Witch Queen Gothic
This is the best Destiny has ever been, IGN tells you. You play through the campaign, delighting in the terrible beauty of the Witch Queen’s mind-fortress. Savanthûn is dummy thicc, the internet says. Your Postmaster is almost full, no matter how many items you delete.
The Cabal are your allies. You murder hundreds on your first trip to Mars. No one seems to mind. Somewhere beyond seeing, Savathûn waits for you in a mind-ship woven of ghostly dreams. There is a temporal shift on Mars, but you have no time to investigate the shimmering fields of time-lost corn. You must find Savathûn. You hold X to activate the generators. Your controller shivers with pleasure.
You know the eldritch goddess of deceit and cunning from the Books of Sorrow; intimately, as though she is an old friend. You know about the countless worlds she razed in her brutal worship of the Deep, about her endless deaths at the hands of her merciless sisters and the violent retribution she dealt in return. You have been waiting to meet her for more years than you can count. She is your teammate’s waifu, now. His name is Savathiccness.
The Hive have Ghosts now, like you. You crush one with your bare hands. It feels good. You wonder what it would feel like, to have your Ghost crushed. You wake up, wondering if the Hive care about perk rolls.
Sometimes, the Postmaster has engrams for you. You don’t remember where they came from; you don’t know why some numbers are bigger and some are smaller. One day you will be Max Power, in time for Max Power to increase again.
You queue into Birthplace of the Vile. You must kill Scorn; you must wipe them from existence so that you can get a new gun. But everyone has the same goal, and there are never enough Scorn. Stop taking my kills, you yell into the microphone. No one can hear you. You load the strike again. You hear the sound of Savathûn’s laughter—you are the vile one, now.
You delight in watching your power level rise, digit by agonizing digit. If Only Legs Would Drop, you think. There is an idea of a thing called a Soft Cap, but it is ephemeral, like cobwebs in sunlight.
You visit Tess Everiss the Tower. You don’t know why. You don’t have any silver. You have never had any silver. You examine her rotating stock, but nothing is worth it. Nothing is ever worth it. Beside you, a Warlock named Eris Morn’s Eye Lube spends a thousand dollars on a sparrow you’ll never see. You open an Eververse engram. It is a blue Ghost projection. Tess smiles at you, her eyes white with static.
You pass a Titan leaping endlessly off the tower on your way to your Vault. He dies a thousand times as you compare ten nearly-identical rolls of Night Watch, kept from the last time you played. Months ago? Years ago? The Titan’s name is Savasnû-snû. What is he running from? You have never used a scout rifle.
The Postmaster is almost full. You have six Red Herrings in your heavy inventory. Some are red. Why are they red? You have to delete them. You have to make room for the Postmaster. You examine their rolls. Every one is nearly identical. You don’t know what any of the perks do. You try to read about them, but it is too much for you. You move them all to your Vault. Your Vault is full, the game tells you.
YouTube creators have published years’ worth of video within seconds of the release. They long for a balanced Crucible. Fusion rifles are broken. Abilities are broken. Stasis is broken. You don’t have stasis. You have a hand cannon and a shotgun. You join a match in progress, and die instantly to a super. Your Ghost revives you, and you cannot tell which of you is more disappointed.
The campaign ends. You have saved the world. All worlds, maybe. But an even greater evil is on its way. It was on its way seven years ago, but it is even more on its way now. Its name is the Witness. It is powerful. So powerful that perhaps it can balance the Crucible. You return to the Enclave to speak with Ikora. Who is Immaru? you ask. No one answers. A hunter named Witness Deez Nutz follows you, crouching maniacally.
The new seasonal artifact is another object of inscrutable power, birthed in the screaming void between infinite possibilities. You unlock the Unstoppable Hand Cannon mod. You have no idea what a “Champion” is. You have never known what a “Champion” is.
Your old clan-mates are online, sometimes. You cross paths with them at Hawthorne’s roost. She proselytizes to you about the importance of teamwork. You purchase a raid bounty that expires tomorrow. You launch the Strike playlist, alone.
You have never played the raid. You almost completed the first one, once, when Destiny 2 came out. There are dozens, now. You watch videos about raid strategy. None of the words make sense to you. Step On Me Rhulk, begs the internet.
You speak to Ikora. Ikora tells you to speak to Eris. Eris tells you to speak to Mara Sov. Mara Sov tells you to speak to a parasitic worm. Your worm is a weapon, now; you can hear its labored breathing when you sleep. You dream of Savathûn crushing your Ghost between her chitinous thighs.
You open LFG, swearing that this is the day you finally play a dungeon. KWTD, every post says. You don’t KWTD. Perhaps you never will.
You load into Iron Banner; six freelancers facing down Clan [TBAG]. Mara Sov’s Hot Mouth, is the name of one. Savathûn’s Thigh Gap, is another. Caiatl’s Thong Sweat, is a third. You are mercied within seconds. A blue sidearm drops. Your Postmaster is almost full.












