Chapter 22: Sins Unforgiven
Chapter 22: Sins Unforgiven
POV: Goss
The acrid stench of burning flesh and scorched metal clung to the air like a suffocating shroud, the once-ramshackle fortifications of the Gun Rats now reduced to smoldering ruins. Bodies—mangled, charred, dismembered—littered the blood-slick ground, a testament to the carnage wrought by the Banshee. Even now, the relentless wraith tore through the heretics, its shrieks splitting the air like the lamentations of a tormented spirit.
I exhaled, watching as the wretched vermin stumbled over themselves, their frantic attempts at resistance amounting to nothing but futile gestures before the Banshee's righteous slaughter. A pity, really. I had been hoping for a bit more of a challenge.
"Well," I muttered, rolling my shoulders, "looks like I won't be needed here after all. Might as well put my efforts toward something more constructive."
Tapping the comm-bead in my ear, I issued my orders in a casual tone.
*"Banshee, I'm activating the traps. Watch yourself. Since you seem to have things well in hand, I'll be securing the remaining captives. Also, don't slaughter the slaves—some of them might actually be worth saving."*
I didn't wait for a response before activating the deathtraps I had so lovingly prepared beforehand. A soft chime confirmed the activation, and in an instant, the battlefield transformed into a death zone. From a higher vantage point, one could see faint, ominous red glows blinking into existence—a web of unseen terror waiting to ensnare the unwary.
With my preparations complete, I turned on my heel and made my way toward the second building—the one where these mongrels kept their captives. According to Varn's report, the first structure housed their main quarters, while the second held their... acquisitions.
As I reached the entrance, I pushed open the warped metal door, stepping inside with the confidence of a man who had already won. And yet, for all my anticipation, the sight that greeted me made me pause.
Cages. Rows upon rows of rusted, iron-barred cages, each one packed with women—pregnant women. Their gaunt faces and hollow eyes told of a suffering too deep for words. They sat, unmoving, staring at nothing, their souls long since ground to dust. At the far end of the chamber, behind a reinforced glass window, lay a chamber filled with beds and *devices*—twisted, unspeakable tools of violation, the kind that only the most wretched minds could conceive.
I let out a slow breath.
"Well, I suppose I've seen worse," I muttered, stepping toward the nearest cage.
Inside, a woman slumped against the bars, her dull eyes barely registering my approach.
I rapped my knuckles against the metal. "Oi, still breathing?"
No response.
"Rude," I mused, before crouching slightly. "Look, I'm not one of those depraved filth currently being torn apart outside. I'm here to liberate you."
Still nothing.
I sighed. "Right, well, I'll be unlocking your cages now, so bear with me."
That, at least, earned me a reaction. Slowly, her lifeless gaze turned toward me, a flicker of something—hope, disbelief—stirring within.
"There we go. Much better."
Unclipping the mechanized servo-tools from my wrist, I let them whir to life, their delicate appendages beginning the meticulous work of dismantling the rusted lock. Sparks flew as the metal hissed and melted under the concentrated heat.
"...The bandits weren't the ones who defiled us," she rasped suddenly.
I paused, glancing up. "Oh?"
She shuddered, her fingers clenching against the cage bars. "It was the male slaves."
I blinked. That was... unexpected.
"Interesting," I murmured, tilting my head. "So, none of you were touched by the bandits themselves?"
She shook her head weakly. "No. I think... most of them were... *attracted* to their leader. I've overheard them bragging about their nights with their boss."
A slow grin spread across my face.
"Now *that* is something worth documenting," I chuckled. "I'll have to add it to the 'Encyclopedia of Bandit Atrocities.'"
The lock snapped with a satisfying *crack*, and I pushed the door open. "There you go. You're free."
She stepped out hesitantly, her legs trembling as she sank to her knees, overcome with emotion.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice thick with something dangerously close to relief. "We're finally free..."
I smiled, though there was no warmth behind it.
"Don't thank me," I said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Thank my lord. I was once a wretched soul, and he saved me. His kindness knows no bounds, and it is through his mercy that you are granted this salvation."
As she processed my words, I tapped my comm-bead again.
*"Banshee, new orders. Kill them all—even the slaves. They are unworthy of mercy."*
My voice was devoid of emotion, cold as the void. The Banshee's screeches outside shifted, the massacre escalating to new levels of horror as the unrepentant were purged.
With a sigh, I turned back to the remaining cages, eyeing the rows upon rows of captives awaiting their fate.
"If I had known this would be such a tedious task, I would have brought my auto-kit," I grumbled, rolling my shoulders before setting back to work.
Outside, the shrieks of the condemned echoed into the night, their torment drowned out only by the haunting wails of the Banshee.
And I, humming a light tune, continued my work.