Re: [Registration Table: Hunter R & Cris M]
He'd forgotten his name-tag. He realized 'bout five minutes into his "lurking," his eyes catching on the lil rectangles pinned to everybody else, chest or hip or somewhere more risqué. The badge he usually wore on his hip was still there and that was branding enough, he figured. He got a numbera waves as he waited, nods too, and he returned them with mild, forced interest. It wasn't like it took a lotta effort to acknowledge back. He was passing off a smile to somebody when Hunter appeared in the thicka the waspish crowd, the bright coppera youth on his face, reminding hima Sam, even under all that wear.
Cris pretended to survey the massa their enemy with hard eyes, but a smirk split from the cornera his lips. "Opposition." He turned, so he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Hunter, and he put his arm 'round his shoulders paternal. "We're gonna destroy 'em," the Sheriff joked, riffing offa what the kid had said over the forums. There was no bloodlust on Cris' dark features, however. It was all good humor and a last squeeze to the backa Hunter's neck and he pulled a sandwich outta his pocket, plastic loud under his fingers, to pass to the gringito. It was Cuban bread, mayo, and pork. Nothing fancy or even necessarily all that tasty, but it was solid food, and, maybe he was wrong, but Cris was pretty sure Hunter needed to eat a lil more, especially if he was recovering from being sick. Which his dripping nose confirmed was the case.
Cris handed over a crumpled up napkin with a bready smile, his own sandwich bitten into and crust white on his lips light as snow. He walked away from the registration desk, assuming Hunter'd follow. "¡Vámonos!" He hefted the weighty flashlight from his other pocket—and, much to his surprise, pulled up his name-tag with it. He pinned it to his chest with gusto, just there by limba scarf, and clicked the flashlight on in the falling dusk. They had eggs to find.