Caroline remained focused on Victorine as she explained how she was the leader of the squad, she seemed a competent leader, one Caroline would gladly follow. She may not have shared Caroline's stature, but she still gave of a strong aura of strength, faith and courage. Without a word Caroline joined her new squad, Alexandria caught Caroline's eye simply because of her height. Caroline had run into few individuals outside of the Adeptus Astartes, who forced her to look up. She would have to arm wrestle Alex later.

Caroline hefted her massive weapon and boarded the ship. She glanced over the members of her squad, then taking her leave and heading of to her assigned room. She still hadn't done today's workout.

---

Caroline wiped the sweat off her brow, she'd just finished doing her sit ups and was moving onto push ups. She put her left arm behind her back and started doing one handed push ups, she got to around eighty before the Victorine's voice called her to arms. Trouble was afoot? whatever kind of problem it was, Caroline was eager to introduce it to her heavy bolter. She jumped up and walked over to her power armour, rolling her shoulders limbering up for the impending conflict.

She fastened on her power armour as she had many times before. Each piece made to increase defence while also allowing for proper movement, it felt almost like a second skin to Caroline. Elegant cloth and durable plates coexisting to form Caroline's suit of power armour. She clenched her fists before grabbing her helmet. Instead of saying something cheesy or badass to herself, she simply huffed and put on her helmet.

Caroline burst from her room, heavy bolter in hand she set off to find her Celestian. She sure as hell wasn't going to let her new Celestian suffer the same fate as her last. She picked up the pace, footsteps sounding like thunder as her boots crashed against the metal floor. Caroline growled into her vox, "I'm on my way sister!".

Admittedly, Alexa was mildly disappointed about the Inquisitor's absence, but she nonetheless remained uplifted by the presence of a Celestian. In Sister Victorine's capable hands, she knew in her heart, they would be just fine.

The next few days were, bluntly speaking, not as eventful as one would imagine. This was a good thing, considering that eventful Warp travel often left people dead, even if they were warriors of the Adepta Sororitas. As before, Alexa spent her time praying, talking to her fellows, and assisting in the medical ward where necessary. As it happened, the alarm was raised at about the time Alexa was reaffirming her faith in the Emperor once again, praying silently at her personal shrine, albeit in her standard robes rather than nudified as some of her Sisters might; quickly reassessing her priorities at Celestian Victorine's bellow, she donned her armour and readied her equipment as rapidly as possible, concluding with the chirurgeon's tool glove on one hand and the armour's helm upon her head, before rushing out to meet with her fellows that they might quell this threat as rapidly as possible.

It didn't take long for the squad to gather and form up at Sister Victorine's order - sans, she couldn't help but notice, the new Crusader of the group. As she recalled, the Crusader had his quarters in the ship located further from those of the Sisters, and right on cue, a radio transmission confirmed that he was in combat with the raiders themselves. Bold of him - and perhaps what would make the difference between success and destruction this day. If he fell, he would fall knowing that his death was not in vain, though Alexa had no intention of letting him perish if he was injured before their arrival at his location, and was in fact unusually eager to start making her move in the right direction. They had an ally to assist, after all.

Flames.

Wood turning to grey and white powder in the wind, lifted on the hot air.

Fingers curling and twisting in the heat. Eyes bubbling and melting, running down their cheeks like tears. The crying of the survivors dragging their flayed bodies along the floor away from the flames, blinded and deafened.

Unarmed onlookers pleading for mercy from steel angels with fire and hate in their hearts.

It was heaven.

Since they had left the Preceptory, Lisbeth's dreams had changed dramatically. That cold ice-blue landscape was gone, replaced with visions of somewhere familiar. Perhaps it was somewhere she had already been, or perhaps she had created it out of whole cloth. Almost every night, she had the vision of chasing peasants through a forest, firing blasts of white-hot promethium through the clearings.

Tonight, though, she would not dream. In two days' time, they would make landfall, and Lisbeth was going to spend tonight in silent prayer for the souls of her companions and, if necessary, the souls of any innocents on Cekrov who might have to burn to ensure the purity of the holy Imperium. To set herself at ease, though, she had to make a confession, and ask for His grace. Fortunately, there was a Confessor in the room opposite the one she shared with three other Sisters.

Breathe, Dominica.

Confession always made her nervous.

Knock-knock-knock.

Lisbeth exhaled sharply through her nose and slowly pushed open the Confessor's door. "Confessor? Your Grace? Could I trouble you for a moment?"

The Confessor arose at the sound, exiting his cross-legged meditation upon his bed. The aged man quickly looked at his dataslate to see what time it was before ramming his hat on his head. Not bothering to put anything over his sleepwear save a pair of slippers he pressed the rune beside the door to open it. "What is it Sister?" Horacio asked, full of vigour despite the purple bags under his eyes indicating weariness.

"There is something I wish to discuss with you. Something sensitive."

Horacio poked his head out of the hallway and looked left and right conspiratorially, before ushering the girl in and pushing the rune that would active the blast-shielding once the door closed. Coincidentally, it would make the room sound-proofed and at least marginally more private... not to mention it would mean no escape should the words spoken be dire.

Lisbeth closed the door behind her, before kneeling in front of the Confessor, hands idly toying with the heavy rope of chaplets around her shoulders. "I think I might...I don't know," she sighed, before looking up at the Confessor's fur-framed face. "

Horacio pulled at a wooden stool for the Sister to sit on in the crammed quarters as he himself sat on his bed. Clearly something ailed the mind of Lisbeth. What was done on their last operation was not... savoury to say the least and some of the unncessary sadism still echoed in his mind. But that was the past, which mattered far less. "Sister, I don't mean to be blunt, but whatever is troubling you is best released quickly. The longer you keep it inside the more it will fester and hurt you. If you can speak it not with words then express it in some other way. But you're not the first pained mind I have seen and as a Confessor I am sure you know they are many." With that the Confessor gave a final sigh, his age dried lips tight but his milky grey eyes sympathetic.

Lisbeth swallowed, breathed hard, and spoke honestly, as she had been conditioned to do. "I have been hearing His voice for a long time, but since we returned from Athega Tertius, He has sent dreams. Uncomfortable dreams. In my dreams, I have failed Him somehow, and the ghosts of my Sisters surround me. They tell me how I have failed them. The people of Athega Tertius, too - everyone I've failed." Lisbeth began to bite on the inside of her cheek to hold herself together. "And then I burn them. After the fires die down, a black entity, shaped like a man but...wrong comes for me. Each night, I wake as it kills me."

The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth as she broke the skin inside her mouth. No matter. Suffering brings us closer to Him. "I do not know what it means. His presence has always been a comfort before, but now...I don't know." Lisbeth looked up, plaintively, like a child before a trusted mentor. "Is this punishment for my failures on Athega, or...or is it punishment for failures yet to come?"

The Confessor listened to the woman recount her dreams, the story of what she saw. He scratched his balding head with his right hand at the climax, whilst his left offered a cloth to the girl to wipe her lips with.

He leaned back on his head, wiping the oil and sweat off of his face with his palms. "You should have come to me with this earlier, Sister. The Custodians, the Chaplains of the Black Templars and Fire Angels and Red Scorpions, even they rarely suggest a dream of Him speaking to them. This figure is no holy face, he was never your friend."

Horacio paused, fingers crossed in prayer for insight. He looked up again, smiling. "But rejoice. For all in his flock there is a solution, a path away from every plight. This day - when you go to sleep - you will be attended. I or another sage figure of your choice will be beside you. In sleep we shall pray for your soul, we shall hold your hand to guide you and wake you if needed. We shall give you the most blessed of arms we can to clutch in your rest. In these dreams, you will turn to your sisters and tell them that for your sins real or imaginary, though they may be unredeemed you are repentant. When at last this... This dark man comes forth, he will not kill you. No, No! You will raise firearm, blade, bludgeon, tooth and claw. You my lass, will kill him. You have come a long way Sister, in many respects you are stronger in mind than I, and certainly in body. You will do this, you hear? You will beat this daemon, and show your holiness!"

