A waitress with breasts somewhat vulgar in their size and lips that swam in red paint sauntered up to him with a grin and a smack of chewing gum. The name on her tag read: "Tammi", and the stains on the front of her apron were of the freshest grease. "Back here again, Zell?" She asked, pulling out a small pad and pencil and shot him a look of expectancy.

A pair of tired, yet normally bright blue irises slowly traveled up to her face and regarded her questioningly. A defeated groan escaped the young man's lips, as if he expected Tammi to possess telepathy such that she would be able to pluck the order out of his head and zap it to the cook who busied himself over the grill.

"The usual, Tammi," he sighed, letting his forehead fall into the palm of his leather-gloved hand. A few of the proud spikes of his blond hair drooped over his fingertips in defeat, and he promptly smoothed them back into place before looking up at the waitress. It was then that she noticed the faded violet bruise around his left eye, an angry halation which defiantly circled the organ. "And a pack of ice, if you can manage."

"You want me to call for an ambulance, hon? That looks pretty serious."

"I've had worse than this, Tammi, so don't worry about me."

"I'll get you that ice." She walked towards the beverage dispenser and flipped open the metallic lid with her right hand while her left closed itself around a plastic bag and held its narrow mouth open as she filled it. Despite his eye nearly being swollen shut, Zell marveled at the woman's remarkable coordination, how her movements were strung together as if she was maneuvering underwater; graceful, yet dispassionate. Returning, Tammi pressed the bag into his hand and waited as a mother would, patiently for him to apply it to the bruise which now seemed to darken.

Under the chill of the ice, the young fighter's face twitched involuntarily, causing him to yelp in pain.

"Tell me, Zell, what hurts more? That little bruise, or the fact that you didn't win tonight?" Asked Tammi, leaning down to support her elbows on the Formica counter, her nut-brown eyes twinkling in the fluorescent light. "It's just like you to beat yourself up over some punk who got the better of you, when you know you'll win the next bout."

"She's right," he thought, avoiding making contact with her muted nut-brow irises. Zell shifted uncomfortably upon the stool, the loose fit of his pants noiselessly sliding over the rounded leather before getting caught on an upholstery staple. "So sue me," he said aloud, grinning at her with two shining rows of impossibly flawless teeth. "Everyone back in Balamb told me I shut down completely when I lose something big."

"You shouldn't. Dammit, Zell, you're ranked in the top five, and you're probably going to beat the Three-Deuce sooner or later." Tammi lit a cigarette and reached behind her waist to unfasten her apron before pulling it off, balling it up, and tossing it into the corner.

At the mention of the Three-Duece, Zell Dincht shuddered and shook his head from side to side. "Three-Deuce" was a group of powerful fighters who composed the top circuit; their abilities so awesome that it was rumoured that they would only spar in a private arena with no spectators, save for the referee. Adding to the fear of the general public was the fact that all three of them remained anonymous; those foolish enough to fight them usually wound up in an amnesiac's stupor, that is, those who survived their match. Most of the prizefighters' bruised and broken bodies were usually found in a preset location and removed by the authorities.

"Are you out of your mind, Tammi?!" He thundered, his strong voice reverberating around the diner, causing all the customers to shoot him dirty looks from their mugs of coffee and plates of cheesecake. "I'll never be that good! Hell, I'm lucky I survived this far!"

"Oh Zell, where would you be without me?"

"In Balamb with my mother."

"You miss her a lot, don't you?" He nodded his head and reached into his shirt to pull up a tiny silver cross suspended by a fragile-looking chain. Holding it up to the light, it sparkled like a ray of hope in a cold, corrupt city. "What are those tiny words printed on it? ' Gloria in excelsies Deo?'"

"No... ' Nolite te bastardes carborundorum*'," came the proud response. "It was my mother's motto in high school, and it keeps me going."

"What's it mean?"

" 'Never let the bastards hold you down*.' Ma was suspended from her school 'cause she refused to acknowledge the dominion of Galbadia over Balamb in a speech she made in front of the entire student body."

"Your mother is a wise woman, Dincht," said Tammi, pressing her cigarette butt into an ashtray filled with sand. Her eyebrows raised as she glanced at the neon clock mounted on the wall, and releasing a drawn-out sigh, she bent down and unfurled her apron. "Sorry, kiddo, my break's over. I gotta get back to work. You still want that food?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"It's on the house, since I know you're pressed for cash."

"But!" He protested, his free hand reaching out to stop her from going for her pocketbook. She had done this before, several times, and relished her position as surrogate mother as it would seem.

"Shut up, Dincht!" Tammi smiled at him before ringing up the cost of the meal on the cash register and paying for it with her own cash, a gesture that touched him deeply. "Hey, cookie!" She called, her shrill waitress voice manifesting in everyone's eardrums. "A number five, no onions!!" The man in the tall, white hat and bespattered smock nodded and busied himself composing Zell's dinner: a large yet perpetually rubbery steak with steamed vegetables and a scorching sauce.

