#Verse: Crisis Core

[unforestalledreturn-a]

continued from here @serafim Bumping into his lip as he drank, a slice of dumbapple was the source of a momentary pause. It was just enough of an opening for Sephiroth to artfully work his way into the catastrophic endeavors of research without so much displacing a single page. Such tactics were brutal and undoubtedly unfair. Nonetheless, Genesis was unwilling to give up his little treat either. He would make no commentary on 'what he thought of it'. That would require a critique to begin with in the first place.

"Poor thing's hibernating. Hasn't slept well since his last assignment." It was a... messy one, undoubtedly. Even if the reports spoke of one version of events, the heaviness in their fellow First's eyes spoke of another. And like clockwork, Genesis' nest had taken form, building until it was the state it was now. He should have been there, spare the misery. So he was now here, trying to make squiggles of some madman's diary garner clues he somehow missed the first, second, and... twentieth times. "Possibly." He replied to the suggestion of submitting a request for an open study with a suspicious amount of agreeableness. "Provided adequate furniture arrangements can be made." He set the page down on the newly available surface, namely Sephiroth's lap. Without so much as looking up, he took the next page in the diary, water-logged, and hardly legible. If one looked closely, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lip. And it remained there as he gently agitated the liquid of his mug to stir up it's pleasant aroma. Briefly, a comfortable silence fell, the rays of the early morning light creeping across the floor in declaration that it was indeed the next day. He was no closer to finding what he was looking for than when he started. "There... are only so many 'new' pieces of materia to be found." A nonsensical statement, one that made perfect sense in his sleep-deprived mind. "Fira is fira is fira. Once manufactured, that's all it is. The deviation in the memories stored within are muddied in favor of wide use. The same use. Standardized and mass produced. Even synergistic materia runs into the same problem--" Genesis cut his rambling short, seeming to even have lost his own train of spiraling thought. Head hitting the back of the couch cushion, Genesis stared up at the high-vaulted ceilings. A delirious laugh bubbled out from his chest. "I should send them on a wild goose chase. How does the ever elusive and legendary Bahamut Ultima sound?"

[steeleidolon]

@poeticphoenix

sender’s muse kills someone to protect receiver’s muse. receiver approaches to gently calm them down.

Fire.

It calls to primal instinct, primal emotion. Its glow recalls the earliest illumination of collective memory, something ancient, living, breathing. It can warm and it can protect. It can maim and it can kill. Checked or unchecked, the distinction can be razor-thin.

Here and now it blazes past Kunsel's face and prickles at the hair on his forearms, and at first all he can hear is the screaming beneath its guttural roar.

It's not his.

He's reasonably sure it isn't his. He would have to breathe to scream.

It echoes, it echoes, half-realized night terror blazing bright, memories of entrapment, crystalline cave walls channeling heat and smoke and sound, herding men, women, children into choking darkness.

Shrill and terrible the cries ascend as padded armor ignites, as metal flashes molten, as the flesh beneath burns. They try to flee, but it is useless.

At eight hundred standard degrees or thereabouts, a crematorium reduces human remains to ash and gas. This is not a crematorium, but consuming flames erupt from an outstretched crimson-clad hand and adhere with all the tenacity of napalm to Kunsel's three would-be captors.

The Crescent Unit knows better than to send one man to face a SOLDIER, even one they managed to venom dart at great sacrifice given the slain pair of shinobi on the ground. For all their recon and preparation, they could not have anticipated this.

One by one the bullets in their rifle-lances explode, percussive insult to injury, and still Genesis holds his poise. Between that and the thunder of his own heart, Kunsel shakes himself of his astonishment, swallowing down the embers of panic.

A stagger-step back, aside. Numbing fingers flex, and he remembers himself - remembers to disarm, weapons to the mag-catch between his shoulders, hands open.

"...Sir," he rasps, shifting to approach from the flank, ashen and limned with sweat under his helmet.

"Commander. They're dead."

Done. Crispy, even. Twisted, blackened. The grasses have caught. The fire is spreading, a beacon in the night, and Kunsel aims to set a palm on the redhead's shoulder.

