19

Image Description: Aila

November 1918.

"Dear God, you're still with us!"

The Warlock jumps to his feet at the little outdoor café, rattling the teacups, as you emerge from the desert just behind the Gangrel pilot.

"And who is this?" the Warlock asks, switching from English to French. "Excuse me, where are my manners? I am Jasper Knowles, gentleman magician." He bows, awkward in his desert robes. "And, Lettow, you look shorter without your airplane!"

"I lost it in the desert," the Gangrel says. "But I made a friend."

He isn't like the Outlanders you've met before in your long life, you can't help but think; Lettow of Bracław is sophisticated without being pompous, charming without being cloying. But perhaps you're just not thinking clearly because you just walked across half the Sahara with him after your planes crashed, and because you're almost mad with Hunger.

"And who is your friend?" Jasper asks.

"This is Aila," Lettow says, "of Clan Banu Haqim."

"Ah, your enemy! Our enemy! Except I have news, my Outlander friend—I just got news from the Dove of Moudros. She sent it via radio! What a brave new world we've entered, of instantaneous communication. Did you ever think we would see it? Anyway, the war is over. It's over almost everywhere now, I think, though news still travels by donkey cart in some places. I'm sure that will all change, though, in this century." He looks at you. "I'm afraid you've lost, young lady. Or at least, the Ottomans have lost. How will the Assamites adapt, I wonder?"

Next

Krarr! Krarr! Are you still with us?"

Morocco fades away, replaced by Arizona. Aila's thoughts withdraw, vanishing deep into your marrow where they linger like a dull ache in your bones.

There's no way Lettow knows," Julian says. "As always, I use what people think to make them misunderstand. So don't worry about him. Use him. You've helped me out a bit these past few weeks, Krarr, but there's more to be done. The Camarilla doesn't exactly trust you, but they're going to need your help. The Second Inquisition wants the Camarilla gone from the Southwest, and they have the power to do it. You need to understand—every Cainite needs to understand—the Masquerade is breaking down. Do you think it can last until the end of this century?"

"Krarr, my work is always clean. Except that one time. Oh, and that time in Las Vegas. But mostly. Anyway, yes, thank you for your trust."

He holds up his smartphone, takes a selfie with you and your Vauxhall, uploads it to God knows where.

"Soon the whole world will be visible to everyone, all the time. Barring apocalypse, this is inevitable. We can't hide because there will be no place to hide. We must act. We must seize the narrative, seize every one of these digital windows, and tell people the story about what they see. They will know the facts, and we will tell them what it means. Only then can we survive."

He reaches into his clear raincoat and hands you some plastic one-use contact cards. They say 2100 COMPANY. There's no actual address, only a drop box location.

"I'll be in touch," he says, before getting back into his Fisker Karma.

As the sports car's lights disappear, a flicker of movement near your Vauxhall catches your attention.

Riga, Prince Lettow's eagle, has landed almost within reach. She studies you with the godlike arrogance of a bird of prey, then hops a few feet away. She settles again a moment later. It looks like you're being summoned to the Viper.