Parasite Dimension

The Bonneterre Marshlands had been known throughout history as one of the most treacherous crossings ever faced by the early settlers of the Praetorian nations. Named almost in mocking fashion by merchants who established the first caravan routes to extend from the south coast all the way across the wetlands, the bog had always been considered a death sentence for travelers and even highwaymen in the days of old.

Conserved by the cold bodies of water that spread across the mainland, the bleached bones of men and women who fled the harsh winters of the northern tundra could still be seen sticking out of the mud where the water was clear enough. Carrion eaters, horse carcasses and rotten tree trunks had all been common sights throughout its narrow trails of tall bushes and short slopes. In similar fashion, the disconcerting, almost confusing symbols of devotion and communion cultivated in ages long past by the illusive folk that inhabited the region before the settlers could also be found. And perhaps even more so than the omens of death and decay that nature held up to the face of men around those grounds, the less said about them, the better.

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The Republican Committee of Historical Reparations was run by a bunch of cowards, Ivan had decided for what seemed like the tenth time that week alone, and Wednesday had barely started.

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“Just let me talk to the doctor.”

“Sergeant Bosconovitch, listen to me…”

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NEOPRETORIAN BRANCH OF CONTAINMENT,

INTERNAL AFFAIRS COMMISSION

CASE FILE #89BWP97, “PARTRIDGE, T.”

WRITTEN LOG OF EXHIBIT C: EYEWITNESS ACCOUNT #9791 

DATE & LOCATION DISCLOSED IN ANNEXED FILE

SANCTIONED BY SPECIAL AGENT H., K.,

APPOINTED DEPUTY INSPECTOR, INTERNAL AFFAIRS

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Days kept flying by in their usual blur into one another, bleak in their lack of distinction. From one gray morning to the deafening silence of the next witching hour, life had become a trailing haze of uneventfulness that connected these points in their dotted line toward nothing at all. The same room, the same house, the same trees, the same pain in the same spots. The same regret from the same mistakes being made over and over again throughout days different in numbering only.

Being someone who had gone through life holding on to the belief that routine was a value set in stone, he couldn’t help but notice life itself had an interesting way of demonstrating that wasn’t quite the case. A life that consisted of next to nothing besides a miserable household, a stint through public school, a job at a munitions factory, marriages that had gone nowhere, the army, the trenches and an eventual series of court hearings that had been just as painful as anything so far: all a reminder of the importance of routine, but not anymore than a reminder of the constance of pain. Now, with not much of a routine left, it seemed like pain had filled that void like a leak inside a sinking ship.

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