Umbrella Surveillance System
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Buck Rogers Buck isn't much of a computer person; Isabel is the relative tech wizard, but he's managed some degree of competence. Enough to look up websites about the Paradise Islands. Enough to access public library archives and pdfs of history books online found in virus-strewn torrent sites for college kids looking to cheap out on the growing costs of tuition. That was enough to figure out some things: census information, the island's place in the Cold War and the proliferation of abandoned nuclear silos. Combine it with the news running these days about the Heaven of the Seas, and those blueprints Buck managed to get from the son of an architect that worked on some of the resorts showing connecting underground tunnels.. well, it's enough to make the bored-out-of-his-mind man believe there's something fun to discover there.

At the moment, in pursuit of that entertainment, he's en route to a rendesvous point-- a small dive bar where a former resident of the islands agreed to meet up in a town called Chachawick, where said resident has taken up shop as an electrician after bailing from his vague infrastructure-related job on the islands. Buck had met him through email, and offered to take him out for drinks and chat; the guy got spooked by the ship disaster and some things he'd seen, and was willing to talk.
Licker The guy met up with Buck at the little dive bar where he had already taken up residence in the back at one of the dirty booths with his back against the wall. There's a mug of beer sitting in front of him which he's been nursing for about twenty minutes and he's wearing his blue coveralls from work. A ballcap on his head is turned backwards, but he keeps switching it back and forth the longer he waits.

Spying Buck, he half stand half leans to wave the big man over and does his best to appear casual. Even for a bigger dude, the mountain towers over him, but he reaches out to clasp Buck's hand in a shake. "Sup man.." Shuffling into the booth with a glance over at the door, back to Buck, then up to the bartender. "How's shit?"
Buck Rogers Buck's handshake crushes bone. He smiles like a wild animal. "Goin' great, Robert," he says, looming over him. He lets go after a long moment and claps him on the back, ushering them both to the booth. "Been flying back and forth for work, feels good to keep my feet on the ground." He doesn't share the baseball fan's nervousness; it's the opposite, Buck is a black hole for negativity, sucking it down and swallowing it so deep it can't escape at the speed of light. He reeks of machismo confidence and rampant aggression. With a bit of force, he shoves himself into the booth and takes a seat, staring Robert down. "Drink all you like, man, it's on me." A magnanimous rap of his knuckles on the weathered table top. "You look a little spooked. Relax."
Licker "Man..." Robert swings his hand to work out the ache of the handshake, "Got a grip on you..." As if it wasn't obvious that he would from his size. After working his finger in and out of a fist a few times, Rob grabs his beer and drains what remains so that it can be refilled. Deliberately stalling, "No big deal or anything..." He says with a little frown that looks far more nervous for such a simple question, "What I mean to say is, it's jus' been a long week."
Buck Rogers There's a long pause as Buck stretches and looks around. His gaze casually sizes up the exits, the windows, the blind spots, under the guise of cracking his neck like the brute he is. "Yeah, it has been," Buck agrees. He shifts his weight to his left foot, lifts his right hip a little, scratches it. He's never been comfortable in tight fits, and that he's fingering the unseen hilt of a knife doesn't help. "Look at me." Buck smiles. Reaches his free hand out and gives the man a little pat on his cheek. "You've got the nerves of a guy that's being stalked or setting up an ambush, Bobby. If it's the first one, I can help out. If it's that second, you're really not gonna like what happens. So why you so spooked, bud?"
Licker Bobby glances around a little more then gulps when Buck demands his attention, jerking his head in the bigger fella's direction, "They made me do it..." He blurts out before he can even think of a good cover. "They told me they'd kill me..." He whispers, as if this has any chance of setting things right. "They aren't here to hurt you, they just wanted to see who was looking into things..." Again assuming this is going to calm the guy down, it probably wont.
Buck Rogers "Nah, Bobby," Buck says, giving the man one more condescending pat on the cheek. "You're okay. You be a good boy, drink, and sit in that fucking chair until I tell you not to." That smile never fading - but oh, the look in his eyes, gleaming with a predatory excitement, his heart speeding up. The knife is in his hand beneath the table, and now Buck speaks up, clapping his free hand on the side of the booth. "So, they already here, Bobby, or did you and that bartender you've been eye-fucking contact them when I got here?"
Licker The bartender must be a whole lot better at subterfuge than our man Bobby here because he hasn't once looked up at the nervous ninny sitting across from Buck. He keeps cleaning glasses and watching the hockey game up on the television. "They're here..." He says quietly, "Outside." He confirms with a little frown and a nervous glance at the door. "Just a suit and a heavy. Don't even think they were packing."
Buck Rogers "Fantastic." Buck reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wad of cash, and smacks it down on the table. It's nothing extensive-- two hundred, tops, in twenties and fifties. Just some disposable income he'd brought to buy the guy beer and wings and give him a tip. "You're a champ, Bobby. You take that money, you pretend you didn't come here today, and trust me, those fellas ain't gonna come see you again." The behemoth might be monstrous, in his ways, but there's a streak of heroism--he was a cop. Robert can take the money and fuck off back to his life. "You have a good night." With another shift, the giant makes his way out of the booth, rising to his feet. He walks slow and casual, knife tucked into his back pants beneath his shirt, and makes his way toward the front door. The bartender gets a polite two-finger salute on the way.
Licker Robby eyes the money and doesn't immediately grab it. At least not until Buck is making his way outside, only then does he come out of his wuss shell and take the bills.

