“Tales tell of a person. Tales tell of a hero. This hero played a part in every great war since the dawn of Man. His sword buried deep into the chest of the Sarison King in the crusades. She stared down the scope of a rifle at Hitler. His phone gave the US government the location of Sadam Houssein. Her pistol silenced the Council of Rebels in the Nations War.
“The myth goes that the watcher is an angel. He, or she, waits above, watching over the world, watching over the human race until it is needed. When it is called for it returns to earth in a different form to do what it can to keep the human race strong. To keep humanity progressing.”
“When are you going to quit telling that bed time story?” A man yelled across the yard. “Just because you get off on those old veterans tales doesn’t mean the Raw’s do.” The man threw a magnet ball at the story teller, who dodged it, throwing a note book back across at the man.
The story teller turned off the microphone that was telling the story to the scared recruits in the barracks. “And just because you don’t believe in Watcher doesn’t mean that the Recruits don’t need something to give them hope, John.” The story teller stood up and picked up the magnet ball. He through it back, watching as John caught it in the steel plated fingers traditional to the good old fashioned American sport Pole Ball. “And you have no proof Watcher is just a story.”
“Come on, Man,” John picked up the note book and hit it with his gloved, magnetized hand. “An angel that watches over earth until war breaks out? I’m pretty sure that we would have seen something like that if it was real, don’t you?” He threw the pad back. “We’ve been at war for twelve years. Jumping backwards and forwards across time… If there really was an angel watching over us we’d have seen him.”
“Or her. But that’s just it, they say he changes his appearance every time, nobody knows what he or she will look like.” The Story teller caught the note pad and hit it himself. “For all we know Commander Obul could be the Watcher.”
“Unlikely. He’s a complete and utter ass hole. You’d have thought that an angel would be relatively nice.” John disagreed. He grabbed a metal glove off of one of the many ammunitions boxes laid out across the weapons deposit and threw it to the story teller. “Or at the very least a good Commander. One who knows what the heck he’s doing.”
“You know that if someone heard you that would be insubordination.” The story teller said, catching the glove. “I’m not in the mood to play. We have an op. tomorrow. I’m kind of tired…”
“Look, this might be our last chance. If one of us dies or gets a hand blown off tomorrow…” John smiled, pleadingly. “Sam… promise me that if I get my hand blown off tomorrow you’ll hand feed me my food. Be my wet nurse. You probably already have the skirt for it.” He grinned.
“Yeah, ok, for that I’m gonna whoop your ass at this now.” Sam, the story teller, said getting up and pulling on the metal glove. “You ready to get your ass handed to you?”