Work in Progress: The Banshee Chronicles - 1
As of yet, there is no 'Guy on Girl' part to this story. When I have it finished, there will be a sex scene or two, but for the moment, nada.
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The Banshee. Depending on who you ask and what folklore you get your information from, it can be a being of good fortune, or great misfortune. But though there are stories galore about the Banshee, several common facts hold true from story to story.
First, the Banshee is a spirit, a ghost. An incorporeal being that appears suddenly and disappears just as quickly. Though often it haunts a certain location, it will inevitably move to somewhere new.
Second, the Banshee can unleash a terrifying wail that can chill a mortal to his core. When someone within the Banshee's territory is on the verge of death, the Banshee will appear and wail the dying person's name, the wail becoming louder and more sorrowful upon the person's death. On the other hand, the Banshee's wail can signal the birth of new life. Many couples have been chilled to the bone by the Banshee's cry soon after making love.
Third, to confront and attempt to exorcise the Banshee invariably leads to the death of the creature's challenger. To go ‘toe to toe' (as the saying goes) with the Banshee is counted among the quickest ways to die.
Fourth, though the Banshee generally chooses to be in the form of a woman, being a spirit it has no true gender.
Fifth, under no circumstances should you ever meet the eyes of the Banshee.
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I gazed down upon my intended target, eyes narrowed. I gave a sigh of disgust. Another corrupt politician. The pickings were slim this season. I had put so many of these dirty men in the ground the cemeteries would have to be re-consecrated to purge their poison.
I closed my eyes for a moment, then took a steadying breath. My piercing, luminescent red eyes hardened as I waited for the opportune moment. The senator raised his hand in farewell. My eyes flashed wide for just an instant as I twitched my index finger.
The completely custom sniper rifle I held kicked a bit, but no noise came from the weapon. Halfway to its target, the special-made bullet started emitting a wailing sound as it sped through the air, before it struck its target between his eyebrows, embedding its named shell in his head. The big, shit-eating grin the ex-Maryland Senator had been wearing froze upon his face.
As soon as I confirmed the bullet had hit its mark, I vacated my nest, disguising my rifle as I went.
I could hear sirens as the police, late as usual, sprang into action. But, surprise, surprise, they'd picked the right building to surround this time. I took a quick peek out of a window, and immediately guessed I'd tripped a trap.
Out of the vacant apartment's window, I could see several military transport trucks, each of which was in the process of offloading its supply of soldiers.
I chuckled humorlessly. "I suppose they're still pissed about General Nord. Can't say I blame them." I quickly donned my disguise and slipped into my hiding place.
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I could hear the soldiers coming as I hid in the closet, waiting in disguise. I cowered in the corner, looking for all the world like a terrified young woman.
"Split up!" I heard them shout. "Find her!" I heard the door to the apartment I was hiding in burst open, and the tromping of many pairs of booted feet as they made their way inside. I could hear the apartment being torn apart by soldiers, then the closet door was ripped open.
Picture this: an attractive blond woman, couldn't have been more than twenty, huddled in the corner of a closet, tears streaming down her face. Does that scream ‘super assassin' to you? Probably not. I gave a small scream (fake) when the door was opened. The soldier who opened the door (Jackson, according to the nametag) pointed his gun at me.
"I found someone!" he called. Immediately, soldiers converged, guns trained on me. I tentatively raised my hands, sniffling convincingly.
"Lower your weapons," said another soldier. I couldn't see his nametag, but he must've been the leader, since the others stopped pointing their guns at me. "This ain't the Banshee," he said with perfect certainty. "The Banshee has black hair, and this one's blond, right down to the roots."
"Maybe she should check the rest of her hair, just to be sure." This from another soldier in the back. The others laughed.
"Not now," said the leader. "We need to find the Banshee. She must've run to the next floor. C'mon." He turned to go. "Jackson, you guide the civilian out."
"Yessir," replied Jackson. "C'mon, ma'am," he said to me, reaching down a hand. "Let's get you outta here." I took his hand and let him help me up. "Follow close behind me, miss. And don't wander off." He turned and led the way out. I followed along quickly.
Down the many flights of stairs we went, until we made it to one of the emergency exits. He opened the door and let me out. And suddenly I was a target again. Guns were pointed at me from just about every direction, and my hands went up again. But when he came around and took me by the arm, everyone lowered their guns again. Safe for the moment, he lead me through the crowd to the command post.
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I'll not bore you with more details of that particular situation. Suffice it to say I feigned near ignorance of the situation, saying only that a black-haired woman with a sniper rifle had broken into ‘my' apartment and made me sit in the closet. That wasn't nearly enough to satisfy them, but I held to my statement that ‘I don't remember anything else'. After a good hour or two of questioning, they let me go. As soon as I was out of sight of the command tent, I got the fuck out of there.
A cool million waited for me in my ‘pay-for-play' account, which I transferred to my primary account. A million dollars, minus taxes. Even an assassin has to pay taxes. I used a computer in coffee shop on the edge of the city to quickly filter my money through a series of false-but-lucrative businesses. When it finished, I had a million dollar paycheck, which I had the government take full taxes from. That way I would never have Feds at my door, wondering why I was behind on my taxes.
Once I was on my way out of town in the Diablo I'd just had to have and was now costing me a fortune in gas, I removed my disguise. Long blond locks flowed in a reverse-growth fashion, before coming to a stop just two inches from my scalp. The breasts I had been sporting flattened, and the vagina I had worn reversed, becoming the opposite male bits. The skin I was wearing grew thick fur, and my tail sprouted once more. Finally, the blond fur on my head turned pitch black. I was me again.
I am Damian, the Banshee. Damian, the Shadow Renamon.
Not that those fools ever suspected me of such a deception. It was impossible for a Digimon to change forms like I did, unless it was a special attack. It was impossible for their systems to not detect a wild Digimon roaming the US. Impossible. That was me. Possibly the strongest Renamon alive, and I made my living as an assassin. My parents would be so proud. If I hadn't already killed them and loaded their data.