"From the Emperor's mouth, to your lips, to my ears, Confessor."

Permanence was dismantled and received oils and unguents dispensed by one of the tech-servitors in the bowels of the vessel, with flickering glow-bulbs casting long shadows from behind swinging chains and metal frames. As she worked, Lisbeth chanted the rites of preparation and made promises to the machine spirits to serve them properly, a skull-servitor floating above her shoulder casting a bright orange light over the work bench.

Bzzt. EXCUSE. ME. An electronic voice whined behind the Sister Militant, a track-wheeled servitor with a pair of mechanical gripping claws speaking through a large, crude vox-unit in what was once it's neck. MASTER. AT. ARMS. ASKED. TO. PRESENT. THIS. The claws groaned and whirred as they rotated and opened up, presenting a heavy sabre with a thick, dusty blade and a dull brass grip. Gently taking the sword in hand, Lisbeth blew away a little of the dust, her eyes catching thinly engraving script down the middle of the blade.
From the hearts of those who have given their lives for the Imperium; into the hearts of the enemies of Man.

“Whose blade is this, servitor?”

UNKNOWN.

“Unknown? Do you have no records?”

CORRECT.

A blade presented from a humble servant, with no record available of it’s history? A more sceptical woman would have become suspicious, but Lisbeth was a zealot, through and through, and she knew that the Emperor’s hand was at work in this. “Does this blade have a name, servitor?”

UNKNOWN.

“Well, that won’t do,” joked Lisbeth, briefly laughing before she caught herself and steadied herself again. “I think I have a name that will, servitor.” The servitor stared blankly with dead yellow eyes. “Yes, that will do.”

---

Lisbeth did not dream that night.

She did not dream because she did not sleep.

She stayed for some time at the workstation, cleaning the sabre and polishing it to a fine sheen, and completing another round of prayers to the machine spirits. Lisbeth understood that guns had machine spirits – that much was clear – but inanimate swords? Unless she had missed something, there was no moving mechanical parts within the weapon, no hidden button to activate a power node she had missed; it was a simple object.

“Your understanding is not required, only your faith.”

When she finally made it to her bunk, some hours after she had planned to, Permanence and the new sword strapped to her sides, her armour felt heavy around her small limbs, and more than anything at that minute she wanted to give way to her fatigue and fall asleep, but she had her instructions. No sleep without the Confessor present. Lisbeth hesitated for a minute, fighting the urge to at least sit down and lie that she wouldn’t fall asleep – just rest for a moment – before she fought off the grey haze at the edge of her mind and made for the doorway.

"Squad Victorine, assemble! There is trouble afoot, and judgement to deliver, by His will!"

At the sound of Sister-Celestian Victorine’s order, preconditioned responses drilled into Lisbeth’s muscles moved into work, driving her limbs onward through the doorway and out into the hallway. Horacio and Sister-Celestian Victorine were already engaged, while Sister Caroline emerged from the bend at the end of the hall, heavy bolter in tow. At the far end of the hall, figures moved in smoke, alien tongues spouting insults and blasphemy. There was no question of the next course of action.

Sister Dominica grabbed the handle of her new sabre, and sprinted over to her sister's side, hunkering behind a heavy steel crate. "Your orders, Celestian?"

[double]

Battle Sister Vitruvia Procyon spent most of her days in isolation. The briefing had hinted at the possibility of an encounter with the enemy and the athletic Sister of Battle devoted herself to spiritual preparation. She drank only water and deliberately choose the unflavored rations that were fed to the ships lowest laborers. Hours were spent in prayer and at night she self-flagellated and performed other mortifications of the flesh; through pain the spirit could be purified.

The physical body was not neglected for it was through the material world that one served the God Emperor. Prayer without works was thunder without lightning. Vitruvia honed her martial skills as best she could in the cramped ships quarters and kept her armor clean, her bolter oiled and her chainsword greased.

Without access to the Order's texts on Uvultu it was difficult to advance her studies so Vitruvia devoted herself to mastery of the minutia. The way the wrist turned in a parry-- just so. The position of the knee and ankle on a lunge-and-redouble. The way power armor changed the timing of one's footwork. Perfection in the service of the God Emperor was righteousness. No detail was too small.

Another soul might have been crushed under the self-denial, relentless training and monotony of being trapped in a small space for day after day after day. Vitruvia found it spiritually moving and spent hours in awe of the The Holy Flame. To think, it was a kilometer and a half long and home to fifteen thousand souls-- and the Cobra-class was one of the smallest ships in the Imperium's service. Was this not proof of the divinity of the God Emperor? That ten thousand years after he drew mankind up from the mud of internecine warfare and forged an empire from a million worlds that his faithful servants still built on such a scale?

Truly, Vitruvia was blessed to see such a monument to the God Emperor's glory.

"Squad Victorine, assemble! There is trouble afoot, and judgement to deliver, by His will!"

Blue eyes opened and Vitruvia brushed her white bangs back with fingers scarred from many hours sparring in the drill-yard of the Order. She rolled off of the hard bunk (she had removed the mattress as an unnecessary comfort) dressed with quick, efficient movements; donning her armor from the ground up, beginning with her boots and greeves, then cuisse, then cuirass and vambrace and gauntlets. The light, razor sharp chainsword was hung from her belt along with her six grenades, spare ammunition and the worn plasma pistol she had recently acquired.

Holding her bolter in one hand with her helm tucked under her left arm she walked out into the hallway and joined the squad. Under her armor her back stung with the fire of her nightly self-flagellation and an aura of focused spiritual purity emitted from her every movement while her eyes burned with the quiet intensity of the fanatic.

"Sisters. Horatio." She nodded at each of them and put on her helm, then racked the slide in her Godwyn-De'az bolter, double checking the sixty round drum magazine. "For the glory of the God Emperor."

@Kratesis@BCTheEntity@jbeil@Andreyich@LemonZest1337@Irredeemable

Victorine had been worried for but a moment, worried that her squad may not respond – that her squad may have ignored her calls or been too sluggish to act – but she needn't have worried, for the Sororitas and the Ecclesiarscal 'delegates' came together with the group of armoured warrior-women as swiftly as a well-oiled bolter mechanism; for but a moment the Celestian gave thought to Crusader Therebus, outside of their own section of the vessel by his own request, but rapidly put it from her mind.

You must remain in the present, she heard the voice of her own mentor chiding her, in the here and now, child..

“Sister Adalard,” she spoke by way of remembrance for herself and as a summons, gesturing for the largest of their group to approach her – the danger of attack not yet directly upon them, thus giving some time for organization - “you shall have the honour of taking point,” stated Victorine with a nod of her helmeted head, “sweep the corridors before us with eyes and weapon.”

Further hand signals followed, curt orders arranging the others – Sisters Vitruvia, Alexandra, Lisbeth and herself forming a two columns on either side of the heavy weapons specialist and corridor, while Confessor Horacio followed in the middle of the formation.

For a moment Victorine eyed the blade at the side of Lisbeth, her face unreadable behind the visor of her helmet, her movement still for but an instant as she thought of whether to reprimand the Battle-Sister for possession of such a blade. Evidently she decided their was little enough time as it was, and that words would be best saved for after the coming conflict.

“Squad,” came the command, slightly amplified and robotised by the helms vocaliser, “move out.”

