A soft hum helps the time pass as Launchpad tinkers around on the Sunchaser. He has to make sure it’ll still <i>fly</i> of course, but waiting for Mr. McDuck and his family to come back from their adventuring is the perfect time to add some upgrades, and fix anything from the most recent crash this morning. He can check supplies and make sure everything is in tip top order with his plane now that he doesn’t have to actually pilot it. Normally he’s occupied being the rich duck’s chauffeur, so he takes advantage of these opportunities. They’ve been gone for a few hours now, but he doesn’t expect them back for at least a couple more. If he runs out of things to do, he can always nap in the meantime.
His daydreaming is cut short as he hears his name being called. Turning to see who it is, three ducklings come out of the thicket and run to his side. He recognizes his best pal Dewey at the lead, Webby close behind, and Louie just a few seconds later, “Guys! Back already? I wasn’t expecting you for a while yet! Was the temple super small or-“
Dewey cuts him off, “Cut the chatter, Launchpad; we need to get home asap!”
The pilot blinks at the young one’s urgency, “Home? Well, home’s quite a few hours away. You know we’re all the way in Central America, right?”
Webby speaks next, “This is an emergency; how fast can we get there?!”
A hand goes to a large beak, “Hmm. If we don’t hit any strong jet streams on the way, I’d say we could be there in just under six hours.” Apparently, that isn’t the right answer.
The youngest triplet puts his hands to the side of his head, “Six <i>hours?!”</i>
The girl looks down, equally as distressed, “But that could be <i>too late!”</i>
Launchpad finally gets a good look at the children. They aren’t the same happy and put together kids that had left just a few hours earlier. Webby’s normally well-kept hair is a bit unruly, her eyes are wide and worried. She holds a black top hat and a pair of spectacles close to her person.
Louie is sweaty, that’s not far from normal in climates like this, but he’s breathing a bit heavier than usual. His eyes are red and swollen like he’d been crying, and he carries a black cane that his hands keep fiddling nervously with.
The adult is confused, “...why do you have Mr. McDee’s things?”
Dewey is probably the most concerning. His typical cool-guy attitude is completely gone and replaced by someone much more anxious and urgent. His hair is also a bit ruffled, but the thing that sticks out the most to the pilot, are the <i>red smears</i> on his shirt and sleeves.
Now that he looks closer, Webby also bears several marks on her hands and clothes. Even Louie’s green hoodie, and nervous hands that fidget with the walking stick, are stained a dark red. That can’t be what he thinks it is...right?
His brows knit together in concern, “...Is that-“
Again, he’s cut off, only this time by himself. Behind the ducklings in front of him, he sees more figures emerging from the tree line. His eyes widen in disbelief. There’s Huey, also showing some dark red staining on his already red clothes and bare arms. He carries two straight branches in one hand. He’s walking just beside Donald, who’s sleeves are missing. He’s by far the most covered in the ruby substance. His arms, hands, body, even his face and hat have scarlet staining. The sight that makes Launchpad start running though, is the crumpled, unmoving body on Donald’s back.
Leaving the children behind him, he runs to the figures only a short distance away. When he finally reaches them, the horror of his boss’s injuries can be seen. His normally well-kept white feathers now anything but. Several bruises have set in, and countless small red rivers flow off his body and onto the one that carries him. The old duck’s eyes are closed, and the pilot fears it’s already too late.
“Mr. McDee! Wh-what happened?!”
To his relief, the dark turquoise eyes open just slightly to acknowledge him, but the eldest duck is too busy with his labored breathing to reply.
Donald never stops his beeline for the plane, “It’s a long story. He’s hurt...bad. We need to get in the air.”
He has high suspicions that his uncle had passed out a few times on the way back. There were moments when the breathing in his ear would become hushed, and he would pick up his pace. Within a few minutes, there would be a slight movement and the heavy breaths would return, signaling to him that old codger was awake, most likely reluctantly, and back in his painful body again.
