In the midst of a battlefield littered with the dead, two men are still standing. One is on his knees, clutching at a slashed and bleeding stomach. The other stands facing away while engulfed in flames.
Phoenix: You asked why I fight.
The bleeding man looks up.
Phoenix: I didn't answer, because I do not know. I'm unaware as to what drives me. It could be my blood. It could be this power that I have that compels me. Or it could very well just be my fate.
He turns and looks at the dying man.
Phoenix: That I am cursed to see my friends die over and over again. This isn't the first time we have had this final battle, that this field has been watered by the blood of a generation.
He turns back.
Phoenix: When I received this "gift" I was also given the memories of those who also have it. I have witnessed the birth and death of reality countless times in mere moments. I have seen everyone I've cared about put down as if they never existed even more.
He stops and remains quiet for a couple seconds.
Phoenix: But through it all, not once have I known why I fight. Why I keep trying to save them, even as I'm aware of their inevitable demise no matter what I do.
He chuckles quietly.
Phoenix: A sick joke. A man with the ability to mold reality, and he cant even change his life for the better.
He looks back and sees the man has bleed out. He sighs and turns towards the sun set.
Phoenix: I wonder how things will go next time. Maybe things will turn out better for you.
He walks off across the battlefield glancing at the bodies he passes. He looks up on a ridge and sees two figures watching him. He can't see their faces, but he knows who they are, what them being here means. Grimacing, he walks towards them, preparing for it all to start over again.
