Miklos was just like his fellow Guardsmen cramped into the landing vehicle except... not quite. He was with his stunted kinsmen, having a jolly fine time. Over the servitor voice unit droning, the scream of orders and cries for mother, amidst the checking of weapons and relief of bladders he was in a manner an ocean of calm. 

If one viewed him without context, they may well imagine he was destined for a pleasure world. His eyes were tightly shut, obscured by smoke from the corncob pipe at his satisfied lips. His clothes were ragged but comfortable, not too tight nor rough nor loose: a small victory from robbing a man too stupid to realize one does not simply bully ratlings. 

His soft sleep was helped by the firm feeling of his long-las in his fingers as though it were one of the traditional shepherding staves of his home, accompanied by a harmonica's  tune from a metre or two away. 

Fifteen hours. That was how long a Guardsmen would be expected to live upon deployment but this held no worries for Miklos. He knew it was thanks at least in part to the lives of soldiers like him that the grand calculation did not amount to fourteen hours instead. No he was destined for a quiet death, or one so swift and unexpected or hopeless that there was no point worrying. So he treated his work as a relaxing hunt back home; a leisurely activity. It was all a game really - it certainly had the right combination of reward and frustration to be one. 

But for now, he waited. He waited for the fop in the pointy helmet to say something useful, he waited for the tough gits to combine their brain cells and get enough processing power to stampede out and die, so that Mr. Fop could babble on about honour and his stylish red uniform and duty and his uniform again. But most importantly so he could climb up rocks or a building or a tree and shoot some buggers in the face.