Damien Moreau first sees him curled in on himself, trying in vain to protect essential organs. He's twenty two, fresh in the military, just finding out what real combat is like. He spits out a gob of blood and growls, low and dangerous, at the security man who had just connected a lazy kick at his side. Then he stands up on wobbly legs.
Moreau is standing off to the side with something like a puzzled smile on his face. As the security guard is about to strike again, Moreau calls out, "Stop." The guard does, mid-punch. "Bring him here."
He tries to stand on his own, but everything is spinning too much. So the guard grabs his arm hard enough to bruise and drags him over, half-supporting his weight. Moreau looks at him up and down like his daddy used to do with cattle, then smiles. "What's your name?"
He could refuse, but that would just end painfully. "Eliot Spencer."
"Eliot Spencer," Moreau repeats thoughtfully. "You don't go down easy, Mr. Spencer."
"No, sir." He never has, and it's something he's proud of.
"I could use men like you, Spencer. What say you to a job?"
Eliot looks around at the discarded bodies (could be breathing, probably not) of his unit, looks at the men holding their semi-automatics with loose professionalism, and nods. He likes to fight but he's never been keen on dying and Moreau seems like the kind of guy who always wins.