Sarge and Noa
At some point Sarge has given up on trying to flee. His legs are heavy thanks to copious amounts of alcohol and so he has dragged a lawn chair close to the fire. It is a lot easier to glare at people while sitting down, and every now and then he cautiously shifts his weight, trying not to break the flimsy contraption that seems to buckle under his weight. It would fit in with the rest of all this if he'd end up with his ass on the ground, there isn't much else in terms of embarrassment that hasn't already happened.
When his eyes lazily scan the people around him and he spots Noa approaching he sighs and stretches his legs against all better judgment. When she is close enough he holds out the jar of moonshine he commandeered just minutes ago from an unlucky patch that walked by. Sarge doesn't play the whole "second in command" card very often but when he's half past blitzed and lazy it does come in handy.
Keeping his eyes trained on the fire he sighs and scratches his head. "Just heard two bitches talk 'bout goin' to Alaska cause they reckon livin' on an island is safer. Tell me why bein' alive is good."