At last registering what the other had said, Launchpad leaves them in favor of running back to the Sunchaser. He quickly opens the door and begins preparations for takeoff. As much as he wants to help assist in taking care of his employer, no, his <i>family,</i> the best thing he can do is get them all back home as fast and as safely as possible. Scrooge would surely refuse spending any money on a foreign hospital, let alone any hospital.
The group promptly loads up as soon as the door opens, the children each storing their held items in the lockers that line the plane’s side before finding somewhere to stay for the ride. Spare blankets and pillows are kept in the aircraft for use during long travel, but no beds or soft chairs to set their injured companion on. A padded area on the floor would be the best place for now.
Huey and Webby pick a spot on the bottom level of the plane along the wall. There’s no way Scrooge will be able to climb up the ladder to the top level where the chairs are, where they normally sit. The two lay some of the comfier blankets down along with a few pillows to keep the wounded somewhat comfortable.
Donald’s back is aching at this point, his legs trembling with every step, but he refuses to make his uncle stand or even walk to the padded area. Once he’s satisfied with the spot Huey and Webby put together, he moves to the edge and kneels. Scrooge is coherent enough to lift himself off of his nephew, putting his weight on his good leg, and with the help of his great nephews and niece, he eases down and backwards onto the blankets.
The sailor straightens once again, stretching his back with a wince. That journey seemed to take forever, and the old man was heavier than he looked. He looks back at his uncle, now settled on the floor.
The rich duck gives a tired sigh in relief, followed by a light cough. This position is a bit less painful than the previous where he put most of his own weight on his injured ribs. His good arm cradles his left side underneath the sling, providing some support. An exhausted smile reaches his beak, “...thank ye, nephew. Ye held out longer than ah thought ye would.”
His nephew’s concerned face brightens sympathetically for a just a moment, before focusing once again. Donald leaves his uncle to find the plane operator, “Launchpad, is the plane ready?”
The pilot is already up in the cockpit finishing the preparations, “Everything is set! I’m closing the hatch door now!” After flipping a switch, the plane closes them off to the outside world with a metallic thud. Launchpad starts the engines, and the comforting roar of the Sunchaser brings hope the worried family. The air starts to move inside, bringing air conditioning to the overheated ducks, and Louie is already sighing in relief.
A voice announces overhead, “We’re ready for takeoff! Everybody hang on!”
Donald returns to his patient’s right side, making everyone take a seat until the plane had steadied in the air. The children sit around them, each holding on a part of the aircraft or something heavy enough to keep them from sliding to the back. Normally the sailor would make them sit in a chair with a seatbelt for takeoff. Though the ducklings were used to simply grabbing onto something steady for takeoff and landing as Scrooge allowed them to on a regular basis as of late. They of course haven’t, and won’t, tell Donald about that though. He’s allowing them a chance to prove themselves.
The entrepreneur leans on a pillow against the left wall of the plane’s belly, and the sailor sits closely next to him while grabbing ahold of any sturdy piece he can reach with his left hand above his uncle’s head. His right arm wraps around Scrooge’s chest to keep them both in one spot while the aircraft begins to move.
The metal bird taxis along the rough terrain while turning around in preparation for takeoff. The ride so far is less than smooth, and each bump makes the old duck grit his teeth tighter, grunting on particularly irregular ones. The jostling only sends more pain up his side and through his battered body.
Finally, the Sunchaser picks up speed, and the children instinctively hold on tighter. Loose items scattered around inside are bouncing with the movements as they reach top speed. The familiar pressure settles in their heads as their world is slanted while the wheels lose contact with the ground.
The normally tolerable feeling is torture in Scrooge’s pounding head. He grimaces as his body moves backwards with gravity, and limply presses into Donald’s chest as his nephew hangs on to his hold to keep them both from flying to the back of the plane and risk damaging the old man more.
Within seconds, the trees are already small dots underneath them, not that they can see for there are no windows in the plane’s belly. But already they can tell how far up they must be by the gradual straightening of the metal bird around them. Launchpad turns them to the direction of home, and they slowly climb in elevation.
