Umbrella Surveillance System
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Buck Rogers The light swims through the molten air, thick with all the rainbow colors of the world as some curious god-child melts crayons like candlewax over the canvas of reality. It's a heady mix of reds, and yellows, and blues and oranges and whites and greens, a psychedelic flash that coruscates off the gleaming, reflective walls of the ultra-fancy pool room. There's a warmth to it, bathed in the light and the color; there's a security in it, so tight-wrapped up in the colors, that for all the world Buck Rogers might curl fetal, like he were once more in the womb, safe and secure. Everything in the world is perfect, and he floats, floats, floats.

And he floats, floats, floats upon the water, half-sunk and resting on an enormous flotation device, bright blue and transparent with a black bottom cover. The beastly man is covered in hair and his chest, though bearing stitches, has healed with remarkable speed-- even the scar is fading, the ribbons of raised pink tender flesh weaving through the jungle of his black chest hair diminished to mere inklings of injury. He stares straight up into the air, drinking something fruity and alcoholic from a curly straw that loops three whole times, and he is high as a fuckin' kite on whatever painkillers he snatched during his treatment. He has a warm, moist cloth over his face, and he's wearing nothing more than an almost painfully tight speedo.

With the rush of Raccoon City survivors, most other guests have temporarily focused elsewhere. This suits the giant just fine, as he floats, floats, floats.
Prestige William Caldwell Somewhere, in some other universe, Buck might have had a peaceful day today. But this was not that universe. Someone yells from somewhere "CANNONBALL!" and charges into the water, causing a humongous splash in the pool. This man was bearing a pool noodle, his swim trunks, and a smile. He was known as William Caldwell, and he seemed to have retained some sense of joy after getting the fuck out of Raccoon City. He paddles over to Buck and proceeds to thwap him with his pool noodle "WAKE UP BUCK." he yells in his ear. "Are we doing chicken fights or what? Theres like nothing else to do in this pool. Come onnnnn"
Isabel Isabel Welsh, fellow Raccoon City survivor, has certainly been focused elsewhere until now.
Mostly she's been focused on sleep. After the harrowing escape from the doomed city, she was so exhausted, yet so keyed up, that she had to be sedated to even stand still. This had the obvious effect, and she's been asleep up until the last couple hours. Her last stop had been at a Haitian restaurant, where she ran into several survivors and tried to comfort one of them, but failed at it utterly, it seemed. On top of that, she ended up getting her meal as takeout because she didn't feel like eating, but couldn't bring herself to waste food after everything she'd been through.
Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed in the evening.
She's on her way back to her room when that shout from the pool room nearly makes her jump out of her jeans. She pauses to peek inside, blinking at the spectacle before her. She doesn't know Will, but the other man in the pool... It's a safe bet that there's no one else that massive in this entire hotel, if not this entire town. Isabel smiles faintly and slips inside, easing the door shut behind her. "Hello..." she offers shyly.
Buck Rogers Buck has transcended the frailties of the human mind. This moment was the apotheosis of his life-- the man has touched the essence of what is and stands on the cusp of Godhood. He has passed through the Iris, and it all makes sense. He smiles, and clarity rises and burns across his face like the dawn, like--

Like an enormous tidal wave that doesn't suit the metaphor or the moment, and instead drowns the sun and the Buck, the current threatening to tip him over. He splutters and coughs, spilling his drink over his chest, the precious alcohol mixing with enough chlorine that licking it up wouldn't even be worth it. He flails. He pulls the warm cloth from his face and tosses it aside, and his pupils are enormous, obscuring the blue of his eyes like ink blots. His floatie is unbalanced and begins to turn in slow circles that accelerate as he kicks, until he's riding William's wave and spinning like an impatient clock, pulled away from the pool noodle's reach. "I will bury you in the smoldering wreckage of your dead home," he intones with a decidedly uncharacteristic solemnity.. and then he laughs, and drinks, and hell, he wipes the chlorine-cohol from his man-carpet and licks his fingers, too, because he's tripping balls. His sail slows when Isabel wanders in, the fat of his floatie bumping against the edge nearest her. He stares at her upside-down. "You're pretty."
Prestige William Caldwell Caldwell continues thwapping Buck with his pool noodle. "Hi there!" he calls to Is A bell, until Buck gets away from his reach. "'re high as a god damn kite dude." he bursts out laughing and proceeds to slowly swim on his pool noodle away from Buck. Laying down backwards on his noodle and looking upside-down at Is A Bell "Hiiiiiiiiiiii."
