Arms and armour

The cold hit me.

Not cold like ice or wind, but the cold of the drain hit me, and I shivered instantly. I was still dressed in just a shirt, nothing else, though it didn't matter. This kind of cold wasn't something layers of clothing could stop. It sank deeper than that.

Joe's eyes locked on me, concern flickering there, though he didn't say anything. His presence, his warmth, was a grounding contrast to the creeping cold pulling at me.

"I needed my hands free," I muttered to Joe, knowing it wasn't much of an explanation. He wouldn't understand anyway—not fully. I couldn't hold the Bounded Field and contain Aleph-13 at the same time. So we had to deal with the drain, at least for a little while longer.

"Help me," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I need to get to the mirror."

"Affirmative," Joe said, his voice steady as he pulled me up to my feet. I could feel the slight shiver running through him too, though the drain was weaker now with the mass of corpses all but spent. Still, it was there—lingering, relentless.

The ground squelched unpleasantly beneath my feet, a mixture of blood and decaying flesh as I made my way over to where Archer was balancing the mirror on the tip of his spear. It looked almost ridiculous, but there was logic in it. The drain propagated less through gas and more through solids. Keeping the mirror suspended on the spear's tip, barely touching the ground, was actually mitigating the worst of the drain.

I began to take off my shirt, awkward with Joe holding me steady, but necessary. I needed something to temporarily contain Aleph-13—something to bind it, at least until I could employ a more permanent solution. I could have asked for a piece of cloth from someone else, but my shirt was already soaked in sweat. And body fluids, inconvenient as they might seem, had their uses in magecraft. Modesty, not that I particularly cared for it, was no excuse for inefficiency.

I poured Od into the sweat-drenched fabric, weaving it into the fibers, using the very sweat as a medium for a labyrinthine Working. When I reached the mirror, I wrapped it carefully with the shirt. The drain lessened immediately, reducing the sharp cold to a more manageable chill.

"That should do it," I said with a sigh of relief. "At least for five minutes or so." The problem with Aleph-13's drain was that it would eventually devour the spell, eating away at the protective layers until they unraveled. "Enough to seal it properly. Now," I added, turning to the others, "everyone except Dwight, turn around. Don't look."

"Is this really the time for secrets?" Joe asked, cutting in.

I blinked at him. He wasn't one to pry, usually, but then again, there had been a few too many surprises lately. I supposed it was time to bring him further in—not everything, of course, but perhaps one layer deeper.

"I'm not protecting my secrets, Joe. Just your sanity," I said. That part was true enough. Some things, after all, men weren't meant to know.

And I wondered, idly, when exactly I'd stopped qualifying as "men."

"If it's what I think it is," Damien cut in, "then trust me—you really don't want to see what happens next. Not worth the trouble."

His words, and the mocking tone he often used, might have sounded dismissive, but I detected a trace of genuine concern beneath it. A subtle change in him. When I first met Damien, that concern would've been nonexistent.

Some believed virtue was a fixed matter of character, as immutable as the soul. But I took a more Aristotelian approach. Virtue, and vice, were habits to be cultivated. Proper virtue wasn't a sacrifice—it was a source of pleasure.

And I was pleased with how my guidance had shaped my apprentice. He was no philosopher king yet, but he was walking the path. As Aristotle would say, he was flourishing—or at least starting to, like a fragile flower in its first spring bloom.

"Someone should keep watch," Joe said, practical as ever. "What if the Nazis come while we're staring at the moon?"

"That would be most unfortunate," I replied, letting the pause stretch out dramatically. Drama was, admittedly, my guilty indulgence. "For them."

Joe grumbled about "more secrets" but turned toward the window without further protest. The students, too, obeyed without argument. They had all seen the consequences of curiosity firsthand. Damien had experienced them even more directly. Not that he remembered—it had taken careful effort on my part to remove those memories, to preserve his sanity.

It was always with me, as close as my shadow. The city of tall, twisted towers rising from a glade in a primordial twilight forest—a landscape both alien and familiar, embedded in my very soul. A part of me, as much as my own arm. I could feel its presence constantly, every inch of it, each tower, every pathway, always there in the background of my mind.

