[h1]Paris Beurra[/h1]


Incoherent yelling, as well as sounds of metal, mechanical parts of armor, and a loud whining sound, were coming from up under the flyer as it was summarily being lifted from the bottom by a slightly annoyed man with armor and a shield and bombarded from the top by an epileptic's nightmare of flashy mortars. That poor ship, being stuck between a rockheaded man and a large grouping of explosions. 

Thankfully for Paris, the ship was lightening up significantly, but it was also heating up extremely fast. He slowly started to pivot the shield up while resting it on his legs to give his joints some help, as well as even out the bombardment on the shield once the ship eventually broke over his shield if it ever did. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to deal with the lights above him and looked down so that the more fragile bits over his eyes would be damaged by anything explosive. 

Soon he hoped he could join the fight and not be under the light artillery fire. But his yelling persisted, mainly things insults at the artillery itself. The artillerymen and women were likely a distance off. He was lucky it wasn't anything larger than a mortar-like this. He began thinking about this and how he should have brought a bigger suit of armor. It would have hurt more when they hit the ground, but it would have definitely faired a lot better than what he was currently wearing. Nearing the bombardment's ending, he lifted the metal bit from his vision and lifted his head. Trying to see if he could find anything that resembled a friendly person, most of the traffic over the comms system he received was drown out by mortar fire. 

Well, he was hoping that the others were faring better than he was. His armor could withstand something like this under the shield, and for a good amount of time since he was able to have everything locked in the joints. The only time it wasn't locked down was when he was shifting onto a single knee. He thought for a second about what he would do after the initial bombardment. To him, at that moment, he was safest in the middle of it. His shield could withstand the temperature and most of the blasts of this size.  If he was on edge, he could be blasted off balance or get caught from a stray round. At least here, he and anyone who might still be with him would be hidden from any sensors, the explosions and superheated materials around him would hide him from most heat and communications sensors, so unless if someone could detect his life force or decided to look under a smoldering wreck, there was a low chance of anyone finding him.

But on the other hand, he could try and help the others out, rush out from under the wreck in a lull, and book it to more reliable cover. From there, either engage or create... he looked down at the small triangle at his feet. If they were from that one person, that could cause some trouble in the enemy ranks. He might have to do it blind to keep the visor of his helmet safe. But it would stop that enemy advance for a short time; maybe he could regroup and retreat with his allies.  

The incoherent yelling and insults had stopped.

His hand went around the small little triangle device, waiting to activate it once the mortars stopped. His rifle was mounted on the shield, ready as well for once the device was thrown. He planned on tossing it towards those watching the artillery show then start backpedaling. Those who survived that well could probably follow once everything was dissipated. That is what he did; as soon as the last mortar fell, he pushed the shield out from under the flier and raised it vertically. His body and armor pressed against as he activated the small solar tablet and tossing it over the shield before he lifted it and started hightailing it in the direction of the person who gave him that tablet. 

He looked over his shoulder and ran as fast as his armored ass could in the direction the tablet person went. He was not fast at all, and he did hear pinging on the metal suit he was wearing. His head-turning as he started to see the gas spreading out behind him, and he turned to his left a bit, so his shield blocked some of his body as he ran. He ran like his life depended on it, or like a man who had his steak and beer forcibly taken from him.