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[i][color=crimson]Crouched behind a tank turret as she is, lightly suppressed from the beach as they are, most of the snipers can't get a clear shot on anything but the girl's head - their orders and their training have had them come to see this as a bad thing.
But from the right elevation, from the right angle, far enough out of the defending soldiers’ way...[/color][/i]

When Hannie is hit, she feels, more than anything, the force of the shots. Two huge rounds burrow clean through one shoulder and the opposite upper arm, and her body fails to register these as wounds, as being painful. She does feel her balance suddenly shifting in the wrong direction. She notices when she tumbles off of the tank and is not able to catch herself on the fall to the ice.
She can't move her arms.
Seconds pass. She finds herself in a slightly different position, firmly grasping Kirvella. She must have dropped it.
[i]A miscalculation.[/i]
There is a crackling, a crunching. Hannie tries again to lift herself up. No movement. The crackling continues, unnatural ice filling the wounds and carefully integrating with her body. The ground under the dagger begins to flow strangely as it approaches that energy point where typical physics become inapplicable. It has begun to hail in Kirvella’s area of effect.
[i]Humbled, but not defeated, we rise.[/i]
The crackling settles. Hannie pushes herself off the ground and sits behind the tank, soft misty fog drifting from what had seconds earlier been crippling injuries. Autonomically, she lets out a hitching sigh.

[i][color=crimson]No sense in leaving anything to chance. A nearby boat is ordered to fire the net. It comes as deep into the cold and suppressing fire as its crew can bear – with the assurance of a second chance keeping them steady – and launches its shot, before turning and leaving in a hurry.[/color][/i]

Unhappy to be pinned down and satisfied enough with the damage she's caused, Hannie reels her mostly-renewed arm back and throws her dagger. By the time the net lands, she is already among the very front of the advancing friendly line and throwing again: a strange small figure blinking into being, once again in the line of fire, but this time going the right way to leave it.
[i]Someday there will be nothing but ice left of you, child.[/i]