Dreadnought

In the fight’s first half second, explosions ripple up my chest, neck, and face. It is stunningly painful, and for a moment I lose hold of the lattice and get punted fifteen yards into the back of an abandoned delivery truck. The last time I was shot, it was by a submachine gun firing pistol ammo that’s about the size of two knuckles of my pinky finger. That was uncomfortable. This is an autocannon, and it fires rounds that are longer than my hand. My face has gone hot scarlet with pain. I’m still staggering to my feet when the missiles arrive. They burst like tiny suns, and a driving rain of shrapnel tears into me. Then something hits the bus from behind and drives it forward into the truck, crushing me between them. A few seconds later, one of the mecha hops over and douses the whole area in napalm.
This is not going how I pictured it in my head.
My ears are ringing and my skull throbs. My body screams for release from the steel pressure that’s pinching me between the truck and the bus. The flames haven’t reached me, but drips of liquid fire are starting to pour in from all over. With a great rippling effort, I peel the bus and panel truck apart, and slip out the gap to the side. Almost immediately, I’m fired on with a minigun that sounds like chainsaws against sheet metal. An almost solid stream of bullets shatters against me, a stinging, vicious assault ripping across me in lines of pain.
With a burst of speed, I leave the street in a blur and smash through the window of a luxury clothing shop. Around me, thousands of dollars’ worth of suits and ties are ripped to tattered threads. Deep in the store, I take a sharp turn behind a wall and skid to a stop. The place is empty, everyone gone to the shelters, and I let go of a sigh of relief. It was a gamble coming in here to get away. I can’t afford to keep taking this kind of chance; sooner or later, I’ll find a group of people who weren’t able to make it to a shelter in time. Should have gone straight up. Stupid, Danny. Real stupid.
My face feels a little funny, and I wipe it on my forearm. In one horrifying moment I learn two things. First, I’m bleeding, which I’d kind of hoped wasn’t ever going to happen again. But much, much worse, my mask and cowl have been shot away. All over my suit are little rips and burst seams, but starting around my collarbones, the suit’s outer layers been stripped away, leaving the dark gray undersuit and hypertech circuitry exposed to the air. Where the suit should climb up my neck, it’s simply fallen away in tatters. From the top of my neck up, my face is completely bare.

Daniels, April. Dreadnought (Nemesis) (pp. 267-268). Diversion Books. Kindle Edition.