Umbrella Surveillance System
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Chris Redfield It is a cool mid November evening, a thick, choking fog has rolled in from the river covering everything in sight. The air is damp and chilly, it feels very unpleasant and that dark fog is stirred softly by a westerly wind. Most people have gone home early, not wanting to be trapped in this especially in the evening because stumbling around in the dark isn't fun at the best of times.

It doesn't bother Chris Redfield though, he's just walked out from the Catacombs, wearing a brown leather aviator jacket, green button down shirt, blue jeans and black doc marten boots. If anyone is looking closely at him, they may notice a few specks of blood staining his shirt, his bruised cut up knuckles and a shiner on his left eye. He is walking slowly, making sure he's got sure footing with each step and trying to navigate his way through this part of the city that is blanketed in fog.
Hunter Every time Hunter had convinced herself that she wouldn't go into the catacombs, that there was nothing to find there, that she would DEFINITELY get murdered if she went in there.... she found herself in front of the Catacombs again. Emma had warned her, James had warned her, pretty much the universe had warned her that a normal kid like her just wouldn't cut it in there, but here she was. Would she actually venture in this time? Probably not. It wasn't like she had a weapon in order to deal with any leftover psychopathic canibal TerraSave crazies. But DAMN if she wasn't interested in at least taking a peek...

Hunter wore her typical skeleton-print hoodie with the hood up, protecting her from the weather and simultaneously obscuring her face. With duct tape around an arm, leg, and her waist, she looked like she could be a hoodlum out looking for trouble. Average height with baggy clothing, it was easy to mesh with the riffraff. Grey-green eyes peered out from under the hood, doing their best to actually see what was happening in this thick fog. She had seen fog before but this? THIS was ridiculous. It was almost suffocating... but even choking fog wasn't enough to get Hunter to rent a hotel room.

A form emerged from the catacombs and Hunter froze. Shit. Was this one of the crazies? Was he going to eat her liver with a side of fava beans? Maybe he wouldn't see her? Technically she hadn't been trying to hide herself, but maaaaybe the fog would make her all but invisible? Please don't be a crazy cannibal, please don't be a crazy cannibal....
Chase Dalton A little fog never bugged Chase Dalton, junior agent of the Federal Bioterrorism Commission. It'll take a good deal more to irk him, really. He's in the area on personal business, eyeballing the various shops and whatnot, at least the ones that have chosen to remain open in spite of the weather. As he settles into a seat outside of a shop directly across from the catacombs, he grabs a newspaper off of a nearby rack and begins reading... until the form emerges from the catacombs, catching the agent's eye. He'll observe for now.
Poncho      It is likely one of those cosmic irony situations that finds Hunter standing on one side of the street, desperately hoping that the shadowy figure is not a cannibal, while directly across the street a second figure is fervently wishing for a monster. The likely insane hopeful is tallish, taller than the hoodlum, and lean as a winter wolf. Like her his features are mostly hidden beneath the hood of his jacket, a worn old denim number with tattered fleece lining puffing up about the edges. Unlike her, the eyes that stare out from the shadowy protection are cold, hard, and locked in a permanent thousand yard stare.
     James Martin, X detective, X father, stands with his arms folded across his chest, his back pressed against the stone facade of a teetering old structure that might, charitably, be called a building. Several rounded stones are spread out around his booted feet from where they have worked loose. There is a real danger that a heavy enough weight pressed against it might knock the whole damn wall down.
     Eyes of an almost luminous silver track Chris's progress, watching as he grows every more distinct. Layer by layer the fog seems to peel back until he can see the man for what he is.
     Not a monster. Or, at the very least, not an obvious one.
     The weight of Martin's gaze redoubles upon the man while he waits for him to move past.
Chris Redfield Chris glances around, sensing that there are people nearby but he can't really pinpoint where due to the thick fog. The first person he can somewhat make out is a skeleton! No, hold on it is just a skeleton-print hoodie and he nods politely to the hoodie wearing person as almost walks into her. "Woah, sorry about that. Didn't see you there." He narrowly avoids bumping into her, his reflexes quite good for such a rather bigger muscular man. Another man also catches his attention, standing not too far away from where he nearly bumped into Hunter and who is leaning against taht stone facade, watching him.

Chris is a cautious man by nature, always aware of his surroundings and spots another person sitting on a nearby bench. "Evening." he says aloud to the two men nearby after he apologizes to Hunter.
Hunter Good god, this man was like a TOWER. As he had gotten closer he was much bigger than the fog had first let on. Tall and muscular, she caught glimpses of blood... first on his clothing and then on his fists. Uuuuh things were looking like he might be a cannibal. Hunter took an instinctive step back, her gaze not leaving the huge man in front of her.

