An odd piece I cooked up two years ago... it's barely passable if anything. Anyway, this was a half-baked potential Metal Gear Solid fanfiction I thought of one day when feeling angsty and silly. For some really screwed up reason I pictured Solid Snake writhing in a silent pain amongst the setting of a blizzardy Alaska... I felt I could try to illustrate those feelings with some words. In a demented way I guess all of us are like this, all of us have our moments of shapelessness.

Thanks for reading, if you bother.

A beautiful wasteland of white encases the sight. Suffocating plumes of blizzard in reaping howls strangle the ears. A world of gray shades, a world of gray shades so very hard to breathe in. Shield yourself with ragged cloth… clinging to your fading warmth in a sun-less void.

Wolf cries send requests to the Heavens and quelling the storm; it draws sounds of trudging, grieving feet only closer.

A man of no name appears as a silhouette in the slight powdery fog of this lightening wind. His shadow is distinguishable and shapeless, an artist’s perfect painting and worst nightmare. No purposefully defined features, and yet possessing his own uniqueness. The cause of his somewhat befuddling appearance is a battered cloak wrapped ‘round his shoulders, drooping past his shin. The holes and rips on the bottoms show that this man has dodged many bullets in his seemingly long life, though one would never be able to read the expression or experience he bears in this misty atmosphere.

His feet move in a heavy, heavy manner. The snow crunches and screams beneath him… the purity of white trampled on by a darkened, jaded heart. He falls to his knees upon reaching a certain point, at first it would not be treated as something so important. After all, this barren environment was more uniform than the armies that destroyed it.

He pulls out an Amaranth flower and gazes into it. Simultaneously however, an intense wave of memories rushes through the man as he manages to barely inhale the sweet scent. Gunfire. Bullets streaming by his ears, grazing and cutting everything in sight, piercing and killing. The screams of friends, all he knew, or even plain innocent souls echo as each one is shot. Any normal mind would snap and shatter upon the sight, upon the hearing, of these nightmarish noises. But this nameless man is barely fazed, until his own deepest fear, deepest hate expels into his subconscious into a violent torrent-- a terrible bloodcurdling screech from an unholy creation of humans.

Tears beg to gain freedom and stream down his face, but they cannot find the strength. His heart wrenches, twisting and contracting. Yet no drops of salty water flow. Fists slam into the snow writhing in a twisted hybrid of sorrowful hate-- so much pain.

Another cry from the feral wolves pierces the clouds, and the man is brought back to reality. He was here to pay his respects, and that was the only reason. No tears or anger were meant to be expressed, except only a slight twinge at most. He takes a few deep breaths.

And once again, letting his cold melancholic façade drape over his heart as his blue tattered headband drapes over his eyes, this peculiar man of no name rises to his feet. He departs the desolate desert of ice.

Though in due time he will face a barrage of bullets and the screaming of that horrible creature… perhaps peace will be brought to his fragmented soul.

One will hear him mutter in the blinding snow as the blizzard picks up again,

“A shapeless man is a broken man.”