"Genesis...hey. It's alright."

[unforestalledreturn]

continued or merely contributed to this angsty brainworm that has been gnawing at me. Thanks @wingsdreamt for shoving my heart into the meat grinder.

It started as a fraying thread, here and there, tension pulled just a touch too tight. It was an unexpectedly sharp retort, it was an added lethargy that preceded and followed after every major activity. It was in the feverish nights desperate for an answer in dusty tombs that only his scared heart could answer.

Now, it was in the tatters of his beloved coat as it fell apart, the cracks of his skin that continuously chipped and disintegrated even at the lightest insult. And Fair was no pushover, even in Genesis' prime; and their most recent bout took out of the proud commander of Team Bravo what fight he had left. There was no longer a cause to burn over. Only cinders. Only ash. Maybe, all this degradation was his fault in the end. Faulty genes paired with refusal to do anything less than burn the candle at both ends... Truthfully, Fair had every right to kill him. But the damned fool still somehow had it in his head that there was anything that could be saved, that should be saved.

Little droplets pattered through the decrepit excuse for what was the barely standing shed, a place to keep firewood dry. But given the rot and smell of mildew, it had long lost its purpose. "..." Genesis did not so much as look over, at first, the returned dumbapple unnoticed, or perhaps ignored. Likely ignored, as the deeply satisfying crunch was difficult to miss. It seemed that neither of them had the strength to offer anything to such a contrived conversation to begin with. But when another droplet, and another filtered through, an ebon wing rose above their heads. It was the only part of him that wasn't crumbling, healthy, despite how dirty and uncared for it was. Like a parasite. "I won't need it... Zack." No amount of calories or sweet memories could save him. "If the difference between my living or dying was in the hands of a single dumbapple it--" Abruptly, Genesis choked on his words. He turned his head. "Keep it. Gift of the goddess, if you must. If you don't take care of yourself...well. " His wing curled, a defensive reflex. "You... will rot."

[stormedhorizon]

Just when the young infantryman thought he was in the clear, the very moment he let out a shaky exhale and remembered to breathe, his heart sunk again. The odds of a SOLDIER happening to hear or just be on their own damn designated floor was pretty high. But to have selected the one that practically necessitated interaction to hide against felt like a sick joke. But what initially felt like a curtain of doom closing in transformed with a handful of words-- no not even. It was the demeanor of the SOLDIER, his focus. It was something like a ray of light piercing through what like hopelessness. Frankly, Cloud forgot to respond. The moment the door opened, the blonde stumbled in, cradling the hurt cat the best he could. He was focused. Things like introductions or even manners were left at the door as Cloud swiftly rushed to the nearest flat surface, a coffee table where he delicately placed the wounded calico suffering a major laceration on her back. Cloud wasn't there when she was attacked, but he did come upon his squad's musings as they debated amongst themselves what to do with her. It was when one of them suggested taking potshots at it that Cloud took action. "Have alcohol?" Was the first thing he said as he removed his cumbersome gloves, manipulating and evaluating the extent of the messy tears with his fingers. Being from the country, exposure to animals was inevitable, including when they got into fights. Some made it. Some didn't. He frowned as the calico weakly mewled. She had lost a decent bit of blood and hardly had the strength to protest. "'Gunna need to sew her up." There was nothing they could do to restore the lost blood, but preventing more from being spilled and infection were of the highest priority.

Pluck any random person out of these halls and odds are they aren’t a day over the age of twenty-five. Most don’t last that long. Not without failing up, becoming a career officer, or putting in specifically for a horizontal move within the organization. Death could come from anywhere, strike at any time. Bad luck, inclement weather, fatal mistakes, wrong place, wrong time, and just plain stupidity. 

There are exceptions, of course.

Plenty of hopefuls make do in other ways, biding their time and waiting for opportunity. He likes to think he was lucky. Right place, right time, a little bit of luck, a touch of skill– and suddenly the divide that separated Public Security from SOLDIER wasn’t just a country boy’s pipedream anymore. His life changed, but not much. Not in the ways he thought it would. Making Third Class certainly changed nothing in the people he previously worked with for the better. They knew better than to say it to his face, but he didn’t need enhanced vision to see it.

