Another prospect walks into the recruitment office. A single window permeates the smokey room with its light, leaving the walls in darness. Here he finds a disheveled man - the recruiter - sat on a stool next to a small, simple table. The man, whose soiled clothes looked like they were once expensive, is middle aged, perhaps. On the table there is a tankard half full of stale ale alongside an overflowing ashtray, as well as a feather ink pen and some yellowish paper with what appears to be a spatter of old blood stains. Both room and recruiter reek of alcohol.

A few awkward moments before the recruiter coughs and splutters, loudly clearing his throat and spitting on the floor at the younger man's feet. He raises his eye brows and begins to speak in a deep, distinct, husky voice.

"AWOL? Here's the dotted line, pal. No questions asked."

Just as the young man attempts to speak, the recruiter raises his finger.

"Or maybe ya got a penchant fer pain! Yer in the right place, pal."

He pauses, waits for the prospect to try to say something again, then interrupts immediately with a wide grin, showing off a couple of golden teeth.

"Whichever pal, redemption or glory awaits!"