1 Bites and Scratches

Due to good fortune, or more accurately, the misfortune of others, my "life" with the Legion has seen me advance quickly through its ranks. I was one of the many blissfully happy and ignorant humans a little over five years ago. Having worked my way up from initiate to Legionnaire, I now hold the title of Cabal Principalis or Cabal Commander. I suppose you could call this one man's journal of the events in a secret war that will ensure humanity's survival, albeit in ignorance.

Throughout history, men and women wiser than me have counselled that the knowledge of the written word is powerful and must be well guarded. I suggest you do the same with what you are reading now and ensure that it remains only amongst our ranks. The world is not ready, and I believe it will never be prepared for the truth.

To tell these stories, I must return to the beginning and explain my life before the Legion. It was Monday, June 28, 2004, when I graduated from a prestigious Swiss hospitality school. I was engaged to my fiancé, who had graduated one year ahead of me and had already begun a promising career in Hospitality.

It was the usual early morning start, and my hand fumbled on the bedside table, searching for my glasses, which I found quickly enough, even as my cell phone vibrated its way across my bedside table. My fiancé stirred and punched me feebly on the arm, which was her way of saying, "five more minutes." I did not even grunt as I watched the black plastic rectangle vibrate over the edge to land on the floor. Every time it hit the floor, she would wake in a foul mood which is why it landed on a pillow strategically deployed to the same position every night before we went to sleep.

It was just past six in the morning when Lynx began mournfully meowing that "nobody loves me", which kicked off the second phase of our morning routine. I got out of bed long enough to let the cat in before crawling back under the covers and pushing the cat towards my fiancée. Lynx is the perfect alarm clock. At her relatively gently purring, headbutting, and kneading sans claws, I ultimately roll myself out of bed. Somewhere between boiling water for coffee and asking Cynthia what she wants for breakfast, I also attend to Lynx's morning food needs.

I had just graduated and was searching for a job in Switzerland in Lausanne, Geneva, or that general geographic area. My life plan was naively simple now that I had a university degree: Get a job. Get married. Cynthia was the sole provider until I found a full-time job. As a pseudo-consultant, I did what I could to fill the time, including volunteer work at an animal shelter twice a week and a few side projects in the hospitality line.

Over breakfast, I channelled through the available channels in English, Italian, and German until I came to the local news in French. It was a repeat of yesterday's information, including the disappearance of the fifth prostitute in as many weeks. It had quite a few people worried, but since the missing were prostitutes, most of us were content to turn a blind eye to it.

Breakfast was the usual, and I kissed her as she flew out the door with her thermos and laptop bag in hand. I cleared the breakfast stuff away and, from the open kitchen window, four floors up waved and blew her another kiss. She did the same before disappearing into the waiting taxi. After the third victim, I suggested she start taking a cab to the train station instead of walking.

Most days, the little housework there is, I get done by around eight, and apart from getting groceries for dinner, I had most of the day to myself. With graduation only two weeks before, I was disinclined to do much of anything except send out a few job applications and then relax.

When my cell phone vibrated across the table towards me, I knew my daily plan had just changed. The call was from the St. Catherine Animal Rescue Center, where we had adopted Lynx. Somebody had not shown up, and there was hope that I could pick up the slack. Since the call was early enough, I agreed, throwing myself into the shower and then into some clean clothes before beginning the journey.

Lausanne is the Olympic Capital of the world and a beautiful city that perfectly blends the urban and rural, the countryside not being more than an hour away in any direction. In a few words, Lausanne is an attractive city, fascinating, worldly, sexy, and well-aware of how to have a good time. Lausanne is the most beautiful of all its cities in a country filled with natural beauty, built on the terraced south-facing slopes of numerous hills. The Savoy Alps are visible through gaps in buildings or over the end of alleys. Numerous parks, tree-lined promenades, and Lake Geneva enhance the omnipresent natural splendour of Lausanne. I read somewhere that Lausanne was to Switzerland as San Francisco is to America.

The city's culture lives in the clubs, cafés, and the municipally supported and subsidized arts and culture. The city's slowly burgeoning population of 300,000 can't cater to every taste intimately. But Lausanne is a city where the open-minded can find something to enjoy. The city offers everything from various festivals, live music, clubs, theatre, opera, and ballet that shames the more prominent and supposedly more "metropolitan" European capitals. The city's subculture had turned Lausanne into the rollerblading, skateboarding, free-running capital of Europe, and they roamed the streets and buildings all hours of the day and night.

Even the more academically minded will find something worth studying at the University of Lausanne, the Federal Institute of Technology, or one of the myriads of other learning institutions scattered throughout the city and its surroundings. Like in any other city, be mindful that you do not go seeking what lurks in the dark shadows of alleyways and sewers.

That particular day was incredibly long, as I dealt with what felt like hundreds – there were only a dozen – cats brought in that day from all over Lausanne. Despite the youth of these animals, they were all completely and utterly feral, never having known a human's touch. They hissed, spat, and lashed out whenever you got close to them, which meant they were my problem - volunteers take turns to do the slightly dangerous and nonlethal jobs. It was my turn that day.

The slow approach takes time as you whisper and move slowly, letting them sniff a finger and then stroke them carefully. If your fingers are still intact, it's reasonably safe to give them the once-over examination. It revealed the usual tale of malnutrition, partial starvation, knotted fur, fleas, ticks, and other parasites.

One such fireball of black and grey tabby fur suddenly decided that it did not like being touched, and there was only a single hiss of displeasure followed by the feline brand of righteous fury and cat god wrath. Her scalpel-sharp claws shredded my shirt, hands, and arms in seconds, followed by a howl of victory as she sank needle-like incisors into the webbing between thumb and forefinger. I howled like a banshee, and it took several long, painful minutes to untangle the cat, my shirt, and me with the help of another volunteer.

By that point, I was cursing the cat, the gloves, my shirt, the cat, myself, and then the cat again.

Suffice it to say, I went home early, covered in salves and plasters. I think the scratch to the tip of my nose hurt the most. Just as well, the fever started not long after I dragged my dressing and bandage-encrusted self onto the bus. Even now, I do not recall much of the rest of that day.

I remember somehow having the presence of mind to buy the groceries for dinner and then making it home. I remember vaguely having dinner and then falling asleep before the lights were even off.

Events took place that week, personal things. I have only the vaguest memories of that week. I remember spending a lot of time asleep, dehydrated, and going through isotonic sports drinks by the litre. A thirst that I couldn't quench no matter what I tried.

It was a week of hell that would be the calm before the storm.