First off-- in the military of the future they have abandoned camouflage because the earth itself has changed so drastically that various shades of green no longer allow you to blend in with your surroundings. In the future the earth will be black-- charred and smokey with horrible neon-patterned carpeting and randomly erected orange and green cylinders over 7 feet in height. Your uniform will consist of a heavy vest-like contraption with bright red blinking lights that will make you look like a video arcade every time you get shot. This vest will make it increasingly difficult to run around, but you will run around because you are patriotic and have strong feelings for your countrymen and also because it is a lot of fun to shoot people and pretend you are twelve.
Speaking of twelve-- in the future this will be the approximate age of those who wil confront you in battle. They have codenames like "Zipper" and "B-day boy" and will sneak up behind you, completely disregarding both the "no running" and "stay 5 feet from your opponents" rule.
With all due respect, you will not really be heeding any of these rules either. You would really like to pick up some of these children by the scruff of their necks and throw them against the wall if they do not shut up but you do not do that because their parents have guns and will shoot you mercilessly. Perhaps you should have thought about this before going into battle at 2 in the afternoon on a Sunday instead of late at night, like a normal person your age.
Also: In the future we are not worried about oil or the value of the dollar. Our conflicts involve our god-given right to shoot a soccer ball-like apparatus suspended over the "home base" of the opposing forces in the name of extra points. You will attempt this continuously, sweating profusely, until there are seventeen pre-pubescents waving their weapons in your face and you must run back to your home station to catch your goddamn breath.
To add insult to injury-- when the battle is over you will be given a scoresheet which will tell you just how badly the opposing team beat you to a sad, sorry, neon-orange pulp. You will read it with an open mind, vow to do better next time, and will exit the premises. You will then buy pizza and maybe a sprite (because they will not have Mozzarella sticks) and will go home to watch episodes of The State while you and your compatriots complain about how frikking cold it is and ask each other why you have not chosen to live in a more temperate climate.