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Routine eluded Tifa at the young age of seven. Childish whims preoccupied her bitty mind, whether it was an impromptu game of tag or practicing the piano or stealing her mother’s forgotten makeup. Charting every waking second stripped the excitement from life. Tifa thrived on the unknown—welcomed it, even.
Those halcyon days faded when the fires overwhelmed Nibelheim and left only memories of ash behind.
Zangan struggled to instill structure and discipline into Tifa’s life. She focused on the power it provided; striking fear into foolish boys interested her. Whenever Zangan spoke of balance amongst her mind, body, soul, and whatever else was there? It was on par with the fairytales she grew up with. But that was before the life she knew and loved perished. Without it, Tifa flailed to grasp anything promising stability. Midgar’s streets provided no mercy and survival didn’t thrive on regularity—a constant weight tugging her underwater.
She sought any semblance of structure, from the familiar faces in the shops to the same streetlights flickering. In time, even they shifted, replaced by strangers and unknowns. Chaos enveloped Tifa. She was alive, yet she didn’t live. And what was a life when she woke up without joy? That which was beyond her control tangled and thickened until she suffocated.
It was then she remembered her training and Zangan’s wise words.
Her injury hindered what routines she could practice, at least in the beginning. She relied on gentle stretches and early morning walks to remind her body of the activity she once reveled in. Tired muscles ached and thrummed, yet Tifa marched on.
The wound closed and her breaths no longer pained her, but a scar branded Tifa—a deep line carved into her torso. Tifa didn’t wince at the sight; it reminded her to rise and endure. Again and again.
But she punched the air and screamed into the night and it did nothing to mend her shattered heart. What’s the point? Tifa thought, sobbing instead of sleeping. I can’t change what happened.
For a time, she ceased her practice. Giving up came easily, almost intoxicating. But the haze never lifted and it melded with the chaotic world that never acknowledged her, let alone respected her. Tifa drowned again and she had no one to blame but herself.
Tifa forced herself to return to her martial arts regiment. Not for the sake of maintaining her figure or to kick ass, but to heal herself. Each motion was like navigating in a dense fog, but Tifa focused on perfecting her form: shoulders back, spine lengthened, chin up, and eyes forward. Zangan had drilled those basics until Tifa rolled her eyes. He claimed they were no different from buildings—establishing the foundations kept them standing.
“Trees do not break at a mere breeze,” he once instructed her. “They learn to extend their roots and sway. Be like that—unyielding, yet flexible.”
His philosophical lectures were lost on the younger, naive Tifa. She only made sense of them in the aftermath, when he was gone and Tifa relied on herself.
But she was sick of tripping and falling more times than she cared to count. She yearned for a life beyond survival. The chaotic world forever tearing her apart refused to cease its mindless cruelty, thus Tifa had no other choice but to become an anchor amidst the storm.
Her punches weren’t meant for strength—not at first. She perfected the alignment of her arms and the timing with each extension. A devastating blow was worthless if it didn’t strike true. The world blurred until all she saw was her target. On an exhale, she struck the worn dummy in the back alley. She pummeled the same spot until the exterior softened, the seams unraveled, and the stuffing exploded.
It wasn’t the man responsible for all she lost, but it was a success—the first she experienced in who knew how long. The fallen dummy brought a smile to Tifa’s jaded features. That was enough for her.
The dummy proved to be useless after patching the seams five times. Tifa sought better practice targets and in turn, prepared herself for tough leathers and even sparring partners. Her walks turned into runs. Instead of mopping in bed, she made use of the small space of her apartment for high-intensity reps. She even invested in fitted gloves and compression sleeves to protect her body. Why endanger that which she invested heavily in?
The muscles formed in time, but it was never about flexing and looking good in sleeveless tops—though that didn’t hurt. For Tifa, it was about clearing her mind of anxious thoughts, self-doubt, and lingering trauma. It became her constant in a world full of dreadful unknowns.
The strength returned. Not overnight, but in time. Slowly, gradually. Upon bringing a sparring partner to his knees with a single blow, Tifa flexed her hand and stared. Had she always been that powerful?
“Damn, you’re good!” he wheezed out. “You could be fighting at the Colosseum and making a fortune!”
Her lips twitched. It wasn’t about money or fame or anything like that.
It was saving herself from a life she didn’t want.
It was protecting those who meant more to Tifa than herself.
It was continuing her push-ups and jumping jacks on her travels with her allies when they doubted the roads ahead.
It was fine-tuning herself to always be a step ahead of everyone else, both on and off the battlefield.
It was perfecting her form until she conquered the chaos and punched Sephiroth square in the face.
And by then? She would be invincible.