Disclaimer; Tekken and Jin Kazama are the property of Namco Bandai and their affiliates. This story is non-profit and in no way is trying to commit deformation to the Tekken brand and Namco Bandai or infringe copyright.
A/N; Writing is brilliant catharsis.
Jin is bored. He drums his fingers upon the briar of his arm rest, each tap striking more blood. He did not flinch at the deepening cuts in his hands. He would just sit there, staring at nothing. He had killed Ogre, killed Jinpachi, killed Azazel, killed Heihachi and killed Kazuya. They had all died, leaving behind a nagging question.
Once all is said and done, what does a killer do with their life?
Some would say they should be proud of their achievements. Proud? Of what? Killing alien monsters that threatened to tear the world apart and ending a bloodline that was as equally destructive? Say that if you knew that they died because Jin felt like killing them. There's no sense of justice, no moral obligation just the simple need to tear a fuckers throat out. The fact that they plotted to end the world as is it is neither he nor there.
That was reality.
Others would say that a killer should be ashamed of what they have done. They would say he committed nothing more than an act of murder. It's true; there is no difference between murder and killing. Yet what is anyone supposed to do when some huge, crystal beast comes lumbering towards you? Wait to be crushed by a huge claw? Since when was it human to roll over and play dead anyway? Jin would go the contrary. He would say that it was more human to beat that damn beast to death and to enjoy every second of it. It was survival.
It was reality.
One that Jin could look upon as the thorns drew more blood. All the deaths had been necessary because that was his path. The world's unfairness shaped him into the person he was, had thrown him into the circumstances that necessitated these battles. The world was a reflection of human nature and who is willing to resist there own nature? Jin had accepted it.
It was his reality.
Yet the thorns have not yet had their fill. No, they curl around Jin's still form, tightening around his arms and legs. Jin does not even blink. He just stares into the four mirrors. These walls have been closing in for a long time. Jin wouldn't have it any other way though. They portray a beaten and battered man, blood flowing from a stab wound to his chest.
That's the reality Jin wants to see.
Sometimes though the shadows in the little recesses gather together and solidify into an image, one he does not want to see. Jin sees himself tearing away the vines from his body and then walking away. Such a simple act yet...
It wasn't his reality.
It could never be his reality. To accept it would to be to submit to the inconceivable. Every word spoken or written in manipulation, every fist flung in fury, every opponent brow beaten into the ground, every one would be meaningless. All of Jin's arrogance would topple like the Tower of Babel itself. Realisation would sink in that he could have questioned the world him, he could have helped those in need, he could have been a better person. But he didn't.
He cowed down.
He accepted.
He had been reduced to a pathetic little person that fed off their own bloated ego.
Facing the truth is always a bitch though. Jin just blinks and the image is gone, replaced with his own worn reflection. The thorns recede and he smirks into the mirror. This is his existence.
This is reality.