It was a simple matter, no more effort than taking a deep breath, to reach out and draw something from that place into this one.

Within one of the thousand-meter-high towers, hidden behind countless layers of eldritch geometry, was a wardrobe—a weapons locker, prepared long ago for emergencies. And now, with almost no effort, I willed it to be here, embedded in one of the walls, as if it had always been part of the Moonbase.

It emerged seamlessly, as though reality itself had simply remembered it belonged. Its colors were rich and deep, impossible to describe in any common language, a kaleidoscope of shades that defied human comprehension. The shape was sublime—beautiful, intoxicating in a way that could drive lesser men to obsession and ruin.

But Archer and I were immune.

As Joe retreated, Archer quietly took his place beside me, offering subtle support. My lips twisted into a grimace. His warmth was comforting, but I resented the reminder of my current weakness.

No matter. The solution would be in the weapons locker.

Under my hand, the locker opened, gaping like a yawning maw. It wasn't locked—there was no need for it. Every item inside was meticulously arranged. The other side of the locker connected to one of the many towers in the City. Each time I brought part of it into this reality, a path to it opened. That was why I had to be careful—not just because it was an assault on sanity, but because there were valuable items within.

At the front, a row of Qliphoth-rifles stood ready. Below them, an array of clay urns filled with slime-armor. To the side, rarer objects: singularity grenades, a platter of Vril-imbued chocolate bars, a nightmare engine, the Diamond Azoth Swords Archer gave to me, several lightsaber-shaped psychic lenses...

Finally, I found what I had come for: a Hell-box.

At first glance, it appeared like any other Aperture Storage Cube, but as the saying goes, it's what's inside that matters. Inside was hell. Well, a hell. An artificially crafted one. St. Augustine had defined Hell as the absence of God; inside this box lay the outside. The outside of what? Of everything.

If there was an omnipresent being, it couldn't be within. If there was an omniscient being, it couldn't see what lay inside.

At least, that was the theory. Testing whether it truly worked as designed would be impractical.

In The Divine Comedy, Dante wrote that Hell was a product of divine love: "Justice moved my high maker; divine power made me, wisdom supreme, and primal love." This one, however, was a product of mine. Love for things that have no place in the universe, but still should exist.

In other words: hell.

Opening it wasn't simple. It was like solving a puzzle box, but that was a feature of the Aperture Storage Cube, the base from which it was made.

And it wasn't even a security measure—just a consequence of how Aperture Storage Cubes were constructed. They could be thrown from orbit, or into a volcano, and they'd be fine. But, like many Aperture inventions, there was a minor side effect: the opening sequence was both complex and never the same twice. Each time I had to open one, I was faced with a fresh, convoluted puzzle.

But that durability made them an excellent base to build the Hell-box from.

With a final click, the box opened, revealing its dark, hollow core. I pushed the wrapped mirror inside. The mirror's radius was larger than that of the box, but such things hardly mattered. In this space, physics bent to intention, and there was always room for one more in Hell.

Fortunately, closing the box was easier than opening it. Afterwards, I put it right next to the plate with Vril-chocolate and picked the plate up.

"Share it with the others," I said, passing the plate to Archer, snagging two pieces for myself. "Then come back to help with the supplies."

Archer nodded, his eyes scanning the equipment. "It'd be good to be properly armed. Better than improvising. No bow, though? I'd like one. But a rifle would work in a pinch."

"There should be one. I made this for our personal use. Plus, for the minions." I frowned as I looked more closely at the pile. I wasn't one for maintenance—that job had been given to Azzazel, one of the first twenty Personal Androids. I named him after the fallen angel who taught men warfare, and it seemed fitting to give him this task. "Here it is."

Archer's eyes narrowed. "You sure you're recovered? That's not a bow—it's a pair of swords." He gave me a look, half amused, half serious. "And I know swords. Eat your bar—now."

