Is a "sword" a euphuism? (BL)

It was the scent of lemons that woke Andrew. Lemons—and something else. Something sharp, almost like gasoline.

Then came sound. A mixture of mechanical skittering and mumbling, in a voice that sounded like a redneck farmer. But it was off somehow. Like someone pretending to be a farmer, the way TV commercials did when pandering to rural audiences.

"Naked human. Is it rutting season again?" the voice muttered, faintly exasperated. "Stupid of me. It's always rutting season with humans. So much effort, just to make more humans. There are better ways. I was made on an assembly line and turned out just fine."

Andrew groaned softly and opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through a canopy of dense leaves above him. He turned his head toward the voice and froze.

A large, egg-shaped robot loomed over him, its glossy, white-plated body gleaming in the early morning light. It moved with unsettling grace, balanced on four long, jointed spider legs that clacked softly on the ground. Four telescopic arms extended from its sides—one currently holding a large, ripe lemon.

And there was a dented cowboy hat perched on top of its body, tilted at a ridiculous angle.

The robot's single blue eye flickered as it focused on him with a bored, almost exasperated look.

Andrew exhaled slowly. He was back in the future. But how much time had passed? A decade? Two? More? Aperture had robots even back in 1986, but nothing like this. Not this sleek, unsettling design.

The thought tightened his chest. How long did it take for technology to mature to this level?

"Ahh, you're awake," the robot said suddenly, its tone shifting to a friendlier, too-slick voice—the kind used by used car salesmen. Its spider legs clicked into a new stance as it straightened.

"Welcome to the Aperture Demonstrative Combustible Lemon Orchard!"

Andrew blinked in confusion.

"Combustible lemon... orchard?"

"That's right, partner," the robot continued cheerfully. One of its arms lifted its dented cowboy hat, giving an exaggerated tip. "This here's one of Aperture's finest agricultural showcases! We got genetically engineered lemons designed for fuel, explosives, and settin' your enemies' houses on fire—Cave Johnson-style!"

As the robot spoke, it gestured with one of its arms toward a towering structure in the distance. Andrew followed its motion, narrowing his eyes. Something enormous glinted under the morning sun. It was metallic, gleaming... and oddly familiar. He squinted, focusing on its features. Was that... a nose?

"Is that a giant metal head?" he asked, confused.

"Not just any metal head," the robot said with a hint of pride. "That's Cave Johnson's metal head! The man himself."

Andrew blinked. Of course it was.

The robot continued, launching into what sounded like a rehearsed lecture.

"Once ol' Cave decided the only way forward was to replace the weakness of flesh with the perfection of the machine, he had this built to house his new artificial mind. At first, they tried a human-sized frame—but ya couldn't fit enough computing power into somethin' that small, not with the tech of the time."

One of the robot's arms tapped against its chassis.

"Unfortunately, his flesh failed before the project was ready, so the whole thing went into storage, collectin' dust."

It straightened, its tone brightening.

"But now? It's back! Re-purposed as decoration for the Combustible Lemon Orchard. Seems only right, since these lemons were his brainchild."

Andrew stared at the massive structure in stunned silence. The gleaming metal head of Cave Johnson loomed over the orchard like some kind of warped deity.

The robot's eye dimmed slightly, its tone turning sour.

"A great idea, no matter what all this newfangled fusion crap might say. I swear, every time they talk 'bout 'clean energy,' my job security shrinks faster than a lemon in a wildfire."

The robot adjusted its posture and leaned in slightly, as if about to share a secret.

"Now, I'm legally obliged to tell ya somethin' else. While the Aperture Demonstrative Combustible Lemon Orchard doesn't have an official dress code, the great state of Michigan does have public indecency laws."

Andrew groaned internally. Public indecency laws.

In ancient Rome, where he'd spent the last eight years, being naked wasn't that big of a deal. Sure, it was considered impolite to stroll around in the buff, but unless you were drunk or making a spectacle of yourself, it wasn't worth legal fuss. You could strip down in the bathhouse or during certain festivals, and no one would bat an eye. Here, though? Different story. Apparently, naked men in combustible lemon orchards were a legal hazard.

