Disclaimer: I own nothing of ff8, not even the severely beaten punching bag.
Emotional punching bag.
Zell Dinchts opponent didn't have a hope in hell.
In fact if it wasn't so securely suspended from the ceiling of the training centre it would have been sprawled across the floor in many pieces by now.
Jab.
Cross. Cross.
Block.
Jab.
The long rubbed smooth fabric vibrated against the tattoo his fists hammered into it. The padding of the bag bouncing his fists back reassuringly.
Bodies didn't do that.
They cracked and fell heavily, slumping over the punch and pulling the force into them.
Hook.
Right. Left. Sidestep.
Cross.
Step in. Uppercut.
His bare knuckles stung under the repeated drills. The scratchy sting serving to pull more pressure into his blows. His eyes tightening as the rhythm shifted.
Faster.
Cross. Cross. Jab.
Moving.
The faded grey-black of the punching bag blurring into the shadows that sat at the edge of his vision.
He'd fought people before.
He'd felt people fall under his fists and feet. He'd heard bones snap, felt flesh give way under force and watched with trepidation and a swallowed rush of joy as opponents dropped unmoving.
He'd always seen them get up and walk off eventually though.
Step.
Today he'd walked away without knowing.Sidekick. Cross.
He'd left them where they fell, a trail of bodies that probably wouldn't stroll up one day and challenge him to a rematch.Roundhouse.
He didn't even know how many he'd killed or crippled – and he'd be kidding himself to think it was none.
He knew what his training was for.
And he knew he was good at what he did
Cross.
It seemed wrong somehow – an opponent's life deserved to be acknowledged at least.
But he hadn't had time. He'd just walked – no, run, off with his victory and on to the next.
Cross.
Jab. Cross.
Zell slumped to the floor in front of the bag, his body trembling with exhaustion and frustration.
He'd escaped from the seed ball as soon as he the adrenaline of praise and status wore off and the edge of reality struck him again.
And after he'd seen squall dance. That was worth staying for in itself.
He looked at where his hands lay in front of him, unconsciously clutched in one-another and stretched out as if in offering.
The others didn't know how lucky they were – being able to shut away their cleansed weapons after using them.
Being able to put a lid over the violence and shut away the responsibility, the lives and the death until they next picked it up.
He smiled wryly thinking how the others would probably argue against the validity of that statement. Selphie vehement with hands on hips, Quistis with a thoughtful moue and a cautious explanation, Seifer with a roll of his eyes and a glare ….and Squall with a raising of eyebrow, grey eyes flat and a hint of emotion – annoyance or dismissal flicking at the corner of his mouth.
Did they feel the blood on their hands?
If they did, they didn't show it.
Thankfully no-one had come in to find him retching and cowering from his own hands.
He would have deserved a few 'chickenwuss's' and worse for that.
But he'd gotten up and went about business – joining them for a quiet journey, as a good little seed should according to regulation.
He'd come back, been acknowledged as passing his exam and gone to the ball.
Where he'd laughed and joked and been happy and not felt the responsibility until it came in a sudden rush with the fireworks above.
When with a burst his hands started to tremble in his pockets, itching for movement and recognition. Then he'd come here to fall on his old friend – an enemy without a pulse, with a frenzy that he almost couldn't contain.
He ducked his head, bangs wet with sweat that beaded his skin rather than tears.
He wasn't going to cry over people he didn't know.
People who would have killed him and his team.
It would almost be easier if he could – then the memories might wash away.
But he couldn't. Wouldn't. They would haunt him and He couldn't deal with any more thoughts tonight.
He shakily stood, facing the bag with a serious expression, hands placed flat on his thighs as he bent forward from the waist, eyes still forward on his 'opponent'.
He bowed before sliding upwards and into a fighting stance.
Striking once again in a pattern that flowed with his heartbeat.
Cross. Cross.
Jab.
Hook. Cross.
Block.
Block.
Block.