Is a "sword" a euphuism? (BL)

"Up," came Master's voice. Most called him "Director," but as his apprentice, Damien was one of the few with the privilege of calling him "Master."

"The grate," Master continued.

Damien's gaze tracked upward to a metal grate set in the concrete ceiling, nearly blending into the shadowed heights of the corridor. With a flick of his mind, he tore it free, the metal groaning as it was wrenched from its frame, leaving a dark opening above.

He crouched, then jumped, gliding easily into the space beyond. The Moon's low gravity made the leap effortless, though the corridor was massive, easily large enough to drive a truck through without scraping either side. He landed lightly, already focused on the next task.

He found himself in a wide ventilation shaft, just tall enough to stand upright. Up ahead, he spotted another metal grate and the faint hum of a massive fan spinning beyond. It was easy enough to guess—this was where air cycled through the Moonbase.

People rarely looked up. A perfect place to slip by unnoticed.

He looked down and, with a flick of telekinesis, lifted Sen into the shaft first. Then came Master, who barely made a sound as he stepped in beside Damien.

"You can stop humming now," Master said to Sen as soon as Damien had him steady. "We're switching to stealth."

Sen cut off mid-hum, exhaling. "Thanks. It was getting tiresome."

Damien grinned as he reached down to pull Joe up. "Then you need more stamina."

"Tiresome," Sen repeated flatly, "like listening to you without getting a word in edgewise."

The next one didn't need any help getting up. While Damien was busy telekinetically lifting the muscled ex-soldier, Dwight was already scaling the wall, crawling up silently using his slime armor's adhesion.

Damien had to remind himself once more to think of him as Dwight—or Dr. Hutter—not Archer or Fano. Steve and Joe weren't in the know, and Master had taught him well: to deceive others, one had to first deceive oneself.

"You know where to cut?" Master asked Dwight, his voice carrying a calm authority.

"Yes. Space docks are right above us," Dwight replied, already assessing the path ahead.

"Nazis are probably watching every entrance, but that hardly matters if we make our own," Master said, pulling a sword from his back. Damien couldn't help but admire the weapon's beauty; both the blade and hilt were crafted from semi-transparent diamond, striking in their simple elegance. Still, lightsabers were cooler. "Take Sen with you—his psy-lens will be more effective than your sword here. I need to retrieve a Nightmare Engine. Something extra for reaching Götterdämmerung safely."

Dwight nodded and moved down the tube in the opposite direction of the fan, Sen following closely behind.

"Do we need to look away again?" Joe asked with a wary frown. "Last time was…unpleasant."

"No. I'm better now, so I'll isolate this space first," Master replied calmly.

Damien couldn't resist. "Why Sen?" he asked, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "I've got a lightsaber too."

"Because your telekinesis is stronger," Master replied, turning to carve symbols with his diamond sword along the metal walls of the tube. "And there are still three more to pull up."

Damien's lips twisted in what was absolutely not a pout as he reached down to pull Steve up. Sure, acting as a makeshift crane was necessary, but it would have been way more fun to handle a lightsaber.

Once Master activated the symbols, he slipped completely from Damien's telekinetic sense. But Damien hardly noticed; he was busy pulling up Lukas.

The second Lukas was on his feet, he asked suddenly, "Damien, is Steve dating both Nancy and Jonathan?"

It was a weird question, but Damien didn't even have to think twice. "Yes."

"Not you too," Steve muttered, eyes narrowing as he tried to raise a hand in exasperation, only to realize he was still clutching the Q-gun. He awkwardly lowered it again, looking genuinely thrown. "What makes you think that?"

"I saw the three of you in the underground garden at EC," Damien replied, his focus barely wavering as he pulled Helena up, hardly paying attention to Steve's awkward fidgeting.

Steve blinked, then bristled, trying to adjust his grip on the gun as he found his footing. "That wasn't a date!" He gestured with the barrel in frustration, almost losing his balance again. "We were just hanging out—like friends," he insisted, voice going a bit shrill. "If it were a date, it'd just be me and Nancy."