They would go and get Therebus first, Victorine hoping that the destroyers Armsmen and Ratings would be able to put up a stiff enough resistance until then, thereby halting any advance on the genetorium; using the information being fed into her helmets ear-piece, directions mostly, she took her brethren safely and unmolested through the interior until eventually reaching the section where the Crusader had decided to remain.

The sounds of battle were as clear as day, the Celestian ordering the group to prepare their weapons and move forward to engage whatever they found...

---

Whatever notion of 'fighting his way to them' that Thaddeus had entertained in his mind was quite swiftly driven from him, and in the most aggressive of ways, firepower from professional killers too cautious to get within reach of his weapon pouring into him. Bolts, slugs and las blasts impacted upon his shield, scarring the surface and forcing the holy warrior bodily back toward his own chamber.

There were all manner of adversaries arrayed against him – cannibalistic Kroot from savage Pech, frog-like Galg with their wide eyes and scaled flesh, mutants of the basest kind, and any number of representatives of Mankind...humans...human traitors, human scum, human fodder for the guns. This last group were the most numerous, making up the majority of the raiders, and wielding a variety of weapons, wearing an assortment of differing uniforms and armours, and generally making themselves targets for the wider Imperium.

“Squad Victorine!” Came a bass shout from the rear of their heretical group, “to the Crusader! Ave Imperator!”

So it began.

Caroline convened with the rest of her squad with the rest of her squad, the sound of gunfire and combat present in the distance. She looked down at Victorine as she dealt out the orders. "Understood." Caroline already liked this Celestian, putting her on point in their first skirmish, simply delightful. Adalard readied her heavy bolter as she stepped ahead of everyone else, ready to march forward and purge the ship of the invaders. She kept her eyes peeled for any sign of enemy movement as Victorine laid out the rest of the orders. Her trigger finger itched as the rest of the squad formed behind her.

Caroline was interested to see how her new squad would fare in combat, and what there feeling on the heretical scum was. She hoped she could depend on them but her expectations for everyone bar Victorine were very low. She had no expectations for Victorine, you don't become a Celestian without showing prowess in combat, strategy and faith.

Then Victorine gave the order to move out, the squad heading towards their crusader comrade and the filthy pirates who would attempt to attack the ship. The march would start, the sound of metal boots being louder then the distant gunfire. Caroline kept scanning every inch of the ship, being weary of any attempts at n ambush. As the sounds of battle got closer so to did Caroline's lust for battle, but orders always came first, she did not fight for herself, she fought for the Emperor.

They were upon the conflict now. Caroline quickly aimed her heavy bolter at an approaching kroot and tore it to shreds, then Victorine yelled a might warcry. The battle had begun.

Caroline firmly planted herself, posture almost unflinching, Emperor guide my aim.. She wielded her heavy bolter with great proficiency and unmatched ferocity, "Die filth!" She would cry as she opened up on some of the pirates, her rage made her a force of destruction on the field, but it also left her very open. This wasn't going to cut it against some of the more skilled mercenaries they faced, she took a hit to the shoulder. It wasn't a nasty hit but it forced her to relent and re position herself. She gritted her teeth from behind some cover.

The Confessor kept quiet for now. He was far from a commander, even if a good leader. Horacio simply held his shotgun and kept his other weapons close. One blast from his weapon was just barely above the the strength of a single bolt, and it shot far slower if pumped. But as they walked, he knew there was a trick up his sleeve. As he walked with a flip-flop from his slippers he pulled back the pump for his shotgun in preparation....

The Holy man walked along, flicking across various channels in his vox-bead to hear the screaming of poor bastards being eaten by the Kroot. He muttered a quiet prayer as he walked along, sadness and anger filling him in equal proportion.

Still he was calm, going along with hymn on his lips. He lapsed out of attention until he heard a shout that brought him back into lucidity. There were the kroot, and the corrupt men who turned their back from the imperium. He looked at the enemy and then looked down at his shotgun. Pointing his firearm vaguely in the direction of the enemy he held down the trigger and then stumbled as the slam-fire spat out all the shells in his weapon in but a second to shower the enemy in pellets. As the smoke swiftly cleared he grinned as he saw two of the xenos and several humans shredded by the shots. But fire was returned swiftly. Several solid shots bounced off of his Rosarius field but a lasbolt just about managed to get through. He recoiled and fell as the beam melted a good chunk of his jaw and chin, the field only partially doing it's job. With a roar that at first was of pain and swiftly transitioned to anger, he adjusted his hat and drew his bolt-pistol.

Confessor Mazzini ran ahead and let off three bolts with two missing but one hitting a bulkier ogryn-mutant in the head with the imaginable resulting splatter. In the open of the halls he could be taken out well, so he ducked to the side into a room. With two shots left in his small magazine he let out one without looking around the corner and then leaned out to take an aimed one. It was rushed because the enemy took the opportunity to try and finish his life but he vaguely hit his mark with an enemy's legs turning to a red puddle.

Another magazine was loaded in, this one a longer horn-like one with ten shots. He blasted off one before seeing an opening. Several enemies were reloading and the rest were firing else where. He ran to closer cover, all the while suppressing his own path with his pistol. He was about to turn a corner into another room to nestle down in, but realized another heretic was there far too late. The man was not an ogryn, but extremely muscular all the same and heaved his own shotgun with ease to let off both barrels right at the Confessor. Again his field saved him from death, but the combined force knocked him down quite readily. The brute was about to stomp on his head but he didn't account for the old man on the ground still gripping consciousness and his pistol. Arthritic, Horacio raised his pistol to shoot the man but slowed by age only just about hit him in his thigh. The man fell upon Horacio screaming, but that was just as well. The Holy man knew that several more enemies were now aiming on him, and a meat-shield to add to his armour and protective field.

As the enemy got close they went forth with claw and bayonet. But even at his age, his power-maul meant they had no chance. As he rose he brought it in a wide swipe to bring them all down and turn their bones to powder inside their bodies. The Kroot amongst them leaped to the side however, and brought the hook on the tip of his firearm onto Horacio's shoulder. Horacio grinned for even though the impact hurt even with armour stopping his skin being punctured, it meant he could take the alien with ease. It would not be however, for his second swipe was easily dodged by the enemy, as was his third. In desperation, he ran back into the room proper where he squatted and waited for the enemy to give chase. As the alien rounded the corner hes was at perfect position to bring his maul right onto its left breast. The thing screamed, but it was soon silenced as one hit, and then another and another followed. Angry but also relieved that he narrowly saved his life the Confessor kept hitting the enemy long after it was dead. With his task done he sighed, falling back against the wall and slowly sagging down with his questing fingers pulling his bolt-pistol back in.

From there on, it was an ordinary fight. He stood in the cover of his room and took pot-shots, provided suppressing cover, or occasionally blew an enemy away he no longer had the energy to become a proper war-machine. But he could aid his Sisters, those women who would fight on when he too tired and weakened.

The sister fell into place at the front of the column Celestian Victorine had organized the group into. She kept her bolter in firing position, pre-aiming at each corner as they approached so if an enemy emerged they would already be in her sights. When they rounded the final corner and saw the mass of xenos, mutant and renegade filth threatening to overwhelm the Crusader Vitruvia opened her mouth to suggest that they all throw frag grenades into the mass of enemies while they were clumped together and their backs were turned. Six frag grenades, a magazine dump and a charge would have done tremendous damage but Vitruvia was too late-- Sister Caroline opened fire with her heavy bolter and the enemy charged.

