"I'll bet you don't have a higher card."
*shows a higher card*
"Darn it!"
"Heh heh! You lose! Gimme all your moneyz."
"You suck, you know that?"
"Yup. Hand it over."

Two old guys were playing Gambit in the Haven Bar. The guy in the red shirt had just lost the match to the guy in the blue shirt, and were preparing for another round. Several bar patrons were trying unsuccessfully to convince the bartender to give them alcoholic drinks; they were too small to properly hold their liquor. A small gang of thugs occupied a table in the corner, whispering among themselves quietly about stuff you and I wouldn't want to hear about.

Just then, the bar doors slammed open, and the thunder cracked. In the entryway stood a mysterious figure wearing a Violet Rose Chapeau and Angelic Raiment. Silence fell over the room as the figure sat on a barstool next to a very burly-looking knight. It spoke to the bartender in a sweet feminine voice, "Gimme a milk, will ya? The name's Valentine." The burly knight next to her chortled. "A milk!? Well now, ain't that appropriate comin' from a woman?" His comment drew rolls of laughter from the room. The girl tilted her head and looked at him from the corner of her eye. "That's pretty smart, comin' from a mama's boy." The room once again burst out into laughter, and the knight's face went red. "You itchin' for a fight, ya lil' pipsqueak?" She gulped down her milk. He could just see a smirk grow on her face. "Maybe. Think a guy as fat as you could handle that?"

Enraged, he threw an ill-timed punch at her. She ducked and chuckled. "My my, touch-ee! Did I hit your lil' boo-boo?" He threw another punch, which she caught and used to throw him off his stool. He crashed to the floor, and a couple patrons helped him back up. "You see this here girlie? She can't beat a tough guy like me! Girls don't beat guys! Ain't that right?" Cheers erupted from the surrounding patrons. "I'll bet she can't even tickle me!" But the girl just smiled and curtsied. "I'll bet your bottom dollar I'll have you all in a dog pile by the crack o' dawn." This time, the room erupted into hearty cheers, jeers, and laughter. Several patrons stood up, wanting to take on the challenge.

The old guy in the red shirt quipped, "I'm gonna put my bets on her."
The old guy in the blue shirt replied, "You're an idiot. My bets'r on everybody else."

The first patron to challenge her brandished an empty bottle and swung it at her. She caught it, wrenched it out of his hand, and hit him over the head with it. He collapsed, and five others tried to get at her. But they kept getting in each others' way, and a couple of them accidentally hit each other in the jaws and fell backwards. Valentine jumped over them, danced on their heads, and tackled two of them to the floor at once. She bopped both of them over the head with her fists, then leapt over to the bar and grabbed another bottle.

She took a swig of it as another patron tried to kick her. She sidestepped it, took another swig, then ripped off his boot and tickled his foot. He topped backwards into a stream of feisty patrons, knocking them over like dominos. She chugged down the bottle and threw it at the bartender, intentionally "missing" him and striking the gang leader instead.

The old red-shirt whispered, "Uh oh, I feel sorry for the gang members."
The old blue-shirt replied, "They got 'er for shore!"

Silence fell over the bar as the gang looked at their unconscious leader, rolled up their sleeves, and advanced on Valentine. She backed away, pretending to be worried. "Eh...ha ha...uh...did I miss? I'm so...so...terribly sorry..." she said as she felt behind her for a chair. She grabbed it and heaved it over her head at the lead gang member. It hit him squarely on the head, and he spun around dizzily before toppling over. The rest of the gang stopped, looked at each other, then charged at her. They grabbed Valentine and held her down so the others could pummel her. She absorbed a couple punches in the gut before kicking off the offenders and wresting her arms from her captors. She ducked and rolled under several more ill-aimed punches and jump-kicked the lot of them into a nearby table.

Then the bartender drew a gun. "Enough!" he shouted. The remaining gang members drew their guns, too. Valentine withdrew her Cryotech Alchemer from her pack. One of the gang members jeered, "Whatcha gonna do, turn me into an icicle with that thing?" Valentine winked at him. "Nope, I'm gonna freeze yer arse off." She shot at him and missed. The man guffawed. "Ha ha! You mis- YOWWW!!" he screamed as the ricochet hit him in the butt.