"It's a surprise I meant for you," I said, grinning. "It's modular. A pair of short swords, but it can assemble into a compound bow. Pure tech. I wanted to see how it interacts with your sword affinity. It's a bit tricky to use, but give it a look."

I was, of course, referring to Unlimited Blade Works, his Reality Marble. It allowed him to replicate weapons with ease, but more importantly, he could understand the construction and use of any weapon he touched—especially swords.

"Clever," Archer murmured as he examined the swords, his expression softening into something like approval. "Over-engineered, but clever. Now, eat your medicine."

I nodded, biting into one of the Vril-imbued chocolate bars. The sweetness spread through my mouth, and soon after, a surge of Vril energy flowed through me, pushing out the aches, bruises, and subtle consequences of the drain in a golden glow.

A lot of my effort had gone into the project, so I was glad he liked it. From the retractable blades etched with synthetic diamond to the clever mechanism that allowed the hilts to lock together seamlessly, every detail had been deliberate. I'd chosen the falchion-like shape for two reasons: first, because it closely resembled one of Archer's favorite paired swords, and second, because the wide blade made attaching the pulleys and bowstring much easier when it converted into a compound bow.

I avoided adding any magecraft, keeping the weapon mystically inert so it wouldn't interfere with Archer's spells. But I didn't neglect the alchemical side of things. Alongside advanced materials like carbon fiber and nanocomposites, I had carefully added trace amounts of alchemically significant metals—silver, gold, and even meteorite iron. These weren't for spellcasting but to make the weapon more conductive to Od.

I bit into the second bar as Archer left to carry the sweet medicine to the others. Now that I was healed, the excess Vril flowed into the Blood Slime—my familiar-symbiote coursing through my veins. Its reserves had been depleted when I pushed too hard to decisively end the Moon Nazi invasion force, and the World had kicked back.

Before dealing with the supplies, I had to address the immediate problem of my nudity. Modesty wasn't the issue—it was the feel of bare feet on cold metal, slick with blood, bits of flesh, and offal from multiple corpses. And, more than anything, I missed pockets. Practicality was the real reason I wore clothes.

I uncapped one of the urns from the row beside me and poured out the black, viscous liquid that formed a slime armor. It immediately crawled over my hand, greedily covering my skin. More and more of it spilled out, far exceeding the volume the urn should have held. The slime spread across my entire body, enveloping me, and when it reached my back, it began to bore into my spine. It didn't hurt—I was a better designer than that. This was just the first stage of synchronization with the armor.

The slime armor didn't have pockets, but once it synchronized with my nervous system, the adhesion could be manipulated. In some ways, that was even better. I could stick objects to it whenever I needed, or even scale walls and ceilings if required—though that was harder than it looked. Still, fun when I managed it.

There were plenty more urns left. Once I was suited up, I'd distribute the rest to the others.

Looking at the dirty floor, I made a mental note to add some tarps to the weapon locker. It used to be that Boaz would acknowledge these little details, but as I synchronized more with the personality cores embedded in my Magic Crest, they felt less like separate voices and more like my own thoughts.

Weird, in a way. Sometimes I missed hearing the voices.

But then again, the system was still in the prototype stage. If it weren't for the emergency, I wouldn't be using it yet. That's why Archer's primary sword—the elven blade Niquis—and his mellorn-wood bow weren't here. Nor was my own personal weapon, Spellwaver.

The fact that I had the Azoth blade was a lucky coincidence. I'd given it to Azazel for maintenance, less because it needed it and more because I wanted to see how he'd handle the task.

I began placing the urns in a neat row on the floor. It didn't matter to them—the urns were disposable, just mundane clay. The little trick with their seemingly impossible volume was a property of the slime armors inside.

One for Archer, one for Damien, one for Joe, one for Sen, one for Lukas, one for Helena, and one for Steve.

Weapons, however, couldn't be left on the floor. The muck made of blood, flesh, and offal would probably get into places it shouldn't. So instead, I just stuck them to me.