Vitruvia dropped to one knee behind protruding section of bulkhead and squeezed the trigger on her bolter. A tongue of fire a meter long spewed from the barrel as dozens of bolter shells ripped through the air into the charging men. Vitruvia was an excellent shot. At point blank range and firing into the teaming mass of flesh she couldn't miss. The carnage was immense; it was as if an invisible scythe swept through the air and struck dead those who fell inside it's path.

A mutant's leg was blown in half at the thigh. Another disemboweled by the detonation of a .75 caliber bolt shell in his gut. A kroot was unlucky enough to survive a bolt shell that shattered his hip and left him squirming upon the ground in agony before his companions trampled him to death in their headlong, maddened charge.

But still they came. Sister Caroline was driven back from her exposed position and autogun fire raked Vitruvia's position, the section of bulkhead that was thrust out into the corridor absorbing most of the rounds. Still, she felt the ringing blows of metal projectiles upon her shoulder and arm as sparks and paint flew as her helm and shoulder plate deflected the fire.

The barrel of her bolter glowed cherry red as Vitruvia let off the trigger, sweeping her gaze to the small group of humans who had set up a heavy stubber and were attempting to suppress her fire (power armor changed the suppressing-fire equation, thank the Emperor.) She looked down her scope and pulled the trigger; a bolt punched through the tattooed gunner's yellow teeth and detonated in the back of his neck, half decapitating him. His companions screamed and fled.

Vitruvia laughed and swept her bolter back toward the horde of charging flesh. They were close. She squeezed the trigger.

It clicked empty.

Armored fingers snatched her chainsword from her belt and mashed the throttle-- the blade roared as it severed the arm of a puss-dripping mutant in it's draw-cut and then punched through the flimsy makeshift armor of a pirate's chestpiece and out his back.

A trio of frog-like xenos leapt across the section of bulkhead that Vitruvia had taken cover behind and forced her back with thrusts from jagged, rusty spears. She retreated before their advance, warding off their thrusts with sharp, precise parries that flowed one into the next like a well-oiled clockwork machine until with a sudden twist of her chainsword and sharp lunge she intercepted the advance of one xenos, closing the distance between them and severing his lead hand with a snap of her wrist and rev of the chainsword's throttle.

She was among them then and the reach of their spears became a handicap. The wounded one stumbled against his closest companion letting out a shrill screech as he clutched his stump while green ichor squirted into the air and Vitruvia's chainblade snapped out, humming through the air with the speed and power of a heavy-worlder augmented by the servo-motor's of power armor, splitting the skull of the unwounded xenos down to the neck and then finishing off the outmatched survivors with precise thrusts through the torso.

Something struck her in the skull hard enough to drive her to one knee and leave a long dent in the helm of her power armor. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Horatio driven back into another room but before she could process the though something drove through the shoulder of her power armor and hot blood ran down her arm.

The Kroot yanked his rifle-spike out of her shoulder armor and his companion lifted his own rifle for the coup-de-grace against the kneeling Sister.

A heartbeat of hesitation was lethal but a childhood of neural conditioning at the Schola Progenium had erased the human foibles of doubt and uncertainty. She felt no fear only the razor edged focus of the martyr.

Vitruvia simply lifted her wrist, squeezed the throttle and drove her chainsword into the groin of the Kroot whose rifle-hook was stuck in her shoulder plate. He let out a piercing scream as the adamantine teeth ripped his guts out through the hole in his crotch.

The second Kroot swung his rifle down at her skull again. Vitruvia lifted her free hand above her head and took the blow on her bracer. It drove into her helm with enough force to rattle every bone in her body and her fingers went numb.

She stood and knocked the hooked-rifle out of her shoulder plate.

"Hail Imperator, full of grace."

The Kroot reversed his rifle with an uncanny, alien grace, hammering Vitruvia in the jaw of her helm hard enough to whip her head back.

"Be with me now."

It feinted and Vitruvia's blade snapped across her body but the xenos flipped the rifle about and struck her a blow on the leg that left another dent in her armor and buckled the athletically muscled sister's leg.

"And in the hour of my death."

She stumbled back, chainsword flicking through a pair of parries that deflected his next two attacks until she felt her back bump into the wall. He was good. She thought she could beat him had she been uninjured but it would have been a close thing.

He feinted again but Vitruvia parried his strike-- the strength of the blow nearly knocked her chainsword from her hand and she felt blood oozing down the inside of her armor. It had reached her hip now.

The xenos was fast, freakishly strong and very, very skilled. Vitruvia was wounded and had begun the fight ambushed and outnumbered. Were it not for her power armor she would have been killed several times over.

The rifle snapped into another feint-and-strike; the final blow. Vitruvia didn't bother to block. She spun into the strike, her power armors boot screeching on the floor. The blow fell upon her back unguarded and she felt a rib snap under the force of it-- but her chainsword slammed into the Kroot's neck simultaneously.

The motor screamed and adamantine teeth ripped through the Kroot's neck to the spine. Black blood splattered her armor and the Kroot reeled and fell to his hands and knees, arterial spray squirting across the decking.

She stomped his skull until he stopped twitching, recovered her bolter and looked for members of her squad who needed aid.

Alexa nodded to the Celestian's order, taking the back row of the column next to one of her fellow Battle-Sisters. Her lot was not to lead the charge, but to ensure those who did could do so without fail; and so she followed on, keeping her eyes forward, save when she glanced back to ensure they were not flanked - and, in one brief moment of distraction, toward the blade wielded by Sister Lisbeth. What an intriguing weapon for her to bear. Alexa wondered if she might discuss the matter with Lisbeth later.

But, that would be later. Now was a matter of combat - and rescuing their Crusader comrade from otherwise-certain doom. She thanked the Emperor, then, when their column finally reached him, imperiled but nonetheless living. In corridors such as these, avoiding gunfire and enemy attacks would be all the more difficult, not just for the armoured Sororitas, but also for their foes - a fact Sister Caroline made instant use of, opening fire into the mass of bodies with a hearty war cry, and heralding the echoes of gunfire that shortly followed. Alexa, without proper view, did not open fire immediately, but instead paid close attention to the battle to see who might require her help.

First to be injured, perhaps inevitably, was the unarmoured Confessor. Though his weapon was emptied into the crowd of heretics almost immediately, and his Rosarius flashed with every round that it deflected, it could not prevent him from coming to harm eternally. Under her helm, Alexa offered a sympathetic wince as what seemed to be a full quarter of his face was turned molten by a burst of lasfire; yet even as she moved forward to give her aid, the man recomposed himself and charged into the mass of enemies, bolt pistol and power maul to hand. She hoped he would be able enough in such circumstances to survive, despite everything he had going against him.

Her fellow Sisters seemed able enough: Sister Caroline's heavy bolter held strong, whilst Sister Vitruvia maintained weaponfire against the enemy until she ran dry of ammo, only to switch to her chainsword as the fray of close-range combat fell upon her, rather than the other way round. By now, Alexa had managed to pull forward enough to fire at her foes; bolt pistol in hand, she took aim and offered a triple-burst up to the foe, two rounds fragmenting a human's torso and covering his ally with viscera, and the third rending that man's arm from his body in a spray of blood. A second burst finished the foe off, then continued on to execute a duo of Kroot warriors, further back than anticipated. A mutant's solid projectile fire flew past her allies and zinged off of Alexa's armour like rain; the third burst was dedicated to his execution, and happened to catch an extra mutant or two in its deadly arc in the process.

Now Alexa reloaded, swapping her current bolt clip for a fresh one, and again looking to Sister Vitruvia - just as she finished off a Kroot warrior with a vicious blow to its neck, though she took a heavy hit to her back in the process. Her armour was sorely dented in many places, and it was clear she'd taken at least one serious wound. Yet, or so it might seem, she insisted through wordless action that she needed to continue her fight. And... where was the Confessor? Damn it all, he'd vanished! Where was he, where- ah, no, he lived yet, though kneeling in a side-room with a Kroot's mangled body at his feet, it was clear he ailed at the present time. Alexa made her way to him, muttering 'Let me examine that injury' to him as she entered, just to ensure he didn't lash out at her unnecessarily.