The blond's fingers closed about the small tumbler of ice water in front of him and drew it to his parched lips, draining the small glass in one gulp. Putting the bag of ice on the counter, he reached down and grasped the silver zipper and pulled upward, feeling the thin, leather material enclose his body and provide it with some measure of warmth. The jacket was the only article of clothing Zell could say he was proud to own; he had found it at a rummage sale in Dollet and paid for it to be professionally dry-cleaned.

Closing his eyes, he recalled the night he had spirited it home and into his room before laying it on his desk and picking up two pieces of blue vinyl which matched the colour of his own irises. Zell's fingers were compatible with his imagination: he soon fashioned two flame like designs and affixed them to the upper arms of his new article of clothing, delighting all the while in his handiwork.

It was the back of this same "handiwork" that was clutched in an angry fist which promptly shook him back and forth, as if to give him whiplash. Both eyes flashed open and Zell's stool whirled around to face his would be attacker, his fists at the ready to pummel the thin lips which smiled a smile of menace in response to the confrontational gesture.

A tall, arrogant-looking young man with cobalt-grey eyes glared at him expectantly. A long, muted silver trench coat encased the boy's obvious muscularity and flaunted it as if it were meant for that purpose. The hair was close-cropped and a duller, if not more brown than blond in colour. Yet his entire visage was offset by the long, paper-cut scar running from the pale forehead to the edge of the bridge of the nose, almost as if the artist had marred the otherwise flawless canvas with an extra swipe of his brush.

"Yo!" Shouted Zell, feeling the acidic anger burn through his veins and arteries. "What the fuck is your problem?!"

"My problem, runt, is that you're in my seat." The voice was of frozen rage slowly being defrosted by a single match's flame; the detached gaze threatening him with the unexpected release of a true demon. "Care to get out?"

"Didn't see your name on it, asshole," Zell retorted, giving him the finger and an impertinent grunt before swiveling around to face the dinner Tammi had ordered for him.

"Fujin, what did this...this.... chicken wuss call me?" The ironclad boy snapped his fingers, summoning the white-haired girl who was the first of his companions. The empty socket beneath her eye patch quivered, as if it were filled with a gelatinous mass. Her soft lips parted before:

"AN ASSHOLE, SIR!" Fujin bellowed, her booming voice caused everyone once again to drop their newspapers, set down their egg-cremes, and look up with annoyance at her azure-clad body.

"Raijin, what is it we do to the public when they fail to recognize our enforcer directives?" A heavily-built black man with a metallic bo appeared at his superior's side, scratching his head.

"We take 'em out, yah know?" Raijin offered.

"RAGE!!" Fujin screamed, delivering a bone-crushing kick to his left shin, causing him to hop about in agony.

"No, we fight them first, THEN we take 'em out. Okay, pusssy, on yer feet," he shouted as he reached under the munching fighter's armpits, hauling him completely off of the stool. Swinging him over his broad shoulder, the boy in the silver trench coat shot Tammi an evil grin before spiriting his prize away into the slick alleyways of Deling City.

The trio undulated around the garbage pails and stray cats, their war cries inciting a mob which pursued them devotedly, for a so-called "enforcer brawl" was all too rare those days. Soon the bevy of jeering citizens stopped abruptly at a tennis court with a rusted chain-link face running about the perimeter, upon which several luminous halogen spotlights were perched. Craning his neck, Zell could make out several wooden beer kegs being enthusiastically passed over the spectators' heads; the amber liquid splashing onto sweat-soaked faces, lapped up greedily. Incessant belching.

The leather-jacketed fighter was flung backwards, his body falling to the ground with a loud, satisfying smack. He raised on of his metal-plated gloves in the taller boy's direction and was about to smash his fist into the blond's temple when suddenly, all of the spotlights seemed to train themselves on his form. There was a deathly silence as Zell Dincht stood there, illuminated by the blinding halation; one hand poised mid-strike, the other hanging down by his waist to defend his lower stomach.

"Ladeez and gerbils!" Cried Raijin, strutting out to the centre of the court before taking Zell's free arm in his hand and raising it high into the air with a dramatic flourish. "In dis cornah, weighing in at only one hunnerd and fhidy pounds, chicken-wuss!" At the sound of his nickname, the young fighter winced with loathing, his face turning a bright scarlet which provided a striking contrast to the intricate design tattooed on his face, which now resembled a gash that was freshly-sutured.

Unceremoniously releasing Dincht's forearm, the referee's sequined coat floated over towards the opposite side of the ring, or more precisely, the shadowed figure in the corner whose hands were busied over a metallic object that glinted under the halogen lamps. The serrated edge flashed for a moment, blinding the Balambian before a loud booming was heard throughout the makeshift arena.