I secured the Azoth blade on my back, feeling the slime armor through our synchronization, acting as a makeshift sheath. The twin swords for Archer were stuck to my hips, while the two Qliphoth-rifles—one for Steve and one for Joe—were strapped across my back. It was a bit tricky, as they were wider and bulkier than most standard rifles. Instead of a single, straight barrel, they had a combination of a disk-shaped chamber and barrels arranged in the form of a Qliphoth. Each rifle had 10 chambers and 25 barrels.

I had more rifles available but chose not to bring them. Archer and I didn't need one. He already had ranged capabilities, and the Azoth blade, while functioning as a sword, was primarily an amplifier-type Mystic Code. I considered giving one to my psychic student, but while I had enough rifles, I was short on ammunition.

The Mystic gunpowder we used was no ordinary powder. It ignited when the user focused magical energy into it, generating massive firepower with only a small amount of energy. It was widely utilized for hunting Demonic Beasts, but that wasn't the only reason for using it.

If it were just about firepower, mundane gunpowder would have sufficed, saving the cost of the exotic and supernatural ingredients used in the Mystic version. However, Mystic gunpowder also unleashed magical energy upon detonation, giving each bullet a conceptual weight—essential when dealing with supernatural threats. Regular firearms were relatively new in this domain, but the added mystical properties made them formidable.

Moreover, this energy could be further "colored," imbuing each shot with additional properties.

Much like normal gunpowder, Mystic gunpowder wasn't a single recipe but rather a category. Though my family didn't have any particular recipes passed down, designing my own wasn't difficult. It was simply a matter of infusing gems and draining their energy, rendering them unstable—ready to explode with the slightest spark of magical energy. The process was straightforward enough that I could offload it to the Personal Androids for mass production.

After all, the Qliphoth-rifles were meant to replace the mundane weaponry used by the undead security of the City. I really needed a name for that place, even for myself. I referred to it as the Temple, which was accurate in a way since it was sanctified, and as the City because of its size. But I was terrible with names. Once, as a child, my grandmother had asked me to name a newborn lamb, and I'd simply replied, "Lunch."

So, while in time the City could produce a lot of ammunition, production had only started recently. There wasn't enough to distribute among six rifles—not with the number of enemies we were about to face.

Instead, I picked up the lightsaber-shaped psy lenses for the rifles. I supposed it made sense—stormtroopers had blasters, and Jedi (or Sith) had lightsabers, so this would work out.

Then I took out the ammunition. Like the slime armors, the boxes could be placed directly on the floor without issue. Two boxes of bullets and one quiver of arrows. The arrows were mundane but crafted by Azazel—I'd passed him some blueprints I'd nicked from Archer. This was supposed to be a surprise.

The arrows wouldn't be out of place in Green Arrow's quiver, only less quirky and far more lethal—explosive, flammable, some even coated with neurotoxin.

Finally, I took two singularity grenades and stuck them to my lower back, near the kidney area. We were bound to run into reinforced or locked doors, and there was no better skeleton key than a short-lived singularity.

With everything sorted, there was no more need for the weapon locker, so I dismissed it. It faded like a morning dream, leaving only the cold metal wall of the Nazi Moonstation behind.

I turned around, looking at the others gathered by the window. The good news was that the medicine worked—Steve was conscious again. "It's safe now. You can all look," I said.

"Thank God," Steve muttered, turning toward me. "I felt like a character in a slasher flick, right before the killer strikes. Like there was an invisible audience yelling at me to turn around."

"Good thing you ignored those instincts. They wouldn't have served you well," Damien said smugly, as he turned too, his eyes suddenly lighting up with excitement. "A lightsaber! I want one."

"Here." Amused, I tossed him one of the lightsaber-shaped psy lenses. He deftly caught it, with a little help from telekinesis. After adjusting the weight and balance, he gave it a few practiced swings.

I added, still amused, "You know we can't legally call them lightsabers. The negotiations with LucasArts are still ongoing."

"Fuck the law," Damien said with a grin. "A lightsaber's a lightsaber."

"How very Sith of you," Sen joked, then turned to me. "Can I have one too?"