And the injury itself was, honestly speaking, a rather gruesome burn, flesh blackened and melted away almost down to the bone. Yet despite this, it was essentially cosmetic for the purposes of combat effectiveness - the man was winded through his own exertions rather than the pain in his face. He would, however, need more in-depth medical care once this crisis was through; in a field situation such as this, there was nothing Alexa could offer to help such a wound, other than a couple of injections - an analgesic at the injury site to relieve him of pain, followed up with an antiseptic spray to ensure it remained uninfected until proper attention could be given; and a stimshot to the arm to restore his energy levels. His assistance was greatly appreciated, of course, but Alexa felt his age might hold him back again in the future. She'd perhaps suggest to him at a later date to ask about rejuvenat treatments, just in case.

Gunfire. Screaming. The rattle of shuriken shots against the walls of the destroyer.

It was like poetry to Lisbeth’s ears. Without thought, she sprinted for a firing position, Permanence dangling by a strap from her shoulder. Behind a burned-out section of wall that had been blasted away from the side of the room, she kneeled next to a grey-looking Armsman loading rounds into a shotgun, looking for all the world as if this was a totally everyday situation. Without acknowledging the heavily-armoured sister, he rolled back onto his front and fired three rounds, blasting a fist-sized hole in a pirate's gut while Lisbeth raised Permanence and aimed for a target.

On the left - a figure in lurid yellows and greens - three rounds. Lisbeth held her breath and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. By the time the third round had left her boltgun, the first had struck home, lodging itself in the shoulder before it detonated, separating the figure from it's left arm and sending it sprawling to the floor, blood arcing in the air. She moved her head, scanning for another open target, before her eyes came to rest on a thin, spindly creature, totally naked except for a bandolier around the shoulder and hip. The beast had grey-green skin and a huge, crushing beak, and pointed quills coming from the back of what Lisbeth assumed was the head. Her guts knotted and twisted at the sight of the strange creature, and the bitter taste of bile washed over her tongue. Swallowing hard, she tightened her grip on the bolter, knuckles white underneath the shining black armour and rattling rosaries. Adrenaline flooded her brain and her heart raced even faster. Years of conditioning told her to raise the bolter and fire, but her rounds met only open air. The creature dived right, rolling and springing back up with impossible speed. Lisbeth did not know what it was, nor did she need to know. All she knew was that she hated it, and that was enough.

A stray round struck a section of piping overhead, hot steam billowing out of the breach and blocking Lisbeth's line of sight. For a moment, she cursed that she did not have a helmet to give her different spectra to see through, and then scolded herself silently for her arrogance. Faith in the Emperor is all the protection you need. The Emperor's whispers were a comforting presence, but she remembered the words of the Confessor, and forced herself to ignore them, swinging her bolter around to find a new target.

She got three rounds off before everything went dark.

The next thing Lisbeth was aware of was a sharp pain on the side of her head, and a weight pressing down on her chest. The fog was cleared by another sharp pain on the other side, the swipe of a claw digging in to flesh, tearing skin apart, dragging muscle away. The beast was on top of her, and Permanence was somewhere out of reach, the strap snapped and dangling uselessly from her shoulder. By instinct she swung an armoured first, and caught something soft - flesh, perhaps. Another swing caught the creature's chest and a wheeze escaped the thick, crushing beak as it moved an arm down it's body, pawing at something. Even with one eye gummed shut with blood and grime, Lisbeth recognised the glimmer of a blade, and crossed her arms above her head to catch the blow as it came down. With what felt like an impossible force, the creature bore down, the blade growing closer and sharper with every passing moment. Flecks of spittle splattered onto Lisbeth's face, carried on gusts of hot, stinking breath.

Lisbeth's shoulders grew weaker, her arms beginning to shake under the sustained pressure from the alien's strength, straining the sinews of her muscles. The blade grew closer and closer, inexorably down toward the carved inscription down the middle of the sister's breastplate, scraping away on the detailed carving. Lisbeth closed her eyes, and prepared herself for the end.

Bang.

The pressure slackened. Another gunshot rang. The Armsman had fired two shells into the side of the creature, shards of shot scraping against the painted surface of Lisbeth's armour, and a stabbing sensation shot through Lisbeth's left leg, but for the moment her attention was focused elsewhere. The Armsman had given her enough time to push back against the alien, and she threw all her weight against the monster, roaring off the ground as she flung herself at the creature's shoulder. Catching it square in the collar with her forehead, she forced the alien back onto the floor, their positions reversed, and taking advantage of the momentary shock she tore Persephone from her simple strap and lifted it above her shoulder, swinging down with both arms toward the screeching monster. It raised an arm and caught the sword with a bone, a piercing squeal blasting through Lisbeth's ears as the weapon cut through, jamming in the marrow of the creature's bones.

Tugging the sword out was impossible while the monster still breathed, but with one arm lame and useless the beast was still a considerable opponent. The alien swung the remaining good arm at Lisbeth's head, and this time she pulled back in time to avoid the raking claws, grabbing the limb as it swung in opposite way, her arms locked around the wrist.

Crraacckk.

Skreeeeeee!

The monster screamed again as Lisbeth bent it's arm back on itself, snapping bones in half and tearing blood vessels. Now utterly defenseless, Lisbeth wrapped her hands around the monster's neck, and pressed down hard, clenching her fists as tight as possible around the thick, gristly flesh, flicking her head to keep the blood dripping down from the gash down her temple and across her cheek from flowing into her eye as the struggling gasps turned to weak wheezes. Lisbeth kept squeezing as the creature ceased to resist, kept squeezing as she felt the windpipe turn to pulp beneath her gauntlets, kept squeezing as he light left the monster's eyes and kept squeezing even as the last few weak, reflexive breaths passed through the dying beast's maw. Finally, as it lay totally limp, she placed an armoured boot on the creature's chest and tore the sword from it's lodgement, bringing it back down with two swift strikes to hack away at the creature's neck.

Triumphant, swelling with the joy of victory in His name, she grabbed the beast's dismembered head and held it high, taunting the pirates. "Who is next die, scum? Onwards, sisters, for the Emperor!"

His backup had arrived. Or perhaps he was the vanguard for the main force. Either way, battle was joined, which meant that he could focus on more than simply attempting to not die. Bullets rattled off his shield in front of him, most turned entirely away by the aura of power surrounding it, the occasional few pockmarking the surface with scrapes and craters. Not that that mattered. He placed his sights on an individual and approached them. They would fall. He would repeat the process.

He cared not how long it would take per individual, nor if an individual's name came on his blade or on a friendly bolt shell. Instead, he focused on his work- his tapestry of red, throats, chests, faces and limbs left with deadly and indelible marks, sending them to their unholy afterlives by the grace of the almighty Emperor. These individuals did not challenge him. They replaced skill with brutality and an overwhelming offensive, but they were hardly an unstoppable force, unfortunate when facing one such as himself.

He had not taken one step back. Now he took them forward. Another heretic came at him. Instead of striking with his glaive, the Crusader stiffened his arm and pistoned it forward, the end result much like what would happen if you ran over a guardsman's head with a chimera- not pleasant, to put it lightly. Before the corpse had even crumpled to the ground, his blade found another mark.

