Umbrella Surveillance System
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Buck Rogers A Few Hours Ago

"Fuck me. Where did I even put that thing?" Buck's every word is a growling, irritable thing, lips and brow joined in twisted scowl as he stomps around the dumpster in an alley near an abandoned auto shop. "It was in the fucking dumpster! You tellin' me these assholes dumpster dive?"

His fist leaves a nasty dent in the side of it.

A cellphone is opened. A quick dial. "Yeah, sweetheart, look-- that present? I think the 'coons got it. Shh, don't pout at me -- I don't need to see it, I can hear it -- look, shh, baby. I got it. Come along the path I showed you in.. two and a half hours. I'll meet you there. I'll get you something better."

The phone closes, and Buck adjusts his helmet, marching off down an alley.

Now

Buck has just finished dragging Celeste through one of the tunnels the FBC has failed to seal; the one he's been using, and has kept obscured through various low-budget and ingenious means, particularly by concealing the crawl space that leads to the basement exit of it through a separate tunnel behind an expansive and ultra-heavy chunk of fallen rock few others can move. When they arrive back on the streets of the quarantine, across the street from an empty McDonalds, the evening light settles on him with a calming grace.

It's a grace that highlights how absolutely fucked he is. Soaked head-to-toe in blood, his armored jacket covered in gashes, a lense in his night vision goggles cracked by blunt impact. Mixed with the blood is gravel and dust and what look to be splinters of wood and plaster. He's walking right out of a Stephen King novel. He lifts his hand, and begins to walk, toward.. what seems to be a small, collapsed building near the McDonalds. A pile of rubble, the roof partially caved in, support beams exposed and toppled. One window remains standing on the ground floor. "Okay. Took me a little bit, but I found live ones."
Celeste Celeste patiently waiting, working on more of her little lolita dress. Though when the time came, she met up with Buck. At the mention of live ones, she blinks a bit and asks "ones? Like plural? Are you sure I'll be safe Buck? I remember you telling me about their tongues and all. I don't wanna get impaled on it..." She is taking a few moment to get him a little bit of firstaid as she speaks. Then her medkit is closing once more.
Bob Life has been rough for Bob lately. He's been shot. He's been electrocuted. He witnessed comrades die. Another friend nearly died. It's definitely time to do something.

Anything to take his mind off of... well... everything.

That's how he found himself in the Quarantine Zone. He badged his way inside ostensibly to recon the site of the explosion that sealed off one of the routes to the catacombs, but in actuality he's hoping to find something to take out his anger on, anger being Bob's chosen emotion to mask things like worry and sorrow.

His trek takes him in the direction of the bombed out building, but he stops... Hearing something that sounds like human voices in the quarantine zone will give pause to a guy who's assumed he's in there alone. Quietly, he makes his way in their direction, curiosity and a sense of duty getting the better of him.
Buck Rogers "You're fine, babygirl," the armored juggernaut replies, reaching out to give the top of the doll-girl's head a gentle pat. "I made sure they couldn't do anything." The touch sends a splatter of inhuman blood against her brow and sinking into her roots; it stains her like anointment. They stand now in the shadow of the broken building. Buck reaches down and picks up a bit of rubble-- a closer examination reveals it to be a brass doorknob. He hehs, tosses it up into the air, catches it as it spirals back down, and with a practiced flick of a well-muscled arm shatters the last standing window. There's a resounding crack as the glass splits and a cascade of hailstone taps as the fragments fall.

The silence that follows is broken with a chorus of almost-human rasps and whines and gurgles. They are like voices but they are not voices; they linger in the uncanny valley of sound. The sound comes from behind a partially-standing wrought iron fence, though broken in many parts, covering what seems to be a now-untamed garden...

And in that garden, impaled on the black iron spikes ripped from the fence, are a small handful of lickers. Grotesque creatures without skin, twisted into the shapes of primeval terrors-- beasts on all fours with sealed-over eyes and pulsing exposed brains, with rows of teeth like razored needles, claws instead of nails. One and all, they are broken and tortured; the iron pushes through limbs whose bones have been shattered, or severed save for jagged ribbons of connecting tissue; there is an assembly of pulled-off claws and the plants are stained with skull fragments and brain matter. A twitching limb from one of the creatures seems to be poking out from a section of collapsed building adjacent the garden.. from another licker no doubt buried beneath.

None of them can move their heads, their mouths broken ruins with bars stabbed up through their jaws to push out near their cheekbones. They writhe and twitch and if they feel pain they are crying, but who knows what the purpose of those sounds are? They are beasts, and Buck Rogers is their king.

Behind his helmet, the brute smiles, and steps in. He spreads his arms wide. "Hello, my beauties. Been good for Daddy?"
Celeste Celeste sighs in relief as he tells her that and says "Alright. I just want to make sure." Her eyes watch the breaking of the glass. Then the symphony of pain is heard and she says "Darling? Is that them?" Her steps quickly following after him and her jaw drops as she looks upon them "Buck... how many did you get me.... and how did you.... well.. trap them all?" Her hands producing an older medical examination kit as she curiosly watches the tortured critters.
Bob The sounds of human voices, the word 'Daddy' floating in the air amidst the screams of monsters. This is what Bob willingly heads towards with his weapon held at the low ready should he stumble upon the source of those sounds suddenly.