Isabel Isabel blinks at the... decidedly /odd/ observation Buck just made. Well, yes, she'd have a hard time arguing with that, but normally Buck doesn't observe things in such /simple/ terms. She steps closer to the pool and sniffs the air, detecting alcohol as well as chlorine, and much of the last several seconds makes a lot more sense. Setting aside her dinner in its box, she kneels next to the pool, a bemused but still fond smile coming to her face. "And you're snockered as a boiled owl," she replies. "Should you really be near a pool like this?"
She glances over as William says his own hello, offering a smile in return. She didn't really deal much with most of the team, her watch hours being different from theirs, but she does know his face and name, at least. "Hello again, Will. Looks like you're in a good mood, too." Granted, his is probably not chemically induced.
Buck Rogers "You're not supposed to mix painkillers," Buck explains in a moment of complete sobriety, slow-spinning anticlockwise from his bump against the poolside. Isabel is now rightside-up, the clever girl, like a person should be. "But the second doctor didn't realize I'd seen the first, and the nurse was on break." All the survivors have received medical attention and treatment, but the sudden influx has been stressful, and accidents happen. Happy little accidents, as a painter might say-- and such is the happy little accident that's painted Buck's world so vividly. "You're also not supposed to drink alcohol." He stares Isabel dead-on, an almost feral glint in his predatory eyes, lips pursed around the cartoonishly childish curly straw as a pink drink is pulled through it. "I know these things because I am a police officer." He drains the glass, and sets it down in the water, shooing it away. "And no. I should not be." He kicks back toward her, and reaches up with one massive mitt. "Pull me out. I'm suddenly nauseous."
Prestige William Caldwell William nods to Isabel "I am always in a good mood when I don't have to fight for my life against a horde of undead zombies." he slowly spins around on his pool noodle and slowly bumps against the poolside. He slowly rolls into Buck and tips over his floatie. Falling face first in the water and slowly floating up on his back and climbing up the pool side. Dripping from head to toe. "It's cold..." he says, shuddering. Slowly wrapping himself in a towel and sitting down on a bench, grabbing a fruity drink and sipping it.
Isabel "And yet you've done all of the above anyway, even if not all of that is your own fault," Isabel replies, taking a step back from the pool as Buck offers his hand. "Next you'll want me to pull your finger." She knows there's no way she'd ever move him from this pool without a forklift. Or maybe a crane.
Her attention returns to Will. "In that case, you're definitely in the right place. Starting to adjust to living without scavenging to put food on the table?" Her eyes go distant for a moment. "I know I'm having a terrible time getting used to it."
Buck Rogers Buck's lip curls in a scowl, that primeval brow furrowed, nostrils flaring. He has been foiled, and even through his drugged haze, he can recognize the shadow that passes over the young woman when she speaks. He huffs mightily and rolls to the side, his floatie flipping over and drifting down one of the pool lanes, while he himself spreads in the water like some great hairy mermaid. It's easy to think him slow and slow-minded, so brutishly big and strong as he is-- but it's moments like this, when he cuts through the water with a practiced and damn near expert ease, weightless and graceful, that his athleticism shines. He cuts across the length of the pool without surfacing for breath, immersed in the toe-chilling cold, crisp and refreshing-- enough so to force some measure of stability on his drifting mind, heart now pounding as his blood rushes to warm his core. He kicks off the edge, and does another full lap under the water, and then his feet touch the bottom, his knees bend, and he kicks up, surfacing like a whale, in a spray of water that catches the sun pouring through the glass ceiling and makes him glitter. One hand takes the side of the pool and pushes up as he surfaces, and he leaves the pool completely in a fluid motion, dripping wet and every inch of him darkened and flush. He snatches a towel and wraps it around his neck and shoulders, and there now he looms, fierce and enormous, lion-maned and staring down at Isabel.

"It sucked and you'll have nightmares for months," he states, voice once more that plain, borderline aggressive growl it normally is. "But get that look off your face, sweetheart. You gotta smile when it's bright out. It's the only way you can live with cryin' all night."
