Hunters. That was what they were. They had been hunters doing their all-ruling Father's dirty work and the Resistance was their prey. But calling them 'resistance' glorified the Cleric's role in maintaining Father's oppression. And calling them 'resistance' implied that they were on equal enough footing to be able to put up a tangible form of resistance.
"I am a soldier," John Preston said finally, unsure of how else to begin answering a question about his job. He set the bitter cup of tea aside. He picked up a ginger biscuit between a thumb and a forefinger, turning it over gently, studying it with the level of intensity most found rather overwhelming. It was... a curious thing.
"I don't ask questions. I follow orders. I persecute sense offenders. I destroy everything that makes us human. A Cleric who feels is an irrational, emotionally-charged man who, without sugarcoating our roles in society, was once a model citizen who has been trained to become a proficient killer, and he must be terminated."
He placed the ginger cookie down with a barely audible sigh.
"I had been told once that it is often difficult to do the right thing, even though I didn't fully understand what that meant. I thought I was doing the right thing, killing Errol Partridge."