"Can Sen be trusted not to cut off his own limbs, Damien?" I asked, already knowing the answer. I had personally taught Damien swordsmanship and trained the others, but with surveillance being what it was, I knew how well they had progressed. Still, this was a subtle way to reinforce Damien's authority among his peers—and his self-confidence. It showed that I trusted his judgment.

"Sure," Damien replied, already guessing my next question. "Helena and Lukas, too. They can all handle lightsabers in a fight."

"No lightsaber for me?" Steve grumbled. "Not that I really want one. A gun would be better."

"Not that a flatscan like you could use it," Damien said spitefully.

"Damien," I sharply chided him.

He flinched, then quickly corrected himself. "Just because it's a slur from a comic doesn't make it any less of a slur. Slurs are for the unimaginative. I shouldn't use them."

"And?" I prompted, testing his understanding.

"Flatscan isn't accurate," Damien said, catching on. "There's no EEG scan that shows a peak for psychics and nothing for non-psychics. Current theory says there's no such thing as a true non-psychic. Everyone has some psychic ability—it's just that, for most people, it's... useless."

"Negligible would be a better termI corrected gently, then turned to Steve. "I do have a gun for you. Both you and Joe. It's a bit more delicate, so I won't be tossing it. Let me finish distributing this first batch of weapons."

"Sen," I called, and when he came to me, I handed him one of the psy lenses. "Helena," I called next.

As she approached, I overheard Sen speaking to Damien. "If we'd had these earlier, killing that thing would've been so much easier."

Damien scoffed. "If it would've made a difference, we'd have gotten them sooner." His tone softened slightly as he added, "Besides, it wouldn't work. Not against an absorber. It'd be like covering yourself in barbecue sauce before fighting a dragon—just makes you tastier."

"Lukas," I called the last one.

"You've fought Aleph-13 before, haven't you?" Joe cut in sharply, narrowing his eyes. His tone made it clear he wouldn't take no for an answer.

Damien tensed, like a cat rubbed the wrong way. "Not this one. The one we fought was... something else. A crown."

"It's of no concern," I said, stepping in before Joe could press further.

"It is if there's another one of those things roaming this godforsaken base," Joe said, his voice low but firm.

"There isn't," I replied, keeping my voice calm. "I know exactly where Aleph-0 is, and it's nowhere near the Moon."

"The same place as before?" Damien asked, his tone more curious than concerned.

I nodded. "Ozerov's head."

"Colonel Ozerov," Archer corrected, his tone wry with amusement.

"I think starting a revolution stripped him of his rank," I replied.

"Not if he wins," Archer shot back.

"Point taken. Either way, we know where it is—in Russia, not here—so it doesn't matter."

"So why isn't he a zombie?" Sen asked. "I mean, he couldn't keep giving orders if he was one, right?"

"While both confer a certain resistance to psychic powers due to being absorbers, Aleph-13 and Aleph-0 have completely different properties," I explained. "For one, Aleph-0 doesn't immediately kill its bearer."

"He's just very eager to betray you if he finds a better fit," Damien added, a little too casually.

I shot him a sharp glance. He shouldn't have been spilling classified information. Like the fact the Crown of Midnight was sentient—and human-like enough to even have a gender.

"We've got more pressing matters than Ozerov," Archer interjected calmly. "He's not here."

I was quite thankful for that, though I didn't let it show. Archer would already know. And if Joe picked up on my gratitude, he would feel even more excluded. The last thing I needed was to deepen the fissure between him and the rest of us. "The Nazis, on the other hand, are."

"Indeed," I said, redirecting us. "There are still weapons to distribute. Joe, Steve—step closer."

As they approached, I retrieved one of the Qliphoth-rifles from where it rested on my back. "This is a Q-rifle," I said, opting for the shortened term. Elaborating on the metaphysical nature of the Qliphoth would be an unnecessary diversion. While I had a penchant for lecturing, we had a Nazi Moonbase to scour for Aleph-01, and that was our primary concern. Aleph-13 was a mere distraction.

"That's one strange-looking rifle," Steve remarked, turning it over in his hands. "And I thought those Z-shaped barrels on the Aperture rifles were weird."

