Talking to Ginovaef has been good for HUNK: there are few soldiers he's had this kind of rapport with. Another bare smile, and he realizes the strain in his face is from not using the muscles for-(days?weeks?months?years?-ever?) a while. "Glad to know you've had something to live by."
Nicholai might be drunk, but HUNK has found, over the years, that it means the bullshit filter between his mouth and head was significantly less employed. The Russian would admit to things and state things, and they would be the total truth.
Alexander? ... He hadn't been called that name in a very long time.
The banter that Death did not care of existence was as true as Ginovaef thought. It wasn't something HUNK dwelled on, but the thought lurked somewhere in the recesses of his mind.
Another long silence, where it seems as if the presence of a human, a person, floods away from the line. The distant, eerie quality of something existing that shouldn't be there anymore. Something that's outstayed its welcome.
"I'll look forward to it."
He is not trying to deflect the other soldier now, and the tone in his words sounds as much. HUNK knows that his body will continue to follow its instincts and survive if it is demanded to, whether or not he actually cares.
Silence swallows the line, until HUNK breaks it quietly. "The information will arrive via email. It should hold all relevant data you need. If you have any questions, ask them now. You won't be able to reach me again until you're on the job."
It's a perfunctory string of statements, considering HUNK is aware that Ginovaef probably doesn't care. The picking up of that smoking habit he'd dropped while they were together at Rockfort told him as much.
Nicholai Ginovaef was desperate. There might have been a time HUNK cared, a while ago. But over the years, most intrusive emotions had faded to gray, save for the grim, fierce pride of his work and the occasional surge of fear or panic.
He himself had continued on with his job at Umbrella mostly because he simply couldn't imagine doing anything else. His own loyalty was born mostly of habit and a species of pride that was more like the cousin no one wanted to talk about in the family.
With that bleak and rather distant realization, the first impulsive thought in a while seizes him. "Nicholai- if you get a chance to-"
He pauses, suddenly all too aware of what he was about to ask, that ingrained sense of stubborn survival rising in him. The familiar use of the Russian's first name could either piss said Russian off or alert him that HUNK had strayed from the topic of business.