Edge City has grown from the remains of Midgar, purpose-built structures fanning outward and spilling across the badlands in the shadow of devastation. Life moves on. Finds a way to move forward, at least overall, even if some are still mired in the past.
One has to have a past, understand its foundations, in order to build a future.
The World Regenesis Organization oversees the development here; a monument to those lost to Meteorfall is under construction in the city square, and all the while people work to pave streets, construct shopfronts and restaurants and reestablish some semblance of infrastructure with scrap from the monster-infested and mako-exposed ruin to the west and south. It was a rocky start at first, but now - with connections to Kalm, the mythril and coal seams beyond - trade has returned.
With trade comes disputes.
And some are not so eager to let go of harmful patterns, of presumptions. The only SOLDIER, ex-SOLDIER, welcome in Edge is one Cloud Strife of Strife Delivery Services, and even then -- only because of who he is, his associates, what they have done. Soon that will pass into history too, and then what?
Edge is on edge with the proliferation of a new wasting disease, an undercurrent of despair and enmity and desperation. As though close quarters and daily reminders of what was weren't enough.
Kunsel can hardly blame them. They are just trying to get by, to make sense of it all and go about their day-to-day. Except...
"Look, I was open about this from the start. I'm not here to cause trouble," Kunsel says, even and calm, standing at the base of the clinic stairs. In plain sight of the square, in a low-profile armored coat--carbon black, like his boots, his trousers--and with a pair of curved swords crossed on his back, he faces down a man who looks to have a second career as a goalie of some kind. Coarse, rough, in maintenance blues, armed and blocking the way, the guard seems not to care about hands raised in surrender or placation.
"Fucker, I don't care if you were open about shit. You ARE trouble. Your kind's not welcome here. Get. Out," the man spits.
"I get it. I fix your comms relay, you run me off, your boss doesn't have to pay, you get a pat on the head. Is that it..." Ah, he has a name tag. "Robertson?"
"This is all me and Shotty here. You've got five seconds to turn the fuck around and walk the fuck away, 'fore I put you in the ground. Call it justice. You shoulda died with the rest of the 'heroes.' Fucking monsters-"
Tumblers and gears click into place. It would not matter if he were wearing farmer’s overalls rather than his First Class equipment, or even his old Second Class helmet. People might not know the unique custom uniforms, but they do know the uncanny look of eyes stained like the heart of a reactor. Kunsel regards Robertson's stance, the weapon in his hands, the barrel of the gun aimed near point-blank for his face. "Huh. ShinRa MCS."
"Mag extension, CQB configuration. Your posture's familiar-"
"-aaaand you've got the same blind spot, 'cause your buckshot's gonna keep going into the marketplace when you miss. You really gonna take that risk? For what, a decade-old pissing contest?"
"Alright, look-" Lightning-fast, Kunsel snatches the weapon from the man's hands. Rapid disassembly of a modular military shotgun is academic and efficient; the murmuration from the crowd of gawkers is expected, prickling unease at his nape - more than outright posturing or the threat of violence does. Barrel, shells, firing mechanisms, and stock drop into the dirt. It will take time to clean and reassemble, and that is enough of an inconvenience. Kunsel still does not raise his voice. "-I don't have time for the old infantry-versus-SOLDIER circle jerk. We were all jammed up the President's ass and we share the same stink. You should have a chat with your boss. Ask him about it. Morrow is old-school Science department. Or you can let me have a chat with him and I’ll be out of your hair--"
Robertson punctuates their discussion with a right hook that careens into Kunsel's mouth, echoing a solid crack.
It is almost like striking a brick wall sheathed in flesh--a wall that is not completely unmoved, but one that does not topple. Robertson splits Kunsel’s lip, but also splits open his own knuckles in the process, and the shock of pain only compounds his fury. He surges down the stairs as Kunsel steps backward, gloved hands lifted.
The crowd is uneasy, nightfall is soon, and the last thing he wants is to meet the business end of a bunch of civilian pitchforks.
A few paces away, he turns for a tactical retreat at an angle, keeping the clinic in his peripheral vision. The crowd, by and large, gives him a berth as he walks along reclaimed cobblestones, slipping between the corrugated panels of a ramshackle fence into a broad alleyway between two new prefab buildings.
He should take a moment. Take a breather. Think about next steps.
A crate will do as a perch until its owner shoos him off. He sits there, tongues his lip and runs his hand over his face and hair, chewing bitterness and frustration like grist as he listens to the muffled sounds beyond.