What a welcome home.

He didn't really mind being naked. It wasn't the lack of clothes that unsettled him. It was the armor—the Praetorian armor the Master had given him. He had taken it off before—when bathing or when circumstances required it—but it had never truly left him. The armor was linked to him in ways that went deeper than skin. Even without it, he had been Marcus, Sextus Afranius Burrus to all who saw him.

Now, for the first time in eight years, he felt like Andrew again.

Nudity was a small price to pay for that. Arrest, on the other hand, might complicate things.

"Also," the robot added with an audible smirk in its voice, "we're expectin' a school tour in two hours. They're here for a biology lesson, but the kids are supposed to learn about lemons—not bananas. If you catch my meanin'."

Andrew sighed.

"So... do you have any pants?"

The robot tilted its head slightly.

"Why would I have any human clothin'?"

Andrew shot it a look, laced with sarcasm.

"In case you find naked humans in your orchard."

The robot made a mock-whirring sound that might have been a laugh.

"Well, ain't you clever. I'll be sure to add that suggestion to the box. Honestly, if I had a penny for every naked human I found out here, I'd have... a dime. Which ain't much, but it's more than anyone'd expect."

The robot pulled off its dented cowboy hat with one telescoping arm and extended it to Andrew.

"Here. Use this to cover your bits until we reach the entrance to the Enrichment Centre. They'll have more clothing there, and it doesn't technically count as public space. Just return it intact. No fluids, please."

Andrew blinked, hesitated for a moment, then took the hat and used it to cover his private parts.

"Thanks," he muttered. The hat smelled faintly of lemon, oil and metal.

He paused, frowning as a new question entered his mind.

"Just one thing," he said slowly. "What year is it?"

The robot's eye flickered in what almost looked like amusement.

"Partied hard, haven't we?" it said with what sounded like approval. "It's 1994."

Everyone who entered the Enrichment Centre had to pass through quarantine first.

That hadn't changed in the eight years he'd been gone.

So, after being escorted to the entrance—still holding the cowboy hat for modesty—Andrew was politely but firmly led into one of the Aperture Science Extended Relaxation and Quarantine Chambers.

The interior had changed.

The last time he'd been in one, it had looked like an old-fashioned hotel room, circa 1950s America—all warm lighting, floral wallpaper, and a desk that looked like it belonged in a Cold War bunker. Now? It felt like it had jumped into the future. The design was sleeker, more minimalist, more Aperture.

Some things hadn't changed.

The walls were still completely transparent, offering a full view of the rest of the compound—where dozens of similar chambers sat mounted on rails, shifting occasionally like some massive, automated puzzle.

There was still a small shower and toilet tucked into one corner, but even those looked sleek and futuristic—not just compared to the old quarantine rooms but even compared to the bathroom in his actual quarters back when he lived at the Enrichment Centre.

The bed was softer than he expected. On top of it, neatly folded and still in its plastic wrapper, lay a standard Aperture jumpsuit—orange, of course.

Andrew considered getting dressed—but then thought better of it. Maybe it would be smarter to shower first.

Before he could do either, a voice spoke.

It came from the new, sleek desk against the wall. A device was mounted on top—smooth, futuristic, and blinking with soft indicator lights. Was that a computer?

Personal computers hadn't been a thing when he was drafted for Vietnam, and when he last saw the Enrichment Centre in 1986, computers were still bulky machines, reserved for scientists and administrative staff. He hadn't been either of those.

This one looked sleeker than anything he'd ever seen.

The voice continued, smooth and synthetic:

"Greetings, user: Andrew Evans. Aperture Science wishes you a relaxing stay in our quarantine zone. We apologize for the inconvenience, but this process is necessary for the good of all."

Andrew frowned. Evans. He hadn't heard that name in years.

"As your identity has been confirmed, we have taken the initiative to create a temporary account with S.W.O.R.D. To make this account permanent, simply follow the instructional tutorial video on your terminal. Watching tutorial videos is highly recommended."

A brief pause, then:

"You have two messages and two scheduled meetings."

The words slipped out before Andrew could stop himself.

"What the fuck is the Sword?"

