I have a lot of writing to do today. This week, actually—I’m writing a book, and I gave myself this week to start getting it roughed-out. Not super polished or anything, I figure, just try to get somewhere near the word count before I go back and rewrite things a chapter at a time. Get a foundation down, y’know? I don’t have a ton of time, though, so it’s vital that I really focus on this. ~35,000 words is a lot of ground to cover. So, in the spirit of staying laser-focused on the task at hand: here are my thoughts on the optimum robot master order when attempting to beat Mega Man 2 without losing a life.
My Thoughts on the Optimum Robot Master Order when Attempting to Beat Mega Man 2 Without Losing a Life
Yes, Metal Man is first, obviously. C’mon. C’mon.
But on that drunken evening but a scant few weekends ago, NES controller in hand, I paused here. My first time through Mega Man 2 without dying, I went with the same order I had used as a youth—it just sort of happened. So I got to thinking, albeit drunkenly and not very hard.
There are a couple of routes you can go, here. It seemed wise to get the insta-kill levels out of the way early: Air Man and Quick Man both have a bunch of “slip up and die” points in their stages. I mean, all the levels have deathspikes somewhere, but Air Man’s whole jawn is “abruptly falling to your death.” And Quick Man’s level… Look. You know what I’m talking about, here. All “BUUHHHH.” “BUUHHHH.” Those yellow friggin’ beams. “BUUHHHH.”
So look: if you’re playing on normal, head for Air Man first and know that I am judging you. Just go toe-to-toe with him with the mega buster; whatever. You’re barely even playing anyway. You don’t even have to be in the same room as the TV to play on normal. I am mad at you about this on a personal level, if I’m being honest here. Maybe… maybe you should go.
Alright everyone else: we got ourselves a coin toss between heading for Wood Man for the sake of taking out Air Man, and Flash Man for the sake of Quick Man’s level. I go Flash Man here, me, because I like the stage music better and I delight in blowing up Quick Man. “BUUHHHH.”
Nothin’ special about Flash Man’s level. Those jumping proto-ride-armor things with the Sniper Joes in them can be tricky to avoid. Metal blade, metal blade, metal blade.
Quick Man. I use the time stopper on the beams—I do. I ain’t need any help with the boss fight, but I’m not risking one little slip-up in the level.
So, okay, that was a little tense, now on to Wood Man’s level. There is… there is a part of my brain that every so often gets to thinking “I could be one of those ‘speed run’ dudes” with this game. I play around with the screen-skipping stuck-in-the-ceiling glitches in this level. I consider the life I could have, as a Mega Man 2 speed-runner—the glamor, the cars, the adoring fans. I stop running so the robot ostriches can jump over me. I throw metal blades at the bats even as I am leaving the screen, content in the knowledge that I would have hit them. I use… like four or five metal blades on Wood Man, and that is the end of that.
Air Man’s level isn’t the worst. Every so often I get brave and try to jump to the one-pixel safe spot on either side of the giant floating heads’ drill-horns, but that’s the “I could be a speed-run dude” part of my brain talkin’, and a risky maneuver after putting this much time into things. You and I are making an investment here, spending hours on an NES game from 1988. Make sure you go into the boss fight with enough life to take a couple of hits. Wait for Air Man to jump over to your side of the room and throw the leaf shield up in his face a couple of times.
So, cake walk from here on out. My approach here was to take out Bubble Man then Heat Man, Item-2-ing right past all the disappearing/reappearing blocks. I save Crash Man for last because I always have; leaf shield is handy for not getting knocked around too much in his level.
At this point—about 5/6ths of the way through Crash Man’s level—the background music will disappear. You will be filled with a long-familiar sense of dread. You’ll climb the next ladder and a new screen will slide into view as usual, with just a few flickering graphic artifacts. You’ll stop running, and the level will be dark and silent. The enemies will begin to look garbled. You—your face—will look scrambled every time you blink. The game knows, by this point, that you cannot be stopped. The game has decided to stop you the only way it knows it can: by destroying itself.
Your NES freezes.