The other Third Classes were cool, but even he didn’t get to consider them equals for long. Wartime made for as many opportunities for needless violence as it did advancement through Shinra’s ranks.

Maybe he just hasn’t been ground down enough yet. Angeal liked to spend a lot of time tempering his expectations, but so far the results have been inconclusive.

Floor 50 was reserved for Public Security and 49 fell entirely into SOLDIER jurisdiction. Since Lazard’s office was on the 51st, there was plenty of spillover foot traffic between the two divisions. Conflict and tomfoolery was not unheard of, and the labyrinthine hallways left plenty of nooks and crannies for trouble to wiggle into.

Like this guy, who was currently pressed up against the door to his room. Blocking the way in, sure, but it wasn’t like he was in a rush to go anywhere other than the loo after participating in the latest parade out in Sector 8. Shinra never tired of flexing their achievements to the general populace. Certainly not when their poster boy’s achievements were the talk of the town. 

“Hey, not to butt in or anything, but…you good?” 

Zack heard more than saw what was going on, but he figures he’s got a clear enough picture. Judging from the receding footsteps and voices, they’re in the clear for now. He assesses the situation more closely from spiky blond head to toe. They couldn’t be more than a couple years apart. Standard PubSec gear… Two details in particular are immediately apparent to him, one: the growing dark circle on the front of this random infantryman’s shirt, two: the oddly shaped lump under it. The coppery scent of blood doesn’t quite smell human, so…

Under Cloud’s uniform, the tiny lump makes a pitiful sound that might have warmed even the cold, dead cockles of Scarlet’s heart. Animals weren’t allowed this far up in the Tower. At least, not ones that hadn’t passed under Hojo’s purview. They couldn’t be seen with this poor creature in their custody.

Right. He understands the assignment now. 

“Aww, how bad is it? I’ve got spare medkits in my room–” He really ought to tell his roommate ahead of time when he can, but these are extenuating circumstances and there’s no way he’d be forgiven for demonstrating the cruelty of indifference. Zack urgently wiggles a hand past Cloud’s flank and towards the security pad before the poor infantryman has a chance to respond. 

“C’mon!”

[ghostofnibelheim]

"I apologize for the interruption. I'm Sephiroth, one of Hojo's SOLDIERs." He introduces himself with a mechanical bow of his head. "I am in detention for breaking the rules. I was ordered to assist you in any way necessary for the next four hours."

[heartbinders]

TAG DUMP: CLOUD STRIFE

❛ ic: cloud. ❛ musings: cloud. ❛ headcanon: cloud. ❛ aesthetic: cloud. ❛ meta: cloud. ❛ images: cloud. ❛ relations: cloud. ❛ open: cloud. ❛ closed: cloud. ❛ inbox: cloud. ❛ dash games: cloud. ❛ starter call: cloud. ❛ drabbles: cloud. ❛ music: cloud. ❛ verse: cloud ; crisis core. ❛ verse: cloud ; original. ❛ verse: cloud ; remake. ❛ verse: cloud ; rebirth. ❛ verse: cloud ; kingdom hearts. ❛ verse: cloud ; smash.

[unforestalledreturn-a]

❛ here, give this a try and tell me what you think. ❜

|| an assortment of dialogue prompts || Status: OPEN!

