The first time Tifa ever really fought someone was when some jerk grabbed her behind the first week running 7th.
She had spared before, with her master in the mountain town she was born in. But that was not fighting. That was sparing: an exercise meant to gauge her skill. She sparred quite a bit before a tall man in black burned down her innocence and impaled her childhood. This is because until that day the only reason she had to use her fists was for her own improvement.
She had also attacked before, although only once. But the expression of hatred towards the man who destroyed her life was just that, an expression. A fight is a debate. Two parties present point and counterpoint. Whoever proves their point wins. When she charged with the infamous sword, both sides knew who was correct. Tifa could no more deny Sephiroth superiority then she could bring back her town, her father, her care freeness. So it was not a fight.
But the day some jerk tried to imply she was so weak, as feeble as to allow a piece of shit to grab her like's meat at a butcher, she fought. Her point was that she was a strong willed and bodied woman with a healthy self esteem. The man left on a stretcher.
Tifa fell in love that day. Not with a man, but with a state of being. The elegant dance of combat swept her off her feet. For the first time since she first saw the flickering flames of Nibelheim Tifa felt alive.
Someone else saw her too. He had been fighting a long time. His debate was not against a person, but a way of life that was killing the very soul of the planet. And while he would never grow weary of his quest as long as he could see the shining eyes of his little girl, and the future that hinged on his fight, looking at the beautiful women who should have been a girl a little longer hurt.
"Shithead got what was comin' to him. Names Barret. You wanna fight for somptin' a bit more important?"
