[ Order 3 - am I not human? ]
[There came a lull in the fight, a time to stop and breathe, to gather one's bearings and rally your energies before it's time to pursue your enemy once more. Integra is long out of ammunition, her guns since discarded, the steel bar stained with ichor. She's invigorated, exultant, her fever-bright eyes dancing over the ruins of the town as she searches for the familiar forms of Mayfield's invaders.
Dead. Dead dead dead...
The air is difficult to breathe, stifling even. Where did she put her cigare- oh. She feels a bubble in her chest, rising up like a roiling liquid until she coughs into her hand and the hot, coppery taste of blood floods over her tongue. It spills from her mouth, down her chin, spattering to the broken cement with a heavy splat. The ground oh so helpfully rushes up to meet the Protestant knight and she settles heavily onto her side, her hair fanning out in a spray of gleaming platinum.
She's ready to die. To die, to go home to God, to receive her robe of white washed clean in the blood of the lamb. To greet those she has lost, and see out eternity in heavenly paradise.
Integra greets Death as an old friend and simply, quietly, lets herself go.