He was barely focusing on his companions. He heard shouts, he heard taunts, the rattle of gunfire, but his mind tuned it out. A technique he had learned from the Cardinals- emptying his mind of the excess thoughts. All he concerned himself with was himself and his foes. This effortless emptiness had been honed to a finer point than the blade her carried, watching with a detached look as a sister beheaded a xenos and tossed the body inside, if only because his glaive lashed out adjacent to the fallen creature.

There was no doubt that they would win this fight.

@Kratesis@BCTheEntity@jbeil@Andreyich@LemonZest1337@Irredeemable

The Sister-Celestian watched as her squad advanced into the fray without so much as a second glance, pride and passionate faith rising together in her chest at the sight, the sound of battle and the intermingling of prayer like music to her ears in ways that other sounds just were not.

Wounds were being received on both sides before Victorine at last drew her blade, her thumb pressing the button at the bottom and turning the standard – if extremely well crafted – blade into a humming weapon of destruction, capable of tearing through armour and flesh as if they were both the same.

“Glory be to the God-Emperor,” she intoned as she took the first few steps forward, curling her fingers around the hand-and-a-half hilt of her weapon, preparing her mind and body for combat, “and to the Primarchs His sons and to the Ecclesiarchy His tool...” A tentacled mutant lashed out at her then, an abomination of all that was holy and divine, her hilt connecting with a wet shlock against its face that sent it reeling back, “as it was in the beginning is now,” she stepped forward and bought her blade straight down upon the deformed creature, black blood hissing as she withdrew the blade and kicked the bisected corpse away, “and ever shall be, Imperium without end. Ave Imperator.”

Something tried to cut her down from behind, the crude instrument it wielded doing no more than impacting on her sweeping pauldron – taking her slightly off balance – before a backhanded swing clove its horned head from its neck.

Pushing through the press of bodies with her own considerable bulk she eventually espied the Crusader up ahead, pressing their foes in from one end of the corridor just as Squad Victorine did from the other; his spear-work was truly something to behold, clearly the Ecclesiarchy teaching their holy warriors well the martial arts, and a smile spread beneath her helmet as she headbutted a snouted renegade hard enough to break its elongated jaw.

Nearly as soon as it had began it was over, their adversaries laying broken – whether that meant dead or simply wounded – across the corridor. Some shuffled and groaned as Victorine stepped over to meet Marcus, keeping an ear out for any comm-traffic from Shelek on the bridge.

“Twenty five...twenty six...this can't be all of them.”

“Sister Victorine to Captain Shelek, what is your situation?

It took a moment before her helmet comm crackled into life, but when it did she knew it was not going well for their host and his crew. Sounds of gunfire abounded, but his almost monotone voice did rise above it to answer her nevertheless.

“Sister, it would appear that some of them...I'd wager seven...no, nine...made it to the Genetorium; I know this because I am here defending it with a number of my armsmen and ratings.” There was a short pause followed by a bellow, “this wouldn't be a problem, but it would appear that they decided to bring a heavy-class stubber, and at least one of them is wearing some variant of power armour! We could use some help, and fast. Shelek out.

No time to waste then.

“If you can walk and fight, fall in on me, it appears our Captain and indeed the Gellar field protecting this vessel are both in peril. Finish off any wounded here, leave no prisoners. We go to his aid.”

---

---

It was as the Captain had described, the sliding doors to the Genetorium having malfunctioned and left a gap straight down the middle, two muscular mutants discharging streams of heavy stubber fire through the gap, a gaggle of lesser combatants letting loose with small-arms of their own, and two figures that certainly surprised the Celestian.

In among the enemy were a pair of distinct figures, one wearing shredded robes that had once belonged to a loyal servant of the Mechanicus – the broad frame likely made up of as much machinery as the mechadendrites whipping back and forth, some tipped with las weapons and at least a pair with wicked looking blades – and the other, well, the other clad in similar Ignatus-pattern armour as Kliment had been, although this one was painted in a deep purple and without stunning gold or silver.

Once the armoured figure saw the Sororitas arrive from one of the side-corridors it gave an anguished howl and fled in the opposite direction, the robotic tech-priest apparently ignorant of such developments, or too focused on the organics before it.

“Sisters, let us finish this. No mercy.”

Caroline ceased fire as the last of the invaders fell, she kept looking around feeling that this couldn't be the full crew of the boarding ship. But her vigilance didn't seem to be needed, even Victorine was perplexed by the shortage of hostiles, indeed some of the fighters were fierce but they couldn't have hoped to take an entire ship with just this many. Caroline remained quiet as Victorine contacted the captain, she too was eager to hear what in the world was going on. And it seemed the captain only had bad news, he was pinned down by a Heavy stubber and one of the pirates somehow got some power armor.

Caroline nodded as Victorine dealt out the next set of orders, their next stop being the Genetorium. But before that Caroline was eager to find any pirates who hadn't died yet, and unluckily for them she found a few. A mutant and a Kroot, their forms being twisted and broken. She wasted no time and simply planted her armored boot on the head of the mutant, applying enough pressure to sink her boot right through the horrific flesh sac that it called a face. As her boot finally crush the skull of the hideous creature, she produced her knife and made her way over to the Kroot. Again her work was fast, her knife being plunged right into the neck of the beaked monster, one jerk of the wrist and the head was completely removed, set rolling across the cold floor off the ship.

That being done it was time to move out with the rest of her squad and save the captain. If this power armored figure actually knew what they were doing then they could be a serious problem.

---

Caroline looked on as the mutants suppressed the captain with gunfire, there wasn't many of them but they should still be approached with caution. She wanted to bust out and mow the filth down, but she also knew that she'd probably end up as a sister of paste if she did that. She gritted her teeth under her helmet and looked over at Victorine. "I can take out one of the heavy gunners, but I'd need some cover fire." She'd already had a close call with getting badly wounded today, so Caroline wasn't the keenest on pulling her 'murder everything with massive heavy bolter' move, as some of the pirates proved to no be fully incompetent.

That being said she was indeed ready to die for the Emperor, but dying to a lowly band of pirates seemed like an idiotic way to go. It also seemed that the one in power armor was a coward, fleeing the scene upon seeing them. There were a lot of things that made Caroline angry, but few made her blood boil as much as cowards, it only added to her rage that the coward was also a heretical scum.

Without another word Caroline had opened fire, targeting one of the mutants wielding the heavy stubber, she would show the filth what true firepower was. And she did, the mutant's bulk would be no match for the disgusting amount of firepower Caroline's heavy bolter was packing, huge chunks of meat being blown off instantly. "Burn scum!" She would yell as she continued shooting, the mutant's bodies quickly turning into seared pulp.

As the Hospitaller Sister entered Horacio's eyes turned red in panic and he raised his pistol, before he lowered it, exhaling with relief. He relaxed, lowering his weapon and closing his eyes as he was tended to. "Just sow it shut." A shudder born of placebo came from him as she gave him the injection in the arm, wondering how the woman had guessed that he had suffered a nasty smack from the kroot to his shoulder.

Yet just as he was tended to, he was called to war once more from outside. "Coming Sister!" He shouted, muttering thanks to the Hospitaller as revitalized he picked up his weapons and ran out. Quite calmly he racked in shells back to his shotgun and a fresh magazine into his bolt-pistol.

They walked along the corridors of the ship to the genetorium. The Confessor hoped they could get at the enemy close and undetected where they could unleash automatic bursts to quickly even the playing field. Yet, it would not be. One of the foe ran off, so it seemed that a straight up fight would once again be the norm.

