[center][h2]Tiny Nord[/h2]

[h3]Morocco[/h3][/center] 

Tiny stared at what seemed light on the other side of his shield as he ducked under it and braced. Did it work no, he felt a small object likely the size of a can of peas hit, sadly it felt as if a fucking train hit, and he felt the force hit his shield. He felt the standing supports snap and the crater on the interior side as the impact caved in a decent part of the shield to explode as if a hesh shell had hit. His shoulder he felt give as that interior impact zone landed on his shoulder plate, and a sprawling of solid layered steel shatter against his helmet, shoulder, and left torso. The blast he felt shuttered him, the legs and balance of the entire structured frame of the shield, and heavy tumbled on one leg. His knee plate decided to come loose as it buckled back, and the shield pushed him back almost fifteen feet or so, tumbling the entire way as the shield bucked against his helmet, and landed in his chest place denting it in as it lifted up for a moment like a runner digging his heels into the ground. Instead, it was a metal shield digging into armor. He felt as if he was in a can himself now. Several tonnes of metal on him, mechanics whirring to try and offset the weight on him. 

He had dealt with the shock before, and while he was a bit ruffled, he was angrier, and the Macgyver sensors someone put into his suit were mostly shot at this point, along with his communications. If someone was near, they would hear angry screaming, cursing, and the eventual insult. He was a tank; this thing hit harder than a tank; it was a railgun; while it wasn't meant for straight damage, it was meant to punch through armor, and thankfully, the shield took the brunt in fact it was still lodged in the shield, a solid chunk of metal pressed against it, but that shockwave gave him hell. 

He rocked the shield off of him, and he stared at the backside of the shield; thankfully, his equipment wasn't too damaged, but the shield, but he lifted it up, sighing at the bottom, as he hefted on his shoulder favoring his right side, he looked around, and groaned gears whirring as they started to strip themselves, and his joint locks were giving as he chugged, and chugged forward towards where the fight was, mostly to retrieve his weapon and to draw fire. 

"Someone finish that fucker off if he is still around here, confirm it for god sake, like break his spine or his legs at least so he can't use a suit again like I did with the damn northern Irishman. If anyone is listening... I swear to god, fucking jackass broke the rollers and the struts on my shield. I am pretty sure at least three of my ribs are broken; my left shoulder is shot, but... fuck, I am about out..." 

At that moment, axe slowly going into it's mostly broken holder that could still barely hold, he dropped on his left knee as he dropped the shield locked on his left arm to just keep him covered, he saw blood on the outside of his helmet. He held his hand and his finger out under the small running of red as he slowly wrote on his chest, "If alive, no stim, only qclot, sal, left compartment." His eyes dimmed for a moment as he saw what looked to be a tunnel, and his head throbbed; he realized it was likely a concussion and another head injury, or several. At least one open wound, or internal, he didn't feel wetness on his face, it was coming from a higher point on the left side, he felt it in his beard, and hair, it was more compacted on the left side on his helmet. He could deal with that for a minute.

He stood up, and started moving as quickly as he could, he saw the trucks pull up, it was easier moving faster, the nice little bug in his knee got fixed out. The thing is time, and whatever wounds he suffered, he didn't expect a rail gun, just something like what the bigger guy had, but almost direct kinetic energy is the bane of his existence. A tank would have been easier, or just another outright brawl. 

He felt tunnel-visioned as he kept moving, one target in sight, which was why there was constant pinging on the slow-moving object. Even some larger pings dinged him as he stared at the truck, and he slapped his shield down in the bed of one. Turning around and blindly firing where the pings came from, he just slumped forward, his weapon locked in his hand as his armor went to the quickest locks as his body slumped in different directions, his right arm locked at an angle, his knees were slightly bent and his torso contorted first back, and then straight as his head was locked forward close to his right shoulder, the left arm was resting a few inches above his lower abdomen as his suit looked like a contorted statue of a man in an uncomfortable pose.