Boss Battle Blues

I Am, Formostly, A Professional

This is it.

The final blow.

The hero, blood streaming down his face and body, delivers one last, triumphant thrust with his Enchanted Blade of Inestimable Glory.

The villain is caught, having underestimated the hero, in the almighty power of the hero's righteous judgment, falling prone to the ground with the blade through his belly.

The raucous sounds of the villain's foul magic and the screaming rage of the hero fade, and the cavernous lair now lies silent.

What shall we say, for the final scene? This adventure has spanned chapter upon chapter of carefully designed plot hooks and intricately described wonders of the world. The everyman hero has lost time after time, as the dashingly cruel villain advances the plot with one shocking act of villainy after another. You could say, theoretically, the villain has been the one moving the hero through the hoops of character development.

And do I ever get a thank you?

No.

I get a sword through the gut. Typical.

Ha-hah, you thought I was dead, didn't you? Didn't I say that the hero's sword is through my gut? I did. It is. It hurts, a lot, just so you know.

But I am nothing, if not a professional.

So I lie there, eyes closed, as the hero pants in triumphant exhaustion, gripping his sword in one hand. It takes all my willpower not to flinch as it twitches. Get up, I think fiercely, you twit!

Why don't I just blast him now, you ask in building terror? Well, as I alluded to earlier, for those who can actually read, I am a professional villain. Timing. Is. Everything. A dramatic re-entrance is preferred over a stab in the back.

And it's not as though I'm dying, per se. Yes, I've got a sword through my kidneys, but that's what magic is for. Death isn't the end; otherwise why would I spend all that time in the dusty Rooms of Rot to learn necromancy? You're never too old to learn necromancy. Hah, you'll never be too old if you learn necromancy.

Back to our hero. Oh, gods, is he crying?

He's crying. Oh, for the love of the unholy, it's all over me.

"Why?" comes his snotty, coughing sob. "Why didn't you yield?"

Because world domination isn't usually handed to you on a platter, dimwit.

"I didn't want to kill you!" he cries loudly. I feel the lukewarm droplets of his salty regret plopping on my blood-streaked face. Gross.

Suddenly, I feel it. The Urge...rising...

"I just don't understand," the hero chokes softly. "I could have saved you."

The Urge is here, drafting a beautiful paragraph in my head. The words are just waiting to be elocuted in a smug, self-righteous....

Monologue.

No! I restrain myself. The Monologue must wait until after the Triumphant Return. I force myself to imagine the expression on the hero's face when I return to his ugly village of pacifists in all my villainous glory. Then, oh then, I'll spin such a speech as ever was spoken as their village burns to the ground!

I force myself to remain silent, though it is hard. The hero is sniffling now, not quite sobbing. I'll have to throw out this doublet. Shame. I spent a fortune on the tailoring. It's not as nice as my Triumphant Return Overcoat, so there's that small consolation.

I try not to cringe as the Holy Sword of Divine Retribution is ripped from my insides. There's a little sting as it brushes the remnants of my conscience.

Drat, I thought I'd had that removed.

The hero loots my body--the little brat--and takes my carefully planted treasure with the calm, relaxed movements of someone who has inconceivably won against their enemy.

You know, in all honesty, it's usually the villain that gets stuck with the underestimation card. We're supposedly always seeing the hero as weak and unable to defend himself or his friends or family or country or whatever. Not this villain, oh no. I've seen too many colleagues cut down because they couldn't see what was right in front of them.

In this case, the tables are turned, don't you think? Here, the hero languidly brushes about in my smallclothes for trinkets and baubles, unaware that his every movement is causing excruciating pain to his very-alive antagonist. I think I might kill him anyway.

Just as the last of my patience has worn nearly to a hair's breadth, he stands, marching through the labyrinthine tunnels of my lair in that self-confident, devil-may-care stride that heroes employ. I hear his whistling echo in the cavern. It must be sunset, I think idly. They always find a way to end the battle just as soon as the sun is level with their eyes.

When silence falls, I push myself to a sitting position, gritting my teeth as my bowels protest. I use what little magicka I have left to heal myself, waving my hand in arcane symbols over my stomach. Ugh, my robes are a mess. How much snot can a prepubescent boy produce in a sixty-second period?

My head is suddenly woozy. Oh, I may have used too much magic. Or lost too much blood.

In any case, I black out.