HUNK has let his aching head fall into his hands, and the gnarled fingers and the posture give him the air of a mourner.
The air feels different; tastes different. He glances over, and sees the grin on Nicholai's face. It takes him aback.
Nick hasn't changed. He's still got shades of the lost, young foreigner embedded in him, the same as all those years ago. Another good thing to know.
He eases his elbows onto his knees, noting the sudden influx of Russian, and then glances to the old, military issue bag. It's somewhat of a challenge to coax his body to get to it, but he flips through it.
He's slightly confused, thinking he's looking for a folder- a paper record. But then his fingers fall on a hard, plain cardboard sleeve, Russian lettering on the outside. He catches the glint off of the edge of something smooth and black.
It's like the existence of this thing is a non sequitor to the entire situation. A wry snort of air issues from him. He extracts it, looks to Ginovaef and cocks an eyebrow.