Superposition: a Lexicon game
Once, I awoke at the rehabilitation centre and there was a man waiting. We had a short, confusing conversation. At first, I blamed my dilapidated state. Only later—sifting through his questions, weighing his reactions, collecting my memories—I realised how horribly close I had came to oblivion.
I thought him a stranger. But he was Zurich Jammison.
His case was the first I studied in my forsenic thaumatology course. Convicted of mass thaumocide in 6412, he should never have seen the light of day again.
And yet there he had been, in my hospice room, while I slept. He must have also come here during the transgression. And his questions haunt me: