Umbrella Surveillance System
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Kristin Kristin has taken a seat near the back of the Waffle house where she can enjoy her endless cup of coffee in relative solitude. The beautiful thing about such establishments is their readily availability and easily accessible seclusion where even the most people fearing individual might enjoy the deliciousness of a double stack of waffles.

That is not why she's here, of course, but it's nice to know the option's available to her.

No, Kristin is sitting at the table with her heavily stickered laptop open on the table in front of her plugging away at the keys. She may or may not be using the free wifi provided to do some illegal bit of hack work. She might be updating her myspace page. She might be writing slashfic of Spider-man getting rubber duckied by Punisher.

The options are limitless.

The only ''truth'' is that she is NOT eating waffles.
Buck Rogers The paparazzi remind Buck of the undead. They have the same soulless eyes and hunger for human life; the main distinction is that he can't kill them and get away with it. But the well-dressed giant, in his bespoke suit, has managed to find peace in the Waffle House today. His body aches to be so restrained; seams strain, fabric stretches, and every movement he makes is loud, especially the thunderlike steps as he walks. He rattles cups like a dinosaur.

"You're him, right?" asks the hostess leading him to a booth near Kristin. She's a bubblegum-pink haired thing. "The guy from Raccoon City, Buck! I saw you on TV the other night. Hey, what was it like..." She drones on.

Buck's replies are casual and warm. His eyes linger dangerously on the waitress and when she's left with his order she's also left with a groped ass and an offered phone number. Buck squeezes into his booth, entirely too large for it, and stares at the laptop or the girl in front of him.
Kristin Kris glances up over the top of her computer at the rumbling steps of a mobile mountain and cannot help her jaw hanging loose from the sheer size of him. "The fuck...?" It's not spoken out loud so much as murmured to herself. As if anyone would see ''this guy'' and be confused as to whether ''this guy'' is the same ''guy'' that they saw.

No, the waitress is clearly a dumbass.

A basic bitch who probably put her ass out there to be groped and would bring over a side order of getting jack hammered in the dirty bathroom with Buck's hamburger.

Pink lips press together in a fine line, glasses sitting down on the bridge of her nose, Kris stares at Buck, "Did you drink the radioactive water in Raccoon City? Because you are inhumanly big. Like, I've seen big men, but you look like you subsist on a diet of other big men like a highlander. You are the physical represenation of ''there can be only one''... assimilating other lesser big men into a collective like a fucking Netherspawn."
Buck Rogers Buck's knees dig into the bottom of the table. He's forced into the awkward position of sitting near the edge with his legs spread out. The edge of the booth digs into his sides, and his shadow absolutely blankets the table, obscuring the myriad of gentle lightbulbs spread around the diner. "Corn-fed," he rumbles in response, leveling his gaze on Kristin as she speaks. The side of his mouth cocks upward, half-smiling, with a show of sharp white teeth gleaming against the thick black bristles of his beard and mustache. He reaches out with one heavy hand and picks up a sugar packet from a little glass holder in the center of the table, smiling as the hostess returns with his coffee. "Here you go, Mr. Rogers, sir," she replies, unsure how one properly addresses a celebrity-- particularly one who seems like he could quite literally eat her if she offended him. He smiles and sends her on her way with a reminder of his order, and gazes down at the mug in front of him. A pale off-white, the smoke rises from it like from ice in fire, a scalding burst of vapor that he swirls with a finger and stretches out like thin clouds.

The sugar packet remains closed, rubbed between his fingers. The paper crinkles and the sugar inside grinds against the sides. The man finds the sound and sensation pleasant enough. He looks back up at Kristin. "It's all about eating right and working hard, sweetheart. What're you looking at on there? Slide on over here and show me." He grins, indicates the booth bench opposite him with a nod of his head.
Kristin Kristin furrows her brow beneath the bangs of her platnum blonde hair. Each part hanging like a wave down to just beneath her jaw, she watches Buck and his sugar packet with narrowed blue eyes as he manipulates the sugar with two big fingers. Both her own hands remain fixed around her warm mug, sucking the heat from it while she quietly watches the big man dismiss the waitress after her attempt to sound reverent of his celebrity status.