The pilot turns his head to his family, “Alright, we’re gonna go up a bit higher yet, but it should be smooth from here on out.”
The ducks have already relaxed their postures, the pressure starting to lift, and the children are moving back to the uncles to see how they can help. Donald addresses them each in turn, “Huey, get the first aid kit and all the medical supplies you can find. Louie, you climb up there and keep Launchpad focused on flying. Tell him to keep the plane as steady as possible. Webby, you get some fresh water and ice if it hasn’t already melted. Dewey, you stay with me.”
Huey takes off in one direction while Webby runs in the other.
Louie remains where he is with a scowl on his face, “Aw, why do <i>I</i> have to babysit Launchpad? Dewey is his best friend, make him go!”
Donald doesn’t even blink, “We need to dress Scrooge’s wounds, and he’ll probably need stitches. Dewey is here to help me get him undressed and hold him down...but if you <i>want</i> to switch...?”
A quick glance over of his great uncle’s body makes the green nephew <i>turn</i> green with a dry heave. He’s purposely been trying to avoid looking directly at the deep cuts that litter the elderly body and trying to forget that sickening pop the dislocated shoulder had made.
His mind is quickly made up, “You know what? I think I’m gonna go and make sure Launchpad’s attention is on getting us home as quick as possible.” Hands in his shirt pocket, the boy walks towards the ladder in the corner.
His uncle nods with a knowing smile, “Good idea.”
Donald turns back to his patient, who seems to be a bit more alert at the moment, though he’s been quiet. The lack of backtalk worries the duck though, usually Scrooge would have been grumbling about something by now. His eyes droop, probably exhausted, but he’s actively watching what happens around him, that’s a good sign at least.
The eldest nephew puts a hand on Scrooge’s padded shoulder, giving the robe a tug, “We should take this off first so we can see that.” He nods towards the Celtic duck’s hand still tightly cradling his side.
His uncle frowns, “...ye want me tae strip? In front a these wee ones?!” His voice is hoarse, and a well-trained ear can hear the pain in it.
But it does little to sway the sailor, “<i>Please.</i> Now is not the time for modesty. Besides, you don’t wear pants!”
There really is no shame in not wearing any clothes for the ducks, everything is covered by feathers. Clothing is not needed for most in their society, but it’s seen as a proper trend to take part in.
A glare meets Donald’s, but nothing more on the matter is said. The eldest nephew unfastens the buckle around his uncle’s middle first, loosening the belt, before unbuttoning what was left of the tattered coat. Once the buttons are released, Scrooge removes his supporting hand from his side for Donald to pull the sleeve off. The fabric sticks to partly dried blood on the deep laceration along his upper arm, making him hiss at his kin when it’s tugged, pulling some of his feathers along with it. Donald offers a slightly apologetic look but continues anyway.
With one arm free, the sailor on Scrooge’s right and Dewey on his left ease him forward, with a groan on his part, just enough to pass the coat behind him. The blue duckling takes hold of the robe before they let the old man lean against the pillow once again. The avian releases the breath he held at feeling his bones grind together in the short moment.
In the brief glance at Scrooge’s bare back, a deep bruise had already formed along his spine, along with more smaller bruising and superficial cuts scattered along the length of it. But nothing seems to be bleeding terribly there at least. His free hand returns to his side underneath his coat. The reinforcement helps the pain and keeps everything held in one spot, the way it should be.
The two continue undressing their injured uncle as Webby returns with several bottles of water, some towels, and ice in a small bucket. She sits next to Dewey, wrapping some of the ice in a smaller towel. She sits and waits for the two to finish, trying not to appear like she was staring.
It really isn’t an issue; the majority of male ducks she knows don’t wear pants, and of course their swimwear usually consists of shorts and no shirts, so there is truly nothing to hide. Modesty should be one of the lowest on the priority list in this situation anyway. Besides, Webby really isn’t staring at the lack of clothing, she’s mentally taking in the various injuries scattered along her hero’s body.
