Now I lay me down to sleep...

He whispers a prayer in the darkness, a plea to a higher power to have mercy on all the souls in this world and the next.  Except his own.  He isn't that presumptuous.  His hand runs from his forehead, down across lips still softly uttering an Ave Maria, towards his stomach, then gently taps each shoulder, left then right.

With a final Amen he rises from the floor, and reverently kisses the plain wooden cross in front of him.  A low bow, then he crosses the cell to his bed.  He lies on his side and closes his eyes.  He doesn't want to sleep, though he knows he must; there won't be much sleep over the next few days.  Not during the Watch...

His mind becomes quiet and still and he drifts back to a simpler time.  Childhood, school, university.  Friends long gone, a love long since lost.  And always in the background, that man, stern, distant.  To please him, he would follow him, follow in his footsteps for Queen and Country...

The world dissolves, and reforms before him.  Bright, arid, he can feel the warm desert breeze on his face.  He looks around the dreamscape and sees Lucas, Peterson and the rest of the unit.  Eyes alert, guns raised.  He follows their eye line, and sees it.  The bunker.

He doesn't want to recall the bunker.  He wants to turn away, to run, anything but live that moment again.  He can't stop the explosion, the rat-a-tat-tat of weapons, or the enemy soldiers swarming out, running for their lives, fear in their eyes.  Running towards him, not away.  He and his men look beyond the terrified Iraqis, to the thing they are running from.  As one, they raise their guns and fire, backing away at the approaching form.  He opens his mouth to scream at it, that this time it would not take him, but the words die in his throat.  As the thing dives towards him the scene swims again, and reforms...

The bodies.  Everywhere.  Friend and foe alike.  And only him, bloodied, but unharmed.  No, not just him.  The voices, whispering in his mind.  We know.  The darkness surrounds him once more...

As the veil lifts, he is looking up at the stars, slumped on the street, a bottle of something vile in his hand, a singed foil and battered lighter close to hand.  They help him forget, that's his excuse.  But only for a little while.

"You look like hell my boy".  Through half closed eyes he sees the figure of a man.  Damn you, he thinks.  All this to make you proud—this is what I've become.  "Give me your hand.  I can help you." He focuses on the man's face, and realises it is kinder than that of his distant tormentor.  He grasps the outstretched hand, and in touching it he sees flashes, short staccato images.  His unit.  The beast.  Blood.  Fire.

His eyes snap open.  Always the visions.  A glance at the clock by the bed shows it is 9 am.  He has had as much sleep as he will get today, and for several days.  Tonight he makes sure the visions do not come true.

Gideon swings his legs out of bed, rises, and walks towards the cross on the opposite side of the cell.  Kneeling down before it, he offers a prayer for mercy on all the souls in this world and the next.  And for the strength to protect them.  Tonight will be the Long Watch.  And he prays that he is ready.

"Do you ever get tired of the lies?"

The Watch serves a greater purpose than religion Gideon, and stands against a far greater evil than mere sin. We don't lie, we guard the masses against an unpalatable truth, one they will never be able to cope with.

"And what truth would that be?"

That there is a far older evil that lies at the edges of reality, and waits. That it can afford to bide its time, because it is beyond time. And when it chooses to act, your God won't intervene. Your God doesn't care about humanity, and never has.

"If that's true, then how can we hope to defeat it?"

Defeat it? Don't tell me you actually thought we hoped for any kind of victory, oh dear no. The Watch exists purely to delay the inevitable. The only victory we can win, is one more day...