Chapter Twenty-Two: The Boss Fight
Panting, Don dodged a kick that would have broken some bones. Well, at least with his tongue cut out or whatever speech impediment he has, he's not throwing taunts at me like Hun would. Don clambered on top of the biggest crate, crouching low under the ceiling panels, before the mobile mountain came to knock him off and forced him to leap off.
I wish these arenas had more verticality, Don thought as he hid behind a smaller box. I appreciate the cover and all, but I'm used to being able to get over the heads of my enemies.
The memory of being thrown into the train's computer panel shone painfully clear, but keeping out of range of those grabbing hands made landing blows of his own exceptionally difficult. Don ran to another shadow as Little Brother approached.
Okay, Don, think. He's three times my size and muscle mass, but I'm quicker. He threw himself to the side as Little Brother, grunting, threw one crate into the one that had been his hiding spot, splintering both.
Don swung at an unprotected kidney, then barely kept his bo out of the giant's hand as he snatched for it as he would for a pesky mosquito.
Don gulped and ran to cover. Scratch that. Usually I would be quicker than him, but right now my stamina is so worn down that even this lumbering bear can keep up with me. So it's unlikely I can beat him like this. Sudden realization dawned on him, and he was tempted to bonk himself on the head. Duh! I haven't been fighting like me!
He glanced around the room, looking for anything that might help him, but the office-floor-turned-battle-arena held nothing out of the usual: distant, boarded-over windows, plain floor tiles, unmarked wooden crates of various sizes, two of which had disintegrated, dimmed lighting panels, regular ceiling panels, two doors. C'mon. Brains over brawn. There's gotta be something that will help me take down this beast. Hm… down…
Don eyed the ceiling panels, then, as Little Brother, growling inarticulately, approached, he ran and leapt atop a medium size crate, ramming the end of his bo into a light panel as he flew by; the cover fell off and broke, and one of the two long tubes inside shattered with a pop and a flash. Don moved aside a ceiling panel, found the beam as he had predicted, climbed atop, and replaced the panel.
The turtle immediately clambered further along the beam, which was wise because a small crate came crashing through the panel where he had entered.
Little Brother growled.
Don took one precious moment to rest. Then the second phase of the battle began.
The turtle slipped in and out of the cramped, awkward, dark space between floors with ease, smashing lights on the way in, and smashing his opponent on the way out. Little Brother did not take kindly to this; his inarticulate growls of rage accompanied small and medium-size crates thrown up into the ceiling. Panels fell and broke, littering the tiles, along with shards of broken light tubes which one fighter crunched beneath his boots, while the other, shoeless, avoided.
At least he doesn't seem to have ninja training—he's not exactly stealthy, and his attacks are all direct, Don thought, panting noiselessly as he crawled to his next exit point. This would be harder if he knew how to hide his footsteps, especially with his brown skin and dark clothes in this lighting.
At some point, when only a few dim lights remained, Don remembered the shuriken tucked in his belt and began using them. However, he learned to use these cautiously, as they gave away his position. Retaliation with a crate—or part of a crate at this point—was sure to follow.
Finally, after taking a myriad of hits, Little Brother had slowed, but he finally wised up to Don's ladders: he started knocking over the big crates. Uh oh.
Don crouched in a shadow near a pile of shattered ceiling panels and light tubes. Well, maybe I don't need to go up there again. He eyed his foe, who lurched to the final big crate and pushed it over. One or two more good hits, especially to the head, and he'll be down for the count. Finally. Don shook his head as a thought occurred to him. With such a long battle, this almost does feel like chipping away at multiple health bars—or at least one really long one.
Utilizing all the shadows he had created by destroying light tubes, Don breezed behind Little Brother, and, when he paused to glare around the room, Don used all his strength, and his knowledge of physics and leverage, to swing his bo like a baseball bat into the back of the mountain's head.
Little Brother groaned, grabbed at the back of his already-bleeding head with one meaty hand, swayed, and toppled forward. Oops. That amount of force might not have been totally necessary. Hope he doesn't have too much brain damage.
Don waited a breath, then, when Little Brother didn't stir, he turned and sprinted for the exit. He nearly ran over glass shards in his haste. Well, Little Brother, that's to get back for tying up Master Splinter and throwing me into a wall.
His eyes complained at the full brightness in the stairwell, but adrenaline pushed him up the steps. Please tell me that was the last level. Please tell me Leo is waiting for me on the other side of this door.
Instinct tempered his hope and reminded him to be cautious, and Don checked for an ambush before pushing the door wide enough to enter.
Inside lay another wide-open room, lit somewhere halfway between Little Brother's dimness and regular brightness. In the middle, before a small tv screen, Leo sat cross-legged, his face as blank and peaceful as if he was contemplating how to solve a sudoku puzzle.
"Leo!" Don's voice sounded both ragged and pitifully joyful to his ears. "Leo!"
Multiple clicks sounded. Leo's eyes flicked open. He leaned forward and then stood in one graceful motion, his katanas in his hands.
As Don approached, unease whispered in his mind. He faltered. Something wasn't right with Leo's eyes.
"Leo?"
The blue-masked turtle turned toward him, katanas out. His eyes were blank, devoid of any emotion or even recognition. A silver-and-black collar encircled his neck.
What did the Gamer do to you, Leo? Was Don's first thought, followed by a flash of alarm when Leo dropped into a fighter's crouch and started toward him. Little Brother wasn't the true boss level. Leo is.
Leo, or the mindless fighter that Leo had become, closed the distance between them and swung his blade. Panic swallowed up the flash of realization and dread, then despair crept in. I can't beat Leo, he thought as he moved his bo to defend himself. Leo is by far a better fighter than me, especially right now. There's no crates to get up into the ceiling, and I'm not willing to jump on his head anyway. It's not like I can hurt my brother… even if he's currently trying to slice me up like vegetables for a salad.
Then Leo added his second katana, leaving Don no time for thoughts. He blocked, dodged, and rolled. Whatever he had endured in captivity had not damaged Leo's physical ability, while Don had just fought eight floors' worth of Foot plus one small mountain. Don barely blocked swings and dodged kicks, relying heavily on his bo, while wishing it was made of metal or some other katana-proof material. Two halves of a bo would be considerably less helpful.
Defeating Leo was out of the question. Don could only defend himself, and that just barely. During a normal sparring match, I can hold my own against Leo for a while—but Leo holds his punches when we spar, and I'm usually at peak physical performance. Don barely stayed alive as razor-sharp katanas repeatedly swung at his fragile arms, legs, and head.
After an eternity, Don's breathing came in ragged spurts, and his adrenaline was beginning to wear off. Not now, he begged. I still need you. His reaction time had slowed enough that when he accidentally left his neck wide open, he didn't even see a blade arcing toward him.