The warning came a fraction of a second too late for Lisbeth; beside her, the head of a guardsman turned to burning pitch, and the flash sent her tumbling to the floor, where she fumbled in the over-bright afterimage for her bolter. When she rose, her eyes were steadily rolling with tears, and keeping them open was a struggle; it was as though someone had poured promethium around her eyes and burnt it all in a single spark. [i]Another failure.[/i] The next order came in plenty of time; Sister Dominicia was very ready to 'arrest' the traitor guard. "Surrender!" she screamed, and a fraction of a second later she was on two of the surviving guard. They had scarcely had time to hear, let alone comply, before a gauntleted fist drove into the tall one's gut. He bent double as he fell, and a short burst of bolt-fire tore the shorter man's chest into bloody chunks and shards of broken rib. 

Letting go of her bolter, so that it hung around her shoulder from the strap, Lisbeth went down on to one knee, wrapping a ceramite fist around the neck of the dumbstruck guardsman, before swinging two swift punches into the bridge of his nose, the second one landing with a satisfying crunch as bone snapped beneath her blow. It was no good asking him to surrender now; he was in no state to answer for his crimes. Frustrated, the sister stood up again, wiping her hair back from her sweat and blood-coated brow. "Heretic!" she howled, swinging her boot at his head; another satisfying crunch, and this time a pinkish ooze began creeping in uneven lumps from the caved-in side of his skull. [i]Good. A dead heretic is a good heretic.[/i] Grabbing her bolter, she levelled it at the crowd of guardsmen, and spoke as if possessed by the devil's own fury. "Who is next? Surrender or die, scum!" Coated in ash, dirt and body fluids, Lisbeth was not in a generous mood, and the guard's sense of self-preservation overrode any lingering loyalty to whichever dark force they had sold their souls to, and they threw their rifles to the floor. One, a corporal, stepped forward, her hands extended, her mouth open to say something or other.

It was pointless - Lisbeth was not in the mood to listen to the deranged ramblings of heretics. She swept a leg out, taking the woman off her feet, and swung the butt of her bolter down, throwing all of her weight into the middle of her thigh. A loud, wet crunch and a pained scream rang through the dock as the corporal held her leg, now bent at a sickening angle halfway down her thigh, her femur snapped clean in two by the power-armour-assisted blow. "Get on the transport and take her with you," spat Lisbeth, her voice dripping with disdain. She had nothing but abject hate for these people, for this planet, for what they had done. If it were her decision, the whole world would have been consumed with flame. [i]Perhaps it is best that it is my decision, then, child,[/i] spoke the voice in her head, and her anger momentarily gave way to humility. "Lord Inquisitor," she shouted, her bolter still levelled at the retreating guard, four of them carting their corporal along by her limbs, "Your orders?"