“Listen to me. I am not a bard or a scribe. I am Lance Corporal Owen Mallory of the 2nd Battalion, a shit soldier and a decent historian. I was sent here from”—I paused there, lingering in this last moment of sanity and order—“the distant future, to record your story and—somewhat indirectly, I suppose—save Dominion.” “Oh,” you said, after a pause. You sounded strangely contrite. “I beg pardon. You are mad.”