Lukas chimed in, raising an eyebrow. "The repulsion gel ones? They triple the barrel length but it makes it look like someone twisted the thing in half."

Steve chuckled. "Yeah, exactly. But this thing's got them beat for pure weirdness."

"Is this experimental?" Joe asked, still eyeing the Q-rifle warily, as though it might explode in his hands.

 His concern was misplaced—while these were prototypes, they had been rigorously tested. That's why they were equipped with a mechanical trigger, designed to initiate a spark of magical energy, much like the ancient flintlock mechanisms, though considerably more refined. The mechanical component meant I could even use mundane testers.

"It's been thoroughly tested," I said, keeping my tone factual.

"In combat?" Joe asked, still unconvinced.

"Well, no. That's where you come in." I met his gaze. "Your feedback will be invaluable. I'll expect a full report."

Joe still looked skeptical, so I sighed and began the breakdown. "Alright, here's how it works. The dials control which path the bullet takes as it moves through different chambers. Each chamber adds an effect, and the dials let you decide which way the bullet goes when it reaches a branching point."

I pointed to the first dial. "This one starts the path. Say you send the bullet through here—it adds poison. Another option might let it pierce energy shields."

Joe's focus sharpened, his brow furrowing as he followed the explanation closely.

Beside him, Steve leaned in, inspecting the dials with interest, his fingers twitching like he wanted to try it out for himself. "That's... kind of cool," he murmured, already captivated by the mechanics.

"Each time the bullet reaches a branching chamber, the next dial comes into play," I continued, gesturing to the other dials. "They all work the same way—each dial just tells the bullet which path to take next. For example, you could add fire at one point, or kinetic force at another. And if you need it to pierce armor, you choose that at the right branch."

Joe nodded slowly, still absorbing the information, his expression finally easing into understanding. Steve, on the other hand, was already smiling.

"Okay, that's slick," Steve commented, his tone almost admiring. "So you're saying you can mix and match the effects as you go?"

"Yes, but the important thing to remember," I said, addressing both of them, "is that the bullet is only affected by the chambers it passes through. You set the path, and that's what determines the outcome."

I quickly explained what each chamber did, skipping over Lilith and Thamiel since all paths passed through them. Samael added poison, Gamaliel disrupted energy shields, and A'arab Zaraq induced fear. Thagirion enhanced kinetic force, while Golachab added fire damage. Satariel made the bullet invisible on hit, Gha'agsheblah brought chaotic effects, and Ghagiel pierced armor.

"Any questions?" I asked, finishing the explanation.

Joe raised a hand, his expression deadpan. "Yeah, I've got one. Whose bright idea was it to turn setting a gun into solving a puzzle? What is this, a video game?"

"You might've overdesigned this one too," Archer added with a smirk, echoing his earlier comment.

I gave him a flat look. "I thought about centralizing, but there are twenty-nine different possibilities. Putting all of that on one dial would've been impractical."

Joe crossed his arms, still skeptical. "So, it's supposed to be complicated?"

"It's a prototype," I said, defending the design. "Fixing minor details like that is exactly what testing is for."

"This looks like fun," Steve chimed in, fiddling with the dials.

Joe shot him a side-eye. "I guess you play video games too," he grumbled at the much younger man, who was technically his subordinate—Steve being in security.

Steve, distracted by the rifle, shrugged. "Didn't use to, but Dustin got me into them."

I could feel Archer pressing against my back, his presence familiar, his touch deliberate. His hands slid to my hips, fingers tracing near the separated bow swords. He leaned in, his voice a low purr in my ear.

"Since I'm the only one left," he murmured, "I thought I'd help myself."

His touch sent a jolt of electricity through me, sharp and immediate. The slime armor I wore might have been bulletproof, blade-proof, fireproof, and acid-proof, but it was thin—practically skin-tight. It left very little to the imagination. And while I wasn't exactly embarrassed by my reaction to him, this wasn't the time or place for such... distractions.

I slowed my breathing, keeping control, though I couldn't resist the deliberate grind of my hips back into his, a subtle challenge. Two could play at that game.