"It's just Myspace." She hooks her finger over the top of the laptop, tip covering the rainbow sticker set over the original label of the highly customed piece of hardware, and pulls it closed. So much for her adoring fans patiently awaiting the next chapter of Spider-man and Punisher, nailed in Manhattan. "Corn-fed on corn fed with high levels of mutigen agents? Seriously, the only thing you're working hard is that booth..."
Buck Rogers "Just corn, beautiful," Buck lies as he picks up a nearby spoon. The silverware is delicate and polished when contrasted with the roughness of his hands; dark with hair, the knuckles swollen and hard, the skin more like leather than not. And it's tiny enough that when he curls his hand around it it looks almost comical, a father playing with his daughter's toy tea set. He stirs his coffee with a rhythmic clink-clink as the metal taps the edges. It's consistent enough to be hypnotic, and the brute quiets to listen to it, drinking in the aroma of the unsweetened black. Clink, clink, clink, clink, and a rattle as he sets it down on his napkin with a small drop. "Corn and weights. A man should be big and strong--it's our job." His mouth widens in a smile as she draws that laptop closed, eyes resting on her face now, seeking her own out-- seeking them out with an almost bullying refusal to break contact first, with all the single-minded deliberation of the lion and the lamb.

"Myspace?" Thick brows furrow. "What is Myspace?"
Kristin The longer Buck stares the less Kristin seems inclined to return it, but she's fighting the urge to look away all the same. It's a happy medium between meeting his eyes and staring over his shoulder. Regardless, her eyes are always a little narrowed, heavy lids, big ridges under manicured eyebrows.

Someone who use to be a lot bigger with a much larger face.

"Is that right?" She asks with a quiet scoff, whether deliberate or not, "You bucking for promotion then? Because you're probably the biggest man I've ever seen.." Which is true even if her sample size is pretty small. Homebody that she is.

"Yeah, myspace. Social media... people sharing their thoughts as if people care to people they don't like, but don't have the testicular fortitude to tell to fuck off."
Buck Rogers "So it's a journal," the man declares, that grin widening to a self-amused smirk when Kristin visibly shifts her attention over his shoulder. "But on the internet. One of those new things people like, huh?" Between the vein-laced limbs, the double-barreled chest, the sloping brow and the mountain man beard, his appearance certainly suggests a lifestyle as computer illiterate as his questions betray him to be. Buck Rogers is a man who plays grab ass with curvy Waffle House waitresses and rips things apart with his bare hands--he is not a man who understands the Livejournals and the Myspaces and the fanfictions. "Well, that sounds pretty great. Good way to keep everyone updated. Girl I know does this video series on YouTube, lots of fans. Computers are pretty amazing-- you good with 'em?" He's pure positivity in response to her pessimism, leaning in over the table, broad shoulders squared and elbows propping him up. The distance between them has not meaningfully shrunk, but the shift in posture makes him seem closer, loom larger, bull that he is. "Sorry for the staring, miss. You've just got beautiful eyes."
Kristin "Yeah, something like that." Kris says with a little nod, laptop pushed off to the side of the table now that her attention is nolonger divided between it and the man who is about as big as the booths are wide. She takes a slow breath and snaps her attention to him when he looms, but keeps her hands wrapped around the coffee mug set in front of her own the table.

"I'm pretty good, yes. I do systems security for people who aren't... protecting credit, social security, that sort of thing." She shrugs, eyes locked in on the bull when he says she has beautiful eyes. Despite her better judgement, or natural pessimism, she grins a little. "I bet you say that to all the girls." Because he was just grabbing one's ass like twenty seconds ago.
Buck Rogers There's a sincerity to straightforward aggression-- and Buck is nothing if not that. He scoots toward the middle of his seat, legs splayed, taking a deep sip from his black coffee. "Systems security," he echoes, chewing over the phrase for a moment. "I get it. You keep out the hackers who send the spam mail and take your bank accounts. Tch, still pissed that Nigerian prince lied to me... what's a prince even need to fuck with people for?" He shrugs, and like everything he does the gesture is grand, a rolling crunch of shoulder muscle and bone that pops the joint and tenses the ligaments of his squat neck. "I say it to the ones with pretty eyes. I like how your makeup pops 'em out. Always had a thing for that pale, kinda-goth aesthetic." He raps his knuckles on the table top and lets his eyes drift low, glancing at the pendant around her neck that hangs low on her chest. "What's your name, darlin'?"
Kristin "There's no helping someone getting phished." Kris says with a little frown at the meer mention of the oft famous Nigerian Prince, "Why anyone would think a Nigerian Prince would require mom and pop to fund ''anything'' is beyond me.." She lifts both shoulders in as grand a shrug as she can muster while faced with Buck's overwhelming physical presence.


She squints a little. "That's what I was going for. It's one of my better qualities." Her voice is a deeper, which is probably why she talks quieter. It might be why he's leaning closer or maybe he's trying to bully her.

