a/n: It's short, yes, I know that. I've not been able to write much of late plus I have zippo combat experience. I don't even watch The History Channel as all those big noises scare Mr. Pookums, my plushie mountain goat. Was either this or nothing more for several weeks.

Okay, kidding about Mr. Pookums. Mr. Pookums kicks more ass than I do. ;P

Trying to figure out how to work Batman and Nightwing into the fray. I'm not terribly familiar with their weaponry assortment other than batarangs and rebreathers...knockout gas...chunk of kryptonite. What else do those two carry on them? Especially Batman and his Time Lord utility belt with the unlimited storage capacity.


Kinetics 13: Nobody Insults Flash Ducky

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"Yeah...It's a paramilitary organization," Nightwing frowned as he looked at his old mentor. "I thought you knew."

"No."

"You didn't know?" Nightwing didn't even try to hide his incredulity at that sepulchral admission. Not only was Bruce not aware of something...the Dark Knight actually let the sound of dismay color his voice? He wanted to glance into the sky and ask if pigs were flying or something, but figured that wouldn't go over very well.

"I know now." The returned sour quality to Batman's reply was like so much pure acid.

Okay, that was better.

Or not so much better as it was normal.

"Well, I guess if you could be mistaken, anybody could." Nightwing diplomatically allowed (seeing as the last thing he wanted was more verbal Bat Vitriol to be spat in his direction.)

Both froze for what seemed like whole seconds of horrified realization. There was a simultaneous scrambling for binoculars, hurried focusing; Nightwing nearly dropping his macros. Batman grimaced as if in pain. Fortunately, Dick beat him to voicing their first thought:

"Holy guano avalanche! He's gotten into the wrong race!"

It was all Bruce could do not to face-palm. Instead, he looked again through his macros. West was eying his nearest competitor and...opening his mouth.

This couldn't be good. He'd have to do something.

'Purely for the sake of my The Justice League rubber duck collection.'


West was eying his nearest competitor: a bald-headed man who smelled of onions and garlic. "So..." the speedster hesitantly asked, "does this mean that tube on your ducky's harness isn't a cup holder?" (Caught in the midst of a group of war mongers, Wally figured the best life insurance policy was to make nice and sweet talk them about their loved ones. Every doting father could not but help turn a bit mushy when waxing on about their passions be they chromosome kin or plastic bath toys. Surely this would make them less trigger happy?

"Cup holder?" Mr. Garlic Bread on Rye breathed the fumes of his latest repast into Wally's face. "Cup holder? Only a weenie unfit for anything but plastic pop guns wouldn't recognize that this here bad boy's the Acme UltraBlast-O-Matic offensive aerial missile launcher!" The man squinted in disdain at Flash Ducky. "So what do you have for your offensive array?"

"Offensive array?" Well, F.D. did have one pretty sturdy beak; however, Wally got the feeling that this wasn't what Mr. GBoR was talking about.

"Is this a joke? How you think your going to capture any kill points without the latest weaponry? Hey, you some kind of pacifist namby-pamby dip wad?"

"Um...let me get back to you on that."

Wally's next act was to ever so nervously edge away. The only thing he was keen to capture now was the attendant's notice. "Excuse me? Sir? I think I may have accidentally signed for the wrong event? Can you point me in the direction of the Waddling Pond Race?"

"Hey, guys," one of the meaner looking rubber duck wranglers guffawed. (Wally immediately decided to call him The Illustrated Ad Man seeing as his variety of body art all depicted the gruesome fates of former rubber duckies along with one prominent blank spot that simply stated: "Picture Your Duck Here.") "Looks like we got us a plucked chicken in our midst instead of a duck!" A clamor of catcalls and mock chicken-like noises rose up at this, all aimed at the blushing Wally and stoically silent Flash Ducky. "What'sa matter, ya weenie...your little duckie-wuckie can't handle a man's race?" He jabbed a metal-tipped finger at what was the only weaponless duck in the group. Wally hastily snatched F.D. back out of puncture range.

"Well, actually..."

At this point the event attendant kindly stepped in.

"Get your gosh-be-damned duck in the water, boy, or go waddle out of the way and let the real mallard wranglers show you what it's like to have premium octane testosterone pumping in their veins!" The men contestants whooped in assent. (Several women contestants gave their neighbor chauvinistic commentators the finger with a twist of their spike-leather covered wrists; still, the overall consensus was that Wally was not a man and his under-endowed duckling should apply at Colonel Flounders House of Chicken Wings for a suitable vocation in life.)

Normally guileless eyes slitted to jade stones of seething paternal indignation.

You could disparage the Flash.

You could insult Wally West.

You could even wax derogatory about Colonel Flounders House of Chicken Wings even on their All-You-Can-Eat-Every-First-Tuesday-Of-The-Month days.

But -darn it!- nobody was going to deride Flash Ducky's mallardliness!

How dare they question Team Flash Ducky's worth! F.D. was the bestest, the bravestest, the fastestest, and most floatiest rubber duck in the gosh darn world of bath toys!

"You wanna see what we can do? You wanna see what we can do? Just hold on to your tattoos and spiked bangles, G.I. Jokes," Wally snarled at them while making sure the little batcape was tied on snug about F.D.'s neck, "because Flash Ducky's molded plastic tail feather are going to be the only thing your own bath buddies see before they sink from F.D.'s wake...so you can all just kiss my duck's ass!"

Unfortunately, the race gun had gone off during his little impassioned speech and all the other ducks were already floating off into destiny.

"Crap," our hero muttered as he hurriedly placed Flash Ducky into the water with a last gentle pat on the back. "Don't worry, F.D. Just go out there and do your best. Daddy won't let anything happen to you."

'Especially since your GrandBatty would undoubtedly kill me if I did.'