Chapter 10: The Birth of the Banshee

Chapter 10: The Birth of the Banshee

POV: Leon

Location: Gun Rats Bandit Camp

I exhaled sharply, my breath ragged with exertion. For hours, I had trudged through the filth and ruin of the wastelands, the weight of the unconscious woman on my shoulder a constant strain. My armor was slick with blood—none of it my own—mingling with the sweat pouring from my brow. The stench of death clung to me like a second skin.

"We need to find a bloody tech-priest or at least some half-decent mechanic," I muttered under my breath. "This endless marching is going to kill us before the enemy does."

Three hours. Three hours of relentless movement, always expecting the bandit scum to come howling for their stolen prize. I did not know if her mongrel of a husband had returned yet, nor did I care to find out. Better to be cautious than to be caught unprepared.

By the time I reached the camp, exhaustion gnawed at my bones. Varn and Merah rushed toward me, their expressions laced with concern.

"Are you wounded?" Merah asked, eyes scanning my bloodstained armor.

"No, not mine. Just tired," I grunted, shifting the woman's dead weight. "Three damn hours carrying this wretch."

Merah nodded in understanding and moved to support me, but I waved her off. Varn took the woman from my shoulder without a word and made his way toward the lower levels of our stronghold—the place where Goss lurked. A place where mercy had no dominion.

I glanced at the basement entrance, my mind briefly torn. But there was no room for hesitation, no place for pity. These beasts in human skin deserved no such luxury.

Without another word, I made my way to my quarters, peeling off my armor piece by piece as I collapsed onto the makeshift cot. Whatever horrors awaited that woman below were no longer my concern.

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POV: Goss

Location: The Basement, Leon's Camp

My hands worked deftly, fingers tightening bolts, calibrating pistons, fine-tuning pressure valves. A quiet, giddy chuckle escaped my lips as I beheld my latest creation, a symphony of suffering given form.

Before me stood the *Banshee*, an exo-frame of crude iron and sharpened agony. The structure was skeletal, reinforced with rusted hydraulics and steel pistons—primitive but functional. Spikes protruded inward, ensuring that the wearer felt the full embrace of its design. The arms bore rigid piping, leading to an integrated flamer unit, ensuring that even its host would feel the searing kiss of Prometheum.

At its headpiece, I had installed a voice modulator, a most exquisite addition. It would not merely amplify the wearer's screams—it would contort them, distort them into something raw, something *inhuman*. A wail to shatter resolve. A dirge of the damned.

And soon, it would have its host.

Footsteps echoed outside my chamber. I turned, my grin widening as Varn entered, dragging my next subject in tow.

"Ah, right on time!" I chirped, spreading my arms in welcome.

Varn stepped inside hesitantly, his eyes darting to the *Banshee*. I saw the involuntary shudder that ran through him, the primal fear clawing at the edges of his expression.

"By the Throne, Goss, what in the hells is that thing?" he muttered.

I smirked, running a gloved hand along the metal plating. "A marvel, don't you think? A machine of war, a device of judgment. For those who have forsaken humanity, I grant them a form befitting their sins. Beautiful, isn't it?"

Varn's expression twisted into something unreadable. "If you say so," he said, voice strained. "Impressive you made it out of scrap. But... Emperor's bones, Goss, this is—"

"Perfection?" I interrupted, tilting my head. "I agree."

His discomfort amused me, but I had no time for explanations. I turned my gaze back to the unconscious woman on the table.

"Will you stay to witness the process?" I inquired.

"Ah—no, no," Varn said quickly, stepping back. "Leon's resting, and someone needs to keep watch. So... yeah. Gotta go."

I chuckled as he all but fled, his boots echoing against the metal floor.

Turning back to my work, I reached for my tools. The woman before me was Margaret, the so-called 'wife' of that filth-ridden bandit king. *Flesh-Cutter* they called him. Fitting, then, that his wife would be cut apart in turn.

I selected a scalpel, its blade gleaming under the dim lumen-globes. I would make adjustments, enhancements—ensure she lasted long enough to fulfill her new purpose. And, of course, I would take a token. Something for her dear husband to *find* when he came looking.

My fingers twitched with anticipation as I pressed the scalpel to her skin. A slow, cruel smile spread across my lips.

"Ah-ha... a fitting name, indeed." I whispered, glancing at the construct beside me. "From this day forth, you shall be known as the *Banshee*..."

The machine shuddered.

I laughed.

Oh, the symphony of carnage to come…