"Kristin. Kris... how about you Mr. Rogers? What's your neighborhood name?"
Buck Rogers Buck bites his lower lip and finally breaks eye contact, looking off to the side. There's a mote of dust floating in the stale diner fluorescence, a gathered number of individuals and families, the bustle of conversation-- snippets can be heard, relationship woes and work, fierce debates over the latest episode of some television show called Yankee Doodles, and the hushed recognition of the titan himself. Like the Anakim of old, his formidable appearance fills some with terror.. but it's a terror mixed with celebrity worship, as anyone clued into the media the past few months has seen the big man on all major talk shows, or read his book-- hell, a few copies of it can be seen on tables or peeking out of backpacks. Raccoon City's a hit.

In the midst of all this stimulation, Buck's eyes finally snap back to the girl, weighty as a fist, punctuated by the loud smack of plates dumped before him with a stack of pancakes a mile high, drenched in syrup and butter and cream. There's enough on that plate to feed three. Buck waves the waitress off, and gives her behind an appreciative little smack. It's furtive-- as furtive as anything he does can be. She giggles and permits it; maybe she's angling for a tip. "I get it! Like hooking a fish. You bait them, they bite, and then you rip 'em out of the water. Heh, clever name."

A truly remarkable accomplishment.

"Anyway. Name's Buck, sweetheart, Buck Rogers-- might have heard of me. I'm a pretty big deal." So modest!
Kristin Kris watches the attention buzzed Buck glance off as if he's sucking in all the adoration of fans around him with a hood to her eyes and a little smirk. "You enjoy it." She observes with a little curled finger point, both arms laid crossways on the table in front of her with that one hand crooked out just enough to indicate him with her index finger. "You're drinking that shit in.. practically glowing."

Her head cants a little, "Yeah, I've seen you on tv. Lots of youtube videos about you too.. a couple less flattering than others, other survivors have less polite things to say..." Another phantom grin on one side of her pink lips.

"Buck.. fitting. So when do you set sail for Paradise Island, Rogers? ET was covering the shit out of ''that'' story for a week straight.."
Buck Rogers "Everyone reacts to trauma their own way," he replies, gravelsmooth. "A few folks think it's disrespectin' the memories of the dead to talk about it, write about it, like I did." He stretches out a little, rests a turned foot on the cushioned seat opposite him, a crooked-bent knee poking out from under the table's side. The positions he contorts into to find comfort! "I get that. And I don't begrudge them their sentiment; we all lost friends, family, lives.. but it needed to be said. The people deserved the truth, and I am a man of the people."

A self-aggrandizing folk hero man of the people, more like-- the story wasn't false, but it wasn't all true, either, and Buck's eagerly and deliberately fed into the propaganda that's risen around him, painting him as a champion, a total badass, a heroic cop. Hell, he's been in talks with some major police unions to come and give speeches to local officers about potential viral outbreaks and serve as a shining exemplar to the rookies and veterans alike.. a fact he mentioned on his last talk show appearance, and is on the website his agent maintains.

"Soon, soon. Finishing up some things here. Thinking about making a visit back home before I go, check in on ma." He grins, and she's right, he's glowing-- he drinks in the praise like a God, finding equal pleasure in the celebrity worship and the primal intimidation his rough size and behavior inspire. There's nothing kind or gentle about him. He's a wolf. "I've yapped on so much radio, signed so many books and breasts, put on so many suits to sit on so many couches and talk, I'm tired. Surf and turf's the life for me. What about you, sweetheart-- Kristin. I figure security's pretty well-to-do these days?"
Kristin "I'm sure the script writers were pleased how easily your true story is going to be to adapt into a working movie project..." Kris says dryly, maybe even rolling her eyes a little, but she's amused by how effectively he commands the attention if not out right impressed by it.

She doesn't handle attention that well, at any rate.

She's almost strinking in comparison. Deliberately letting him take center stage so that nobody is even aware that she exists sitting across from him. Where he feeds off them, she gets what she needs right off of him. A shadow in which to dwell. The reason she came to the Waffle House personified.

"It pays for dinner." She shrugs, sipping at her coffee lifted with both hands. "Right now it's a niche market. Big firms handle big companies, so I'm stuck putting ads out for the layfolk who don't really understand cyber crime or why they should have someone protecting them from it.." No complaints, though.

