Full-colour tattoo of a spiky golden-haired anime fighter with green eyes charging a blue energy ball, on the calf.

Anime warrior charging energy ball on calf

Calf · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows a spiky golden-haired anime fighter with green eyes, shirtless and gripping a glowing pale blue energy ball between both hands. The linework is bold and dark, with smooth shading on the hair, arms and energy ball. Yellow, blue and red-orange ink dominate, and the figure is centred on the calf with a red sock visible below.

Calf

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain has found the gap in the awning again, so it drips straight onto the box of loose comics you have been sorting since seven. Pinned above the till, a boy's drawing of a golden-haired fighter has curled at one corner, and every time the wind shoves the tarpaulin, his yellow hair seems to flare. Ada from the fishmonger's shouts across the aisle that the gutters on Tanner Row have overflowed again, and you nod without looking up, because the one you want is at the bottom of the box.

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The boy comes back at four, soaked to the knees, his trainers squelching on the wet tiles. He wants the issue with the fighter charging a blue ball of light between his palms, the one he saw in a window in Coventry and never forgot. You tell him you have it, though you are not certain, and you dig. Under a bundle of football stickers, under a copy with no cover, there it is, its spine taped twice. He pays in coins that smell of the pennies from the fish tank. He asks whether the energy ball would really hurt, and you tell him it would, if you were the one standing in front of it.

When the shutters come down you stay, counting the day's takings under the lamp while the rain keeps up its drumming on the metal roofs. You think about how the fighter never looks at the orb he is building. He only stares at whatever is in front of him and gathers the light anyway, one breath at a time. You fold the spare copies into the crate, lock the cash tin, and pull your hood up. Tomorrow the gutters will still be full, and somebody will want the same page again.