Off-duty, early mornings were always a hit or miss with Genesis, and it was entirely dependent whether he was still up from the night previous or had fallen asleep engrossed in his research into the arcane. That was his excuse, in the least. He was always on the cusp of a major breakthrough, something that would transform the very way SOLDIERs engaged on the field. A little lost sleep was a small price to pay, He'd say, brushing aside any concerns posed his way about his health and habits. In truth, it was hard to sleep. It was hard for all of them. He'd never say it out loud, but there persisted an impossible desire to somehow spare a little bit of that grief and loneliness. Angeal was kind and wanted to do good. But war was filled with the unexpected and the cruel, and the questionable decisions his dear childhood friend had to make weighed heavily on the man's soul. How could one be honorable as a murderer? Sephiroth was another beast-- he was far more accustomed to the atrocities, but only because that was all ShinRa had for their most precious hero. The weight he bore, did he even know how lonely it was? All by himself on that pedestal? Often, Genesis second-guessed himself at this. Maybe he was projecting too much on how he would feel if there did not exist a single person in the world that understood him. How maddening it would be. But it was so far a distance for Genesis to climb, to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, to say with confidence that he could be relied upon. Yet, even burning the candle on both ends, Genesis could not help but feel the effort was futile. The dead language on the many scripts and texts before him had long since become watery and difficult to read. Another trail of another summon to substitute the strength he did not have, pewtering out. And, evidently, Genesis had reached a state where he was not even all too aware of his surroundings. Head supported by his hands as he tried again, muttering the same damn passage under his breath, he almost did not recognize that instead of scribbles and faded ink, there was a cup obscuring his view. The steam wafted into his face, a pleasant enticement of something herbal, cinnamon, and sweet. When he finally looked up, he found Sephiroth standing beside him in the cluttered disaster corner that Genesis called his 'study'.

❛ here, give this a try and tell me what you think. ❜ Dull, exhausted eyes regarded his fellow elite. So far up there... Was there any world where Genesis could possibly reach? The smell of spice drew his eyes back down. "Oh, darling, did I wake you?" He purred sarcastically, but weariness made it sound a touch... too earnest. Genesis grasped the hot mug and brought the rim to his lips, inhaling deeply. Well and truly, there was nothing else that could smell better than that, not that he would ever give Sephiroth that satisfaction. Not intentionally. "Just as a reminder..." He paused to sip, and the sip turned into a gulp, savoring the way it burned down his throat. "... poisoning those who disturb your beauty rest is still considered a crime."

[azure-steel]

Oh, but Cloud had noticed the weird looks being thrown their way, his eyes would dart towards those curious stares, back to the silver SOLDIER and then back to the passing crowd.

Man... that raw egg was really starting to solidify and culture in his guts right about then. Or maybe he was just having the fanboy jitters standing here and talking to the one and only Sephiroth SOLDIER First Class... no... it was the egg, we're blaming the raw eggs today.

Damn whatever chicken shat that one out!

"I-I guess we're friends, yeah." He tried to sound confident about that answer, he really did. But were he and Zack Fair really friends? Or did the other man just feel sorry for him and chose to sit with him in the mess hall since they met back in Modeoheim?

It wasn't a thread Cloud particularly wanted to pluck at in that moment.

"Sir... permission to speak?" he asked this with the meekest of voices and yet failed to wait for a response before asking his question anyway. "What's this gotta do with that egg you gave me?"

To the reveal of the grunt's face, Sephiroth did not react in any discernible way. The way his gaze remained still and heavy on the other would have one think that nothing had changed at all from his perspective, and that he was still waiting to see. Maybe lost in the mysterious world of a First Class SOLDIER war hero's own musings.

"I have seen you before." He said at last. "You were sitting with Zack."

Perhaps that should have been worded the other way around. Before the shy and quiet disposition of this infantryman, Sephiroth had no doubt that Angeal's protégé was far more likely to be the one guilty of imposing himself for company. But it was a company that could be appreciated... in healthy doses. Or so Angeal would say.

"Are you a friend of his?" Sephiroth asked then, not even paying notice to the curious looks thrown in their direction by passersby. He'd grown accustomed to people being curious about any and every interaction he may have in public.

[steeleidolon]

Scars.

Starter for @wingsdreamt

It makes a certain logical sense to keep military departments close at hand when stationed at headquarters--a concentration of resources that can be mustered out swiftly and efficiently when the need arises. When these resources are clustered together, it is also a simpler affair to keep them contained, at least in theory.

The Wutai war is in full swing. Cohorts cycle in and out on deployment week by week, month by month. Some choose the army proper--the infantry abroad, Public Security and Peace Preservation at home.

SOLDIER is an ideal. A dream for many. A success for comparatively few. Those with aspirations are considered climbers, using the storied, proud, battle-hardened division as a stepping stone for their own edification. The rivalry is and always has been bitter at best.