"I don't need a lot and certainly don't ask for more than I need.. so I'm as successful as I need to be."
Buck Rogers "Hell, beautiful, if you don't think it's true, more than welcome to come back to my hotel room and see for yourself," the pop culture warrior offers, cutting into the mammoth stack of pancakes and shoveling a forkful into his mouth. He has enormous appetites; there's a ravenous look to him, in the way his eyes glint, the way he shows teeth, the way he turns and presents himself whenever someone looks at him or speaks of him. He's a beast, all full of energy and a constant simmering tension-- ready to uncoil, to pounce, to attack. More than his size, it's the fact that for all his smiles and slow movements, he seems one second away from violent fury that makes people around him uncomfortable. He bathes in the attention, positive and negative, in a way he never realized he'd enjoy before. It's lucky that Kristin prefers to be the shadow, because he'd beat her if she stole the spotlight. The world's focused on him...

... and he's focused on her, with the same obsessive, predatory hunger he has for the pile of pancakes. The way he looks at her is unsubtle in its lust. "You gotta dream big, doll," he insists. "How do you think I got here? After Raccoon, so many folk just wanted to move on, forget about it.. but I had an idea, a vision. With a strong enough vision, you can change the whole world. Haven't you ever felt like doing that?"
Kristin "Huh. You brought Raccoon City home with you?" Kris asks with a little smirk and an even smaller shrug. She is not quelled, not by his size or his demeanor. It's his ''attention'' that does it. She does not do well with being the center of anyone's perspective and certainly doesn't look comfortable with his or anyone elses for that matter.

A little glance around her assures her that people are still watching the mamoth and not the gazel.

Then she's looking back up at him, "Nope. I barely want to walk outside most days, I have very little interest in changing the world because I have very little interest in the world at all.. I'll leave that to people with bigger appetites and better social graces and stick to playing Warhammer Online.."

She is not daft to the way he's looking at her though and reaches up to push a few strands of platnum hair behind her ear, "How far is your hotel?"
Buck Rogers There's an alarming speed to Buck's consumption; in what feels like a matter of seconds he's put away enough for a grown man, drinking syrup like roots drink rain, the broad square of his jaw tightened and released with every firm chew. "Brought a few things from it," he begins, watching her as he licks the sweet drip from his knife. "Still got my armor, still got my chainsaw-- couldn't get the skull I wanted, but awfully hard to mount and stuff monsters in the middle of the apocalypse." A crooked smile. "Still got the girls, still got the guns. But the most important thing, sweetheart," and at this he lifts his head, looking down at her, almost imperious. "is I still got me. You ever hear stories about how wars change a man? A soldier ships off a boy, comes back a man." That crooked smile widens. "There's no war like Raccoon City, beautiful. God Himself looked down and brought a reckoning to the world. I spit in the devil's eye, and ripped apart a host of demons, til there wasn't even enough for the carrion birds to pick at." He's all feral now, burning-eyed, sharp-toothed, some atavistic thing misplaced in time. He cracks his knuckles and they sound like gunfire. "If it's Denver, it's gotta be the Ritz. Close enough."
Kristin "I've heard." Kris says with a nod, "I've seen the movies too.. seriously, your life sounds like one long biopic or war drama. Which might just be dealing with the events or your aformentioned desire for attention.." She closes her hand around the far side of her laptop and slides it into a button and patch covered shoulder back sitting in the seat beside her.

"You carried a chainsaw and probably wore platemail armor. You strike me as the type." A little smirk and a slow shake of her head at the mention of the Ritz and the popping gunfire of his knuckles, "Oh, totally. No Holliday Inn Express for Rogers." Dryly, but not insulting.

She scoots towards the end of the booth and puts a few dollars on the table to cover her coffee and a modest tip for refills, then loops her shoulder bag over one arm and motions, "After you big boy."
Buck Rogers "Mm," the brutish man offers, thoughtful, as he devours the rest of his mile-high plate. He takes a cloth napkin and wipes his mouth, stealing away the shine of syurp that coated him like lip gloss, and then carefully navigates his way out of the table. He'd meant to stay longer, order seconds, but a different appetite's been provoked, now-- and sure, she's probably going to steal his wallet or pickpocket a credit card and then disappear into the crowded streets, but Buck has never defined himself by being cautious in the face of treasure. It's a struggle to detach himself from the booth, every hard inch of him as resistant to leave as it was to get in; the high-quality fabric of his suit rustles and scratches, his tie wobbles a little when his spine arches and he half-leans forward, hunched, palms on the crown of the backrest and pushing himself out-- with a pull of his hips he's out, reaching for a wallet tucked into a back pocket. He dramatically overpays, leaving a hundred dollar bill under the coffee mug.. and finding, to his chagrin, the bubbly waitress has apparently gone on break, as she's nowhere to be seen.

