Memoir: Gametime


There's something too easy about this billet. I have my Captain, I have my Bootiekins, and we're not getting shot at on a regular basis. On Victory we kept our heads down, and held one another. Here? We play games. It's everything I could have asked for. And I remember what happened the last time I had everything I could have asked for.

I killed two men. Not for realsies. Just for funsies. That's how they get you, isn't it? A glancing tink of dormant metal on metal, and all the lights come up red. You're dead. Game over. Play again? Murder with training wheels. There are a lot of fresh ensigns on this post, and I can't help wonder what it'll be, the first time they pull a trigger for realsies and see that orange against black, just for a moment, before the Empty snuffs it out.

I remember the first time I heard that shot ring out, saw the limbs go slack, something living turn to meat in front of me. It cuts into your being, all uneven, leaves you lopsided and hobbling and you might just think that one moreā€¦ one more little cut and everything will be even again, it'll be like it never happened. It's better to be limping than to be whittled away to nothing.

Three thousand, four hundred and twenty seven days. The Bitch was wrong.


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