The bartender glances over at the moving mountain and up nods, then resumes watching the television while absently cleaning a glass.

Outside it's already starting to snow in late September Denver. Its just a light dusting of white, but it's obviously going to be a cold winter.

There on the curb is a black Sedan with a young looking executive type leaning against the back door with ac cigarette burning between his lips. Beside him is a fella only a few centimeters shorter than Buck and almost as big from shoulder to shoulder. A pair of shades rests on the bridge of the other mountains nose while he's managed, by some miracle, to squeeze into a three piece suit.
Buck Rogers The ground rumbles when Buck walks; his boots crush snow into water, leaving behind glimmering footshape sinkholes slow filled by the dusting. His path toward the sedan is straightforward, single-minded, an avalanche in motion as his meaty limbs and bursting shoulders swing. "Hey, fellas," he calls, right hand raised in wave, the left thumb-tucked into a pocket. "Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot-- my buddy in there was pretty spooked, but I think he's just a pussy. Try being a little nicer to him, okay?" He pops a grin, snow dappling his beard, teeth showing, and extends that right hand to the similar big guy for a shake. "Name's Buck Rogers."
Licker The big guy is muscle and not the brains of the operation. When Buck meanders over towards him, he doesn't budge an inch, except to put himself into the big man's path to his boss. He doesn't speak or reach out to shake. He just stands there with his arms crossed.

It's the smaller guy who speaks, "We know who you are, Mr. Rogers.. everyone knows who you are." The young executive type says with a glimmering smile, "But I think you might be right, we did get off on the wrong foot. My name's Taylor Carson." He leans a little so that he can be seen around a huge shoulder, "The people I work for are interested in offering you a deal."
Buck Rogers Buck still grins, shifting his handshake offer from muscles to made man. "That sounds awful interesting, Taylor," he says, staring down at him with a carnivorous focus-- though the other brute's bulk prevents him from getting too close. "But I gotta wonder why someone who wants to be my friend would be so damn sneaky. You don't call, you don't e-mail, you don't even ask my agent for a moment of my time. You threaten some poor son of a bitch - who you're gonna compensate for his emotional trauma, and then never fucking speak to again - instead." Buck's quiet for a moment, then laughs. "Hell, you've got balls, at least. So, whose lackey are you-- Umbrella, government, something else?"
Licker "I'm sure our exchange with Robert was grossly exagerated." The executive says with a glance in the direction of the bar, "But it should be noted that he's hardly innocent of any wrong doing in all of this... he did steal vital information, which as he says it, was provided to you... but that's besides the point."

The smaller man slips around his bigger companion to extend his hand out towards Buck, "I work for a company in compotetion with Umbrella and a working relationship with the government. For now I think it best we just keep it mum.. unless you're interest in doing what you were going to do anyways... with the added benefit of serving the greater good and making a little extra pocket change?"
Buck Rogers Buck shakes. The knife tucked beneath his shirt stays there for now, releasing Taylor's hand after a real firm shake. "Yeah, fair enough," Buck agrees, about the nondisclosure and Robert. Both his hands are now tucked thumb-first into his back pockets, shoulders rolled back, spine straight. The posture's enough to emphasize every terrible inch of his body's lethal potential. "You know I've been checking out the Paradise Islands," he observes, voice a low growl. "Got a real good feeling something's going on there. Something's gonna happen. Call it a Raccoon City survivor's gut instincts. So tell me everything you got, and we'll have a great ol' time working together."
Licker "That's not how this works." Taylor looks to his hand after an unbashful grimace and tucks it into his pocket wher he can work out the aching. "Even if we knew anything was going to happen, we're not at liberty to just ''tell you''... The deal is, you tell us what you find, we pay you." He shrugs a shoulder, "You're more than welcome to not accept the deal, ofcourse. There will obviously be others who are more than willing to make extra money."
Buck Rogers "Fuck off." Buck snorts and pivots on a heel, walking back toward the bar.
Licker "As you wish." The executive says with a nod, motioning towards the sedan. The big man unfolds his arms and pulls open the backdoor for his boss who pauses entering just long enough to look after Buck, "Do be careful though. I think you're probably right that something is going to happen there." Then slips in and reaches into his coat for his phone.

The meeting forgotten almost as soon as he's out of the drizzling of white powder.

The brute makes his way towards the passanger seat and climbs in without a word or a glance in Buck's direction. His business in this was to protect the little guy, who seems safe enough in the car now.
Buck Rogers Buck pays no mind to the duo, scowling faintly. Spook in a suit, shadowy conspiracies and competition, threatening a man's life-- and all they had to offer was money. Money! Like he wasn't bored out of his mind with what he already had. Maybe Robert'll still be there, and Buck will take his drinks.