The chant started as a whisper, passing along through the mass of students encircling the quad like a breeze through the leaves of trees. The sound was the soft rustling of breath cupped by secretive hands. The word was passed from student to student and it began to grow. The chant swelled as more children joined in its repetition, raising their voices in mounting excitement as they all turned to watch the spectacle before them.

"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Zell jumped back as he spotted a boy running towards him, crowing happily. The boy bumped into him anyway, and all of Zell’s books tumbled to the floor. Zell glared at the boy’s back as he stooped to retrieve his books, but then the cries of his fellow students broke through his anger and he chased after the boy, abandoning his books to fate.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Zell pushed his way through the students flocking towards the quad. He hated being so short, but he had to admit that his small size came in handy when he wanted to squeeze through a crowd. He darted his way through the throng, ran down the steps and burst out to the front line of the large mob of students gathered around a tile-floored area where, indeed, a fight was going on.

"Who is it?" someone too short to see cried from the back of the crowd.

"Who else?" someone bellowed from the front line. "Squall and Seifer!"

Zell elbowed a pushy student off of his shoulder and watched the fight. Squall Leonhart fought with his usual cool, eyes narrowed and head slightly thrown back. He dodged a punch and jabbed his right fist at his opponent without blinking his gray eyes once. His jacket was in place and his hair was artfully disheveled as always. Squall was unruffled and calm and completely in control.

Seifer Almasy was Squall’s negative image, his polar opposite. His yellow hair fell forward to brush his eyes. His white T-shirt was untucked except for his left side and one short sleeve was rolled to the shoulder. He was half crouched and panting, watching Squall intently as the two circled each other warily. Seifer dropped to one knee to kick at Squall’s thigh and as the brunet went down, the blond dove for him. Squall rolled away and jumped up, jabbing Seifer in the chin at the same time. Seifer stumbled back and held a hand to his chin, keeping his reckless grin all the while.

Zell shook his head at Almasy’s daring, thinking for the hundredth time that the other was absolutely insane. He craned his neck left and right, checking for professors or the Disciplinary Committee to show up and put an end to the brawl. Squall and Seifer were only thirteen and fourteen respectively, but they both had more reprimands and demerits on their records than all the upperclassmen. If Zell saw someone approaching with the look of an authority figure, he would yell to Squall and warn him. He supposed that Seifer would hear and be able to escape in time, as well, but that could not be helped.

Zell scowled at Seifer as the older boy slipped past Squall’s fists and pushed the brunet hard in the chest. Young Zell pretty much hated Seifer, and frankly, he hoped that Squall pounded him to a pulp. Seifer was a bully, and Zell was frequently on the receiving end of the tall boy’s teasing, insults and often painful pinches, kicks, and numerous pranks. The fact that Seifer was much, much taller than Zell only made it worse, and the one year the fourteen year-old had over him made Seifer unbearable.

What really boiled his blood—what really blew his top—what really, really made him angry was when Seifer called him "chickenwuss." That was just the worse—just the worse—absolutely the—just thinking about it made Zell splutter. Zell couldn’t even really remember how the insult came into being; it was really a stupid word.

Zell was usually a pretty cheerful kid. He was polite to adults, good-natured and friendly, had a good number of friends that considered him to be a fun, happy boy. Zell just had this part of him, though, that was triggered when Seifer called him a "chickenwuss," or a "coward" or any number of insults that questioned his courage.

Then, watch out world, ‘cause Zell was pissed. His face would burn red, his fists would curl, he would jump up and down with fury-fed anger and attack Seifer with all he had. Unfortunately, it was never enough. Seifer was much taller and stronger than he, and the older boy could usually put a stop to Zell’s charge by placing a restraining hand on his head and holding him in place.

Zell would show him, though! When Garden students turned thirteen they began weapons training. They weren’t allowed in the Training Center, or even to train by fighting one another, yet, but they chose a weapon and started to receive instruction at that age.

