"I'm the executive officer for a PMC operating out of Central America." He taps the patch on his fatigues. It features an ominous-looking skull and embroidered text: " Militaires Sans Frontières. I mostly handle high-level admin work and radio support. Sometimes I'll help out in the mess hall if I'm feeling a culinary itch."

He brings his hands down to clasp the knee of his crossed leg. "Mind if I ask you the same? What kind of day job runs the risk of planetary destruction?"