"If you're so impatient," I said, smirking as I willed the slime armor to release the swords from my hips, "take them."

The twin blades started to fall, but Archer, ever deft, caught them with ease. I stepped forward, slipping just out of his embrace, casting a teasing glance over my shoulder.

"But I still have armor and ammunition to distribute," I said, turning my attention back to the others, the playful edge in my voice fading as I refocused on the task at hand.

Archer chuckled softly behind me, but I ignored the lingering heat of his presence, directing my energy toward the rest of the team. There was work to be done, and distractions—however tempting—could wait.

Besides, he was just teasing. Archer knew, as well as I did, that the work at hand was more urgent.

"Each of these," I said, pointing at the clay urns on the floor, "contains the same armor I'm wearing. It's easy to put on. Just open the lid and pour it onto your skin." I paused, smirking slightly. "But strip first—it needs to be applied directly."

"You've designed armor that's better suited for a strip joint, perhaps one with a futuristic theme, than for the battlefield," Joe grumbled as he begrudgingly began peeling off his clothes. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Now, now," Archer chimed in with a softly mocking tone, already halfway out of his own attire. "To be fair, strippers usually wear more. They need something to take off. This is more like body paint."

"It worked for the Picts," I retorted, not missing a beat. When your current and ex got along, it was either really bad or really good. I still wasn't sure which this was yet.

"Hold this," Damien said, passing his lightsaber to Sen. "It would have been easier if you'd distributed the armor first."

"You were the one who asked for a lightsaber," I replied.

Steve, holding the now-empty urn, glanced down at his body, the slime armor clinging to his skin like a second layer of body paint. He gave his armored crotch an exaggerated poke, eyebrows raised. "So… no zipper? How are we supposed to pee in this thing?"

The gesture was almost obscene, but the smirk on his face made it clear he was more amused than concerned. Still, the question lingered as the others glanced at him, half-curious, half-embarrassed.

"Just urinate," I instructed, keeping my tone matter-of-fact. "It'll consume all waste, just like it does with sweat and dead skin cells." Then, with a smirk, I added, "And if you have other urges, it's also an excellent prophylactic—for both male and female, and… in all areas."

Steve's hands shot up, waving dismissively. "No need for that," he said quickly, trying to play it off. "I have a girlfriend." But then, almost immediately, his expression shifted, and he flinched, his shoulders slumping a little. "Maybe…"

"So you and Miss Priss broke up again?" Helena asked, unimpressed. "That's not exactly unusual."

Steve winced. "Her name's Nancy," he muttered, but his dejected look confirmed Helena's suspicion. "And this time it may be for real."

Collating what I knew about the situation, I arrived at the most probable conclusion—Steve must have caught Nancy and Jonathan in flagrante delicto. How did I know? It was nearly impossible to keep such a secret in the Enrichment Center, with its extensive surveillance.

But this situation fell below the threshold for immediate intervention. While the Enrichment Center was designed to use advanced data gathering, statistics, and subtle guidance to help people cultivate virtue, personal choice remained at the core. As Aristotle taught, true virtue is developed through habits formed by making the right choices, not just by external imposition.

Surveillance served its purpose in helping people reach their potential, but intervening too often, especially in minor matters, would risk making it oppressive rather than helpful.

Besides, in this case, as time passed, the probability of revelation approached certainty. The emotional fallout would be part of the consequences, but sometimes difficult lessons were necessary to break harmful habits—and the ability to make choices, even wrong ones, was essential to real growth.

"All set," Joe said, the last of the armor settling over his trim, muscular frame. His body was lean but strong, built from years of hands-on work and ready for anything. "What's next, Ace?"

"Ammunition," I replied simply, handing out the boxes. "Magazines for you and Steve, arrows for Dwight. Just press them against your body, think about it, and they should stick. It's very easy."

Joe tested it, pressing a magazine to his armored chest. The slimy surface absorbed it almost instantly, adhering to the armor. He gave a nod of approval.

"Convenient," Steve muttered, doing the same, while Archer inspected the arrows with a raised brow.

