"What," you say, "am I supposed ta be intimidated by the big brother o' that thing I killed with an empty gas tank? Seems like ye replaced that tentacle beard with some brass balls." You pull out a pair of bayonets and twirl them with a manic grin. "How's about I rip those scrawny-ass arms off and ram 'em inta yer faceholes ta remind ye-"
An eruption of debris interrupts the hot fire you're spitting, forcing you to stagger back. The thing is tearing up the cobbles and graves and hurling them at you with murderous speed. You sidestep out of the line of fire, only for a pair of oversized palms to slam into your face. It's not much of a hit, as he got you right at the end of his reach, and you rear back to throw once Amygdala retracts them.
Except he doesn't. The two palms remain outstretched, blocking most of your view of his body. Attempts to juke them out prove ineffective, although you're confident that your killer spin move would have paid dividends had he not snuck forward behind them to bring the other five arms to bear. You hop out of an ear-splitting clap and deftly hurl your munitions before arm #5 can swat you out of the air.
The beast lets out a shriek as the blessed steel hits home, perforating the lattice and cleaving two of his many shoulders. The arms falter for a second and several of them return to home base to extract the offending implements. You take the opportunity to let more fly, reveling in the sounds of ribs and elbows parting like a much more literal "red" sea.
"Am I supposed ta be scared? Impressed? I dunno what's funnier, that ye think ye've got a chance or that ye think three o' ye is enough ta take out Eileen and the gang."
While he's reeling from the blows, hunching over and curling his limbs protectively around his head, you prepare to teleport; one laser blast to the head and an overhead smash behind it ought to do the trick. Hell, you might even finish this guy before Eileen canohfuck.
Amygdala, all however-many kilos of Amygdala, slams into you with the tackle to end all tackles. Time seems to slow for you as you careen through the air at a speed that is not at all conducive to a happy landing, seemingly to allow you the opportunity to reflect on your fuck-up. You were so focused on his arms that you didn't even notice those tree-trunk legs preparing to argjhkeajglekhg.
You wake up partway through the wall of a nearby building to the sound of your skull putting itself back together. Amygdala, being the unsportsmanlike fuck he is, doesn't wait for you to get your nervous system back in line before reaching through the you-shaped hole in the opposite wall and pulling you back into the open.
"No respect for architectural history," you slur as the bean-shaped head looks you over. Luckily, your shoulder is so horribly dislocated that you manage to free it from his grip and stab him in the knuckles before he finishes deciding whether to crush you or spike you like the world's angriest volleyball.
The one advantage of getting hit so hard recently is that the subsequent fall feels like a tickle in comparison. You mentally tell your knees to sit down and quit bitching as you stumble back towards the plaza. You're operating mostly on instinct at the moment; thankfully, it's a well-honed instinct, one that manages to read and avoid the earth-shattering punch that follows.
That trick won't work twice now that you know what to look for. As long as you stay on the inside, all you have to worry about are those telegraphed punches. Reach doesn't mean shit in a phone booth.
The necessary ligaments and tendons snap into place and your legs surge with strength, taking you beneath Amygdala's chest with sword drawn before the asymmetrical bastard can respond. With most of his arms splayed out in their standard configuration, you'll be able to split that pencil-thin waist of his in two by the time he's wound up.
He doesn't wind up. Palms crash into the cobbles at a furious pace, lacking the tectonic force of his earlier punch but still more than enough to turn your spine into an accordion if he lands clean. The hands follow you at just above head height as you beat a retreat, falling and rising with a murderous rhythm.
You leap back towards the plaza, away from the alleyway bottleneck, and Amygdala hurls himself after you. You sidestep his furious rush and turn to pick him off when he lands, only for him to dig his massive claws into the earth in midair and forcibly alter his trajectory. A monstrous fist, powered by that unearthly momentum, crushes most of your upper body and drives you into the ground.
"Ye overgrown fuckin' bonsai-"
Another punch crashes home and everything below your neck goes numb. Amygdala looms over you, two arms hanging limply and head dripping from your opening salvo, but doesn't follow up even as feeling worms its way back into your limbs.
"And here I was thinkin' ye weren't a sportsman."
I WANT YOU TO HURT.
"Oh."
The one back at the chapel only swung wild punches at you and tried to make space. The thing had probably never gone hand-to-hand with anything it couldn't just pick up and squish. This one, though, seems to know what the Hell he's doing.
You cough up a bit of blood and try to intimidate your ribs into going back inside more quickly. They don't seem to be having it. You can see Patches nearby on his back, either doing an unflattering impression of you or laughing his exoskeletal ass off. Could be both.
[] Write in...
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CURRENT STATUSES:
Anderson: Cracked skull, broken spine, broken ribs, damaged organs
Amygdala: Two arms damaged at the shoulder, moderate damage to head, superficial damage to elbows and ribs
