Part 2: "The Two Sides of Me"
("2 Sides of Me" – Hinder)
The next day was somehow worst than the first of hard rain.
The weather was stuck in an area that resembled the low 40's and the high 50's. The trees were close to being blown off the ground, the buildings were subject to damaged windows and flying rooftops, and the citizens were struggling to do about their business in the city. The police were doing slightly better, but they had the same amount of pressure that came with performing an investigation during a storm. Duckberg was under serious consideration to commence a citywide lockdown around noon.
And it was starting to piss Dewey off.
Dewey woke up from his rest, his brothers still trapped in their state of sleep. Slowly getting up from bed, he carefully navigated his way to the bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he slipped out of his pajamas before slipping into the shower. He sighed in relief as the warm water washed over him, never minding his traumatic memories of being swept away by a rip-roaring river of rage. Going for the soap, he made sure not to drop it whenever he used it. The cleansing course was relatively easy, so this wasn't the reason for taking ten minutes too long in the bathroom. Instead, it was his deep and dark thoughts that served as justification.
Oh, Webby... Why did you do it? Why did you tell me to go on? I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay and help you fight back. Besides, I couldn't live with myself if I did leave you. But I did...and yet, I'm still here. I should've died. Yes, my death would've spared you the mind-wrecking question of whether or not I survive the turmoil.
. . .
No, Webby... I know why you do it. I know why you told me to go on. You wanted to stay. You wanted to stay and help me escape on. Besides, you couldn't live with yourself if I didn't. But I did...and yet, I'm still here. I should live. Yes, my survival would inspire you to do the same in your time of darkness with the Beagle Boys.
. . .
Don't worry, Webby... I'm coming.
Dewey stepped out of the shower with a blue towel wrapped around his waist. Marching back to the bedroom, he rummaged through his belongings and searched for the dark blue hooded raincoat he kept for emergencies. Slipping it on above his usual long-sleeve shirt, he slowly exited the bedroom again, this time to descend downstairs and exit McDuck Manor as a whole. As if fate played a part, the rain had miraculously slowed down and transformed into sprinkles, allowing to locate and board a nearest bus to the area surrounding Scrooge's money bin. He didn't exactly feel safe walking the streets of Duckberg knowing that, at any given moment, he could be easily dispatched by the Beagle Boys and captured with Webby. That, and he lacked the need to walk approximately five miles from here to there in minutes (let alone seconds) flat.
It wasn't easy to break into the money bin of Scrooge McDuck and walk away with a grand total of $10 million, but it wasn't impossible...especially when you're Dewey Duck. Exiting the building with a duffel bag containing that amount, he then traveled to a three-level restaurant that also housed a bodega at the first. It was in this bodega where he found a light brown weasel with a slender build, red eyes, a black jacket above a white tank top, and blue pants with a red vertical stripe inside a white stripe. The weasel's head shot up upon hearing the sound of the shopkeeper's bell being rang; he practically pried his eyes open in order to get a better look at his unexpected costumer. A frown crossed his face, as Dewey expected from smug shopkeepers such as him.
"What do you want, kid?" The weasel attempted to wave him off, "It's too early."
"Too early for you to receive $10 million for what I'm about to offer you?"
At those specific trigger words, the weasel shot and sat up straight in his rolling chair.
"I guess not."
"I thought not."
Dewey pulled two stacks of $5 million and placed it on the desk for the weasel's eyes to see. Said weasel's eyes widened as he took up the stacks (he hesitated to do so at first in fear of it being pulled away from him) and counted them. When he finished, his eyes met with Dewey's and his suspicious frown transitioned into that of a halfhearted smirk.
"Do I know you, kid?"
"No, but you may know my uncle. His name is Scrooge McDuck – the richest person in the city of Duckberg. And that..." He gestured to the money, "...will multiply if you supply me with what I need and/or want."
The weasel's smirk immediately morphed into a manic grin, complete with half-shiny/half-yellow teeth. "Anything for a quick buck. What do you need and/or want?"
