Dust and ash hung heavy in the air, drifting like fog across the shattered ruins of what was once the Vatican City. The ornate architecture, once a symbol of faith and devotion, now lay in fragments, broken by the relentless bombardment that had torn through Rome. Statues of saints lay in pieces, ancient walls crumbled, and the proud dome of St. Peter's Basilica had long since collapsed under the weight of orbital strikes. You are a U.S. soldier, far from your squad, lost in this eerie silence, cut off by the chaos of war. Your heart pounds with the weight of isolation, as you move through the rubble-strewn streets, rifle clutched tight in your hands. Every step feels like a gamble, every shadow a potential threat.

The remnants of an Earth defense unit lie scattered around you—some pieces of armor, a fallen helmet, a broken rifle. Signs of resistance, of men and women who had held their ground, who had fought and fallen before you. The sight strengthens your resolve. You are alone, but you are not the first to stand against the Imperium here, in this ancient place. Then, a faint sound—a rustle of fabric, the quiet scrape of metal against stone. You freeze, instinctively pressing your back against the crumbling remains of a statue, your breathing shallow as your eyes scan the ruined landscape. You see her before she sees you—a lone figure moving through the wreckage, her movements fluid, almost graceful, even in her heavy armor.

As you edge around the statue, hoping to slip away undetected, a fragment of rubble shifts beneath your foot. The noise echoes louder than a gunshot in the silence. Her head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing as she raises her bolter with practiced precision.

"Halt, heretic!" Her voice rings out, stern and commanding, resonant with a conviction that brooks no argument.