Several more patrons tried to surround her. She jumped up, twirled, and kicked them all in their noses. That ended the barfight. By now, every one of the patrons was sprawling on the floor, nursing their sore noses, rear-ends, and groins. Valentine stacked them all up into a pile, climbed to the top on their heads, and sat down. She pulled out her pipe, lit her match on the sole of a patron's shoe, and lit her pipe with it.

"I win this time!" exclaimed the old red-shirt.
"How...but...why...that's not possible!" stammered the blue-shirt.
"Gimme your money now."
"No. That wasn't a fair fight."
"Exactly - it wasn't fair for the girlie. I called it, didn't I?"
"You...you...okay! Go ahead, take it! Get outta my sight!"
"Be glad to! See ya tomorrow?"
"...grrr, okay."

Sirens whistled in the distance, and soon, Spiral Justifiers had swarmed all over the bar. Valentine got off the pile, saluted the officers, and gleefully extended her arms to be arrested. The detective looked at her curiously. "Ha! Am I supposed to believe you're to blame for all this?" Valentine nodded. "Yup! Go ahead and arrest me, officer! I'm guilty as charged." The detective glanced at the stunned bartender, who slowly nodded as well. After some careful consideration, the detective decided to let Valentine go. "Y'know, that was kinda impressive. But don't do that kinda thing again, 'kay? I'm lettin' ya off with a warnin'." Valentine nodded eagerly. She took a few more puffs of her pipe and strolled off into the sunset.

All in a day's work.

I'm glad you enjoyed the story. Thanks for the critique! Looks like I still have a ways to go towards making a good action sequence. I'll have to keep that note in mind next time. :)

I'm glad you liked it! This is the kind of character I had in mind for Valentine when I wrote about her in RtC.

Thank you, sir! I enjoyed writing it.

Good to see you on the forums as well, sir!

((The goal of this short story is to practice writing about single combat.))

The Lover's Duel

"Your time is near, Channeler." Words that are not mine are uttered through my mouth. My love draws his pale rapier and points it at me. No words can describe how it feels to be forced to slay the one you love, nor how the heart of the loved one aches for his wayward kin.

My hand twirls my Furious Flameberge menacingly, and my body takes an offensive stance. It holds the blade above my head and points it at my love. He steps to the side and points his blade at me, taking a defensive stance.

We open with a quick horizontal cut, and he vertically blocks it. We step forward and swing overhead, to which he responds with a backstep and another block. We rotate the blade and undercut, forcing him to rotate his own blade to match. My body presses against the blade, this mind frustrated at his resistance. Over my objections, my body takes the fight to a new level: it spreads my wings and steps back.

With newfound speed, we dart at my love and attempt to run him through. Thankfully, he simply sidesteps it and and pushes us away with a telekinetic movement. But I had underestimated the intelligence of the controlling mind; we whip around and slice him across the back. It is a minor cut, but it hurts him nonetheless.

We twirl and slash at him, meeting his sturdy shield, then flip over him and thrust. Again, the attack meets his shield, throwing my body off balance. He swings at me, aiming for my legs, but we block low and kick him in the shin. He collapses to the ground, and we pin him with my legs and grip his neck with my free hand.

We touch the tip of my blade to his neck.

I touch the tip of my blade to his neck.

I cannot slay you, my love.

Well now.

Perhaps I should introduce myself. It would only be polite. The name's Astran Valderis, better-known as "The Thinslayer." You'll find out why in a moment. Today was my first day in office. Yeah, you heard right; I got a political office. It's also a corporation. I can already hear your blood boiling, but don't worry, you'll get blood pressure medication for that. Here, take one.

Feeling better now? No? Cool. Down to business. My first customer is some homeless dude complaining of a bullet wound. Who does he think I am, a doctor? I just take a puff from my pipe and stare at him, silently expecting him- no, daring him- to tell me more. And like a good little man, he does so.

