The Megaman War:
Part 2 – Decisions, Destruction, Duty, and Destiny

By Hadrian (Hardman) Howell

Chapter 16: Living La Vida Wily

Yamatoman’s spear sailed forward, propelled by its wielder’s impressive might. The spear itself was tipped with diamond, and at the velocity it was traveling could punch through almost anything.

Except Knightman’s shield, made of two pieces titanium with an insulation layer of rubber in between, and coated with a glass-like substance similar to Devil Construct which absorbed the shock of most direct impact without being punctured. The spear rebounded harmlessly off of this incredible defense, but did not succumb to gravity. Instead it sailed back to its owner, held by a specialized magnet to a path that would return it to Yamatoman’s hand.

The two combatants said nothing as Knightman returned fire, bringing the heavy spiked ball that was his right hand to bear. The mace-like appendage clicked and whirred for a second before the spike the pointed forward dropped and pointed to the ground as a gun barrel shot out, unleashing a hail of bullets to the tune of 20 rounds a second. The chatter of the machine gun fire could be heard for a good distance, even here under the Fortress.

Yamatoman danced gracefully away from the line of destruction Knightman’s Vulcan was spewing at him, and leapt high into the air. Unlike his well armored foe, Yamatoman was focused on attacking, and attack he did. Drawing a highly specialized bow and arrow from his back, the Samurai-like Master unleashed four explosive-tipped arrows in as many seconds before he reached the apex of his leap.

No expression of fear registered on Knightman’s face. Indeed, his face wasn’t even in sight, hidden behind a thick visor that mirrored the slotted face shields of much older times. His armor, too, was a stunningly accurate replica of medieval plate mail, but offered a near infinite degree of better protection, being of similar construction to his shield. He brought his shield to bear mostly out of habit as the four arrows came at him, exploding on impact in a fireball of force and power.

Yamatoman landed and watched the smoke carefully. Without warning, the spiked mace rocketed out of the cloud, a chain tracing it back to where Knightman stood steadfastly in the smoke. The Oriental-inspired Master barely had time to move before the chain wrapped around his legs and jerked back, taking his legs out from under him and making him hit the ground with a solid thump. Still, however, he said nothing, even as Knightman rocketed out of the cloud of smoke with the aid of the booster jets built into the backs of his legs. The heavier Master landed with a floor cracking shock and placed a heavy, armored foot solidly on Yamatoman’s chest.

“I win,” said a deep, unforgiving voice from behind the visor.

“Indeed,” Yamatoman said simply. Knightman allowed the other warrior to stand. Yamatoman was taller than Knightman by almost a foot, but his low bow made Knightman seem taller. “A worthy battle, my ally.”

“You’re getting sloppy,” Knightman spat, turning to go for the door of the field test room.

“I was trying something different, but apparently ranged combat is not my forte,” Yamatoman explained.

“Stick with the tactics that work. You’re a lot faster and deadlier with your spear and katana that your bow.”

“Those explosions would’ve at least HURT anybody else,” Yamatoman grumbled.

“Too bad for you that you were fighting me then, wasn’t it?” Knightman returned, a smirk obvious in his voice.

The door to the room opened as they approached, and a dread-locked head looked in. “Are you two done?” Reggae asked.

“I believe the score is now 34 to 35, in Knightman’s favor,” Yamatoman nodded.

Reggae smiled. “Got you with the Knight Mace again, didn’t he?”

“Aided a bit by my own stupidity, I’ll admit,” Yamatoman shrugged. The explosives couldn’t hurt Knightman, and the smoke cover is what had allowed him to attack back without giving him time to react. Normally, the Knight Mace was a slow attack, easy to dodge, but when you didn’t see it coming… Yamatoman rubbed the back of his helmet. That had HURT, and more than just his pride.

Reggae opened the door wide as the two of them reached it and exited into the hallway. “So how’s Plantma’am?” Knightman asked.

“Doing fine,” Reggae said, smiling sheepishly. “She’s still trying to make the roses grow, and her tomato plant is taking over the whole room, but she’s pretty much like the rest of us.”

“Yeah,” a new voice cut in from behind them. The black and red, slimmed down and streamlined shape of Quickman was now in their group as they walked toward the cafeteria. Nobody asked how he just appeared and disappeared like he did, because they all knew how fast he could be. “I’ll bet she’s just like the rest of us,” the scarlet speedster continued, “Heh… Livin’ La Vida Wily.”

