Webby dozed, seeing as there was little else to do here. She woke up with her head on Louie's shoulder. Though she still couldn't see anything, the world seemed less black than before. There were vague grey outlines that gave her hope this might be temporary. She couldn't distinguish shapes, not yet, but that might change soon. Perhaps all she needed to do was rest.

That explained her. It didn't explain Louie's broken leg. Someone had gone to the trouble of putting it in a cast, at least, so he didn't risk standing on it and hurting himself further. She ran her fingers along his hoodie, down his stomach, and toward his leg. Since she couldn't see it, this was the best way to acquaint herself with it. It felt like plaster, but there were gaps in it. Beneath one particular gap, she could wedge her fingers. Louie hissed.

"Ow! What the heck are you doing, Webby?"

"Trying to figure out how your leg was put in a cast when you just woke up with it like that."

"Or I could describe the cast to you instead of you poking at my broken leg."

"Or that."

He hissed again, uttering a curse. She removed her fingers from his cast; she'd gotten the picture. It felt like part of his bone was protruding beneath her hand, which answered the question of why he had a cast and nothing else. If it had been done so shabbily, she wondered if putting any weight on it would shatter it. Her gentle touch had been enough to make him swear and she heard the pain in his voice.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"You don't see me poking you, do you?"

"I don't have a visible injury. Before the avalanche, what's the last thing you remember?"

"We were climbing another peak," he said and then groaned, stretching out again. Her hand rested in a safer place, in his hoodie pocket. She didn't want to release him. In an unfamiliar world, he was safe and known. Louie didn't seem to mind, now that she wasn't prodding at his wound. He curled in toward her.

"Uncle Scrooge had roped me into going along on another treasure hunt for a missing magic lamp. We were all tied together and the mountain rumbled. What was weird was we weren't high enough up or in the right climate for snow. But we looked up and...all I saw was white before I woke up here."

That tallied with what she remembered too, but there were gaps in her memory. Louie reached inside his hoodie and squeezed her hand. His hand shook atop hers.

"Webs…" he began, cautious. "What do you think happened to us?"

"Magic."

She wanted to get up and pace, but she wouldn't be able to see where she was going. Possessed of frenetic energy she couldn't dispel, she trembled too and his grip tightened on her hand. Though she couldn't see his expression, she felt his gaze upon her face.

"That leaves one person, doesn't it?" he grumbled. He cursed again.

"Uncle Scrooge would wash your mouth out for that," she said absently.

"He's not here, is he? Besides, I've heard him and Uncle Donald say worse." She felt him shrug. "So, if it's magic, it's gotta be Magica. But what I don't get is-why? What do we have to do with Uncle Scrooge's lucky dime?"

Webby sighed, resting her head against the wall. It was scratchy and pulled at her hair.

"Besides the fact that we foiled her plot last time?" she pointed out.

"I'm surprised we're still alive if that's the case. I mean, after what you did to her after Lena…"

It was the first time anyone had brought up Lena in months and she stiffened. She didn't like to talk about her best friend, shadow traitor, whatever. They'd been tiptoeing around it for weeks now. When Webby had refused to discuss it, they hadn't pried, though they also hadn't realized Webby shoved down her emotions whenever possible to avoid conflict.

Her grandmother had noticed and attempted to speak with her about it, but Webby had refused to budge. She didn't want to discuss Lena. Ever. She hadn't even said her name since she'd died, not where anyone could hear her.

"All I'm saying is that I don't know why we're still alive if it's Magica," he said, sidestepping the topic of Lena.

They fell silent, Webby brooding and Louie probably calculating the angles and attempting to figure a way out. She didn't take her hand away from his, as its warmth was reassuring, but she wasn't happy, either. Thinking about her was painful, exceedingly so. She hadn't appreciated even the cursory reference.

"Webby?"

"What?" she said, snappier than she'd intended. She was still cross with him.

"Your shadow's moving on its own."

Webby whirled about, forgetting that she couldn't see it. As she did, she felt tightness in her chest. Confused, she glanced in Louie's general direction. Or where she thought he was. Spinning had dizzied her and she collapsed back onto the floor.

"It started moving when I mentioned Lena."

Confused and irritated, she glowered at him or where she perceived him to be. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not lying. Your shadow really is shifting in place."

She didn't know what that meant. Lena had been Magica's shadow and Magica had been bound to Lena as her shadow until they'd been reversed again. Lena was dead, though. Webby had seen her die. Perhaps this was some other strange phenomena. She didn't know how else to explain it.

