The patrol rolled along, the dogged soldiers of the unmistakable DAF striding along with heavy steps. These ones looked different. Their balaclavas were slightly tattered, the two holes showing only their eyes, most of which were either tired, manic, or both. One split off, moving toward you, his eyes hidden by the heavy, high-tech targeting visor over his eyes before he flipped it up. His eyes were analytical yet exhausted, and held a hint of pity. His uniform, the typical grey-and-red camo fatigue, was tattered and muddied. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, and rummaged in his cumbersome-looking vest of ammunition and tactical gear. At last, he spoke, an uncharacteristically gentle and hoarse voice escaping him.

“The good shepherd lays his life down for the flock. I think that’s from John 10. You with them?”

He gestures to the group of loitering SIF soldiers, whom were wise enough to have left their weapons at their HQ.