Damien rolled his eyes. "You were feeding them strawberries by hand. Both of them."

Lukas smirked triumphantly, turning to Joe, but Joe cut him off, holding up a hand. "Count me out, kids. I don't stick my nose in my subordinates' business."

"What's all this about, anyway?" Damien asked, his voice tinged with irritation.

"Steve walked in on Nancy and Jonathan screwing," Helena replied flatly.

"And?" Damien pressed. He genuinely didn't see the problem.

"And!" Steve's voice rose, his frustration evident. "What would you do if you found Trevor with someone else?"

"I'd ask if I could join in," Damien said with a shrug. "Threesome sounds fun."

Helena rolled her eyes. "Really? You're barely being any fun since Trevor," she said, arching a brow. "Honestly, you two are disgustingly mono."

"That's because Trevor doesn't want to have sex with anyone besides me," Damien said with a shrug. "He barely likes touching people at all, except for me and Fred, his little brother. It's flattering…but also a bit limiting. He says it's fine if I sleep around, but it wouldn't be fair—not if he won't do the same."

"Since when do you care about being fair?" Lukas teased.

"Well, there's also the fact that I can only have so much sex," Damien replied with a grin. "I mean, it's fun, but I'm not making my whole life about it."

"Balance is important in all things," Master intoned, his voice sudden enough to make Damien flinch; he hadn't sensed Master's return. "There is no virtue that cannot become vice if unbalanced."

"Even love?" Steve asked, a skeptical look on his face.

"Especially love," Master replied. "Too much, too fierce, and it becomes obsession. Troy burned in the name of love, and that's hardly the only example."

He tossed a canteen to Damien, who caught it midair. "Drink and share with the others."

Damien obeyed, taking a sip. The sharp, refreshing taste of lemon filled his mouth, cutting through his thirst from all the running. He passed the canteen down the line.

"I see you picked up more than the Nightmare Engine," Joe muttered as Master passed by. He looked at the strange, throbbing machine strapped to Master's back and grimaced. "The name sure fits it."

After tossing the canteen to Steve, Damien followed Joe's gaze and had to agree. The Nightmare Engine was truly unsettling. It looked roughly like the metal housing of a car engine, but with a twisted, organic aspect. Vein-like structures filled with molten, red-hot liquid pulsed along its surface, and dark, almost fleshy tubing seemed to twist and coil, like exposed nerves or spilled entrails.

"Is anyone else wondering what a Nightmare Engine actually is?" Steve asked, eyeing the grotesque machine with obvious discomfort.

"Be as curious as you like," Damien replied, smirking. "Just don't ask the Director to explain."

"Because he won't?"

"No, because he will," Damien shot back. "Every gruesome detail."

Arriving where Sen had gone ahead, Damien glanced up, noticing that Sen hadn't just carved through the metal shaft—he'd already climbed up and disappeared. Typical. Without missing a beat, Damien jumped, launching himself upward with the help of the slime armor and the Moon's low gravity. Master and the others scrambled up after him, their movements smooth but urgent. They emerged into a massive chamber, so vast it felt like they'd stepped into the belly of some ancient, rusted machine-god.

The place was a grim maze of gigantic metal gears grinding against each other, iron pathways suspended over dizzying drops, and thick cables snaking through the shadows. Platforms jutted out from the walls, like the shelves of some twisted, oversized gun rack, each holding one of those eerie Nazi saucers. They hovered, half-hidden in the dim light, their worn metal plates catching faint glints as if waiting for orders.

Damien caught sight of Sen, who was standing near the base of a massive concrete wall, gaze fixed upward. Dwight, though, was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Dwight?" Master asked, his voice calm but carrying that unmistakable edge.

Sen pointed up, his expression as steady as ever.

Damien followed Sen's gaze and spotted Dwight halfway up the concrete wall, scaling it like some silent, metal-clad spider. The man moved with unnerving precision, his slime armor gripping the wall with every step, as if the whole 'gravity' thing was just a suggestion.

