Disclaimer: Sol Badguy is property of Daisuke Ishiwatari.
This is just an odd pattern of fleeting thoughts from the mind of Sol Badguy.
A Prototype's Insight
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The rain would fall. Just like everything else known to man. Splattering in heaps only to recollect and follow the same cycle. But it was soothing. A comfort. Very predictable.
Bitter cold droplets.
Crystalline glory falling for all its worth. Painting the streets. Weighing down nature's inhabitants.
Simple to accept.
While others sought shelter, there he stood. Bathing within his own mind and basking in clouded skies that blurred the moment. Nothing to really hear and nothing to really see. Just feeling. Feeling his thoughts and feeling those icy pin pricks bat against bronze skin.
Mismatched crimson and gold eyes blankly stared forward, not bothering to notice how much greener the flourishing trees, shrubs or grass looked compared to everything else. Especially against such darkened skies. No, long eyelashes would only blink once in a while. Just to clear the beads of liquid which would attach to his eyelid from the rampant winds sending raindrops in every direction. Not even the sudden bursts of wind could cause waver to the towering form.
Instead he would lazily lean forward. The paint chipped, warped railing weeping slightly as more weight was applied to its brittle condition. Such cries were ignored however.
The sole impression that he was currently standing there could only be recognized by the ever drifting tendrils of smoke. Wafting across into the midday's air. Inhaled and exhaled through slightly parted and chapped lips. Tufts of faint electric blue calmly exiting nicotine coated nostrils.
Marlboro reds. The crushed and abused pack containing its last sum of seven. Cellophane ripped and crumpled. Dormant within the back pocket of tight crisp jeans. Stained jeans. White jeans. Ripped and tattered, ending as they entered a beaten pair of clunky coal colored boots with large soles.
Bare arms continued to stand victim to the onslaught. Uncovered by the skin tight black fabric. Sleeveless. Stretched over a broad chest. Strong collar bone protruding. Fine bulk of muscle well defined. Lean curve dipping in to identify the solid abdomen. Soaking wet. Everything. Clothes practically painted on.
Skin exposed. Hairs rising to the colds demand. Yet unnoticed and uncared for.
Irrelevant. Weather was nothing short of an inconvenience in some way, shape or form.
Yet its effects were also like the half bent railing, disregarded.
Instead his mind pondered without a care to the storm waging war against the earth's populace.
Hn. War.
An indescribable show of dominance and combative nature. Human instinct.
Inhale. Exhale.
More tendrils of smoke drifting by.
War. Battles built upon the breaches of death. Such a scent akin to a desolate waste land. Filling soldiers knee deep in its essence. The taste, smell, feel. Familiar.
Showing humans true instinctive animosity. Their cunning ways and manipulative executions. Commanding to concur. Concurring to obtain. Obtaining to please. Pleasing to reach ideals. Ideals made of wishes. Wishes created from arising problems. These problems that in itself, live within our social decree. The verdict from which it all once began, from one mind of a human being. A human. Just like everyone else. Merely more passion within this soul.
And how is passion rated? Within the lustful tones of mind blowing sex? A wonderful fuck? The drive to do something? What is 'passion?'
A love. Fondness? Liking?
What is this passion based on?
Love for thy country or love for yourself?
A need. Necessity? Something we thrive for.
Well to this man in particular, his 'passion' is war.
If such can be called a passion of sorts.
He enjoys the basics.
Being reduced to primitive survival instincts.
Understanding the simple minds of his opponents and tearing that simplicity and reforming it into a game.
One in which he specializes and dominates.
Daring to display a reign of brutal fury. His animosity to its best test.
Familiar weight of Fuuenken in his grasp and the comfort yet anxiety while waiting to strike.
When will you die?
How will you survive?
This is a life you fight for and fighting is a much deeper part in life than usually assumed.
To fight.
A battle.
War.
Displaying your true nature.
The aloofness gained from accepting the deaths and casualties as they happen.
There is no war without death.
Dwelling should recede. It should cease to exist.
Hope in war is falsity.
Fight for yourself. Yourself as a team.
Comrades.
Stepping stones to reach greater heights and surpass limits.
Seeing no limits and giving it everything possible.
No doubts. Just War.
Life.
As we see it. It is War.
These are the conclusions Sol has found within his life span.
Yet as it will reign, the promise of everyone living in their own reality remains.
Gears and human alike.
Separate.
Yet interlaced within the battle streaked grounds that were once thriving countries.
Who will survive the fight and live on is now a mission.
Sol's personal mission however, is to ensure humanity its rightful place.
With a simple flick of a finger, the cigarette he once held between his lips was descending below. Falling even faster as the plummeting rains batted relentlessly at the disregarded piece.
Auburn strands swiveled in momentum.
His back was turned.
Powerful legs moving forward.
Before long, the potent figure and essence that was Sol Badguy, had left without looking back.
Only the beating sound of his foot steps against the weak set of lumber stairs could be heard in the distance.
Rather strange insight, but it fits Sol.