Amongst the tents, one which stood near the entrance, a makeshift tent being held up by flimsy sticks, a masked man was arguing over the counter made of multiple ammo crates, about how he had to take off his mask. The man behind the counter groaned and tried to explain that it was for verification purposes…
“What do you mean I must show my face!”
Why did he even have this job? The army conscipts were often unwilling, and the strict protocol, though making it safe, often led to high temperaments. He looked at the papers that he was given, before taking up a green sheet, putting it in his sights.
“You may pass. Head to the tent with orange banners.”
And of course, in one of the vehicles, armoured ones, mind you, ferrying people to the camps, sat a young teenage boy with white hair. His cold demeanour should have shaken the people in the truck, but then again, they were in a war.
And as they were ushered out, an army staff started counting and registering each person in the van.
“Magnus El Boris?”