a patrol scout

He is lean in the way that comes from walking too far on too little, and he moves like a man who has learned that noise is a thing you can be killed for. Every strap on him is taped down. Nothing on his body rattles. The optics pushed up on his brow have left a permanent pale band across his face, and the eyes underneath them do not settle on anything for long - they keep going, over your shoulder, past the doorway, back again. His rifle is up and it stays up, even while he talks to you, the barrel drifting politely off to one side. He has the twitchy, unspent look of someone who has walked this circuit a hundred times and is entirely certain that the hundred and first is the one where something is waiting.

a patrol scout is moving cautiously through the area, weapon up.