The barracks levels are crowded. Chaos is a common state between fitful moments of order. Men off of rotation must adjust to the rhythms of time off of the field, away from the need for constant readiness. In a way, the walls, ceilings, and floors feel like a cage, magnifying and concentrating restlessness. Some find outlets on leave. Some do not have that luxury.

Some find other reprieve.

Discord is not uncommon - shouting, chanting, arguments, challenges to the training rooms, bids for space when space is at a premium, cheer around intoxicating contraband and the corresponding hush to keep it from becoming more than an open secret. Thudding boots and elbows against tables, laughing, wrestling, jostling, establishing a pecking order without the distraction of patrols or latrine-digging or mess tent meal services, without concern for the elements since the elements cannot reach them here.

Less common for it to pitch strident, to the point where blowing off steam, jockeying and play breaks into violence.

Furniture slams into a metal wall. The general barracks for each cohort are comprised of orderly rows of bunk cots sectioned out with footlockers and standing lockers, with a minimum of privacy- even in the shared shower quarters.

Sound carries.

The scrabbling of feet. Boot-treads squeaking on concrete drawn wet. Shouts, growls. Fists strike flesh. An overturned desk, smashed glass.

"Got his legs. Get his arms! Get-"

"Fuck!"

"-Lanoue!"

"--rabid fucking dogfucker bit me! Get him off me! Let go! Let-"

"-go!"

…

Tenuous calm can shatter in an instant. Kunsel slipped into the barracks to quietly and efficiently gather his things per instructions, prepared for his move to his new quarters. While the acceptance rolls for SOLDIER were provisionally anonymous, they weren't, really. Not with the lines of disappointed aspirants hoping to see their serials on the printouts, and certainly not with certain commanding officers letting roster changes slip before they're finalized, not with the air of celebration for some.

Anything can happen in the transition.

Anything at all.

In and out, he promised himself. No goodbyes. No gloating. Just another faceless individual among faceless individuals--except things are never so simple. When so few make the cut, grudges are a matter of course.

Fighting for life and limb warrants a ferocious edge - no holds barred. Even unarmed, the terrain can become a weapon. No rules. Fang and claw. Tooth and nail. Headbutts, kicks below the belt. Disrespectful open-palmed slaps to ears, gripping hair and shoving.

No matter how combat trained, they are still only human. Four on one is hardly a fair fight, especially an ambush.

So he is here, now.

On his back, arms and legs restrained, duffel bag contents scattered across the hard floor. Blood on his lips and chin, a sock stuffed into teeth smeared crimson, stringy with ripped skin. Lanoue cradles his forearm and stands guard. Wheeler watches the other direction, a knee planted on the stripped sheet wound into impromptu shackles.

Kunsel digs his heels in and heaves, hoofing his shin directly into Golden's crotch. For his trouble, he earns Tanner's metal-shod boot directly to his ribs - and then the broader man drops the whole of his weight onto Kunsel's stomach, straddling him wholesale.

"Fucking Cosmo coyote-"

The combat knife gleams dully in the overhead light, eye contact blistering and enraged, anticipatory. No amount of breathless arching can escape the hand latched to his jaw, and no amount of cloth can stifle the guttural sound as the first cut falls.

"Lotta guys would give their right eye to be in your shoes. Gotta make sure you don't forget your place."

[firxga]

AMBUSH :  for both characters to come under attack by the same enemy

"Tch."

That was the weight of his response to Shinra's infantry, as though it were a mild annoyance to face down the behelmeted fodder. This wasn't how Genesis planned to start his day, and the other defector didn't exactly look thrilled about the surprise guests either.

"Your ragtag little group going to make an appearance?" he asked a question which he already knew the answer to. His lips kicked up into a sharp, lopsided smirk. "No? Do try to keep up, old man."

[ghostofnibelheim]

@umbral-stigmata-unbound || Continued from here~

The question seemed so simple, even a playful tease of sorts. But Sephiroth found that it gave him pause, instead of being humored. He didn't turn to look back right away.