"Uh... quick question." She suddenly began, the lilted accent of her voice apparant. "Yer not gonna eat me, are yah?" She jerked a thumb back towards the catacombs, as if that would explain everything. It wasn't until the tower of a man called out to other people did she realize there were... well, other people. Another instinctive move had her sidestep so that the huge man was closer to them than she was. Priorities.
Poncho      Mr. Martin continues to lean against the front of the buildings, arms folded and shadowed features intent. In silence he watches the near collision between the hood and the slightly battered man. Perhaps he could have made some sort of warning gesture if he'd wanted to, but, well. How else can you find a face eating monster without a little bait? It's a bonus that he didn't even have to do anything. The kid has been standing there on their own for a while now. Nervous about something? Waiting for something?
     Martin is pulled from his thoughts, dead grey eyes blinking once, as Chris offers a greeting in his general direction. Focusing his laser-like attention toward the muscular man's eyes, he stares quite a bit harder than is polite.
     "Bonsoir." replies the hooded man, his voice quiet and a little hoarse, as if rarely used of late. He is obviously not a native French speaker. His accent is more, Midwestern? Southern? Hard to tell with him grumbling like that.
     People eating people?
     At her words, Martin's creepy stare tracks off of the muscular man and toward the young hood. That couldn't be a coincidence. What is a kid doing out here looking for monsters?
     "Cute, kid." Martin states, a bit more of the depth of his baritone showing as he grunts the words in her direction, "Don't you know there ain't no such thing as monsters?" The words are very, very dry, the X detective all but winking at her across the distance.
Chris Redfield Chris is only 5'11" tall for the record but that could be tall compared to Hunter. "No. I prefer chicken. Grilled." there is a slight curl of his lips, suggesting a faint smile at her query and he looks to where her thumb is pointing at. "The catacombs? Nothing to worry about too much from there. Except a few unfriendly folk who like to pick fights." He then remembers his manners and introduces himself. "The name's Chris." his voice is certainly American and with a bit of a New York twang if one is familiar with the Big Apple.

Redfield, then looks towards the hooded Mr. Martin as he speaks and watches the man carefully before replying. "It sounds like you aren't from around here either." He says with a stoic expression on his face.
Hunter Cute?! Hunter rolled her eyes, even without facing the man. In a grumbly voice she added, "Ain't cute. Don't have t'be a monster t'eat someone. Cannibals're jerks like that." The girl turned her attention back to Chris. The more he spoke, the more at ease she felt; she definitely believed him about the chicken at the very least. Still, that wasn't a reason to let her guard down.

"Hunter. Nice t'meet yah." She offered her own introduction after he had so politely offered his. Shady guy in the back? He didn't get such pleasantries. Instead, she gave him a side glance. Something about him was... offputting. Was it his voice? It was hoarse, like a stereotypical villain. Or he could just be a smoker. Who was she to judge? Maybe he was here about the catacombs as well? It wasn't exactly a secret by this time that crazy shit had happened in there.
Poncho      "French Native." Martin replies mildly to Chris's declaration, his hoarse voice remaining dry even as his overly intense eyes flicker between the two. "Lost my accent in a tragic pastry curfuffle." The words are delivered in a flat, stony deadpan. He probably isn't a villain, or a cannibal, but he is apparently an ass hole.
     Denim scrapes over stone as the sarcastic stranger adjusts his position, removing some of the weight from his right leg. He seems unbothered by Chris's return look. Even if the other man is a good deal more athletic, and likely 20 years his junior, something about Mr. Martin's eyes seem too cold for fear or worry.
     "Unfriendly folk, well." Continuing in his slow, cold drawl, the aging fellow drifts a look over Chris' shoulder, eyeing the mist that has closed in around him. "That just wont' due. Me and the other members of the neighborly good will society ain't got time for hooligans. What with the measuring' of grass and bi weekly browny day." Shoving away from the wall, the hooded man' limps a step forward, his right foot scraping softly across the gritty pavement. "Mayhaps I ought to have a chat with em."
     A shaft of light pierces the shadow of Martin's Hood as he moves beneath a street lamp, revealing his haggard features. Sharp cheek bones, slightly sunken cheeks. A short brown and grey-flecked beard. He does not look like a healthy man, but neither does he look like a cannibal. He just seems, tired. Beyond exhausted. Empty.
Chris Redfield "Nice to meet you, Hunter." Chris replies in a polite tone and notices she's not from around here either but his attention is drawn to the hooded man. He listens to the man's sarcastic comments and then crosses his arms over his chest. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. There will always be hooligans and that is why they have cops." He does notice when the light from the street lamp illuminatse the man's face, he knows that look and can't help but feel a little sorry for the man.
Hunter Okay so... this guy is clearly crazy, or he just really REALLY doesn't know how social interactions work between human beings. To his credit though, this was a very strange situation to interact with other human beings in, not even counting the catacomb full of cannibals behind them. Still... when she saw his face and how tired he was, she felt a pang of empathy. You're allowed to feel bad for someone who was dead tied even if they turned out to be a crazy axe murderer later, right? At his suggestion of going into the catacombs, Hunter lightly shook her head.