When he finds it his first reaction is raise his weapon and get ready to fire, but the creatures seem to be pinned in place. They're clearly helpless and it's been done by human hands.

And there are people there. People he knows, albeitly not particularly well. The big one is BSAA and he probably belongs here and the small one is girlfriend who's probably here to watch him work. Bringing himself closer to the people he calls out to alert them to his presence, "Yo."
Buck Rogers "Now that's a story," Buck begins, standing near the closest of the monsters. Both of its back legs are twisted and shattered at the joints, ichorous blood dripping down the black iron that serves to anchor. "I was just lookin' for one, see? So I'm stalking for an hour and a half when I see one creep-crawling its way up the side of this here house and passing through a window. I figured, hey, I'll go catch it, get you an even better present."

He places the toe of his heavy, metal-plated right boot on the impaled leg. He pushes it down, grinding it into the matted bloodied grass and eliciting a gurgling moan. His voice, muffled by the ballistic mask, nevertheless is rich with pleasure. "Well. Turns out there was more than one. They were guarding something, it looked like; some weird-ass woman hanging like a spider above the staircase. Red skin like a demon, long fingers.. swinging from her legs." He shrugs.

"Well, she saw me. And when she did, oh, she made a racket.. and her friends were not happy." Another stomp of his foot. He casts his eyes at the building. "Place was rickety-shit when I went in, but during the fight, went through enough walls and beams to make the whole thing give out. Hurt like a bitch. Had a few of these things hurt and trapped. So I started breaking limbs, settin' 'em up.."

It's at this point Bob arrives, calling out his greeting. Buck slow-turns, pivoting on a heel, and looks sideways at him. "Hey. Mind your step." His hand gestures broadly to the licker farm.
Celeste Celeste smiles happily as she listens to the tale of how the lickers came to their current tortured demise. She is putting on a lab coat and buttoning it up, next medical gloves are put on and then a mask. She comments to Buck "You are so good to me. Which one should I cut open first?" And then Bob appears, she offers a smile that can be seen in her eyes and waves hello to Bob as she holds a scalpel in her hand.
Bob Bob certainly will mind his step, not wanting to impale himself on any of the sharp looking objects sticking out of the ground or what's left of the claws of the lickers they're jammed through. But he does approach as curiosity has gotten the better of him and there's something to see here.

It seems to take some time for him to process the beasts wriggling around, especially as he keeps looking over his shoulder for more potential trouble, but he does allow himself to study the monsters for some time, squatting down to get a closer look at their heads.

Celeste's wave is returned with one of his own, his non-dominant hand leaving the foregrip of his weapon. Eventually, he remembers to speak, "I'm not sure what's going on here..." But it's better than sitting helplessly at the hospital or getting drunk and ending up with a hooker. "You guys need a hand?"
Buck Rogers "Celeste here has a bit of a fascination with the morbid and grotesque," Buck explains. He reaches his hands up and detaches his facial mask, exposing the flushed and sweating bronze of his skin. The cool air is pleasant upon his wet beard; there's no good way to breathe in that thing. He hooks it to a strap near his chainsaw. When that's done, he folds his index finger, and teasingly taps the crown of her head with the metal plate near the central knuckle. "And a keen mind for all things medical. I like to let her dabble, unofficially, with all the monsters I manage to kill. I'm no researcher, and don't have Umbrella's combat data on these things, anyway-- helps to have a clever girl like her give me tips on where to cut."

The tap becomes an approving muss of her hair. "Take your pick. They're all pretty much the same-- but I'd recommend not getting too close to their faces. I've made their tongues into little nubs, but who knows what kind of sick filth is in that spit? It drips like acid rain. And even broken mouths can cut and bite."
Celeste Celeste is about to explain but Buck is doing it for her. She giggles softly and muses "I want to dissect the creatures. The other one he got for me... something happened to it. But now I have more subjects." Her attention then looks to Buck as she says "And your friends too. Like Trixie. You have to make sure Trixie knows too. I would be vedy sad if something happened." Her eyes looking from each trapped monster to the other as she asks herself allowed "Where to start first...." Then she looks to Bob and asks "Did you want to help? I have spare gloves and mask and coat to be tossed."
Bob "That all makes sense," Bob says to Buck with a considering nod. After all, it does make sense. It's hard for him to look away from the lickers once he's done speaking. The BOWs clearly have him fascinated and since there doesn't appear to be another threat at the moment he can take some time to examine them some more for himself. Celeste's offer get his attention and he manages a smile for her, though there's no telling if it's for real. "Thank you for the offer," he says to her. "But I think I'm going to not do that. Been in the operating room already tonight. I'll probably watch you work, though."
Buck Rogers "I think when they're still alive it's called vivisection," Buck chimes in, scratching the sweat from his beard and flicking it off his gloved fingers. "I remember that from Raccoon City. Some glasses fella I bumped into said so." And if he wore glasses, he was certainly smart and scientific, and therefore correct. "Anyway. If you want me to kill 'em, let me know. I just figured it's easier to tell how to murder something when it's not already dead. Zombies being the notable exception." A self-amused chuckle, and he walks around the first impaled beastie, squatting down next to it. His face hangs over it.. and when it snarls and snaps its tongue at him, the little cut-off nub barely makes it past its teeth. "Aw, buddy," he says, patting its brain. "It happens to all of us when you get old."