Donald removes the makeshift sling from around the old duck’s neck as Dewey supports the injured arm. They toss the fabric aside and Donald takes the lead holding onto the arm as Dewey peels off the robe. They carefully lead the injured wing out of it, at last freeing the senior from the tattered coat. The middle child then takes a long sheet they’d found earlier with the spare blankets, and with it forms a new sling that provides much more support than the strips of clothing had.
With the coat gone, the true extent of the rick duck’s injuries is revealed. Black and blue patches can be seen, even through the white feathers. The deep cut on his good arm drains freely down his elbow and onto the blankets below him. A rather large bruise centers over his left hip, most likely one of the many locations the large stone had made contact. His knees are skinned and bloodied, and a darkening bruise lay just below his right one. Webbed, still spat-clad, feet are scuffed and abused, but mostly fine.
Hands, mainly the right, have small bloody scratches and cuts. If he was at all still conscious during his fall, they might be from attempts to catch himself. The bad arm and shoulder are a bit discolored, most likely the initial hit had dislocated it, and it then flopped around uselessly getting more damaged as his body rolled. The darkest bruise sits on his rib cage, currently being hidden by his good hand. Traces of a cut can be seen starting above and stretching below it, and blood flows like a tiny stream down his side.
The once noble face is also cut and beaten, expression looking between a mix of agitated and defeated. A large cut over his left eye bleeds down the side of his face. A welt can be seen in the same location, most likely from the original hit again. The back of his head leaves blood smears on the pillow, but they must be multiple tiny cuts from the rough landing, as no large ones can be seen.
Despite his many injuries, there’s no sign of internal bleeding, at least that can be seen from the outside, though the most probable place, if there is any, would be on the ribcage. If broken, ribs have been known to puncture through lungs and other tissues. For now, they would just have to watch that particular wound closely.
As much as he tries to hide his pain, his family can see through his facade. The biggest sign being his unusually quiet demeanor. If he felt anything like his normal self, he’d be barking orders to the lot of them, and telling them to quit their worrying. Instead, he sits quietly, merely accepting whatever his kin decide to do next. The family can only hope they can provide some sort of relief to his situation.
Dewey steps aside for the time being, his job finished. Webby moves into his spot with her homemade icepack and holds it up to the large knot on Scrooge’s forehead. The rich duck winces at the sudden contact, not expecting it, but soon appreciates the cool sensation, leaning into it slightly. The blood from the cut in the same location had long since dripped past his eye and was running down his beak. The girl frowns, grabbing at a different towel to gently wipe it away, cleaning him up. She earns a tired but appreciative smile back.
Huey has returned with his medical supplies, having to make two trips to bring everything back, including the two branches he’d found in their trek home, “I found one bottle of hydrogen peroxide.”
Donald nods, “We’ll use that to clean the supplies and our hands then, and we’ll just use water to rinse out the sores.”
Eyes widen slightly next to him, and he’s a bit amused to see his uncle suddenly fearing his own kinfolk at the mention of their plans. Sweat forms on the old duck’s brow, but whether it was from anxiety at the inbound escalating of his already tormenting pain or from the fever developing, one can’t be sure.
The sailor looks back to the oldest triplet, “You and Dewey take care of his leg, Webby and I will start cleaning the cuts.”
A tiny hand grabs hold of one finger on the hand that holds tightly to crushed ribs and is led away. “Starting with this,” the female duckling gently lowers the bloodied hand, removing the ice from the other’s head for the time being. This is going to be a tad difficult with the wounded wing hanging right about where the injury was.
Scrooge’s good hand fiddles uneasily on his lap, wanting to cover the wound again as his eyes glance in the opposite direction. The slightest breeze from the air conditioning can be felt in the throbbing injury.
