Chapter 1: Lights Out
Las Vegas, 2:30 am.
The night was young with the clubs being full and playing loud music and dancing. An unmarked car sits outside of underground club. This club was very exclusive and belonged to underground crime mob boss. "Taurus Bulba" a duck wearing a red mask closes his laptop after studying where he needed to go. The masked duck then grabbed his two desert eagles and his two taser sticks and placed them behind his back. He stepped out of his car and went into the back of the club through the kitchen. "Who the hell are you?" asked a chef that was about to take food up to Taurus Bulba. The masked duck looked at him and shot him in the head with his gun. The duck started to make his way to the main part of the club. The duck entered to the dance floor of the club. Lots of people were dancing and have a good time. The masked duck then got some strange looks as he stepped forward looking for Taurus Bulba.
The duck then raised his gun in the air and started shooting. Everyone in the club started screaming and running away. Once the club was cleared and empty, Taurus Bulba finally showed his face. "Who the hell are you?" Taurus asked white looking down at the red masked duck. "I'm looking for Darkwing Duck," The Duck in the red mask demanded.
Taurus Bulba stood amidst the flickering shadows, his hulking frame illuminated sporadically by the stuttering neon lights. A chilling silence settled over the deserted club, broken only by the faint hum of distant music and the click of his polished boots against the sticky floor.
Then, it began—a low, guttural chuckle, bubbling up from deep within his chest. It grew louder, more distorted, each note laced with malevolence. His head tilted slightly as the laughter morphed into a sinister roar, reverberating off the cold, empty walls, sending shivers through the stale air.
Bulba's laughter tapered off into a rasping breath, his piercing eyes locking onto the masked intruder. He stepped forward deliberately, the grin on his face twisted with dark amusement.
"Darkwing Duck?" he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. "Ha... HA! No one's seen that pathetic shadow in five years—FIVE YEARS!" His words echoed like a death knell, his amusement dripping with cruelty.
He leaned in slightly, his tusks gleaming ominously. "He's dust, forgotten... probably feeding the worms beneath some unmarked grave. Heroes vanish in my world. They always do."
A final, bone-chilling chuckle escaped him, lingering like a ghost in the oppressive silence.
Taurus Bulba's grin slowly faded, replaced by a keen, calculating look. He took another heavy step forward, his towering silhouette casting a menacing shadow over the red-masked duck.
His eyes narrowed, glinting with both suspicion and curiosity. In a voice thick with authority and disdain, he growled, "Who are you? Some lost vigilante? A wannabe hero? Or just another fool chasing ghosts in the dark?"
The masked duck didn't flinch. His crimson mask reflected the flickering neon lights, giving him an almost otherworldly presence. With a calm, measured tone, he replied, "Call me... Redwing. But names don't matter. Only the message does—and I carry one for you."
Bulba's thick brows furrowed, a flash of recognition—or perhaps irritation—briefly crossing his face. "A message? From who?" he sneered, tightening his grip on the heavy cane he carried, its silver tip gleaming ominously.
Redwing's eyes, hidden behind the mask, didn't waver. "From the past you thought was buried. From the shadows you helped create."
A tense silence hung between them, broken only by the faint crackle of distant sirens outside. Bulba's face twisted into a snarl as realization dawned—or maybe just the thrill of a new hunt.
"You're either very brave… or very stupid," Bulba hissed, his deep voice a growl of impending violence.
Redwing's fingers flexed slightly over the grips of his twin desert eagles. "Maybe both. But I'm not the one who should be scared."
The room seemed to contract with tension, the weight of unspoken threats coiling between them like a loaded gun waiting to fire.
Without warning, the lights flickered—then died, plunging the room into pitch blackness.
Redwing's breath slowed. He welcomed the darkness. He thrived in it.
Bulba snarled somewhere ahead, the sound amplified by the concrete walls. "You think this changes anything, kid?"
"No," Redwing whispered, barely audible. "But it evens the playing field."
Silence. Then the soft scrape of a footstep. Redwing closed his eyes, trusting his senses. The room reeked of oil, sweat, and blood. He could feel the vibrations in the floor. Bulba was circling him.
A deep breath. Redwing counted the seconds.
One. Two. Three—movement.
He spun, both pistols raised. One shot rang out, wild and loud. Then another. Muzzle flashes flared like lightning in a storm, illuminating flashes of Bulba's massive form. He was close now—too close.
Redwing ducked just in time as claws swiped overhead. He rolled to the side, the metal of his gun scraping across the floor. Another shot. This one hit. A grunt. The scent of fresh blood.
"You little—" Bulba growled, but Redwing didn't give him the chance.
He lunged forward, jamming one of the Desert Eagles beneath Bulba's chin. His finger tightened. A flash of silver light and a deafening crack shattered the dark.
A heavy thud echoed in the stillness as Bulba's body collapsed like a felled tree.
For a moment, Redwing just stood there, the smoking gun trembling in his grip, his chest rising and falling like a war drum.
He stared into the dark, hearing nothing but his own heartbeat.
His first kill.
It felt cold.
Not thrilling. Not victorious. Just cold.
The emergency lights flickered back on with a dull red glow. Redwing looked down at the crumpled body at his feet, the spreading pool of blood catching the faint light.
He holstered his weapons and turned away, his shadow stretching long behind him.
There was no going back now.
Redwing stepped out into the cool night air, his breath visible under the flickering glow of distant neon lights. The city's pulse continued unabated, oblivious to the chaos that had just unfolded within the club's walls. He paused briefly, standing amidst the darkened alley, the faint hum of distant sirens growing louder.
From his belt, he retrieved a small, black remote device. His thumb hovered over the crimson button for a heartbeat longer, his mind replaying the final moments with Taurus Bulba—the tension, the violence, and the chilling emptiness that followed.
Without hesitation, he pressed it.
A split second of silence—and then the world erupted.
The club exploded in a violent burst of flames and debris, the shockwave rippling through the night, shattering windows and setting off car alarms down the street. Redwing didn't flinch. He stood still, the fiery inferno reflecting in the dark lenses of his mask.
Across the street, late-night pedestrians froze mid-step, their conversations cut short by the thunderous blast. A couple stumbled backward, shielding their faces from the sudden heatwave. Glass shards rained from shattered windows above, causing people to scream and scatter for cover.
A taxi screeched to a halt, the driver's wide-eyed gaze fixated on the towering plume of smoke and fire. Bystanders pulled out phones, trembling hands struggling to capture the chaos. Some shouted in disbelief, their voices merging with the cacophony of alarms and distant sirens.
Ash and embers rained down like distorted snowflakes. The roaring blaze painted the night sky a hellish orange. Redwing turned away, disappearing into the shadows of the alley. His silhouette melted into the darkness with calculated steps, leaving behind nothing but flames, smoke, terrified onlookers, and a message spelled out in destruction:
The past is never truly buried.
Kodiwolf321: Welcome Readers! I've decided to remake RedWing! He's back and better than ever! I also have a new generation of villains planned as well! So stay toned!