Drifter’s Gambit
It was an addiction.
The thrill of power coursing through their veins, using the darkness against other guardians.
It was a taste of freedom, a thrill at just doing something the Vanguard would never let them do.
Again and again they returned to that dingy hallway, sign themselves up for Gambit, and launch to wherever the Drifter pointed them towards.
They knew it was wrong.
The glances between them told each other as much.
They shouldn’t be enjoying this taste of dark power.
They shouldn’t be associating with someone who talked about killing his ghost in a good light.
They shouldn’t be dealing in dark weapons.
They shouldn’t be listening to someone goad them into collecting motes that didn’t shine as bright as the light.
The motes felt sick. They glowed like light, but there was an illness to it that made it all wrong. Just wrong.
Why was the Drifter carting around a planet-sized ball of dirt?
Why did he want the motes so much?
And most of all...why did he not want the Vanguard knowing about him?
It’s a short on cuz I’m lazy tonight. I might rewrite it when I post to ao3.