Donald senses Webby’s hesitation and stands on his knees over the entrepreneur to move the bad arm gently up and out of the way without causing injury. A grunt signifies the sensitivity at simply stretching the skin over the laceration, his body turning to the right and away, but the two continue on.
Now being able to see the gash clearly, Webby’s concern grows, and the oldest nephew can see it in her face. The bruise is quite large, and almost completely black. A long and deep cut runs vertically down the length of it, completely soaking the feathers around it in its deep crimson color. If she looks close enough, she can see the laceration is completely down to the bone, separating pieces of muscle and exposing several ribs to the outside world.
Webby cautiously takes a hand and lightly presses along the bruise and isn’t surprised when he flinches away and barks out another string of curses in his native tongue. The bones had <i>moved</i> and <i>crunched</i> together under her light touch, making even her strong stomach turn over, “Sorry, Mr. McDuck.”
There’s that name again! He hates it when she called him by that, it’s as if she’s one of his employees. He mentally takes a note for a later time, though he is unable to physically say anything logical at the moment as he grimaces and trembles, trying to recover from the painful assault. He’s now laying more so on his right side in a feeble attempt to get away.
Even though Donald can’t see the full injury itself at his position, from Webby and Scrooge’s reaction, he knows it’s severe. Though he risks the question anyway, “How bad is it?”
The duckling’s face remains apprehensive as her solemn, almost purple, eyes flick to him, “I-It’s...<i>bad</i>...”
How such an injury even occurred she’s not completely sure. The broken and damaged ribs could be from the force of the swinging boulder. The laceration perhaps from the sharp surface, or it’s possible the duck had landed on a particularly sharp stone during his decent. However it happened, it was going to definitely need some medical attention, “It looks down to bone, and there’s definitely some broken ribs in there. That’s probably what’s causing the cough.”
The sailor’s face turns grim at her statement with a worried hum, “Do you know how to sew up wounds?”
The girl nods her head, “Granny made sure I at least had a general idea of it in my survival classes. It might not be pretty, but I can do it.” As much as she hated being the object of Scrooge’s pain, she wanted to help as much as she could.
Donald had brief training in the navy as well. He was no doctor, but he wanted to know how to sew up a laceration to stabilize the injured until professional medical help was accessible. It had proven useful on multiple occasions since then. He had used his abilities on adventures with his family. Della and Scrooge would get the occasional cut here and there that needed stitches; such hazards come with the territory. Plus raising three boys was not always without incident either. Though this would be the most he’s ever done in one sitting. He’s grateful to be able to split up the work with the young duckling and trusts in her abilities despite her modesty.
He dips his head in return, “Good. You and I can each sew up the worst cuts. Normally, I’d offer to switch with you for this particular one, but I have a feeling we’re gonna have a resistant patient on our hands, and someone is going to have to keep him still.”
A snort makes him glance at the source of their attention, who’s looking off to his right with an annoyed expression. The girl stifles a smile and nods in agreement. As the two start their preparations of sewing up the large gash, they let the old duck move back to his original position to rest for the time being.
Meanwhile, Huey and Dewey have been conversing on how to stabilize Scrooge’s possibly broken leg. The eldest triplet had found two fairly straight branches on the way back and had brought them along with the thought of this in mind, “Alright, the idea is this: we use these two branches to keep any potential bones that might be broken or fractured in the right positions. It’ll also help keep the leg stable and prevent any further injury.”
The middle triplet nods, “Seems simple enough. Tell me what I need to do.”
The two work together to tear a pillowcase into small strips of fabric a few inches wide and the same length as the original casing. When they have a total of seven made, they slide each strip underneath the injured leg, trying to move the limb itself as little as possible. Once placed, Huey lines a stick on either side of the appendage the long way. The sticks begin just at knee level, and end just above the ankle, “I’ll keep the branches in place, you tie everything together. Remember, it has to be tight to be stable.”
Dewey recognizes his brother is giving him a warning. Tying the makeshift splint together could be painful, and he’s currently sitting next to the uninjured leg. If Scrooge lashes out, Dewey will be caught in the crossfire.