A grin crept across Damien's face. "Spider-Dwight's got the right idea."

"Trevor's a bad influence on you," Sen said, shaking his head. "Too many comic book references."

"You knew what I meant," Damien shot back, not missing a beat.

"Yes, because you've infected me too," Sen replied with a grin.

"Come," Master said as he started to climb, "Or he will leave none for us."

Joe scaled the wall right after Dwight, and Damien followed, his fingertips pressing against the rough texture of the concrete. The thin material of his slime armor transmitted every crack and groove, almost like he was climbing bare-handed. They were moving fast, but the way up was long, the concrete wall stretching high above into the dim haze of the docking bay.

Master and Joe were a few steps ahead, climbing with practiced ease. Bits of their conversation floated back to him, but most of it was drowned out by the grinding of gears and the metallic clank of machinery echoing through the chamber.

"… need … Ozerov…" Joe's voice was barely audible over the noise.

"… not the time," Master's tone was low but carried an edge.

"… secrets…"

"Cost… business…"

"It's not about the sex," Steve muttered, his voice pulling Damien out of his eavesdropping. "It's the secrets. If they hid something this big from me, what else could they be hiding?"

Damien rolled his eyes. "Everyone keeps secrets," he replied, irritation creeping into his tone. "That's half the fun. Otherwise, you may as well be dating yourself."

Steve shot him a glare, but Damien just grinned, shrugging as he continued his climb.

"But how can I trust them not to hurt me?" Steve started again.

Since when was he Dr. Love? Still, working through things with Trevor had given Damien plenty of practice, so he supposed he wasn't the worst person Steve could ask for advice.

"You can't. People can always hurt you—by accident or on purpose," Damien replied. "And the closer they are, the more it'll sting. You just have to decide if the pain might be worth the joy."

"I guess it's true what they say: don't go to an Elf for advice, 'cause he'll just say both yes and no," Steve muttered.

"Quoting Tolkien?" Damien raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Didn't peg you as the type." He wasn't sure how he felt about being compared to an Elf, but settled on flattered as the safest bet. "But if you've read that, you know Tolkien's answer already. Here's mine: Director always said the best advice doesn't hand you a solution—it teaches you how to find one."

The sensation struck Damien like a punch to the gut, almost choking him as he caught his breath. The coppery tang of blood seemed to rise in his mouth—a phantom taste, the familiar price of bearing the ring. It kept him attuned to every final breath, a constant metronome of death's approach. Most of the time, it was just a dull ticking, like the background hum of a clock. Easy to ignore, easy not to think about.

But now, with death so close, it hit him with brutal clarity.

Dwight had reached the Nazis.

Three more breaths—Damien felt each one slip away, like the ticking of some morbid clock he couldn't quite silence. By the time he reached the plateau, the fight was done, and Dwight stood alone, his hybrid weapon—a sword that could morph into a bow—held loosely at his side. The Nazi bodies were strewn around him, like a macabre arrangement of dolls someone had tossed aside mid-game.

Damien's smirk widened. Dwight had a touch, all right—silent, razor-clean. There was no scrambling, no panic in the corpses' positions, just pure, methodical efficiency. Each strike had been fast and flawless, like a wicked dance nobody saw coming.

It was, in a word, beautiful.

"Dwight, pilot. Joe, gunner. Steve, loader," Master assigned, voice steady as he guided everyone into the ship. "Damien, Sen, Helena, Lukas—you'll link up to shield us. Use everything you've got."

The interior was tight, retro-futuristic, like an antique vision of space travel with metal walls, worn carpeting, and thick, glowing tubes embedded along the sides.

"Alright, orgy time!" Sen said, fist-pumping with a grin. He was dead serious—Master taught them that linking through shared sensation brought their minds closer, making psychic shields stronger.

Damien couldn't help but smirk. It was unconventional, but Trevor wouldn't mind if it was for the mission.

Master's voice cut through. "Everyone, take your positions! We launch as soon as the Nightmare Engine is attached."