Horacio raised his shotgun in one hand, and with the other pointed. "See the enemy! See their cowardice and the vile forms it takes!" With that, he lowered his shotgun, and let the sight fall centre-mass on the Tech-Priest. He had the ordinary pellets loaded in at the moment for he had not the fore-sight to load in slugs, but with the massive calibre of the Blackhammer-Pattern derivative he was using it would still be nasty even to cybernetics. He fired once, twice, thrice, and so on taking steps towards the Tech-Priest with each pull on the slide. His Rosarius shield flared with power as enemies assailed him with their firearms but he cared not as he drew his bolt pistol again, and flicking the full-auto mode on sent off his magazine at the Tech-Priest (regardless if it was by now beaten, for he knew such amalgams of flesh and machine could be quite deceptive).

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. Weakness is the mother of heresy, 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.

Get up, Lisbeth. There is work yet to be done. Gasping, Lisbeth was able to pull one leg up so she was kneeling, but soon fell back down. Get up. Or will you meet your creator on your belly? 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 Persephone 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.

Rise, 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-

Crack. Crack.

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. You are dying, Lisbeth. 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. Do not cry, little sister. Do not show them fear. Do not distress your sisters. 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.

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

'Not a problem, Confessor,' Alexa responded to Horacio's thanks as he exited the room at the beck of Celestian Victorine. It was, after all, her job, nay her creed, to keep her allies in good health, just as it fell to her Sisters to indulge more thoroughly in the destruction of the Emperor's foes; true to form, the fight was essentially over by the time she stepped out again, though not the battle as a whole. Her heart chilled just a little as she heard that some of the pirates may have targeted the Genetorium directly, threatening the Gellar field that kept them all safe. If they couldn't reach that in time...

Her fellow sisters and their male companions did as Sister Victorine bade, the few living foes left behind executed in short order - Sister Caroline in particular seemed very keen to do so - before the group trudged onward. Alexa, for her part, helped tend to the various injuries of her Sisters as appropriate. The most pertinent was the shoulder wound Sister Vitruvia had sustained; yet for the amount of blood that seemed to have been shed, it was a very simple wound beneath the armour, a straight cut through flesh alone, and resolved with the application of medigels and sealing agents quite easily.

So simple was the injury, in fact, that she managed to resolve it even as they moved up toward the Genetorium, save the process of sawing open Vitruvia's armour around the injury site, though that took a mere few seconds before they could keep up with the rest of the group. By the time repair cement had been applied to weld Vitruvia's protective shell closed again, they were practically at the Genetorium proper - and what a terrible sight to behold, especially the heavy stubber fire coming out of the room.

And not to mention the leaders of this heretical insurgence. One, a former member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, now clearly a heretic in his- its- own right; the other in Ignatus power armour just like Inquisitor Kliment's, albeit painted in a theme much unlike any the Imperium would deem acceptable. Not to mention the wearer being a coward of the highest order, fleeing the site with not so much a word as a scream of terror, leaving even its technologically-imbued ally to take the heat for it; in a spit of fury, Alexa unloaded six boltrounds at the fleeing body, aiming for its center of mass. Of those, it seemed at least three had merely ricocheted off its protection or missed entirely, but as for the others, she couldn't tell whether she'd dealt any significant wound or not before the coward left her sight. Alas.

'Be advised, Sisters: one of the heretics has fled the scene of battle,' Alexa called out, turning her weapon now toward the small-ish crowd of enemies that still came to them, though she noted that Caroline had seemed to end the threat of the heavy stubber for good. Switching to single-shot on her weapon, she bade the pistol's aim be true, and spat four swift shots of righteous fury into the group. One blew open the chest cavity of a woman whose arm had recently been torn away; another two found their mark lodged in the gut of a Kroot that had yet to take a wound, and in turn failed to truly die in the process despite its intestines being turned to so much paste. The last bolt was turned upon the Heretek, a small explosion only adding to the destruction wreaked upon the vile machine-entity by Confessor Horacio, courageous and without fear of death despite his exposed position.

It was only as Alexa reloaded that she spied Sister Lisbeth slumped against a generator, terror in her expression and stomach acid pooled in front of her. And two holes in her armour. Frak. Even despite her wounds, a song escaped her, a dirge for her own life... Alexa rushed to her as soon as she had an opening. Lisbeth would not die this day, not on her watch.

Having been still for a few moments for the first time since the alarms first rang, Lisbeth's head wound had slowed a little, but the blood had congealed around her left eye and clotted, leaving it sealed with a sticky mess of blood and eyelashes. Her skin was growing pale, from blood loss and shock in equal measure. She had found the strength to fire a few shots over the generator, but she had exhausted herself and was now concentrating on holding her side together while running down the chains of rosaries hanging about her waist. When the light dimmed a little, Lisbeth's heart quickened, and for a moment she thought she had breathed her last, before she recognised the blurred outline of a sabbat-pattern helmet in unfamiliar colours - Alexa, in the colours of her Order Hospitaller.

"Ah...d-did we win? Did I...was I good enough for Him?"

Alexa didn't usually find cause to be concerned with a couple of bullet wounds, but Lisbeth was clearly not in the best state. For starters, she also had a head wound that Alexa had failed to notice in the first instance - whilst she didn't seem to have fallen unconscious or been otherwise concussed, she had also bled heavily from it, only adding to her overall state of blood loss. Not to mention the shock she was in; any other Imperial servant might just yell at her to pull herself together, but she knew full-well that wasn't how that worked.

'We've not won yet, and you aren't going to the Emperor's side yet,' Alexa stated bluntly, her helmet making this proclamation sound very harsh, yet perhaps determined too? Or just unduly harsh. She hated how angry it made her sound, and internally sought a way for her to keep Lisbeth distracted from her own mortality.

'Whilst I work,' she continued, 'tell me about your childhood, your time in the Schola Progenium.' Whilst she spoke, she applied sprays of antiseptic and medigel to Lisbeth's head wound to keep the injury clean and kickstart the healing process, alongside a stimshot to revitalise her and stimulate blood production, and began cutting open Lisbeth's armour to examine her bodily injuries.

The sting of spray on exposed flesh was lost on Lisbeth, who was floating on a sea of adrenaline - small mercy, then, given how sharp some of the tools mounted on Alexa's wrists were. "I was the smallest by a mile - some things never change." Lisbeth laughed, and quickly regretted her levity as her laugh turned to pained coughs and wheezing. "Children can be very cruel, sister. I was forever getting shoved about. Persie -" She hesitated. "Persephone was the only progenia who wasn't interested in using me as a punching bag." A sarcastic smirk wiped over Lisbeth's features as she continued, "but I'll bet none of them managed to beat an alien in hand to claw combat!" She jabbed a finger at the dismembered kroot's head. "Mother Superior Agna would never believe that tiny child could do what I've done for Him. I suppose He - augh - sends us these challenges to forge our faith. It certainly worked." Lisbeth rolled her head back, staring up at the ceiling through the smoke. Anything was better than watching Alexa's fingers poking about inside the entry wounds.

Alexa remained silent for most of Lisbeth's explanation into her childhood, intently examining the wounds she had been dealt as she applied analgesic and sliced into the flesh. The shoulder wound was simple enough, just a matter of extracting the projectile and quickly closing some blood vessels up to stem the flow of blood before any more was lost, but the wound to her chest proper... that was a damaged lung. Not as badly as expected - it seemed the slug hadn't penetrated before coming to a halt, merely bruised and lodged in the flesh, but that still represented damage to a sensitive organ, a bleed into Lisbeth's airways. Carefully, carefully, guided by intuition and the sensors of her helmet, she extracted the slug, then sliced open the bruised section of lung, opening it up and allowing additional blood to spill, albeit in a controlled fashion that, she reckoned, would redirect the flow outward rather than inward.

