< *~ * him at 23. observe.↓* ~ * >
Old armor creaks as Boy touches knee on ground. Tower looms in the distant night. Showtime.
“COME ON, BOY. COME SAVE PRINCESS.”
They go to her with peacock glaives; they go to her with dragon horses. Younger, faster, more vicious. What’s this old knight to do? In his prime he was never that good.
“OH POOR BOY. STILL WANNA BE A HERO?”
Boy dreams of tearing the armor apart. He wants to be a wind in a jar, flailing. Combusting. Still he remains a tangle of tendons fraught with something wicked. Too old to break the mold. Too young to lose that fang.
Now they come at him with brimstone rain; with laser swords. Boy takes some more and stays the parry. One last mad jab with a javelin; gets the shrugg-off; then lands the throw right in the eye of the Spellbomb.
Ba da boom boom, boom boom. Ba da boom boom boom.
Up the tower now. Final boss. Voice crawls fiendishly round his earhole. She sprawls majestically upon her enormous serpent. Boy lets irons fall and speaks.
“Gimme.”
Ever so slightly, the line of her mouth angles into a smirk or a machine of nuclear apocalypse. Boy’s armor explodes away and he is left, flab and bruises, fetally nude before her. Leather uncreases as Princess stands up, arms herself with whip and mouthgag. Salvation begins.
the Budafoki amended 