|Buck Rogers|| A BSAA-allied naval vessel retrieved Buck and the rest of the strike team after their mission, sparing them from the shortly thereafter firebombing that reduced much of the surface to blackened ruin. Those needing medical attention were air-lifted out as necessary; Buck, for his part, had a few joint dislocations, a broken leg, some minor burns, and an assortment of lacerations.
Utilizing his organizational authority, he downplayed the injuries, and had himself delivered to his home on the nearby resort island. The trip didn't even take an hour, given the proximity between the island chains; he still reeks of brimstone and ash and infection when, on a set of crutches comically too small for him, he stumbles inside.
Celeste was probably off getting herself a mud bath at the moment, or a massage-- he's got her booked for essentially unlimited pampering at the neighboring Eden Resort, which serves the dual purposes of making him feel like a provider and minimizing the pregnancy stress that could otherwise drive him insane.
"A fuckin' dinosaur," he mutters, tossing his gut-slick sword aside as he hobbles his way to the backyard patio. He's not going to make a mess of the interior. He'll just collapse here for awhile.
|Isabel||Having returned alive from their previous fact-finding mission, Isabel knows she owes Buck a visit, and today seemed like a good day. It's not intended to be an overnighter, but since Raccoon City she's tended to pack for the worst. Her red Maxpedition backpack is loaded with potential emergency items, most of them small, though her medkit and a couple cans of first-aid spray are included, as well as two changes of clothes.
After Paris, she's not taking any chances on getting caught alone without some basic supplies.
She rings the doorbell at the front door. Getting no answer, she moves to check the backyard. Just in case.
|Buck Rogers|| Buck is a murder in paradise. The tranquil scenery of his backyard-- the natural waterfalls, the stone-carved inground pool, the lushness of fern and flower, all bordered by the home itself and the stone the falls cascade from so it has a quiet solitude-- stands in unnerving contrast to the pool of gore and viscera he is. He's slick head to toe with what seems like blood, sticky and tar-like, and a foul smell coats him; traces of copper, fire, decaying flesh. Ribbons of shredded internal organs-- not his, fortunately-- cling to him and the experimental future-tech sword. His armor is dented, cut, and burnt. Perhaps most odd is the sheen of what seems to be saliva drying on him, thick and shiny and with a wet heat.
The splinted, broken leg is also there.
Buck's finally managed to remove his skull-painted helmet, tossing it and its attached gas mask and night vision goggles aside. It rolls into the grass with a dull rattle. In the distance, he hears the doorbell, and ughs. Then there's Isabel in the peripheral. He raises a hand-- and winces. Yep, that shoulder's dislocated.
"Did you know dinosaurs still exist?"
|Isabel||Isabel honestly never gets tired of this house, or anything around it. It's really impressive; luxurious but with a certain simplicity, and there's a feeling of peace here. The groundkeeper really knew what he was doing when he landscaped the place.
But something's just not right. What's different now from the last time she was here? She hasn't been here enough times to know every blade of grass, not yet.
Then the difference waves.
Isabel does a double-take, blinking owlishly at the gore-coated figure that can only be Buck. "Holy fudgesicles... Buck! How in the world did you get like this?" she exclaims, half amazed and half horrified. She hurries to join him, concern warring for dominance with horror on her face. "Dinosaurs..? Where did you find a /dinosaur/? Is that what did this to you?"
There's so much wrong with the man right now, she doesn't know where to start trying to help. She just listens for now, her mind working on the issue in the background.
|Buck Rogers|| "There's a quarantined island in this chain," Buck explains, "under strict lock-and-key. No one's ever allowed on-- but I've been chasin' leads about this place ever since Raccoon went down. It's why I had this place made. My own lil fort." He laughs, a dry, almost-coughing sound that ends when his mouth splits in a campfire grin. "It's one of many Umbrella facilities down south'a the border. Well, seems they had a bit'a trouble, and a bad photograph got taken by a fisherman. Hushed up quick like, but I found it.. organized a strike team to come in, investigate."
He pulls himself to a seated position. It's a difficult movement given he can't bend his left leg. He begins to unbutton the massive armored trenchcoat he wears, as it's making this lounging uncomfortable. "Well, didn't investigate the lab. But I got a hunch what they were studyin'. You ever seen Jurassic Park? The whole idea of resurrectin' a dead species through some found DNA? We're livin' in the future, baby girl. And it's full of three-headed t-rexes with tentacles for tongues, some kinda toxic spore cloud, and a voracious appetite for yours truly."
|Isabel||Isabel moves to help him with the coat. "By the look of you, he thought you were the blue plate special," she murmurs, grimacing at the feel of the stuff coating nearly all of him. "Did everyone else get out, too?"
One last button, and the coat parts. What's underneath doesn't look a lot better, but at least it's cleaner. "It sounds like they've got that lab well protected, if they're making twisted dinosaurs there. Umbrella just couldn't leave something that dangerous alone, could they?" A sudden thought strikes her. "How do you control something like that? Or do you?"
|Buck Rogers|| "A few injuries, but no fatalities," the man explains, grateful for the assistance; he grunts as the dislocated shoulder is pulled free of the sleeve. With the coat gone, all that's left is the heavy armor he wears beneath it, somewhere between military gear and SWAT-- bullet-resistant weaves, plates, a lot of padding. All in all, it's a rather significant burden the giant carries around all the time. The myriad bruises that stain his flesh are more visible now.
"I've never known how they control their B.O.W.s," he admits. "But I figure they got somethin' in mind for it-- probably why they're using a quarantined island. Even if things go wrong, it can't go anywhere. Ain't much of a swimmer, I reckon." He scoots over a little and rests his head against a small table set with a parasol and a vat of lemonade Celeste left out before leaving. The ice cubes in it are melting slow. "But I'd call that one a failed experiment. Too hard to transport. Can't imagine it being controlled. Too much collateral damage even if you drop it in a warzone. By the time you think a t-rex is the right call, might as well just drop bombs.. which is what we did. After I cut my way out of its stomach."
|Isabel||The look on Isabel's face after Buck says how he escaped the area says it all: EEEEEEWWWW!!! But she keeps helping him, finding fastenings and catches to get the stuff off so they both can see what's beneath and what needs treatment. So far, it looks like all of him to differing degrees. "Bombs would be a lot less messy," she has to say, softly. "And a lot more humane. I wish Cee were here. She'd be a lot better at this kind of thing."|
|Buck Rogers|| "Honestly," Buck muses aloud, "I've always been a little confused by Umbrella's research. I get the tactical advantage of B.O.W.s, controlled ones-- they're pretty much super soldiers, and they're creepy enough to hurt enemy morale. Fear is potent. But.." His good arm lifts, waving idly, and scrambling for the liter of lemonade. He guzzles it straight from the tap, staining his beard and moustache. The jar's replaced on the table with a ring. ".. it's gotta be expensive. This is advanced stuff. Even if a given B.O.W. beats a normal soldier, you gotta be able to outfit a half dozen or more soldiers per monster you can make."
He chews on that, quiets. "Ah, I'll heal fine.. help me get the wounds cleaned, and fix my shoulder, eh?"