"A quiver would be convenient," he said, placing the arrows and having them stick to his back.

"You can do the same with the psy-lenses," I added to the others. "Stick them to your hip like I did."

"Lightsabers," Damien grumbled, but he followed the instructions. The others quickly followed his lead.

"Now that we're ready, we can proceed to the next objective: locating and retrieving Aleph-01. Confirmed destruction is allowable. Other Aleph objects are lower priority. Nazis are also lower priority. We'll engage if they obstruct us, but nothing more," I ordered, keeping my tone direct.

"Should we sabotage the base or something?" Sen asked, a hint of eagerness in his voice. "I mean, they did attack us."

"There are women and children on this base," I replied, keeping it factual. "We don't know enough about the structure to risk destroying life support systems."

And besides, the continued existence of a Nazi Moonbase on the far side of the Moon would make it much easier to sell spaceships to the American military. Not that Aperture had any ships yet—or plans to build one—but with the wreckage we recovered from the Nazis, we'd have more than enough leverage for major military investment.

Sen shifted, still looking unconvinced, but he didn't push further.

Archer raised a brow at me, but said nothing, likely sensing my broader strategy. We all had our roles, and mine was keeping the long game in mind.

"Aleph-01," Joe asked, his tone steady but curious. "How dangerous is it?"

"Mostly harmless," I replied quickly, before adding with a smirk, "Just don't listen to it."

"How are we getting back?" Steve asked, his brow furrowed. "Portals are closed."

"I'll reopen it once our objective is complete," I replied. "I'd send you—or anyone who doesn't want to participate in the next phase—back now, but opening it twice would be too taxing. And we need every hand on deck for this."

"I'm happy to help," Steve said, sitting up a bit straighter. The others made sounds of agreement.

"Any other questions?" I asked.

"Yes," Lukas said, pointing toward the viewport. "What the fuck is that?!"

I looked where Lukas pointed and froze. At first, it seemed like part of the moon itself was trying to fly off—a mountain rising from the pale lunar surface. The ground trembled as stone crumbled and cracked, revealing something metallic beneath. Slowly, the shape became clearer, but what emerged was even more unsettling.

It wasn't just a ship—it was colossal, dwarfing even the enormous carriers the Nazis had used to assault our moon facilities. The rocky exterior continued to shatter and break away, revealing a vast metallic structure beneath, towering higher and higher. What had appeared to be moonstone was now unmistakably metal, as the surface peeled back like a facade hiding the true monstrous form beneath.

Slowly, the ship continued its ascent, each layer of rock and debris falling away to reveal intricate machinery and industrial gears embedded in its hull, as if it had been sleeping beneath the lunar surface for centuries. The scale of it was beyond anything I had ever seen, so immense it seemed to stretch forever. The closer it got to full view, the more the dread crept up my spine.

Then I saw the insignia—the swastika—etched into the massive, circular structure at its center, a grim reminder of the darkness we were up against. The ship rose further, dominating the horizon, its shadow stretching across the entire Moonbase, swallowing everything in darkness.

This was no ordinary ship—it was a fortress, a nightmare of iron and steel, ready to unleash hell.

And worse, I recognized the shape.

I had seen one just like it in that other space, in a special shipyard of the otherworldly city. I suspected it was debris from unrealized timelines, ones cut short by time travelers. Like the base on Io.

It was named Götterdämmerung, a space superdreadnaught. The name meant "Twilight of the Gods"—the German word for Ragnarok, the end of the world in Norse mythology.

And it was aptly named.

Five kilometers in length, with its primary weapons being dual ultra-heavy relativistic kinetic nuclear howitzers—its destructive potential was almost unimaginable. Worse, the ship was strong enough to withstand the forces of its own weapons.

This single ship could obliterate everything Aperture had on the Moon. And if it reached Earth...

"Aleph-01 will have to wait a bit longer. It seems we have a new urgent objective," I said, keeping my voice calm, far calmer than I felt. But panic was a luxury a leader couldn't afford.

"It seems we'll be stealing a spaceship from the hangar after all, Steve," I added, casting him a glance.