So much for aiming big.

"Platemail, that what they're saying? Heh.. I had a thing of chain from this one weekend a buddy of mine talked me into a reenactment festival, but where do you even get plate, these days? It's a zombie outbreak, not King Arthur." He laughs good-naturedly all the same, in love with the mental image, bright, radiant, and swaggering over toward the girl to wrap her up in one massive arm and rest his hand on her shapely rear, damn near lifting her off the ground and carrying her by the butt if she doesn't fight him off-- and if she doesn't, eventually he'll migrate to carrying her like a sack of feed, practically tucked under an arm, with all the respect and veiled intentions of a frat jock.
Kristin While Buck navigates out of the booth, Kris waits on hand patiently. One hand on her hip, which is jut out just a little, and the other around the strap of her shoulder bag. She watches him migrate the rough turrain of that normal sized seating area with his oversized frame. It would be comical in any other instance save one where he could probably tear her head off with his thumb and pinky. So it of no small note that she's grinning, smirking really, at his difficulty.

He made the bed, now he's got to get out of it.

The smirk grows a little wider when he invisions himself as a Knight clad head to toe in plates, "I have no idea what they're saying, I'm just making an observation. Y- Whoa!" Then she's being man-handled and she is indeed fighting off such indifference with an elbow tucked back with surprising strength into a rib. It probably doesn't even register as more than a pat to him, but the expression on her face says quite differently, "Do I look like a bag of coffee that wants to be tossed on the back of a donkey and carried down the side of a mountain by Juan Valdez? No, I do not..."

She takes a full step away from him, "I clearly said I don't like attention directed at me and nothing draws attention like a bitch tossed over someone's shoulder... save it for the hotel room."
Buck Rogers The elbow driven into his ribs might as well be from a child; the pinch of the table digging into his abdomen hurt more. But the gesture's purpose was attention, not pain, and it certainly serves to do that, earning the resistant girl a look from the carnivorous celebrity and forcing him to slow and reappraise the situation. The hand that aimed to hold her instead curls up her side and her arm, fingers playing at the chain of her pendant with a little rittle-rattle of metal. "Feisty," he teases, but his actions suggest a greater respect than his tone-- just a little gentle tug at the pendant wrapped 'round her throat, the he lets it fall to slide across her skin and hang between her breasts, walking off in front of her, content to maintain roughly the same distance that was between their booths. To anyone watching, it looks like Buck just got shut down, and most will probably gossip about it in passing; but such is the transient nature of fame, and the fact there's always something new, that in no time at all even these people won't give a damn that Buck met a woman at a Waffle House and got denied.

But that doesn't slow him down a bit. Whether she follows or not, whether people talk or not, he's up and at 'em, sliding through the soft lights of the Waffle House and out into the evening streets of Denver, arms and legs a-swingin' as he meanders toward his car.
Kristin Kris takes a sharp breath and lowers her eyes away from the people looking at her now that she's shut down the celebrity. The toying with her pendant gets only a passing glance from the corner of her eyes, hand running up and down the strap of her bag as she weighs the new development with a level intellect hidden in hazel eyes.

Staying in the Waffle House was obviously out of the question, whatever happened.

So she followed him outside with a hand shoved against the door swinging back at her. Her hips turn just enough to let her slip through the cracks and she's just as far behind him as she was across from him in the booth. "What the fuck was that?" She asks as if the word fuck is little more than an adjective and not some grand expression of disdain.

Apparently she's still tailing along. She hasn't boosted his wallet yet, afterall.
Buck Rogers Buck strolls at his leisure, but such a stately pace nevertheless benefits from the absurd reach of his legs; without a conscious effort from him to linger and lag, keeping up can prove difficult. He does so.. but just enough that she still needs to hurry just a bit if she wants to keep even with him. His shoes thunder against the concrete, his whole form limned in a streetlight glow-- one of the most glaring things he realized in Raccoon was just how dark the world gets when there's not power lines fueling a thousand lamps, billboards, and shopfronts. He's in front of a small, tucked-away, glass-fronted candy shop called Grandma's when Kristin finally catches up to him. With a great force of will, and a flex of muscle to arrest the terrible momentum of his in-motion bulk, he slows, stops-- more like a charging bull or an eighteen wheeler than a man, he needs ample room to stop going forward. He leans against the glass, hard candies like gemstones glittering in cases behind him. "What the fuck was what, sweetheart?"
Kristin Kristin is not at all a short woman, she's tall by almost every standard and more than normal size for a ''man'', but she's still walking at a quicker pace to keep up. A fact that dawns on her and gives her a new perspective on Buck who starts to trail a little ahead of her when she slows her own to something that isn't like a child chasing after one of the adults.