Louie moved, attempting to stand, and crashed back to the floor with a howl. He cursed a blue streak, more words than she'd thought he'd know; his vocabulary was impressive, even if it was a bit filthy. This time, she heard the tears in his voice and he collapsed against her. He panted and his hands went to his broken leg.

"I thought maybe with the cast on, I could stand," he explained once he had his breath back. "Clearly, I was wrong. I can't walk and you can't see. The lame leading the blind."

"That's it!" she exclaimed.

"Ow...what's it?"

"Lame leading the blind. If she's going by old adages, that means either what you just said or also that your brothers are possibly deaf and mute. Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil."

"And Magica broke my leg for, what? Kicks?"

"Because she's a sadistic, evil woman?"

"You could just call her the 'b' word, you know. It's not like I'm going to tell anyone."

She shook her head. It was the principle of the matter. Though his breathing had slowed, it was still accelerated. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath her hand and she felt a moment of panic. If it was the lame leading the blind if he couldn't walk, then how were they supposed to get out of here?

She reached into her skirt and handed him her phone.

"Here. It rang before-it must have service."

Louie kissed the phone screen. "We can call for help. Wait, first I need to check how my cons are going. It's been a few hours-my phone's gone. That was the first thing I checked before you woke up."

So he'd been awake before her and then fallen back asleep. That explained how he'd known he couldn't walk on his broken leg. Still, it was a little rude that he'd not woken her when he'd roused. She caught herself twisting her head around to look at the shadow she couldn't see. Lena? She didn't dare hope. Chances were she'd have her hopes dashed.

"You didn't charge this before we set out?" he huffed. "It's at twenty percent battery."

"I did charge it," she said defensively. "It was fully charged before we climbed that peak."

"Probably something else Magica zapped, then," he scoffed. He was silent while he poked at the phone and she didn't speak either. She patted the floor as if she could feel the shadow; as if it had heft.

She heard the phone ring and ring.

"Who are you calling?" she asked, puzzled.

"Launchpad. Unless he's been kidnapped too, he should be able to crash the plane into wherever we are and get us out."

That sounded like a good plan, actually, assuming that they could be located. Unfortunately, the phone went straight to voicemail with the Darkwing Duck theme song in place of Launchpad's greeting. Webby rolled her eyes as Louie left him a desperate voicemail. In the middle of pleading with him, the phone went dead.

"Okay, I know I'm terrible with phone batteries, but there's no way it should have died that soon. We're being sabotaged."

She nodded; her mind was stuck on the idea of her shadow morphing. She wished she could see it or tell what it meant. Louie continued grumbling about the phone, especially that he'd "wasted his one phone call". She tuned him out.

Her thoughts drifted and she wondered what Huey and Dewey were up to and whether her hypothesis was correct. If so, then they weren't exactly in a great state either.

Huey wasn't sure if he was deaf or Dewey couldn't speak. Whatever the case, someone had trapped them inside a small, dingy room that looked like a glorified tool shed. For the life of him, he couldn't find the exit. Outside, it was pouring rain and small holes in the ceiling sluiced cold water down his back. He shuddered, glancing at his younger brother.

Dewey kicked at the walls and then, when that didn't work, headbutted them. Huey sighed, though he couldn't hear it. This was getting them nowhere fast. The only thing he'd ascertained was that Uncle Scrooge, Webby, and Louie weren't here. He didn't know why nor did he know why he and Dewey were trapped. As his brother attempted to free himself through stubborn and ill-thought out methods, he cast his gaze about the shed. What looked like an old broom rested against the side and he picked it up. Cobwebs and dust drifted to the floor.

Dewey was mouthing at him and Huey shook his head. Dewey shook his in response and grabbed the broom. Before Huey had a chance to stop him, his younger brother jabbed at one of the holes in the ceiling. It widened and the rain, which had been a mild inconvenience at first, drenched them in seconds. Huey sputtered, tempted to take the broom and whack Dewey on the head with it. He snapped at him, though he wasn't sure what he was saying, as he couldn't hear it.

It didn't matter. It prompted what Huey knew had to be the "if you're so smart, why don't you do it?" face. In response, Huey grabbed the broom and slammed it against the wall, which wasn't a wall at all. Glass shattered, thankfully falling outside of the shed, and wind gusted along with the rain. The rain pelted them in the face and Huey ignored it to clear the window frame of all glass. It wasn't like they could get any wetter.

Beckoning Dewey to follow him, he forced his way through the window, which was just big enough to allow two ducklings egress. Wind battered them and sent them tumbling back through the broken frame. Determined, they forced their way back out and moved to either side of the shed; they used the walls to brace themselves.

