By Rachel
One by one the black leather articles hit the plush carpet with a soft fwap. The zip-up vest, the ribboned shorts, the pleated shirt short in the front long in the back. Piece by piece she stripped the clothes from her body. When her panties topped the pile she moved and stood in front of the full-length mirror. Her slightly tanned skin was smooth but not soft, after years of travel and battle. Scars stood out here and there marring what most men would consider womanly perfection. Tifa hated them. One in particular, sharp and purple haunted her from her youth. It ran long down her back a hideous reminder of the Nibelheim incident. She had other abominations; white circular scars on her hips and shoulders and legs from where bullets had dug a little deeper than she would have preferred.
She frowned at her bare reflection. Besides those few souvenirs from a tougher time there was nothing wrong with her. She ran her right hand over the tops of her breasts, goosebumps spreading over her flesh. They were large, more than what most girls had. She was still too young for them to have started sagging and many men had lusted after her before (all but him). Her stomach was smooth and flat, hard with years of training. Her long legs were muscular bot not horridly so, same with her arms. Her hands and feet were callused from so much work standing and fighting. She tried a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes and felt false on her face. But it was that smile she always wore. Tifa was happy, Tifa was optimistic. Really Tifa was depressed. And it all came down to one person, Cloud.