"It is the Red Army choir." Nicholai points at the record with the bottle of vodka and frowns. "My Army. One you would not get." He takes another swig before trying to get up. Fingers hook around the blood-smeared bed frame, but Nicholai doesn't seem to notice, not even after the blood coats the under side of his palm. He seems too intent on the task at hand.
He swaggers, half from the vodka, half from the fight. Then, he snatches a small device that seems ancient even to Nicholai's standards. He tosses it up on the nightstand and plucks the package from HUNK's hands. The disk slides out neatly and falls into the cleaner of Nicholai's fingers. Then, as soon as it's out, it falls into the device and the Russian closes it off and adjusts a few knobs.
Music crackles out of the small speakers on top and it's muffled by static, but the music is clear. It's thick, it's Russian and it's full of the pride Nicholai has shown over the years. The music ushers in peace in the former U.B.C.S commander and, soon, he's falling onto the bed next to his former comrade. Everything else in on the back burner for now.
"I found this. All of this." He gestures to the bag in which the disk came out of. "When the facility shut down."