Prestige William Caldwell It isn't Shamoo that William is watching, no, it's Buckoo. The hairy man-whale. His attempts at flipping his floatie were foiled and he watches him while sipping his fruity drink, he finishes drying off and relaxes on a chair. A nod is given to Isabell "Yeah, it's nice having actual food on the table and not scraps. Though I figure with the money i've been scavenging around the old city I have enough to last me a good while. I do need to get a new job though since STARS is kind of dead. You know..with the city being nuked and such."
Isabel While Isabel has never thought of Buck as slow-minded, it's rare that she sees him at his best, and she almost misses this time, her thoughts inward. But the sound of a massive body leaving water jerks her attention around to the incoming team leader. Her eyes widen a little as she cranes her neck to meet his gaze. A hint of a sigh escapes her. "I know... I'm sorry. I should be happy. We're out, we're alive. There's every reason to be happy. But I can't forget about all the people who didn't make it out. Like Aunt Lyndsey."
She nods to Will. "That's another thing. I'm not even sure where to start looking for work. I mean, is there a market for survival cooking and breaking and entering? Guerrila video production?"
Buck Rogers "Doll, you don't need to be happy to smile," the big man says, and he emphasizes that by popping a broad, shit-eating grin. "But you gotta smile." As ferocious as he can be, Buck has his periods of compassion and empathy--periods like now, when he reaches out with a huge, wet, scar-knuckled hand and pets Isabel's head, splattering her with water. "Acting okay is how you get to be okay, eventually. Hell, look at Will-- poor boy doesn't give a damn he was dropped on his head, he's just happy and upbeat." A bark of laughter, and the former S.T.A.R.S. Sergeant rolls back on his heels, hit by another wave of laughy-happy from the chemicals unwisely flooding his bloodstream. Seen so up close and, ah, personal, from head to toe, the man's violent lifestyle is apparent-- all muscle and veins and scars and hair, and the most peculiar idea that he seems even bigger than he did before. Not by much, but.. he seems broader, maybe a hair taller, fuller. "Ugh, been aching like a bitch since that licker cut me up," he grumbles, reorients himself. "Work? Isabel," and has he even said her name before? It's always girl, or darling, or some other old-timey country boy pet name, "you've got video evidence of the single biggest disaster to ever happen on American soil. Celebrity, baby girl - celebrity. Whole lot of people are gonna want to talk to us. Everyone's scared, confused, curious."
Prestige William Caldwell Caldwell shrugs at IS A BELL "No work for that I think. I'm personally going to be getting back into a security position, probably a government job. Heard theres recruitment going on." William looks over at BUCK "Yep. Smilings nice." he blinks and rubs his head "I still haven't gotten my head injury checked out..should probably do that at some point." he says, shrugging. Then proceeds to grab a SANDVICH and MUNCHES ON THAT SHIT.
Isabel Isabel ducks a little under that heavy-handed pat. It's probably not intentional, but with all the chems Buck's control could be a little better. At least the too-new gray hoodie she's wearing soaks up water without letting it through to her skin. "Celebrity... that feels so much like taking advantage of people. I want the truth to get out, all of it, but profiting from it would just be wrong. Besides, I've never not worked, whether I was paid for it or not. Being idle just isn't me, somehow."
She looks over at Will. "You have a head injury? You definitely should get that checked. I'm still nursing that strained knee, and that's bad enough." She's wearing a support, though there's no sign of it beneath her jeans.
She looks back to Buck, thoughtfully. "But you're healing like there's no tomorrow... is it the painkillers? I've never seen injuries knit so fast."
Buck Rogers "Yeah, probably," Buck agrees, glancing sidelong at Caldwell and that unfortunate skull. "Get yourself checked for a concussion. Buy a helmet." He withdraws his hand from Isabel's wettened hoodie, the print of his hand clear in the water stain sinking into the gray material. "Eh, well, I'll keep an eye on you girls til you get settled in," he decides, the conversation focusing him through the lingering haze of medication. "Whatever you decide to do, you get in any trouble, just run on back to me. You might not want to be famous, but I'm thinking it might happen anyway. So take it easy." He rolls his shoulders then, tilts his head, cracks the neck. "You too, Caldwell. Guess I'm not your boss anymore, technically--but hell, might as well act like we're S.T.A.R.S. til the new paychecks come in." A light shrug, a turn, and he walks toward a bench set along a wall nearby, plopping down on it. He stretches, lounging like a sated lion, smacking his lips and tilting his head back against the white. His fingers trace the fading remnants of wounds. "Must not have been hurt as bad as I thought," he decides, though he doesn't sound convinced. "I'm a bull." A quiet moment of thought. "Joints have been hurting, though. Feels like I'm fourteen all over again. Popping every time I stretch. Sore."