Confirming as much, and applying medigel to the wound to help it heal before beginning the restitching process, she finally replied to Lisbeth's sentiments, desperately trying and failing to convey her support through the helmet's Emperor-damned vox: 'If you are unusually short, then it is only in the physical, Sister. You know much of the God-Emperor's challenges: your heart and your faith both exceed your frame thanks to them; the xeno skull in your hands proves as much.' Unspoken, she considered that she knew very well how cruel children could be - she too had suffered social punishment at the hands of others for a time, only ceased when she proved that beneath her odd features lay a physique much larger and stronger than the fellows in her age group at the time. She hadn't had much room for kindness in her until she left the Progenium behind, she considered... but then, not many left that place with any empathy at all. Those who did tended not to do as well as she had.

Lisbeth was already short of breath when Alexa began relieving the pressure on her lung; better to have blood in her thoracic cavity than pooling inside her lungs, steadily oozing from the whole in her armour, small bubbles forming with each laboured breath. As the seconds ticked by, the pressure reduced, each breath coming a little easier. Swallowing a small mouthful of blood, Lisbeth pawed at Alexa's shoulder, her other hand grabbing the strap of her bolter. "I'll - urgh - be alright. T-take this," she pleaded, her strength serving her long enough to hand Permanence to her comrade. "Give them His mercy. Particularly the one who - ooh, Throne - who shot me."

Siphoning out the blood in Lisbeth's chest cavity as she spoke, she finally began to fix up the wounds proper, ensuring they did not continue to bleed before sealing them off. First the larger slice into the chest itself, then the bullet hole around that, and finally the now-bloodless hole in her shoulder, each sanitised and medicated as she worked.

'Worry yourself not, Sister,' Alexa decreed (in harsh, blaring tone, as her vox once again decreed), pushing the bolter back toward Lisbeth even as she gave her another stim. 'You live to fight on yet, I assure you.' Her armour was sealed up with repair cement, and finally, the wounded Sister was wounded no more. Or at least was in good enough condition that it made no difference. Patting Lisbeth on the leg comfortingly, Alexa poked her helmeted head out from behind the generator, this time looking round to ensure nobody else had been injured whilst she worked. She'd just fixed up one ally belatedly, she didn't need to find that she'd allowed the same to happen again.

@Kratesis@BCTheEntity@jbeil@Andreyich@LemonZest1337@Irredeemable

Things were moving rapidly, but nevertheless Victorine made sure to see it all.

Leaving Lisbeth to the tender ministrations of the far larger Sister Christina – deceptively gentle and precise for one of such stature, but then what did one expect from a trained Hospitaller? - the Celestian strode into the thinning crowd of heretical quagmire with her pistol raised and a prayer upon her lips.

“A spiritu dominatus...”

Something, possibly once human but now far less in her eyes, mewled in fear and flung up its hands, before she put a bolt through both its uselessly protective limbs and cranium.

“Domine, libra nos.”

A larger figure attempted to grapple her around the waist, her legs planting themselves as she simultaneously bought the pistol down to strike. For a moment the man, for it was a man of not insignificant strength that now sought to throw her to the floor, ceased his heaving and gave a shake of his head – enough time for the pistol to come down again, and again, and again, until the grip and fist of the Celestian were both covered in crimson gore and more pale brain matter.

“Our Emperor, deliver us, a morte pepertua.”

Several shots later and a few swift strides across the room, she went to stand beside Sister Adalard and smiled with pride as she gunned down the last of the heavy stubber crew.

Only now did Captain Shelek and his surviving ratings and armsmen, all looking as disgruntled as one another (although more than a few made the Aquila or glanced in awe at the Sisters as they moved from cover), come out to secure the atrium leading to the Genetorium.

“God-Emperor bless you all,” the Captain puffed by way of thanks and greeting, “quite the mess...” he mumbled, clearly thinking for a moment as he looked over the dead and dying, his own eyes falling on the hunched over and wheezing form of the Heretek toward which he pointed one stubby finger, “what are we going to do with that?”

“A just question, Captain,” acknowledged the Sororitas, not really certain herself, “I am inclined to grant him the Emperor's peace, but he may be useful to us. Do you anything that could incapacitate him, short of a bolt to the skull?”

“I think we can handle him,” growled the large Naval officer, “seems to be helpless enough already though.”

There was truth to that, the mechadendrites hanging limply and trailing across the floor, blood and machine fluid pooling together at the feet of the creature that slumped forward on its knees, nothing of the dangerous being that they well knew it to be.

“Secure it, imprison it. My thanks, Captain.”

Turning to take in the state of her own party, and only now realising just how many minor wounds she herself had obtained from Emperor knew where, she could not help but let a feral grin stretch across her face, holstering her bolt pistol and sheathing her sword with as much fluidity as if they were on parade.

“I will not force any of you to pursue the coward that fled, some are in no fit state to do so, but I give you the choice now to make yourself heard one way or the other. We are not far from our destination now, and the craven milksop could either escape or, Emperor willing, become lost within the bowels of this vessel; should he not flee, he will be found sooner or later.”

Ow. As impressive as the stitching and the swift work of the cement on her armour was, Alexa's talents were not an all-purpose panacea. Lisbeth might have been fit to fight again, but she was not enjoying the stabbing pain every time she thought about moving. Making a mental note to punish herself later for the sin of weakness in the face of pain, not to mention indulging in fear, she leaned on her sabre, dragging herself up to her feet as the fight wound down, just in time to see the final shot fired by Sister-Celestian Victorine. "Victory. Praised be His grace, and not our strength, for it."

Amidst the broken bodies, she caught sight of an Armsman, frozen in death struggling with some betentacled mutant, and that same terrible feeling of failure that had haunted her dreams since she let Persephone die dragged her spirits down into the gloom. This time, His voice was no comfort, and His words of reassurance were blocked out by the silent recital of the prayers she had memorised so long ago as a child. Wiping the side of her head, Lisbeth's armoured fingers ran over the tattoo around her eye, and she remembered one of the vows she had made upon entering the Order Militant. Suffer not the witch to live. With those words ringing in her ears, she raised her sabre to her shoulder, and felt new strength enter her limbs. The traitors had taken blood, but they could not destroy her spirit.

"Sister-Celestian, I will have the traitor's head before I take a single step off this ship, or I will die in the trying. We must not allow him to escape to spread his sin to another world. He must die."

Caroline lowered her heavy bolter after the last of the stubber crew turned to paste. Steam still poured from the barrel of her weapon as Caroline placed it on the floor. She may be strong, but after firing a weapon like that even even Caroline appreciates a rest. She looked around at the mutilated bodies that littered the floor and growled quietly under her helmet, these scum had gotten what they deserved. She rolled her shoulders as Victorine started talking with the Captain, Adalard wasn't a woman of words so she was happy to stay quiet and listen.

Caroline's attention was draw to the heretek as the Captain pointed it out. Caroline would've been more than happy to turn it's crippled frame into scrap and pulp, but Victorine suggested it may still be useful. Caroline wasn't super pleased with the decision, but that is attributed to her inclination to murder any heretic on sight. Lucky for her there was still one heretical scum aboard the ship, and he was a coward no less. It seemed that she would get her shot at him too, because Victorine told them to find and kill him. Of coarse Victorine actually asked if who was up for the task, but for Adalard there wasn't really a need to think of an answer.

Though Adalard was not the first to volunteer, Caroline found herself a little surprised. Lisbeth despite her wounds wanted to help find and slay the cowardly filth that was slithering around the ship. Lisbeth may be on the smaller side, but her devotion and determination had proven to far outdo Caroline's expectations. Caroline would have to arm wrestle her later too.

Caroline rolled her wrists and picked up her heavy bolter. She turned to Lisbeth "If you get the head, I get the spine." She said with a nod. "I would also like to assist in stopping this degenerates spread of sin and cowardice."