Donovan took a few more notes, though this was all something he'd heard before. The bit about regional stagnation was interesting - he'd never seen much from the Greys pertaining to culture - and it might be interesting to see if they were capable of anything resembling proper 'variety' like a human army would be. He knew each of his men had a seed of individuality - he did, Edmund did, they all did - and, given room to flourish, that seed would lead to them being a roughshod and patchwork affair. They'd be competent enough, yes, trained and skilled enough to know how to act under fire, but they'd be lax in drilling and discipline, too much time spent on cultivating their personalities rather than ensuring that they were properly prepared to face a threat. Would the same apply to the Greys? One way to find out.<br/><br/>"Good luck, sir." He said, his voice flat, military, respectful. He had a faint accent that years of service had been unable to fully eradicate - something northern English, possibly Yorkshire. It was subtle, but it flavoured his vowels and intonations. At the core, they'd all need luck. Each mission could have been his last, and this was no different. He'd go through his little rituals - disassembling and reassembling firearms, concealing lucky charms, making sure everything was properly in order for a combat drop. He loved the adrenaline and hated its aftereffects, but it was all worth it in the end if he could say that he'd done his duty in the line of fire and that they'd won it in the end. Still, though, he had the private, selfish little hope that the spilled blood wouldn't be his own - he was only human, after all. It was unavoidable.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>