Teeth chattering, partly from the cold, partly from shock at the large man's demanding bravado, the pedestrian character snaps to attention, unable to process a proper, intelligible response.
"I-ID? N-n...No-ss-s-si-n..nosir, l-lessin' this-countsfer ID," the melancholy adolescent managed to sculpt a half-baked statement through chattering teeth and quivering, numb lips. Plunging his hands deep into the pockets of his soggy wool pea coat, he produced a bloodstained canvas wallet, bearing the crest of the ARC.
the unremarkable youth cautiously walked up to the bar and carefully placed the wallet on the reflective polished counter, flipping it open, revealing the credentials and dossier of one Stanley Leviticus Bradshaw.
"I-I'm-I mean I was-I-... I am a... Zombie Hunter?" Stan sputtered out, stammering like a mentally handicapped lawnmower engine trying to turn over. "W-which is to say, I was a part of a team, there were six of us, yeah? All about my- uh, age? Right? Well, except Roger, but he was driving, anyway, about half an hour in, just along the perimeter of the green zone, we get- w-we got- there was green acid shit- and I tried to save him- a-an-an..andan-andan-" Stan's rambling was cut short by the tears pooling in his eyes and the grief caught in his throat. A staccatto apology managed to escape following a Stan collapsing on the bar, tremoring and deeply sobbing, the grief and lament he was holding back finally becoming too much for his small frame.