Zell had told everybody that he had not yet decided which weapon he would choose, but that was a lie. Zell had already made his choice: his weapon would be his own body. Zell had begun learning martial arts from Professor Mai-ling. The instructor was impressed with Zell’s dedication to learning; the boy had signed up for sessions with the professor every day, even on weekends, and he could be found training in the weapons gym very late every night. Zell went to the room that was designed like a normal gym, with mats padding the walls and floor, after all the other students had left each night so he could have privacy to practice the moves he had learned that day.

Zell was going to become an expert, really proficient—a Master. Then he would show them all what a short kid could do. Especially Seifer, the tall bully who walked around with his gunblade like he owned the world, just because he had passed all the tests necessary before being allowed to learn the very difficult and very deadly weapon.

Squall had told Zell last year that he, too, would try for a gunblade when his time came. He was ready for those tests of innate skill and strength when he tried for the privilege of taking the weapon for his own. Zell wondered if Squall had wanted the gunblade so much because it was such a demanding, challenging weapon to use and so rarely bestowed upon a warrior—or because Seifer had taken the weapon, and Squall did not want to let the other boy appear superior to him in any way.

The crowd gasped simultaneously and Zell focused on the fight again. Seifer and Squall were both bleeding from their noses and Seifer had what looked like a nasty bruise forming around his eye. In a move that Zell considered cheating, Seifer had thrown a handful of fire dust in Squall’s eyes and then knocked the boy to the ground. While the brunet was rubbing at his eyes, Seifer ran to the bench where the boys had left their things on the edge of the fighting circle and drew his gunblade from beneath the long, over-sized gray coat he wore.

"Yield!" Seifer cried triumphantly, placing the tip of the blade beneath Squall’s chin as the boy finally cleared his eyes and climbed to his knees.

Squall scowled up at the grinning blond and pushed a fallen lock of thick brown hair from his eyes.

"No," Squall said shortly and used his wrist to deflect the blade. In the short moment when the blade was pushed to the side, Squall rolled to his left and reached under the bench where Seifer’s and his things were. Seifer ran up behind Squall, sword raised for a stroke, and Squall whirled around to meet the downward slash of the other’s blade with his own.

"His gunblade!" the girl next to Zell cried out. "He hid it under the bench!"

Seifer scowled as Squall leapt to his feet and they dove into battle. Sparks flew and the sound of metal grating on metal scratched the air as their blades met again and again. The two boys darted and struck, jumped and blocked, moving in an intricate dance of steps. The crowd emitted gasps, cries and delighted squeals. Expressions were amazed, surprised, adoring. Squall had only taken the gunblade as his weapon months earlier and he was fighting an older, taller, stronger boy that had been training with his gunblade for a year more—and Squall was holding his own.

The dismay stood clear on Seifer’s face and Zell smirked smugly with pride for his friend. Take that, Almasy!

Zell stared at the two warriors clashing in the battle circle. The blades caught sunlight and threw it back, and the light was dazzling. He looked down at his own weapon—his hands—and felt a pang of envy. It would be exciting to hold a great weapon like that in his hands—to feel and control power like that. Could he have made the wrong choice in his decision to take a purely physical approach to combat? Would he one day regret putting aside inanimate objects and choosing instead to hone his body, to make it his weapon? Regret putting his trust, his life, his future as a warrior in muscles and sinew, bones and blood?

No, it was worth it. Worth it to one day meet Seifer’s insults and teasing with a series of complicated, artful moves that Seifer would not be able to counter. To have strength and knowledge that Seifer could not fathom—to fight him with his own body as his weapon, his arrow, his bullet, his sword.

Yes, his body would be his blade—a perfect weapon, the ultimate weapon.

Zell decided he would take this opportunity when everyone was gathered in the quad—on a Friday evening, surely all about to go out and leave the Garden a vacant ghost town as it often was on weekends—to go to the weapons gym to train. As he slipped through the crowd he caught sight of the four upperclassmen that currently ran the Disciplinary Committee. He decided to keep his mouth shut, though, and let Squall and Seifer deal with the consequences of their actions—just as he would do with his own.

*