"Dey jump me an' rob me o' mah moneh! Dey poot a boolit in mah side like dis-" He lifts up his shirt, revealing a smelly, gangrenous wound. He must have been letting that fester for days before coming to me. "-an den dey jus' run off. Dey wore black tuxes an-" I stop puffing my pipe. Black tuxedos? I think I know these men. Gang members. Yakuza. Whatever the heck they're called. Most likely, they're from a dark guild called "Black Hearts," one dedicated to the destruction of all that's good in the world. Cliche? Totally. And they're the bane of my existence.

While Mister Homeless Dude is still talking, I throw on my trench coat & hat and load up my blaster. "Where did you last see them?" I demand. The man points down the street and makes a zig-zagging motion with his hand, saying something about "tattoos" and a drug dealer.

Unfortunately, I know exactly where that is.

I thank the man and step through onto the dusty streets of Haven. You know what I think of it? Honestly? The place is a dump. Nothing more, nothing less. It's a mercy that any respectable knights even touch this place. Look, the prostitutes are out in force already. I happen to know a few of them. Not personally, you understand. I'm not that shady. Sheesh. They still make cat-calls at me, though. Through the winding streets I walk until I reach a narrow alleyway, behind the tattoo shop where a drug dealer named Flash does his business.

Flash is a cool dude. The two of us have a history together. We were squadmates back in the Great War, and we always had each other's back. We're kind of like brothers. We went our separate ways after the war (obviously), but we never lost that war bond between us. "Hey man!" he cries upon seeing me. "How's the Fatslayer comin' along?" He knows I hate that nickname. Jerk. "Couldn't be peachier," I reply dryly. I pull out my notepad, eliciting an eyeroll. "Dude, how come you never see me except on business?" Flash complains half-heartedly. "Cuz he's always calling me stupid nicknames," I retort with a joking grin.

He bends over to look at the notes I've scrawled on the paper. "What's that?"
"Black Hearts. Seen any?"
Flash crosses his arms and looks away. "No way, man."
He's hiding something. I know it. "Come on, bud," I plead with him, "you know I wouldn't rat you out. Spill."
"I 'aven't seen 'em, okay?"
"No, it's not okay. They threatened you, didn't they?"
"What if they did?"
"I'd kick their sorry arses to kingdom come."
"I bet you would."

Flash bows his head for a moment, releasing a labored sigh. "Okay okay, you win. They did threaten me. They told me they'd tell the authorities about my little Warp Dust operation if I didn't keep my mouth shut."
"What did they want you to keep quiet about?"
He hesitates. "They shot someone in front of me."
Not good. I'd bet two cents it was someone important to him. Knowing him, he'd have a lot of trouble talking about it. He's a softie that way. I pat his back reassuringly. "Don't worry, I'll catch 'em. Why was this person important to them? Can you tell me?"
He nods. "Yeah, I do know, actually. That stupid idiot was one of them. He told me he'd been trying to get out, but...you know how it is!"
I do know. Gangs never let anyone out. "Got any tips on their whereabouts for me?"
He heaves another sigh. "Not a clue, man."
Great. A dead-end. I pat him on the back and start off back to my office when my blood runs cold.

I glance over my shoulder to find Flash pointing a gun at me.

Tears stream down his face, his gun shuddering in his hand. "I have to do this, buddy..." he mumbles sadly. I shake my head and reply, "No, you don't. You don't have to do this. Drop the weapon, and maybe we can both walk away from this." He shakes his head wildly, nearly screaming, "I can't! I can't, man! They'll kill me! They'll kill my friends! They'll kill everyone! I have to do this!" He's dangerously close to pulling the trigger.

"Don't do it, man-"

Crud.

He did it.

"Show Not Tell" Links:
The original article I used. Quite helpful.
Be more specific.
This. Very helpful.
The comments are more educational than the article. One commenter says "telling" uses passive voive, while "showing" uses the active voice; I'll have to test that.
Read 2nd-to-last paragraph. Avoid dialogue tags.

Hello.

I've weaved your characters into the story. Any changes you make to the path I've laid out for you may send exponential ripples through the plotline. For example, Tifa could turn and leave right now (I'm personally not fond of the idea), which would create an entirely new subplot which could, in theory, either make the ending even worse or guarantee a happy one, depending on how it plays out. Or it might just fizzle out unremarkably. I have a few scenarios in mind. It can really pay to stray off the beaten path, especially if you have the foresight to see what's coming.