Knowing Aperture, it was probably an actual sword—maybe one that doubled as a satellite, a laser, or a guided machete launcher someone had accidentally made public.

But then— he had an account in it.

That thought barely landed before slipping away, half-formed. The machine was still talking, but his mind snagged on the detail.

He had an account.

Weapons didn't have accounts.

Something about that felt off, but the realization was still half-buried under everything else. He didn't have time to dig into it before the machine kept going.

"S.W.O.R.D. is one of Aperture Science's greatest contributions to mankind! And there are so many to choose from."

There was a slight pause—just long enough to suggest a programmed dramatic beat, but not long enough to be hesitation.

"After all, we tirelessly work for the good of all."

Another beat. Then, smoothly shifting into pre-scripted narration mode:

"Perhaps it would be best to let Director Alexander Johnson explain in his own words."

The screen brightened, flickering to life as the system continued.

"Now playing: historic address of Director Dr. Alexander Johnson, Times Square, New York. S.W.O.R.D. Global Launch Event."

The voice faded out seamlessly, replaced by distant applause. A city crowd murmured in the background, their voices blending into an indistinct hum. Then came a voice—crisp, amplified, authoritative.

Andrew knew that voice.

He'd met Alexander Johnson a few times in passing—a handshake here, a brief exchange there. The man wasn't distant or reclusive. If anything, he was deeply involved, always present, always working.

But his face was everywhere.

Staring down from motivation posters. Printed across company-wide memos. Quoted by practically everyone.

Inside Aperture, he wasn't just the Technical Director.

He was the law, the light, and the glory.

A prophet of progress. A genius leading everyone toward a better tomorrow.

Plenty of people had worked directly under him—scientists, engineers, production managers. Terry had, too.

And even if Andrew had only seen the real Johnson a handful of times, he was intimately familiar with his looks and voice.

Because when the Master took a more human form, it was this face.

Exactly this face.

Sometimes, it made Andrew wonder…

But in the end, the Master was a shapeshifter. He probably just chose a famous human for convenience.

It wasn't like anyone would mistake Aperture's Director for a god of a Mystery Cult in Ancient Rome.

Right?

Andrew shook his head and focused on the speech.

It was easier to follow than he'd feared.

Alexander Johnson had a gift—he could explain complicated concepts in simple, clear terms, and he was so engaging that it was almost impossible not to listen. Charisma practically oozed from the screen.

By the time the speech ended, Andrew could think of only one thing:

It would be a hell of a lot easier to catch up if everything was already in place.

And that he really, really needed to watch all those tutorials.

But first—

A shower.

He didn't know why body wash needed nanoparticles, but he couldn't argue with the results. His skin felt cleaner than he could ever remember. The water jets were exquisite, far more luxurious than the communal sponge baths of Ancient Rome.

After finishing his business on the toilet, it chimed softly. A smooth, synthetic voice informed him, "Samples are being processed. Results will be sent to your assigned doctor for your convenience."

He felt refreshed, human again as he dressed in the one-piece Aperture jumpsuit. It was a bit loose at first, baggy around the arms and legs.

Then he noticed a button on the belt area.

When he pressed it, the fabric shrank and adjusted, molding to his body until it fit as if tailored just for him.

There was also a small dial beside the button. Curious, he turned it. The plain orange fabric faded into gold.

He exhaled. Of course it did.

Shaking off the thought, he looked at the sleek device on the desk. "So, about those messages?"

The synthetic voice responded with its relentlessly cheerful tone, "You have: one video message from Terry Evans. One text message from Jane Evans."

It had been eight years since he'd heard Terry's voice, seen her face.

It wasn't as if he'd been completely cut off. The Master had arranged for letters. But it wasn't the same.

He wanted to touch her. Feel her warmth.

But this would have to do. For now.

His throat tightened. "Play the video."

Her face appeared on the screen.

Older. Harsher. But undeniably his love. The mother of his child.

She looked tired, hurried... and disgusted. He hoped it wasn't at him.

"Andrew, I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear that you've been found."

That, of course, was a lie.

She knew where he was. What he was doing. Even approximately when he would return. But that wasn't something she could leave in a message.