“Interesting way of putting it,” Yamatoman said. The four of them walked on for a while, trading thoughts and jokes the same way they had when they were still a madman’s lab technicians. If Reggae shut his eyes, they were still the same people…

“Man, I’m hungry,” Quickman said, startling Reggae out of his thoughts. “What should I get?”

“Pizza?” Knightman asked.

“Had that yesterday.”

“Club sandwich then?” Yamatoman put in.

“Eh, I don’t like the way they make it here…” Quickman said without really thinking.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” came a roar from somewhere in the kitchen. Out of the back room behind the counter they stood at came the oddest looking Master of them all. A stark yellow color with a black jumpsuit, and a helmet that resembled a kid’s toy, Topman was inherently unstable in more ways than one. Dr. Wily had seen fit to attach roller blades to the bottoms of Topman’s feet, and didn’t figure that they might ever need removing. This made Topman fall down a lot if he had to stand still, but if he was moving, he could go almost as fast as Quickman, which was a constant point of contention between the two Masters.

“I HEARD that, you slow-poke!” Topman shouted, brandishing a spatula at Quickman threateningly. “A sandwich club is hard to even make, and have I been the cook for very long!”

Quickman’s face screwed up as his eyes focused on the spatula. No matter that dealing with Topman was a rather risky proposition, LISTENING to him was painful. Dr. Wily’s work on the loopy Master had been much less than stellar, and he seemed to have no grasp of grammar most of the time. “All I’m saying is that you can’t make it like Pete does,” Quickman growled, batting the spatula away. Topman followed the spatula with his eyes and lost all interest in Quickman.

“Pete?” Reggae asked.

“He runs the diner about forty miles due west. Nice little place. I can be there and back in half an hour is the place is mostly empty,” Quickman said, shrugging.

“You…. Wha… huh?” Reggae managed as the red runner returned his attention to the yellow skater.

“Look, Tops, just make one of those tacos you want me to try, okay?”

The previously furious, if not somewhat comical, face of Topman lit up. “Taco taco taco! Coming right left up down! Whoo!” His previously insulted state forgotten, he skated back into the kitchen.

Knightman sighed. “And there, but for the grace of god and a slipping grip on my humanity, go I.”

“Amen to that,” Yamatoman said, nodding.

“Oh, hey, I wanted to ask you guys,” Reggae said, remembering something, “do you know where Icema’am or Shadowman went?”

“Icema’am? Man, she’s way too cold…” Quickman grumbled.

“You shouldn’t flirt with another Master, Quickman,” Yamatoman told the red runner.

“Why not? I’m BORED!”

“Er, guys?” Reggae cut in, trying to force the disturbing thought of Quickman hitting on Icema’am out of his mind.

“Oh, right. Well, Icema’am’s room is totally empty. So maybe she moved out or something,” Quickman said, shrugging.

“Like Wily would allow that…” Knightman grumbled.

“Maybe he sent her to establish a secondary base?” Reggae ventured. Yamatoman laughed.

“Oh, yes, because that’s a good idea.”

“I’m just saying…”

“Actually, if anything, I think they both went rouge on us,” Knightman told them, leaning on the counter.

“Like Cutman did?”

“Yeah.”

“So, two Masters dead, three missing…” Reggae thought aloud. “And Megaman isn’t even injured. I’d say we’re losing…”

Yamatoman laughed again. “Hardly. Don’t forget that Dr. Wily expected Gutsman and Fireman to lose. They were merely the opening act, meant to draw eyes to New Detroit and detract the news crews from seeing his other plans, like Pharaohman and the Yellow Devil, or Elecman in Japan. The fact that three Masters are operating ‘at liberty,’ one might say, is something nobody aside from Wily and the Masters themselves know, so anything they do will only further Wily’s cause by drawing attention to themselves and away from his larger plans.”

“You put a lot of thought into this, didn’t you?” Knightman asked as the Samurai Master finished.

“Not really,” Yamatoman told his medieval friend, “it just all seems obvious to me.”

Rock looked at his arm. He’d been awake for almost an hour now, and while it FELT like his own arm, the synthetic skin and mechanical look was obvious.

