[b]“Roger dodger,”[/b] #13 went, before accelerating further. The thundering steps of the Sarcophagus boomed above the winter winds now, the military-grade monstrosity picking up more and more speed. Echoes of the Saint’s conflict reached visual range at this point, the detonation of dirt showing up clearly from the distance. Cool, she was fine!

Well, not as if she wasn’t ever going to be [i]not[/i] fine.

Reaching out with his power, #13 let it all flow out again, extending towards the location of the blast before grasping over the rifle and any sidearms that the sniper held, ripping it out of the man’s clutches. It flew back with ferocious speed, before snapping into an empty part of the mismatched armor. Unarmed, the dude was probably definitely dead now, if he wasn’t before. Didn’t seem, at least, that intervention was necessary, and now #13 felt a bit bad for not trusting Saint Augustine’s abilities and staying place, but, well…

It worked out! It was fineeeee.

Slowing down to a walk and letting the (weirdly terrified) pilot off, the Frankenstein-esque mecha waved cheerfully at a distance with one hand, while the other hand twisted and unfolded to reveal the pilfered winter clothes #13 had appropriated from those Red Army fellows. He’d have to give his keeper the radio after she got properly dressed, huh? Maybe she could make sense of German.