"My friend and uncle were kidnapped by a criminal gang. So I'm going to kill this gang and get them back. I'm getting them back and killing this gang. I'm killing all of them. I was informed that you are not selling bootleg movies, you supply guns and firearms of the like. Is this correct?"
"... That is correct. But...how do you plan on doing all of this on your own?"
"I don't. My brothers are going to help me...whether they like it or not."
"Ooh. Bribery as a last resort. You're smart, kid."
Standing up from his rolling chair, the weasel motioned Dewey to follow him down to the basement. He flipped on the light switch and revealed an assortment of various firearms on display in shelves or hanging on racks. The ones on the shelves were pistols and revolvers while the others in the racks were shotguns and rifles. The heavy weapons, as he would learn in a moment, were stored in a secret locker behind a picture of a nighttime café. A pair of the same machine gun were propped against the wall and supported by nails, while a singular minigun with a chainsaw grip and an ammunition belt was set on the shelf. A couple of RPGs were hung on the wall and held by hooks, while a grenade belt was hanging on the hook beside them.
It was like a kid in a candy store. A very violent candy store.
"Jesus. Where did you – ?"
"The last city I stayed at was the unfortunate victim of a conspiracy theory. Paranoia will destroy ya, kid. I was like the others, who had done everything in their instinct to survive in the aftermath. You know what separated me from them, though?"
"No."
"Luck was on my side."
The weasel unfolded a step-up and climbed to grab a plethora of automatic carbines, passing them down for Dewey to grab and place on the worktable. Stepping down, he placed the rifles in a row of five and left the remaining three for him to explain to Dewey. While all three of them were technically variants of the same manufacturer, all three of them had their own distinct features.
"A M4A1 Carbine with EOTech 552.A65 Holographic sight and SureFire M951XM05 tactical light. A Daniel Defense DDM4 M4A1 with a foregrip, Magpul PMAG, and EOTech holographic sight. A BCM Recce 14 KMR-A with a 1-6x24 Trijicon AccuPoint scope and M203A1 Grenade Launcher. I'm gonna give you the rundown on firearms handling. One: Always check your ammunition. Two: Never put your finger on the trigger. Three: You never point the rifle at somebody if you're not ready to fire. Got it?"
"Got it." Dewey nodded as he handled the M4A1 and checked its sights. "Sooner or later, I'm gonna come back for more firepower, and money may be the least of my worries."
"I don't think it should be. As long it makes me rich."
"Ugh. Typical."
"Hey. Black market guns dealing isn't exactly a free pass. Besides, I have to do whatever I need to do to survive. We all do."
"I know that. It's just not fair."
"Life isn't fair, kid. Believe me...I should know."
... He's right.
Afterwards, Dewey collected what he needed in a second duffel bag separate from the money and thanked the weasel before leaving. It turns out that another thing he was right on was that luck was on his side whenever it needed to be; he managed to get home before any of his family members woke. He also had to thank Webby when he got the chance for building a hidden dumbwaiter into the wall that led straight up to another hidden room above his own. It probably wouldn't last, though, so he had to be quick.
Exiting the dumbwaiter with the bag in hand, Dewey hoisted it up and carefully placed it upon the worktable. Zipping open the bag and pulled out two guns – a Colt MK IV Series 80 and a Colt Commander. Locating the magazine release switch, he unloaded the gun and rummaged through the bag for a box of .45 ACP ammunition. 10 rounds in total filled up the empty magazine for the first M1911, while it was 8 for the second model. He reloaded his pistols and chambered the slides. Just in time, too, for his ears perked up at the sound of a window creaking open. Picking up both of his firearms and aiming it at the source.
"... Lena?"
"Hello, Dewey."
Indeed, standing there in her rain-soaked raincoat was a distraught Lena Le Strange, her hands raised up in innocence.
"I need your help. I can't tell you what it is, you can never ask me about it later, and we're gonna hurt some people."
After a moment's notice, Dewey lowered both guns and bitterly chuckled.
"Funny. I was going to ask you the same thing."
A/N: Two months since I last updated, I blame writer's block and new ideas for new stories. The fact that I pre-visualized all of the events beforehand is just adding insult to injury.