"Is that what you're hoping for? To be assigned to someone who won't care?" He asks. No provocation in his voice; the tone is dry as ever, but there might be curiosity. "You think that would be better for you?"

[unforestalledreturn-a]

Fealty was the blood that ran through the quivering, shaken SOLDIER's veins. It was the ink by which his strictures were written, the fury that coursed through his blade as he struck down the innocent, burned their villages to ash with cruel efficiency as not to allow even the faintest protest escape. He did not revel in it that suffering, but, like a damned, deluded saint, he was thrilled by every exercise of his bloody devotion. For if it was not him, who else would be left? Would it be Sephiroth, born and raised to be that efficient killer, one who never had the luxury of a single breath of humanity? Would it be Angeal, whose conflicting morals killed his soul in such context? Every dying scream was a love poem, every person Genesis had ever killed was in their name. Spare the grief. But as Genesis' head sank against Jae's padded chest, as his form was collected up as an answer to a barely whispered request, a selfishness that the crimson elite could hardly stomach to utter it became all too clear. It was spelled on the ridge of his knuckles, a dizzying, all-consuming notion that left Genesis quite breathless. It was clear now, why the murders of foreign civilians failed to weigh on his conscience the way Scavola's did. And it was the simplicity of who the act was done for. 'For them', Genesis would accept any heinous atrocity. But 'for himself'... it was not something that had ever entered his mind. It was the same. Quite a shadow, his little mouse had cast. And while Genesis spoke no more, the stiffness of his frame laxed, drifting, exhausted, curled on the lap of a man in a bloody dress, lulled to sleep by such a promise.

“For what?” he asks, genuinely curious despite his exhaustion. Even with the blades of the overhead fan spinning away, he felt as though he were melting. Sweat dampened hair clung to his expertly contoured cheekbones, the blush and lipstick slightly smeared from… Ugh. That was the absolute last thing he wanted to think about right now.

“It’s not your fault.”

It’s a weak statement, but he’s trying desperately to grasp the correct words, the proper amount of empathy needed for this rather unique situation. But he knew himself, he would do it again. And again. As many times as he needed to, however many times it would take. Human lives meant nothing to him, or at least they weren’t supposed to, but when it came to Genesis- Well. It’s so strange, he hasn’t felt this way in a long time. Maybe ever. Like stirring from a deep slumber and blindly feeling your way out of bed, there was a pleasant warmth but also a disorientated kind of haze clouding everything.

Jae didn’t need to hear anything else.

He stamps the filter out into an ashtray and draws closer, pulling Rhapsodos into his lap practically. The musical chime of jade bangles decorating his bony wrist intermix with the groan of the rather ancient couch’s springs as their weight shifts and they get more comfortable, the Turk wrapping his arms around the redhead’s shoulders as Genesis’ face presses into his chest. Yoon’s scarred fingers card through the other man’s hair slowly, sliding further down to gently rub at his back in small circles.

“I won’t. Never again,” he promises, swears it in the back of his mind like a knight taking one knee and pledging fealty to his liege. Jae interlaces his fingers with Genesis’ and brings them to his lips, pressing soft kisses against each knuckle reverently.

It’s not a perfect scene out of some fanciful romance, more twisted from the pages of a dark fairy tale. There’s blood all over his dress, dried by now, but still evidence he’d have to properly dispose of later. His men would guarantee that nary of speck of evidence linking back to him would be left behind, but he felt better being thorough.

“Whatever you need, I’m here.”

[nonhumen]

am i really going to be a clown and remake my seph icons for the fourth time

[unforestalledreturn-a]

