The battle raged. Shells left your head ringing like a church bell, the chaos of the fight leaving you discombobulated and out of your senses. Rifle still reflexively gripped in your hands, you come face to face with the enemy - an equally disoriented, equally inexperienced and equally terrified SIF fighter. Their black hoodie; emblazoned with the indicative Leviathan glyph and dagger on the sleeve and the incomprehensible logo of their favourite band on the front, was tattered and threadbare from the combat it saw. Their webbing was ill-fitting, and their eyes, obscured by the dark corpse paint and mess of black hair, were wide - understandably and presumably with adrenaline, confusion and terror.