You see a dark-haired man in Pact fatigues, tiredly pushing a battered and mud-spattered bicycle.  The barrel of an AK pokes up behind one shoulder; its butt sometimes bangs against,or its strap sometimes tangles the handlebars.  A thin antenna wire nods and wavers above the other shoulder.  The pack on his back strains outwards; his webbing is festooned with grenades and even more rifle clips.

When he sees you watching, he stops, straightens up, and smiles slightly, his dark eyes reflecting the smile on his pale face as they give you a once-over.

He glances once at your fatigues before saying "Hello!" in a language you understand.  His voice is deep and somehow . . . professional-sounding, as if he's made cold introductions lots of times in the past.