Prestige William Caldwell "It's fine I bet. I've got a thick skull." Caldwell replies to Buck. To Isabel he replies "I've had it since the whole incident started. Hasn't killed me yet but I haven't found any doctors." he smiles at Isabel reassuringly. He turns back to Buck "Thanks Buck. I appreciate the thought but I think I should be fine on my own for a little bit. But yeah, we're still technically S.T.A.R.S until we get new jobs. At the very least we're still cops, right? That hasn't been taken from us has it?" he ponders this thought quietly. He wasn't sure if he was a cop still now that the city was destroyed. He lounges on his chair and yawns, "Sounds cool. Maybe the non-stop excercise has helped you heal in some way?"
Isabel Isabel shakes the back of her hoodie gently, feeling it begin to stick to her skin. "Thank you, Buck. I'll remember that. But you've got a point. I'm going to keep making these videos of mine, and if people notice... well, that means the message is getting out there more and more. It could mean trouble in the future. I know Umbrella will try to shut it up or play it off."
She stifles a smile as Will speaks up again. "There are plenty of doctors here. Maybe go see one of the walk-in clinics tomorrow? It couldn't hurt, Will."
Still, she pulls her uPhone from her hoodie pocket, stepping away from the pool as she powers it up. She does have some video footage here, and some pictures...
There's one now. Isabel winces faintly, then looks between that image and the huge man on the bench. "Buck... you should see this," she says, hurrying over.
Buck Rogers Buck just nods, thoughts swimming, drifting in and out of an almost feverish haze of drug-induced bliss. He floats, floats, floats-- that's why he's sat down, you see, as he's not convinced he wouldn't lift off the ground if he was standing. Elbows digging into his thighs, massive spine arched, hands held up, he balls them into fists with a great thunderous cracking sound ripped from the knuckles. "Gonna hit the sauna after and sweat this out," he decides, attention then drawn by Isabel's worried words. He slants those baby blues at the phone, and his lips are pressed into a thin line. "So I heal quickly," he says, brushing the thoughts aside. A grin, and he pats his lap invitingly, giving Isabel a flirtatious and evasive leer. "Like I said, a bull. Want a ride?"
Prestige William Caldwell Caldwell nods to Isabel "Videos sound nice. Go make some documentaries maybe? A reporter? I dunno." he nods to her again "I'll see a clinic soon." Don't worry Buck, we all float down here. Come float with us Buck. "I might just make like a tree and leaf if I have to see you in any less clothing then I already have. Also. Ew."
Isabel It would be bad enough if he'd just brushed her concerns aside. But /that/ on top of the handwave? Isabel's cheeks flush brilliantly red, but her dark blue eyes flash. "The only reason I'm not slapping you is that you're too drunk to know what you're saying," she snaps. "I'm not Lillian, and I'd never hurt her like that. I'll be in my room." Scooping up her box of carryout jerk chicken, she shoots Will an apologetic look and she turns for the door. "Maybe we'll all feel better tomorrow."
Buck Rogers Buck laughs at that, but it isn't a very amused laugh. He doesn't want to think about the potential reasons he could be feeling strange and healing quick. "I don't think she'd mind," he remarks, and he sloooowly pushes himself back to his feet, having regained some measure of internal equilibrium with his brief rest. "You gotta live life, Caldwell. You never know when it'll be gone." He almost stumbles, catches himself, and then walks alongside the pool, towel still around him like a lord's fur mantle, as he heads to the small stairway down into the men's lockers and the attached heat room. He scratches his chest and his balls as he walks, because Buck is a classy drunk.
Prestige William Caldwell Caldwell looks confused as fuck. "Uhh...did I miss something?" he asks, being left alone in the pool. He slowly rises up and begins to walk out the door, more confused then the head trauma made him before. "Alright Buck, you got it." and with that. HE'S OUTTIE 5 THOUSAND.
Isabel For her part, Isabel makes good on her turn and flounces out the door as well as anyone can flounce in jeans. But she's still got her phone in her hand, and she's still looking troubledly at the images there. As if she didn't have enough to worry about, now there's a problem with another person she cares about. And she still has videos to edit and get up.
A sensitive, nerdy girl's job is never truly done...