"Shouldn't go down there. Know some folks who did. One of 'em gets all hush hush when they talk about it, an' the other lost an' organ." She nodded as if this would CEMENT the story in the 'weird but true' territory. She would just... conveniently not mention that she was also tempted to go in there. At least for now. After a few moments, Hunter turned to Chris.

"Uh... yer bleedin'." Her voice was blunt and very VERY awkward. "Y'alright?"
Poncho      A half snort, half grunt of pure disgust works its way out of Martin at Chris' response. His heavily limping progress comes to a halt, and he tilts his chin up, staring off coldly over the heads of both man and girl.
     "Cops, boy?" the derision in the older man's tone is blatant, savagely impolite, "You think the French Police are going to hustle on down to the deeper darker and poke about? yeah. Right. I'm sure they'll get right on that."
     Hunching his shoulders, Martin tilts his chin down and exhales long and hard through his nose. The gesture is both defensive and calming, as if he were retreating into himself and putting the walls up. If he had a happy place, he might seek it out. But, it is very clear that he does not.
     Shaking his shaggy head, he limps forward toward Hunter and Chris, luminous silver eyes once more lifting to take in the muscular man's injuries. He seems intent on moving forward to join the two, studying the blood-spattered man just as obviously as the girl.
     "Cops won't do nothing. They ain't equipped for this. But maybe you can save me the trip, kid." This last is directed at Chris rather than Hunter, but honestly, maybe they are both just kids to him. One might be a hardcore bad ass monster slaying soldier of doom, but that doesn't make him any older.
     Locking his silver eyes on Chris' face, Martin pulls his lips back into something that is by no means a smile.
     "See. I got this friend who works for the Umbrella corp. I heard his office might be in town. You think they'd like a place like that? All spooky and private? 'Cause I think they might."
Chris Redfield Chris nods in agreement with Hunter, when she tells the hooded man that one shouldn't go down into the catacombs at least not on their own to explore but with a tour group wouldn't be too bad. "No need to go down there at night, especially with this fog making visibility near zero." He says in a matter of factly tone.

Redfield, then turns to Hunter when she asks him about his injuries and replies. "I'm fine, thanks for asking. The shiner is the worst of it and the rest is pretty minor." His tone is softend when he answers her.

He looks at Martin, as he approaches listening to the man's comments about the Police but when he mentions Umbrella, he quirks an eyebrow slightly. "What do you know about Umbrella?" He isn't intimidated by Martin, even though the man is many years his senior and acting a bit strangely.
Hunter What did he just say? The moment the words 'Umbrella' and 'Friend' left the man's mouth, Hunter's face contorted in a look of both anger and disgust. "Fuckin' Umbrella? Y'keep disgustin' company." Hunter spat before taking another step back and away from the man. Umbrella was the reason the world was shit right now. Umbrella was the reason she had no parents. Just the name incited such rage in her, she was surprised she could keep it in check.
Poncho      Cold grey eyes flick across Chris' face as Martin flat out ignores his question, seeming to read something in the muscular man's posture, or perhaps in his eyes. His not-smile grows, teeth bared like a hungry animal.
     And then Hunter's words impact him with near physical force. His head rocks to the side for a moment, and he turns on her, matching rage for rage. But where hers is hot and violent, the old man's is cold. Cold and quiet and deep as the ocean.
     "Got rocks in your head, kid? Use your damned brain. Hell." He spits, glaring at her even as he forces the snarl from his face. Works his expression back to stony neutrality.
     Then, without further explanation, Martin cuts a brief glance toward Chris, tone hard and low, and offers him a simple, "Thanks, boy. You been a big help."
     That said, and eyes still blazing with cold fire, the aged moves forward, limping quickly past the other two and through the swirling mist. In only a couple of steps he is a shadow in the fog, the scrape of his dragged leg following him down the street toward the entrances below.