It wasn’t going to be the end of anyone there. That, #13 could guarantee.

As the helicopter shook from the initial impact of the explosive weaponry, the raven-haired youth calmly slid his Kindle back into his pocket, before unbuckling himself from his seat and sliding on his parachute. There was a part of him that was afraid, yes, but at the same time…he was getting way too dizzy from all the spinning to be afraid. Urk, he might even hurl at this rate!

Before he could, however, his keeper leapt out, and #13 decided to follow.

The winds that whipped by were truly cold now, slicing into his cheeks and passing easily through the white collared shirt he wore. Where had his jacket gone? Oh yes, Augustine had it. He wanted it back now. Could he take it back? The failing chopper told him no, a hunk of broken machinery obstructing his view of his keeper as the winds pulled them apart. Smouldering rings flickered about, searching for the third member of the doomed flight, but there was no other parachute blooming against the night sky.

#13 took a sharp breath, pulling the string on his own parachute. The harness dug deep into his shoulders; he dug deeper into the recesses of his power.

Slowly, the death spiral of the helicopter was arrested, rising up towards the Promised Child instead. Doomed as they were, the propellers stopped rotating, instead twisting and folding alongside the rest of the vehicle. The fuel tank, burning and fuming, was torn out of the chassis, ejected by a mysterious force before, moments later, it exploded in a fiery mess. #13 blinked away the fireball’s afterimage while the remains of the helicopter, swearing pilot included, matched his own rate of falling, held afloat by a mysterious miracle.

Time passed until both touched the ground. Immediately after, #13 ejected the pilot from the vehicle as well, the parachute already twisting around him in a rudimentary form of padding and protection from the elements. The wreckage of the helicopter suited him well too; though there were no innate weapons, propeller blades were still propeller blades and made for a cool, if not crude, sword. The transformation was swift and loud, tortured metal screeching as #13 reformed it into his daunting armor, folding sheets into themselves to increase thickness. The RPG won’t catch him aware a second time, that was for sure.

Hm…but with this, he couldn’t exactly communicate with gesture alone, huh?

As a helmet of polycarbon sheeting and military grade steel completed itself, #13 turned to the pilot (quite a rugged, manly man, all things considered) and said, [sub] “so uhg…oh excuse me…”[/sub]

A loud cough, and his throat was cleared.

[b]“Right,”[/b] the youth tried again, boyish mirth and embarrassment in his tone, [b]“I'm just going to sit tight here. Watch my six, and hopefully my keeper can show up soon enough. Do you have a...name?”[/b]

Hopefully it'll end without a direct confrontation with whoever blew them out of the sky to begin with.

But that was just childish naivety.

The ground began to rumble soon as well, #13 drawing more material from all around him to further fortify his Sarcophagus.