Needless to say, he's been waiting for her by the time she gets there. One hand on her bag, she even stops to look into one of the stores dotting the street, even though she has absolutely no intention of buying anything inside.

Window shopping.

Her head tilts a little up at him leaning against the candy store with a little smirk, "Nothing, don't worry about it big guy." Her hand slaps lightly against his side, "Which car is yours? Or did you come by horse drawn carrage?"
Buck Rogers The shit-eating grin on his face makes it obvious he was walking the way he was deliberately. There's something inherently cruel about his flirtations. "Don't get shy now, sweetheart," he remarks as she claps his side, and he reaches out again for the pendant-- his look says it all, now that they're in close proximity, bearing down on her as he tugs the pendant's chain again, curving his wrist until the links tap together, tighten, clenched in a fist. "If you think I'm a gentleman, you should stop following me real quick." Another little twist, finally a pressure on the throat-- and he lets go, letting his hand fall to smack against the glass, shaking it and momentarily distorting the view of the glossy treats within. "Mine's a bit further on. I like walking-- cars, for obvious reasons, don't suit me. You need them, in the modern world; one might call 'em a necessity. But I've always preferred what my body can do to any machine, necessity be damned. It's a rental, anyway." He scoots over, reaches a hand, and tries the handle of the candy shop's door. It clinks and rattles in the frame with the telltale sounds of being locked. For once, the brute frowns, though it fades in moments. "If you're impatient, there's a little walkway other side of this shop, down along an alley. Lil picnic table, bench, grass. All dark and spooky."
Kristin All of Buck's attention on the pendant is a hard event not to take advantage of since they're so close already. Kristin smirks just a little and shrugs, "I don't need a gentleman; holding doors and putting their coat down over puddles. I'd prefer someone who isn't a dick head. You're being a dick head." She points out with a perfectly manicured brow perked slightly.

Her fingers curl around something in his coat and fish it out into her palm, then down into her bag right about when he nearly pops the chain on her pendant. "Don't worry though, I've learned all I need to." She takes a step back and glances down the street, raising a hand out at a taxi passing conveniently neaby. "I'm sure there are plenty of desperate bitches more than willing to get treated like shit..." A look over her shoulder, "I'm not one of them."
Buck Rogers Buck watches Kristin press close to him and then pull away, and if he feels her ruffling through his possessions, he doesn't call her out on it; in the end, ignorance and silence have the same indistinguishable result. "Maybe I teased a little too hard," he admits, smiling, as she calls him out and wanders down the street to flag a taxi. "But you were desperate enough to come out here, so you're a tease or a pickpocket." He spent years on the force-- honeytraps are a classic for a reason. But it is, in the end, a lucky and unfounded guess; he doesn't check his possessions, and he won't notice she filched something until after she's gone. "Hell, I don't care. You have a good night, sweetheart." Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, he resumes his walk-- he might be a dick head, but that doesn't bother him enough to make him defend himself or chase her.
Kristin Kris almost flinches, but she's been doing this long enough to keep her poker face up, "Yup, saw an easy mark who thought he saw an easy mark." She admits with a little shrug and a glance after the Taxi, but his complete disdain is intriguing in a way that she would have otherwise attributed to a dumb bitch.

Vocally, perhaps.

Almost certainly vocally.

Now she's turning to stare at him, "Man, you really do drink it up, don't you? I bet you surround yourself with emotionally damaged women and men who need someone to tell them how to tie their shoes, huh?"

She makes no mention of the fact that her taxi kept on keeping on.
Buck Rogers The brute keeps walking. Call it disdain, call it generosity, call it a smugness so profound the idea of losing whatever he might have had on him doesn't even register; when she flips through the wallet, there'll be some money in it, a receipt for his meal, and the phone number of the waitress from the Waffle House, scribbled on the back. It's the number he'll miss most in retrospect. She calls after him twice, insulting and curious, but all she can see is the massive expanse of his back, thick with knotted muscle, and the imprint of his pronounced shoulder blades against the dark fabric. He's never silent, but it's his body that speaks more than his words--the whoosh of limbs, the hard tap of heels on a cracked sidewalk, the dragging scratch of a knuckle pulled along the mortar line dividing the bricks of a wall. "My car's around the corner," he calls without turning around, and then he's broken line of sight and disappeared left down the intersection.
Kristin Kris glances down the street, empty at this hour, and frowns. Her bag is adjusts up on her shoulder, the other fishes around in her pocket until she's come back out with her phone. This is done presumably to call for a taxi, but then he lets her know that the car is just around the corner.

