Destiny 2 Flash Fiction: Chartreuse

Author’s Note

I’m obsessed with the vanilla D2 strikes. Don’t ask me why. Let’s just call this second in the series, with Further Observation being the first.

Yes, I’m working on Savathun’s Song. Yes, I’m obsessed with that strike. No, it’s not going to be done anytime soon.

My favorite comment from r/DestinyJournals was from someone who read this and was just like, “Ouch. :(”


“Zahn’s lieutenants aren’t messing around. Think we’ve seen the last of them?” 

“He’s bound to have more,” says Hawthorne. “Insecure men tend to surround themselves with others like them.” 

Saying this, she sees red. Red and black and gold. Gutless New Monarchy cronies flanking Executor Hideo. She remembers the satisfying crunch of her fist on his nose. It had felt like justice once. It should have, anyway. But that brand of justice hadn’t kept her warm as she camped in the outskirts. It hadn’t kept her fed in the wilds. It hadn’t made her miss Marc and Dev any less. 

And what had it taken for her to be allowed back? Oh, only helping win the Red War. And now? Now, she was better known to Guardians than the entirety of New Monarchy would ever be.

Hell, here she was today running support on a strike alongside Mr. Hunter Vanguard himself! No denying that was a big deal, but she’d be dead in the ground before she admitted it. She was practically apprenticing Cayde-6. The Cayde-6. Was that something Executor Hideo could get, even with all his connections? No way. Not in a thousand years.

Now that felt a little like justice. 

“Cayde?” teases the Guardian’s Ghost. “Anything to add?” 

Hawthorne keeps her eyes on the display between them. She’s running this show; Cayde feels like dead weight. He admires Hawthorne’s sharp, hawklike intensity. Makes it all the more fun when she decides to take a jab at his expense. 

Someone like her should really have his job. He’ll never admit it to her—but he doesn’t need to. He knows it, she knows it, and it’ll stay unspoken between them until one of them bites the dust. She’d be crazy to take this job, anyway—but god, what he wouldn’t give to have a taste of her freedom.  

Cayde-6 sees black. Tasteful black and red, flashes of canary yellow—Andal and Shiro, his old fireteam. How long has it been since he talked to Shiro? Why did he always let it go so long? What was he so afraid of? 

What had Hawthorne just said? Insecure men… something something, others like them. Andal would have laughed at something like that. Cayde would give anything to hear that laugh again. Something sharp twists inside him. Best not to think about that. Better instead to keep his mouth running. 

“Nope,” he says. “She’s totally right. Which is why I work alone.” 

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