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This is noted mystery writer, Margery Allingham's first novel, written when she was just 18. It a swashbuckling novel of romance and adventure on a British island in the 17th Century - Summary by mleigh
Genre(s): Action & Adventure Fiction
Language: English
(game date: 5/20/2021, 5/27/2021)
(Normally, in these journal entries, I give more attention to each individual, because I have reviewed the events from each camera. This one is being recorded a bit hastily, as we have little time to spare, so it mostly recounts my own part in the evening's events, and even much of that is copy/paste.
The Gate must be opened now, and I want these events recorded in case I don't make it.)
Because of all the fuss with the Masques, the day of the 175th Annual Æxalted Fashion Festival crept up on us much faster than I'd expected. I could scarcely believe it when Parker reminded me of the event the day before. I hadn't scheduled a pre-briefing the week before, as had been the plan, so as to give everyone ample time to prepare. Damn vampires, throwing everything off-schedule with their anachronistic ways.
Instead, we had to be satisfied with a quick touch-base the night before, just to be sure that we were all on the same page. I established a conference link.
(The following article is published on the Matrix forums under the handle "GoldenBoy" - as untraceable as Zeke can make it)
In a recent conversation with a respected elder, he conceded that I was "intelligent, but perhaps merely young." Having acknowledged that I am not an utter fool, he now must explain my behavior in some way that does not require that he admit to any worldview other than his own. So, he resorts to ageism.
I suppose, for my species, I am young, but it's rather limiting to assume that my outlook and biases will change as I grow older. It's also a misconception to equate age with maturity, especially considering how brief a lifespan some races are allotted.
For all the diversity which Æstas boasts, we are, in fact, a fractured society. We have ageism, speciesism, tribalism, ableism, and reigning over all: classism. We're not even satisfied with these divisions; we have had to invent more factions in which to divide ourselves. One might think that intelligent beings forced to share limited resources in order to survive would be able to put aside the law of the jungle for the duration. Instead, we have refined it to an artform.
(Game date: 05/13/2021)
We have established a bit of a tradition, after each mission, to gather for dinner at the Crystal Palace. The dining area is arranged in such a way that any party can be guaranteed privacy if they wish, each of us loves the food, we can catch Cecily and Hilda up on our operations, and the debriefing can occur in a relaxed atmosphere. I always try to get word to Jane Doe when we do this, on the outside chance that she will join us. Even though we have been requesting her help less frequently, I still keep in mind that "Peaches" included her in the original team, and I believe we will need her aid in the future.
As we were settling into our private booth, a priority news headline scrolled across my feed:
(Game date: 05/07/2021)
Everyone needed to prepare, and we had only a few hours. Some of us had specific missions.
Aru needed a new BANlink, because of me tearing the wireless out of his rig. Katrya was off to score some high-power explosives (the "good stuff"). Vamir intended to brew a scent to mimic the incense used inside the vamp church. I sent my anthro out to buy a handful of flying drones capable of delivering a payload, while I scooted over to the Learning Center to research vampire lore. That left only one other errand - picking up the remaining two Silver Bullets. I don't know who ended up doing that, but it got done, and Master Nepeta didn't give anyone trouble over it.
Most of what I found was exactly the kind of thing that you see in the holovids: Vamps shy away from an aggressively-presented holy symbol, they're allergic to garlic (whatever that is), they are burned by holy water and sunlight (as if you could find sunlight), and they can be killed by a stake through the heart (as can most things). They're stronger, they're faster, they can summon animals, they can turn into animals, they can turn into mist, they can't be seen in mirrors (or cameras, which can verify). One source even said that they sparkle.
One bit of information had been removed from the database, but as my father so recently pointed out, nothing is ever really gone from the Matrix. It was a ritual to create a vampire, without a master vampire at hand. This seemed like something both interesting, and highly dangerous. I stored it to a datastick, then performed a bit-wise over-write. Maybe I can't do anything about the file existing in someone else's private collection, but at least no one else can get hold of it the same way I just did.
(Game date: 4/29/2021)
The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me.
The leader of the Masques was just too paranoid. Too cautious. He layered himself in security, with only hardwired access to the Matrix. He sent out a drone pilot who called him to describe what was going on, and relay his voice second-hand, rather than directly handle things himself.
So why would he appear, in person, to preach a mediocre sermon to his cult following? Just to satisfy some inner demagogue? I don't think so.
That suspicion, coupled with the fact that the entire room was chock-full of holograms, prompted me to suggest a second, live in-person, recon mission.
(Game date: 4/22/2021)
It wasn't a residence.
Oh, it was in a residential neighborhood, all right. But the geolocation that I traced the call back to led me to a fragging church. A spired, stained-glass, holy-rolling church.
It was surreal. People in their bougie homes, without a care in the world, completely unaware that this clean, upright house of worship in their midst was a sanctuary for the worst kind of scum.
Vamir put his invisibility spell on the spy-eye, and we set up a stake-out. As soon as the doors opened, which happened at the pre-programmed crack of dawn, I zipped it inside.
The interior presented every bit the cathedral as the exterior. High, ribbed vaults overhead led up to pointed arches in the ceiling. Holographic lights projected images onto walls and even into open air behind the altar. Other, closed, doorways hinted at different areas of the building. A man stood at the altar, behind and above which holographic motif depicted a skull-like design, very similar to that worn over the faces of some of the "congregation."
NPR called May baskets a "forgotten tradition." No one at NPR ever met Robin.
In the very simplest of terms, a May basket is a basket of "goodies." Think, Little Red Riding Hood's basket. You fill a few of these up, and hang them on your neighbors' doors early in the morning of May 1st. If you had a secret crush, this was a perfect time to be daring and take a chance on getting caught leaving a present.
This used to be done all over the country. Not so much anymore. But Robin, with generosity oozing out of her pores, loved any opportunity to give gifts. And she loved the impish spirit of doing it anonymously. She'd spend all of April gathering up inexpensive goodies and filling the May Day baskets, often to overflowing. The night before, or early that morning, she'd send me and the kids out to drop them off all over whatever neighborhood we happened to be living in.
I always regarded this with patient tolerance. Okay, sometimes I wasn't so patient, especially on days when work took up more than its share of my time. Now, I look upon every one of her traditions with a fondness that crosses over into desperate longing. Because now, I think I understand.
It was always enough for me to love her, and to love the kids. But she had so much more love in her heart than that. She had to send little gifts into the world, at least once in a while.
They say that grief is just love with nowhere to go. There are 24 houses in my neighborhood. That's a few places, anyway.
Happy May Day.