Either her or himself.

She's not convinced he doesn't need to remind himself, less he forgets.

Then why is she heading after him? Slinking around the corner at a wide pass incase he's standing there to be all smug staring at her or grab her and beat her to death with his thumb or whatever it is big ass monsters do when they win a round of ''who wants to be more independant''.
Buck Rogers She rounds the corner expecting a snake in the grass and sees the overwhelming mass of Buck crammed behind a nice, roofless car. The designer's hard to tell--but it's a deep purple, shines like a diamond, and has enough aerodynamic curves to make it fly. He fills it like a man might fill a Barbie car. She might expect him to be watching for her; instead, he's adjusting the rear-view mirror, and starting the ignition, bringing it to life with a kitten's purr. Both man and machine glitter beneath the pale street light directly overhead, as the sparse night traffic passes on by, pausing at the intersection lights and speeding on through in all directions. He secures his seatbelt, runs his nails through his beard, and only then, when he's ready to pull out, does he look at her. "Just gonna stand there?"
Kristin "Yeah, I'm buying it." Kris says with a snort as she climbs into the passanger seat with her bag laid in her lap after pulling it closed behind her. "You knew I was going to come." Her elbow rests against the windowless door so her chin can sit in the craddle of thumb and index finger running along her jaw.

"Apparently I'm a weak bitch... or a desperate one. Who the fuck knows. I need a ride home though."
Buck Rogers Buck pats the cozy, black leather seat next to him, watching Kristin settle in. A brief bit of work and he pulls out, taking advantage of the utter scarcity of traffic to not have to drive especially careful. As they move down the street, the big man enjoying the breeze on his skin, one hand takes the wheel-- the other plays at her thigh. "Sure," he agrees. "I'll drive you home tomorrow morning."
Kristin Kris quirks her mouth to the side a little, eyeing the hand now playing at her thigh with the cut of her eyes in their dark circled rims. "I'm getting the impression that this is nonnegociable." She says off handedly, but she already knows the answer to the statement that was most certainly not a question.

She toys with the idea of just getting out and walking. It's not like she lives far from here. She'd walked to the Waffle House and Denver is her home... but there's a grand sense of danger that she rarely ever experiences. Not to mention the ''attention''.

One of the unfortunate side effects of being a recluse is being lonely.

"I bet you're going to be pretty surprised when we get there, big guy." She doesn't slap his hand away, hell, she even opens her legs a little so her thick thigh is a little closer to him. A grin around the pinky in her teeth.
Buck Rogers "Eh," Buck says after a moment, spinning the wheel to the left and making a turn down indistinct streets that, in the night, blend together, "it's not like I'm a bad guy. You really want me to drop you off somewhere else, just say." He shrugs, and lets the game fade away for a moment, turning his head to face her as they cruise. "I was a cop. I like it rough, not criminal." He raises his hand to her shoulder and squeezes, flashing her a smile, before looking back to the road ahead of him. "Don't want you getting the wrong idea, sweetheart." He's bathed in shadow and light as they walk, the chiaroscuro intensifying every angle of his body, every dark cut of his suit.
Kristin "I wouldn't have followed you to your car if I thought you were." Kris says with a little frown, looking at his hand on her shoulder once it's moved up from her thigh. "I don't mind rough." She manages with a quiet voice, hazel eyes fixing on Buck across the seat beside her in the compact car. A seat he dominates by size, though she isn't petite by any stretch of the imagination.

She takes a deep breath and chews on her pinky, a nervous gesture, but she does not look threatened by him specifically. "What do you expect is going to happen at the hotel?" She ask curiously, her own ''tough'' facade slipping away with his. "Be blunt."
Buck Rogers Buck's predation isn't facade so much as multifaceted; he is aggressive, almost coercive, and more than comfortable pushing boundaries and taking what he wants. He's just also not a rapist, which is a pretty low bar to surpass, and fancies himself a good man, which is a significantly higher one. "Good," he says, noticing her stare him down in his peripheral. "The plan, sweetheart, is to take you back to my room, fuck you dumb, and then sleep. Come tomorrow, I'll drop you off, and get ready to kiss Denver goodbye."
Another turn, and the drive continues, through the blinkered headlights of oncoming traffic. A billboard advertising an Umbrella product flashes-- it's been vandalized with spray paint and banners. Really ought to have been taken down by now.
Kristin Kris nods at the request blunt observation of what it is he intends for the evenings after dinner entertainment. An explanation that does not eleviate her nervousness in the slightest, but at least it doesn't make it any worse since this is exactly what she was suspecting to begin with. It's just easier not to assume.