"An' in dis here cornah, weighing at one hunnerd and eighty pounds, chief o' d'enforcers, Seifer Almasy!" On cue, the silver-coated boy walked out, menacingly brandishing his modified gunblade towards the trembling Zell. The drunken audience screamed in awe in ecstasy as their champion appeared on the stage of pain, shooting them degenerative glances. The contempt in his steely eyes revealed his true hatred for those he pledged to protect....or entertain.

"Hey! You didn't say anything about weapons!" He protested, waving his arms angrily. "I'm not going to fight if he uses that...that thing!" The gunblade clicked loudly as a new round of flares was loaded into its chamber, its tip glinting as if it were diamond under the spotlights.

"You didn't ask, chicken wuss!"

"What did you call me, asshole?!" Zell's form crouched into a fighting stance, shaking with the adrenaline which was being forced through his veins, singeing his muscles. "I swear to God, you're going down for that smart ass remark!"

"You don't know what you're up against, do you? You're just an oblivious sheep being led to the slaughter," Seifer spat, cocking his gunblade and aiming it the boy's blond head. "Then we'll see who is going down on whom, huh?"

"Ya forgot to name your stakes, Seifer!" Called Rajin, his sequined jacket causing Fujin to shrink away in embarrassment. "Ya can't fight without them!"

"Right. Okay, chicken wuss, if I win the fight, then you're mine until I say you can go. If you win, you can walk away alive. Ready to lose?"

"Ready for me to kick your ass?" Came Zell's retort, the workings of his mind giving way to his physical faculties. "And when I win, we'll see who'll walk away alive!" At that, his well-prepared frame launched forward, metal-plated glove making contact with Seifer's angular jaw, causing his head to snap painfully backwards. The taller boy's frame staggered backwards momentarily before he looked into assailant's face, a rivulet of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth.

"That one was for your handicap!" He screamed, his cold voice becoming tinctured with nothing other than malevolent intentions.

Seifer Almasy aimed his gunblade directly at Zell's forehead and squeezed the trigger, shooting an orb of flames directly at the hapless young man. Dincht expertly ducked, and moved in with an uppercut, barely connecting with the jacketed shoulder blade.

"You know, I think I like you, Zell!" He screamed as he swung his gunblade from behind the Balambian's calves, knocking him off balance and making him vulnerable for a blow that felt like a brick being shot into his chest.

"Arghh!!" The younger fighter cried, gasping for breath. Flecks of blood came spewing forth from his mouth and spattered on the more powerful boy's sleeve. The spiky blond hit the ground and sat there, arms supporting him from behind, sheer defiance in his gaze as he looked up at Seifer, who lapped the blood off the material and grinned. "You're dead!"

"I should be saying the same thing!" Whirling around, he delivered a perfect roundhouse kick to the Balamb fighter's face, knocking him further towards the chain link fence. Several of the fans' fingers had twined themselves about the links, the screaming turning into a great roar, the rusted metal barrier shaking as they sought to participate in a brawl. Beer and piss and vomit seemed to flow freely, tingeing the air with their foul vapors as Zell Dincht struggled to his feet and collected his remaining energies into his fists.

"I only have one chance," he thought, the adrenaline flooding his tendons and ligaments with unadulterated power to the point where his body was surrounded by a soft, marmoset glow. "And I'm not gonna let this jerkoff walk away so easy!"

"My Final Heaven!!!" Yelled Zell, dashing towards his waiting opponent, flashing a courteous smile before mercilessly pummeling Seifer's torso with his hands, delighting the in the taller blond's expression of surprise, rage, and pain. The prizefighter ended his flurry of attacks with a fierce punch which sent Almasy's body flying backwards, crashing against the fence. Grabbing hands tried desperately to shove themselves between the small links to grab a piece of their collapsed idol.

Feeling cocky, Zell strode up to his fallen adversary and raised his fist to chin height before taunting him mercilessly. "Ooh, I am so pretty! Now get up, you're embarrassing me!"

"You think that's funny, Zell? Watch this!" Pressing a small button on his gunblade, Seifer ejected the blade before flipping the gun portion around, leaping up, and striking the former victor upon his temple. The tattooed man's body crumpled to the ground like a house of cards. "Fujin, check his pulse."

His silver-haired, one-eyed companion walked over to the fallen soldier's body and pressed two gloved fingers against his jugular artery. She looked up and nodded, confirming the life signs of the plucky blond.

"Dah winner an' still champeen, Seifah! He's on fiyah, ya know?!" Screamed Raijin, grasping Seifer's arm and proudly hoisting it into the air.

"Enough of this!" Said Seifer as he bent down to pick up the Zell's unconscious form and sling him over his shoulder once more. "Rage, Fujin, get our stuff. We're leaving NOW!"

"And as for you," he whispered into the sleeping boy's ear. "We're going to have lots of fun, you and I. Lots of fun indeed." Heeding his urges, he pressed his lips against Dincht's neck, leaving what he knew would be an ugly bruise and a curt explanation in the morning.

* From Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale; all rights reserved.