[b]"Um, thanks,"[/b] #13 replied bashfully, [b]"But my elder siblings have even cooler ones."[/b]

As he spoke, his Sarcophagus was already becoming more and more terrifying, a veritable mass of blackened steel that bristled with he firearms and armor that he pilfered so casually from the members of the Red Army. Rather than a giant knight, it had evolved now into a walking tank, but #13 found no particular reason to attack yet. Natural selection was something the youth believed in, after all. When stripped naked and forced to flee through the bitter wasteland of Finland's wintry wilderness, who amongst them would survive to pass down their superior genes to the next generation? None of them, probably. The pilot did well with his own interrogations though, and the information certainly matched that gunfire both had heard moments before.

#13 just had difficulty being so alarmed by this. As far as he was aware, Saint Augustine was pretty strong herself; she had to be if she was stuck being the keeper of one of the Promised Children. Would a .50 cal really be the end of her, when he could easily unleash a whole artillery barrage of agony in any situation? No, right? Still, it was now a question of blind obedience versus genuine loyalty, and in this case...yeah, he'll go with it.

The Sarcophagus moved. Slowly at first, before quickly building speed as the landscape around them continued to converge around the golem. Each step rocked the earth, each movement defied the howling winds. Within, stolen weapons were reconstructed, fused together, forming deadlier and deadlier ordinance, and as the speed of the Sarcophagus outpaced the pilot, #13 swept him up in an arm of softer soil, before plopping one of the radios on him. It was still buzzing with static and high-speed German, enough so that #13 had no real clue what was being said, but maybe the pilot did.

Or maybe he didn't, but helicopter types probably had a better clue as to how to use a radio well compared to Promised Children.