"Cool." She says around her pinky nail, which she is not actually chewing off, so much as chewing on. "How open minded are you?"
Buck Rogers "Sweetheart," Buck replies, and he swaps his other hand to the wheel, his left arm swinging over his door so he can tap on the car's side as the wind whips through his nonexistent hair. "I have literally walked through hell. There is nothing that can upset me." They pass beneath the shadow of the billboard -- "MERCHANTS OF DEATH", it says, in red letters, the paint dragged out in long knife-slash lines like a dripping wound -- and then it's gone. The hotel's silhouette isn't visible yet; the drive'll take awhile. "Can't say I'll like what you got in mind. But I ain't shy."
Kristin "Huh." Kris responds with a little smirk around her pinky nail, "I suppose my insignificant shit is a pale comparison to the hordes of undead what you felled alone in the pursuit of saving he world from zombie-kind." She teases, her left hand drops down and lays on ''his'' thigh, but only for a second and then she's put it back onto of her bag. With a twist of her wrist, her finger come sout of her teeth and flips her hair back behind an ear to keep it from blowing around... that only lasts a half of a half second. "I'm transexual, is that going to be a problem for you, big guy?"
Buck Rogers "Everyone's problems are a big deal to them," Buck agreeably observes, "so I'm not saying yours doesn't matter. I'm saying I got a bit of a... different perspective. You watch a bunch of kids eat someone alive and 'I wanna be choked' or 'I like it when guys piss on me' just stops seeming so out there." A grin as he feels her hand whisper to his thigh, entering a roundabout and making his way in three-quarters of a circle, exiting. There's a Pizza Hut on in a nearby lot, a Burger King across from it, and a Subway nearer still.. these places always crowd the same zones. The brute's stomach grumbles. "Transsexual?" Buck falls silent, the word hanging in the air, the question mark so clearly pronounced it may as well be a flashing neon sigh-- like the one advertising the the alcohol and movie rentals just up ahead. "So, what, you're packing heat?" He glances over. Buck's a religious man, from a conservative area.. but he shrugs. Like he said-- cannibal kids have a way of shifting one's Overton Window. "Eh, fuck it. You're cute enough. Might be hard for you to sit and talk for awhile, though."
Kristin "I'm speaking from a perspective where I am considering my problems related to your's. Interjecting what I feel is an important point on any future sexual encounter between us, to me, is a fairly wide margin of potential error... where you have seen undead children eating their parents." Kris states with her hand back and forth, towards and away from each of them in oposition to the other.

She glances his way with a quirk of a brow, "In my experience this conversation doesn't have this conclusive an ending from the jump." She murmurs with a little scrutiny, "I find it mildly amusing that I feel more awkward about this than you seem to. You really must have seen some shit in RC."
Buck Rogers "Don't know if if it was their parents," Buck interrupts, his voice rich with amusement and mouth set in a half-cocked grin. "Could be anyone. I'm hoping you never see something like that yourself, sweetheart, but take it from me-- you deal with enough, and the world just.. looks different." He shrugs, and his always loud, always growling voice softens. The slow deliberation of his thoughts forces a measured pace to his voice, the act of which sweetens it, gentles it. "Look, I'm not into guys and guy-parts," the behemoth declares, "but you look like a girl, and you act like one, so hell, why worry? You do you, baby girl. Cute enough, so call me Daddy and choke on me, and I don't give a damn. Night of fun before my trip!"
Kristin "I have absolutely no intention of ever seeing that." kris declares rather profusely and adamently, "Which is why I very rarely leave my apartment or my very comfortable computer screen.." She snaps and returns her pinky to her teeth, tugging at it absently as they round a few more corners. "I am a girl." She also declares, considerably more adamently. Fighting zombies is far less disconcerting that being mistaken for something she is not. "Only if you earn it." She tease with a smirk and looks out at the passing fast food chains, "I don't even call my Daddy, daddy."
Buck Rogers "That'a girl," the man praises, the hotel's bright-lit silhouette appearing on the horizon. It rises above the neighboring buildings like a sentinel, glitzy and glamorous. "You do you, sweetheart. I ain't about to shit-talk the girl who's gonna have her teeth near little Buck." He reaches over and musses her hair.