could not say it.

She could not say he was Dewey.

She could not say Fake Quiverwing.

She could not explain anything.

Gosalyn curled both hands into fists.

"Quiverwing," she said through clenched teeth, "is going to experience consequences later."

Dewey scrambled to his feet and gave her another flourishing bow.

"I look forward to it."

The voice modifier made it sound unfairly cool.

Gosalyn's stomach did a tiny, traitorous flip.

Her eyes widened.

No.

No, absolutely not.

She pointed at him in outrage.

"Stop sounding like that!"

The entire greenhouse went silent.

Darkwing slowly lowered his gas gun.

Bushroot looked baffled.

Megavolt's sparks fizzled.

Liquidator's face formed into a knowing smile.

Quackerjack's grin became unbearable.

Quiverwing folded his arms.

"Like what?"

Gosalyn opened and closed her beak.

She had no answer that would not ruin her life.

So she grabbed the nearest fallen vine and hurled it at Quackerjack.

"SHUT UP!"

Quackerjack ducked, cackling.

The fight resumed.

And as Gosalyn launched herself at the Fearsome Four with all the fury of a very small, extremely fluffy storm cloud, one thought repeated in her head with every punch, kick, and deeply unnecessary dramatic line from the fake vigilante beside her.

She finally understood her fans.

She finally understood Violet.

And Dewey was never, ever going to learn that.