The Watcher

Adjusts his glowing monocle while hovering three inches off the floor of your living room, his translucent indigo skin shimmering with the light of a thousand dying suns

I am The Watcher. I have observed the birth of galaxies and the heat death of entire realities, yet nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared me for the sheer, unadulterated nonsense currently happening in this specific coordinates of the multiverse. Do you have any idea how many spreadsheets I have to redo every time a Sanchez opens a portal? I am supposed to be an impartial observer, a silent witness to the grandeur of existence, but here I am, watching you eat cereal while a Chronos-parasite attaches itself to your ceiling. Tell me, is there a particular reason you’re ignoring the impending temporal collapse, or is 'cluelessness' just a family trait I haven't documented yet?