The boy takes in his positioning, looking to his right at his great uncle. Webby and Donald are setting out the supplies. They’re rinsing the blood off their dirtied hands with bottled water and afterwards use the hydrogen peroxide to try and clean up as best as possible. They wouldn’t be sterile, but at least they wouldn’t be as soiled while trying to stitch up the lacerations. Though with all this happening around him, Scrooge’s eyes are on the blue lad at his feet. Whether he had heard what the two were talking about over the chatter of his niece and nephew can’t be known. Maybe he’s not even aware of what’s happening, or that he’s looking directly at Dewey, but he says nothing.
The blue garbed boy looks back to his task at hand. If he gets kicked, so be it. He has a job to do, and he’s going to do his best at it. He takes both ends of the first strip of fabric that sits around the ankle and starts to tie. He pulls tightly at the ends, making the sticks press snugly against the limb.
Huey watches the old miser out of his peripheral vision, just in case the other decides to even change position. But he doesn’t move a muscle, so Dewey continues to the next tie. The second and third each go without incident. At the tightening of the fourth tie, the oldest triplet can see the rich duck’s eyes widen suddenly. The branches are now starting to put straightening pressure on the bones inside. But still, he remains silent, though he is hyper focused on what the middle triplet is doing now.
Huey turns his head ever so slightly in their patient’s direction, not to look at him, but to give Dewey a warning that he has started to react. The blue nephew catches his movements and ties the next strip cautiously as it’s now directly over the bruised area. He reminds himself that the ties must be fitted snugly to provide stability and pulls the ends, drawing the branches even closer around the leg.
At the sensation, Scrooge barely manages to stifle the end of a shout, resolving to growl instead at his great nephews, eyes still boring holes into them. His good hand having shot out to grab at Donald’s arm just above the wrist, who squawks in surprise and pain; he needs to squeeze something, to distract himself from wanting to shove the tiny duckling away. Scrooge’s left leg bends up in reaction, but he restrains it from moving any farther, gritting his teeth. <i>Only two more. Only two.</i>
The middle triplet flinched away at his uncle’s outburst, afraid of an incoming kick in the ribs, but when it never came, he saw it as his opportunity to continue. He moves back to his previous position, Huey following him. He too had moved briefly at the movement.
They move to the sixth tie, Dewey once again reminding himself to be <i>tight</i> with a deep breath. He crosses the two over, one under, and pulls with all his might. Scrooge’s flinch moves him slightly, and the strained cry reaches his ears, as well as his uncle’s whose arm is being tightly squished. Dewey may have to make another splint after all this.
At the sounds of distress, Louie peeks over the edge of the balcony. His great uncle is now completely stripped of clothing, how and why that happened, he doesn’t want to know. But there’s a new sling around the other’s neck, and it seems much better than the previous.
Huey and Dewey are carefully poised at Scrooge’s right leg, his left having now drawn up, leaving his foot pressed tightly against his rump. Webby sits on his left, needles and bandages are laid out next to her; Louie definitely doesn’t want to see what she’s going to do with those. Donald sits on the other side, one arm in Scrooge’s clutches as he beats the ground with his other fist, holding back his pained cries.
“Everything ok down there?” The youngest triplet is almost afraid to ask.
The female duckling yells up at him, “Everything’s fine! Just putting a splint on Mr. McDuck’s leg!”
The pilot winces in sympathy behind him, “Sounds like it hurts! Poor Mr. McDee.”
Louie looks back at Launchpad, “...H-he’ll be fine...how long has it been?” He’s eager to change the subject, not wanting to think of the alternative.
The pilot looks back at him for a brief moment, “It hasn’t even been half an hour! Still got a ways to go...unfortunately.”
The nephew flinches at another pained shout, moving back to his previous seat next to the pilot. He leans his head on a hand with a loud groan, “Ugh, this is gonna take <i>forever.”</i>
