Discovery Gaming Community

There’s a glottle pause that sticks to your thoat. It’s dry; you’re tasting your own tongue, realising for the first frightening awareness you can tease out for a memory, how it fills your throat. You think you’re going to choke on your own, vital suffering. That you’ve grown into yourself, and now you’re so full of your own twisted fibres that you’re on the edge of snapping at the slightest tug.

“But I love you.” You wince at your own pathetic desperation, the last flapping hurrah of a dying fish. You’re stupid and alone at the edge of the universe and you’ve been casually rolled off the edge, Riehl. Bonne chance, you delinquent psychopath. She was always an apple from the tree of life. What else did you expect except the desert? Your just desserts?

Go on. Tell her you love her. Stop staring at the camera like a stalker. As if that will make the situation any better for you. As if that will heal the sore.

You pay the price for your own neglect, you mutant. You’re a terrorist – it says that much in the papers. What did you think you were, flirting with a rich girl who thought she could off and rumble into the Rocks and flirt with the idea of being a socialist for six months? Did you dare think you were worth more than a pyrite handshake? A drunken anecdote to be laughed at with future, better partners? Partners that offered a future, cash-in-hand?

She’s a double-barrelled baroness with a degree. And she’s up and shot you through the breastbone. Left your organs smoking on the deckplates. She’s better than you – blue-blooded and full of introspection, enough to play up her own bred-in biases about her place in the universe. And what does that make you? What does that make any of the bodies you buried in the black of graveyard orbits and whispering spacehulks? Have you undone her?

Look at you. You’re disgusting. Are you going to cry, tough girl? Cry to your jilted lover like a real piece of work? You should snap a picture off yourself and mail it to one police plaza – it’d give them something to throw darts at over a round or so of Sunbucks’ finest.


Gunda Riehl, inhales; a lone, quavered breath. Stares the camera right in its lens till it backs down and loses focus.

"Hey, I-"

I love you. Do it.

"- I'm gonna' be sick."

And Gunda Riehl, survivor of the Hessians, the Law, the Xenos, the Coalition, the destruction of Wedel and the judgement God himself, died just enough to vomit up her own heart.