Scaramouche, Scaramouche

Apparently, the short Wutain woman with the tattoo of those giant goldfish going all up her arm didn't take kindly to noisy drunks. A yelp from one of them drew Tifa's attention from the steamed green soybeans that table 15 was supposed to be getting, and she looked up in time to see the woman grab one of the beer bros by the ear(!?) and tow him out the door.

"Crap," she muttered. Handing the soybeans over to a startled Barrett, she ran out the side door, hoping to head the fight off at the pass.

It wasn't really much of a fight. Tifa'd figured on a knock-down, drag-out brawl that would land both lady and doofus in the hospital before jail. Even if she was tiny - shorter than Tifa - she seemed to know what she was doing. And the big guy was just -

"Look, man. It's - it's - Bolt Vanderhuge. Coming to save the day with his articulated pecs."

Tifa felt her mood keel over and die completely.

Not only an impending brawl?

But Reno.

( do the dot dot dot )