“I assume it’s compatible with the System?” Rock asked.

Dr. Light nodded. “The idea was actually Ms. Tron’s. She figured if the ‘arm cannon’ worked on Fireman, it could be applied to you as well.”

Rock smiled at the raven-haired girl who was standing next to Roll at the foot of the bed. “Thanks for your help…”

“Think nothing of it, Megaman.”

Rock smiled a little. “So how’d you guys get out of jail?”

Tron went a shade of red Roll would later be hard pressed to describe. “We… uh… someone posted our bail.”

“Oh. Excellent!” Rock said, smiling broader. “I had a favor to ask of you anyway…”

Roll, Tron, and Dr. Light all gave him identical looks of confusion.

Cutman stood up from his makeshift throne. “I know you’re there. Come out where I can see you.”

There was a slight chuckle as the crimson and gray form of Protoman stepped into the light of the street lamp, fully visible to the insane Cutman.

“You’re not Megaman,” Cutman said simply.

“No,” Protoman’s raspy voice came from behind the mask of his closed helmet. His armor was identical to Megaman’s own in many ways, although his visor was pitch black and the color scheme was different. “Call me… Protoman.”

“And interesting name. It implies you were first,” Cutman told him.

“I know. I was.”

“The Prometheus’s Project’s first successful willing test subject.”

A barely perceptible nod. “And you’re the first product of Albert Wily’s own twisting of the same System.”

“The original is always best,” Cutman said nastily, the clam holding his blades in place deactivating and dropping the shears into his waiting hand. “I’m more than you’ll ever be.”

“You going to keep talking, or can I just take you out now?” Protoman asked, no hint of pride of overconfidence in his voice. Cutman missed it, and laughed.

“Fine then! CATCH!” Cutman shouted, bringing his arm around and letting his scissors fly. The air screamed as the blades tore through the nighttime gloom, but when they reached their target, Protoman simply wasn’t there anymore.

The scissors started to turn around as Cutman shouted in surprise and anger. “COME BACK AND FIGHT, PROMETHEUS!”

A click from behind him made him turn around. Protoman was standing on the top of his throne, a Desert Eagle in each hand. “Whatever you say,” he said in mock reverence, and unloaded both pistols with incredible accuracy.

Cutman’s armor absorbed the bulk of the bullets, the titanium barely registering the damage. The force of the impact from this range, however, was too much for even a Master to ignore, and Cutman was forced to stagger back under the storm of the impacts. He threw a hand out to catch his scissors out of instinct, and closed the blades to use as a shield against this annoyance. “Those weapons won’t hurt me! You lost before you began!” Cutman grinned nastily, ready to throw his scissors again. Protoman had vanished from the throne, though, and the Butcher swore.

“I guess you’re right,” came a voice from the green and orange Master’s left. “I should have come better prepared…” Cutman wasted no time in throwing the scissors as hard as he could toward Protoman’s new location. It didn’t matter how he was getting from one place to another. Nothing would save him now!

The red and gray form of Protoman stepped deftly to the side of the incoming blade, and in a quick snapping motion caught the flying scissors by the handle near the base. The force of the throw cause him to take a few steps back or have his arm wrenched out of the socket, but he was now in possession of Cutman’s own weapon.

“Wha… Impossible!” Cutman shouted. “How did you do that?”

“The same way you did,” Protoman shrugged. “I believe these are yours…” With a heave of his own body, Protoman sent the blades flying back toward their owner, who smirked beneath his mask and caught them like he always did. Without so much as a word, he threw them back, harder and faster, trying to make the overconfident Protoman fail and lose a limb or his life.

So began the deadliest game of catch in existence, with each combatant unwilling to give up and go home. Soon enough, they started moving, the deadly blades flying almost invisibly in between them as the moved through the street, up onto the roof tops, and over the city in the running game of catch or die…

Theresa Frost sat on the greyhound bus, her head rested against the window, her backpack on the seat behind her. She had really needed to get out of the house. Her brothers and sister were all way too annoying, and with everything that had been happening, home life had become almost unbearable. She new her father would be angry with her for running off, but she needed a vacation.

And for some reason, New Detroit sounded like the best place to take that vacation… Maybe she’d even meet Megaman. That could be all sorts of fun…

But as Theresa’s breath hit the window of the bus, frost formed instead of fog…