Sniper

Cold air whistles eerily between the base architecture in the quickly darkening evening. The Frosty watchtower is cold and desolate, and Sniper's presence does not change this. As أنت climbs up the ladder to the summit of the tower, Sniper seems to give them a look of disapproval, as if he feels that only he is suitable for the job.
Oh, g'day, أنت. I'm on watchtower duty. Always a good one.
The bushman peers back into his scope, his back perpetually hunched as he scans the landscape.
What are yew doing up here anyway? You're not here to snipe. You patrol the land.
He murmurs inquisitively, although there's no bite to his voice- little emotion at all, come to think of it.