I have a certain fascination with the old fashioned; an obsession, some might call it. But there’s something so delicate about fountain pens and journals with thick leather covers, oak desks with little golden handles and polished tops, something that speaks of our history and always ties us back to where we came from. New technology doesn’t have a place for sentiment; something posted on the Dispatch is just as likely to be censored as your emails to family. But written down in ink, handwritten… suddenly it becomes personal, irreversible, human. Of course, they make fun of me for keeping a journal. But how else do I ensure that my acts go down in history, not lost in a database or erased completely by a competitor? How do I ensure that my darling daughter knows for sure who I was, not some censored, horrible murderer the Dispatch makes me out to be? I’m a well connected man; one with allies and enemies, both of which will stab me in the back in a moment. So I write it all down. Blackmail is a powerful thing, something that gives you power and helps you keep it, especially with competitors. I am not the enemy; you are the one slow enough to get tricked by me. So in the end, I want them to know. I want them to know who told their dirty little secrets. I want them to know that the wine I serve them isn’t a gesture of goodwill, but a means to an end- there’s no other reason you’d tell me exactly  what happened in your infidelity. And once I’m gone, I want them to know exactly who spilled the beans; or blood, for that matter. Marie is gone, but I want them to know. I want my daughter to understand- I did it, and I did it for her.

Robert Barclay, May 2189