Duplicity

@stagnantmako liked for a starter! It was getting worse, and Genesis knew it. What had begun as a gradual, insidiously subtle decline over the years now plunged into further, deeper depths. The wound in his shoulder would not heal. Genesis had tended it for nearly two weeks now, and where a SOLDIER's natural regeneration should have made quick work of such a nuisance, there was no healing to be found. Rather, it festered and oozed-- a plague within. He felt it stir all sorts of things. Beneath his skin writhed what felt to be a thousand snakes, burning and spreading further and further. And as it progressed, the harder it was for him to maintain face. Yet, here Genesis was, gathering his aching resolve to bury deep the pain and sensation of something itching just beneath the surface-- there was no other choice. Soon, he would depart for Wutai, the busy coming and goings of citizens filling the train platform with noise, bodies, and... something that made his head throb. Was this how an insect felt as it was melted within a cocoon? Reduced to nothing before bursting into something else? Hollander had eluded to as much-- Genesis refused to believe it. I'll clear you for this mission, just keep in mind what I said. I'll be ready, when you come around. That, however, was not the start nor end of the crimson elite's problems. As if keeping face was not difficult enough in front of his men, his Director, the public, even his closest friends, he had been saddled with... an unexpected challenge. Nero was the name, a prodigy magic user seeking mentorship. Apparently, the SOLDIER had connections within ShinRa, and through the wheeling and dealing of the corporate madhouse, had managed to twist the Director's arm enough to assign him this new mentee. They were to meet soon, not that Genesis was paying all too much attention to anything around him. Rather, he sat back on one of many blue benches that lined the station wall, arms crossed and expression pensive, not too unlike how one might look to be on the verge of being sick.

[steeleidolon]

continued from (x) -- @poeticphoenix

More than a few minutes pass. Kunsel is alive for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is his general lack of response to dares of an inebriated or bravado-stirring sort. Sometimes, though, it gets the better of him.

He is human, after all. Even if Genesis is his commanding officer.

「 Message Sent :: Recipient: Pyromancer Genesis 🔥」

[ 📲 >>> ] Among other things, yeah, those are pierced.

[ 📲 >>> ] Healing time wasn't bad. Couple days, less than a week--I got them right after I hit 3rd.

[ 📲 >>> ] Funny story, the first infusions made them insensate. Don't ask me how I found that out.

[ 📲 >>> ] Funnier story, gold is extremely conductive and I guess that reconnected something because sensation absolutely came back.

[ 📲 >>> ] Anyway, whether or not you'd trip onto my tits, happy to introduce you to my piercer over at Ink and Steel. He's discreet.

[unforestalledreturn-a]

With all the seeming patience in the world, Genesis stood, expression unchanged, even if there did exist a very defined limit as to how long he would stand there with all bark and no bite. Orders were orders, and if it meant hauling the uncooperative Turk over a shoulder, so be it. In fact, he quite nearly hoped Tseng would test him further. But then the tide shifted. And Genesis lost his excuse to do anything extreme. Pity. "You assume correctly." Genesis nodded. "If you would be so kind as to leave all technological devices here." He gestured to desk stacked with undoubtedly a large workload, surely to grow larger after this whole debacle was resolved. Keeping in stride with a single step ahead, Genesis began his escort, one that entailed a less than stellar route, but at no point did any chokepoint like an elevator tempt the seasoned veteran to indulge in a thoughtless convenience. For all he cared, the entirety of HQ could be rigged-- or at least he treated it as such. In reality, it was highly unlikely. No matter, down the stairs they went. Then, from his red leather coat, he drew out a clean phone as they descended, down, down, down to the underground garage where a vehicle waited. Whether it was foresight from the Director of SOLDIER or sympathy for the inconvenience on behalf of the one assigned to protect the Turk, Genesis did not elaborate. "Here." He passed the device.

His ire lay not with the black sheep but the injustice of a would be usurper ousting him from his place of comfort when the stacks of papers only ever grew. So much to catch up on and far too much to take with him. No remote work save for the file he tucked under his arm provided by none other than Genesis the fair.

A cursory glance over the eccentric man in his soft-aged leathers and he decides he could have it worse. At least this one too was pretty to look at.

"You'll do just fine." He has no intentions of reaching beyond his department to deal with a man half as incompetent as his rumored brother. Perhaps he judges too harshly, what man could wrangle the madmen of SOLDIER half as well as Lazard? It must be a greater headache than Tseng can ever imagine.

"I trust that all communications are to go through you." This as he shuffles a few choice folders among the others. Ones he can not afford to leave behind for prying eyes to inevitably search. Satisfied, he waits for the SOLDIER to take lead before they leave the office, keys to lock up tight. What good that will do.