Lisbeth's limbs were heavy with fatigue, but righteous anger spurred her on. She was about to vault her cover and fall upon her next target when the Sister-Celestian's order came, and her body obeyed almost without thought, turning her back to the enemy and falling in line. The pleasure of finishing the wounded would fall to the humble Navy ratings - lucky creatures that they were. With her fist still full of xeno skull, she jogged with the rest of her squad, falling behind as her short legs and her exertions conspired against her. By the time they reached the genetorium, she was three or four seconds behind the rest of the team, with even the wounded Confessor outpacing her. No doubt Victorine would berate her for her weakness, and quite rightly. [i]Weakness is the mother of heresy,[/i] spoke the familiar voice at the back of her mind, as she rounded the corner and crouched behind a smoking piece of machinery, spitting hot steam and electrical buzz as the sound of shot and shell ricocheted around the room. 

[i]Get up, Lisbeth. There is work yet to be done.[/i] Gasping, Lisbeth was able to pull one leg up so she was kneeling, but soon fell back down. [i]Get up. Or will you meet your creator on your belly?[/i] Lisbeth was only able to spit a laboured "...can't," reaching for one of the grenades about her belt. Biting down hard on cold metal, she ripped the bomb's pin out with her teeth and flung the frag grenade above her shoulder, though what effect it had was a total mystery. Gulping down hot breaths tainted with the taste of burning and the chemical sting of expended shells, Lisbeth laid down [i]Persephone[/i] and her trophy, sliding the blade into the scabbard and tying the head onto her vast rosaries before unshouldering her bolter, clutching it tight to her breast like a lost child. "From the lightning, and the...tempest," Lisbeth wheezed, repeating the words which had stirred her heart so many times before. 

[i]Rise,[/i] spoke the voice, and this time Lisbeth answered, pulling herself up with a hand on the hot machine. Drawing a bead on a slight figure wielding a shotgun, she fired two bursts, blasting the woman's arm away at the shoulder. Buoyed by her small victory, she grew a little taller and her arms a little lighter, turning her bolter toward the huge power-armoured figure and-

[i]Crack. Crack.[/i]

A hot sting in Lisbeth's chest and left shoulder quickly grew to a sharp, radiating pain. Lisbeth's knees buckled as her strength failed her again, and she sunk back behind the humming generator, dumbfounded. It took a few moments for her to look down at the two holes in her black armour, her white robes staining red as blood began to spill out from her shoulder and just below her fifth rib. Shocked, she put her hand to the wounds, her armoured gauntlet coming away with a hot crimson dripping from the tips of her fingers. A snake uncoiled within her gut, and a wave of fear washed over her and drowned all rational thought. [i]You are dying, Lisbeth.[/i] Those words ran through her head and broke the dam holding back absolute terror. She heaved forward, hacking up the remnants of her last meal over the deck as she held back tears. [i]Do not cry, little sister. Do not show them fear. Do not distress your sisters.[/i] The last time she had heard those words, it had been from her training matron during exercises after breaking her arm - it was vital that the group pressed onwards to victory. One life was nothing compared to the holy mission of the Ecclesiarchy. It was all Lisbeth could do to lift up her voice in song, hoping to inspire her sisters on to victory. 

[i]"Death is struck, and nature quaking,
All creation is awaking,
To its Judge an answer making."
[/i]