How were they going to go anywhere or find the others with wind strong enough to knock them off their feet? It was a struggle to remain outside and he couldn't see anything more than six inches from his face. Dewey was a blue blur.

It occurred to him that he might not be deaf. The wind might be too strong to allow him to hear anything. Then again, he couldn't hear the wind howling, so that shot that theory down. Grimacing, he attempted to make headway against the wind. It slammed him into the shed so hard that it knocked the breath out of him. Dewey hadn't budged.

Maybe the problem was they were too high up. Huey dropped to his stomach and Dewey followed suit. They crawled along the ground and it felt like a battle, where every inch was hard won territory. He dug into the ground with his fingers and pulled himself along. His chest was tight and his arms hurt. Nevertheless, he pushed himself onward. The shed hadn't provided shelter, not really. He stopped when he bumped into a stone edifice. Looking up, he could barely make out an altar.

Gasping and panting, he tried to take a closer look and the wind bowled him over. Dewey rolled into him and Huey crawled up the stairs until he fell under an awning. He rolled, again not of his own volition, and then tumbled down another set of steps until, at last, the wind and rain abated. For a while, he lay there, catching his breath and enjoying not being rained on. Dewey landed atop him and then sprawled out on the floor nearby.

Wherever they were, it was smoky and he couldn't see the ceiling. A door slammed shut behind them and he felt the reverberations. He caught a glimpse of it closing a split second before it did, but he couldn't hear it. Frustrated, he pushed himself to his feet. His arms and legs were like jelly, however, and he crashed right back down.

Dewey tugged on his sleeve and pointed ahead of them. Huey wrang out his baseball cap and looked in the direction his brother pointed.

A woman was there, stirring a cauldron. She paid them no attention whatsoever. A raven rested on her shoulder and its beady black eyes focused on them. Huey gulped, pinned to the floor by its gaze. The Junior Woodchuck Guidebook, at least, hadn't suffered despite the deluge. His hat had kept it nice and dry.

Not that he expected there to be a section in there about what to do if you found yourself inexplicably deaf and your brother was mute. That fell under the purview of magic, which was something Huey admittedly knew little about.

He didn't know if he wanted to be noticed by the sorceress. It didn't look like Magica, but then again, it was so dark in here, it was difficult to tell. Dewey had no such compunctions. Jumping to his feet, he rushed over to the woman. Huey sighed. Leave it to his brother to be headstrong and foolhardy. Seeing as there was no point in laying on the floor any longer, Huey rose to his feet too and joined him.

Another gust of wind rose, seemingly from nowhere, and blasted them off their feet and into the walls. Gasping, Huey attempted to stand only to be knocked flat again. The sorceress observed them with a frown; that was all he could distinguish. Despite standing under candlelight, her face remained in shadow. She flicked her fingers and Huey's eyelids grew heavy. He fought it and glanced around him to find Dewey. Dewey had passed out and there was blood on the wall. Frantic, ignoring the fatigue swamping him, he half stumbled, half crawled over to him.

Blood matted the back of Dewey's head, his hair, and his white feathers. Head injuries were serious. The sorceress shrugged, stepping away from them, and the fatigue lifted. In its place, however, anxiety mounted. Dewey had a head wound and they were in a foreign place with no help forthcoming. He wanted to shake Dewey awake but knew better. Hands trembling, he extracted the JWG from under his cap and leafed through the pages. What to do about head injuries...besides not moving them…

Darkness loomed over him and the book flew out of his hands. Outraged, as the JWG was as sacred to him as a Bible might be to someone else, he jumped to his feet, swayed, and collided with the wall behind him. He watched the JWG land in the cauldron and the sorceress sneered. Her beak and her cold, glinting eyes were all he could see of her. She then turned away from him and coldness spread throughout his body.

Frigid, he curled up against Dewey and shivered, rubbing his arms for warmth. He wanted to pursue the JWG, though he feared his copy might be beyond saving. His thoughts slowed and his limbs grew turgid. Blinking rapidly, he fought unconsciousness. Dewey needed him. He was the big brother and it was his duty to take care of everyone. He might not be able to do anything for Webby or Louie right now, but he could help Dewey.

Yet he couldn't move. Everything had grown so heavy that it took an effort to keep his eyes open. Soon, his eyelids refused to obey his commands and fell. Huey worked on controlling his breathing, which had slowed. He was fighting this as best he could to no avail. The darkness swallowed him up just as he managed to brush his fingertips along Dewey's hand.