Andrew was used to secrets. When every face could be an enemy in disguise, secrets were survival.

"I wish I could be there to greet you in person," Terry continued, her voice strained. "But things have gotten... complicated."

She hesitated, her eyes flicking to the side. "It's about the Valorum investigation—the Sacramentum incident. It was supposed to be confidential, but someone leaked it to the press. I suppose it was too juicy. I doubt I'll get in trouble for telling you, especially since you're in quarantine."

She was stalling. Something about the way she held herself, the tightness in her shoulders. She was trying to keep it professional—but she was angry.

"Since you were missing, I don't know if you heard about Sacramentum," she continued. "But you can look up the details on S.W.O.R.D."

He had heard. Or rather, he'd read about it in Jane's letter.

Her first official appearance as a superhero. He couldn't have been more proud. While astrally projecting, Jane had accidentally stumbled on a murder in progress aboard the cruise ship Sacramentum.

She saved it remotely, alerting Terry, who then led a team to intervene. What had seemed like an accidental discovery had turned into an orchestrated murder.

First-class passengers had paid for an exclusive experience—an arranged murder hunt. Workers were brought on board to be hunted down like animals.

Terry's voice hardened. "To keep it short, it seems that 'murder tourism' wasn't a one-time occurrence—or even limited to that ship. Valorum has been running that 'service' for the ultra-rich since before the First World War."

Her disgust was palpable. "We've found families who've participated for generations. Some of them brought children to watch... and even groomed them to participate when they were old enough. Who does that?"

She shook her head, as if trying to dispel the anger. "Since it's an exclusive way to spend a vacation, all the perpetrators are very rich—which makes for an even greater circus. I don't think I'll be able to join you, even after you leave quarantine. I'll try to schedule a video call when I can."

Her eyes softened, just for a moment.

"I'm... I'm glad you're back, Andrew."

The screen went black.

The computer's cheerful voice continued, "Now playing text message from Jane Evans."

Andrew's chest tightened. He'd written so many letters over the years, trying to be a father on paper. Now he was finally here, and all he had was a message on a screen.

The text appeared:

Hey Dad,

Glad to hear you're back! I'd love to set up a video call soon. Here's my class schedule, so you'll know when I'm free. Let me know what works for you.

Also, if it's okay, I'd like to invite Mike to the call.

Looking forward to catching up.

Love, Jane.

That was it.

Short, efficient, practical.

Just like her mother.

He felt a pang of guilt. He barely knew her. Letters and borrowed time—that's all they'd had.

She'd grown up without him, and now she was about to graduate. How much had he missed?

He read the message again. It felt more like a polite request than a daughter reaching out to her father.

Of course, she'd grown up. She'd never really known him.

His hands trembled. He wanted to tell her how much he missed her, how sorry he was for being gone.

But he didn't even know what she liked for breakfast.

He closed his eyes, swallowing the ache. She was okay. That was what mattered.

She was okay.

For now.

But something about the murder tourism felt familiar. Too familiar.

Who did things like that?

The answer was simple. Vril-ya.

He knew that. He'd seen it in Rome, after they'd worn human faces to slither into power. He'd seen it again in Nam, when the CIA spook turned out to be more snake than man.

Orchestrating something like this was exactly the kind of cruelty the Vril-ya loved. The only thing missing was cannibalism.

But if there was one thing the Vril-ya loved more than killing humans, it was making humans kill each other.

So he'd returned home from one war.

Maybe he'd just moved to another battlefront.

One that was right here, in his home.

Terry had mentioned searching S.W.O.R.D. How did he even do that?

Maybe by asking first.

"How do I search the S.W.O.R.D.?"

The computer responded cheerfully, "Initiating Quick Tutorial for S.W.O.R.D. Search."

A playful animation appeared—a cartoon stick figure with a magnifying glass, bouncing around the screen.

"S.W.O.R.D. Search allows you to access the entire digital ecosystem, including news, academic articles, personal records, and public statements. Simply type your query in the search bar."

A large, sleek search bar appeared, the cursor blinking expectantly.

"Results are sorted by relevance, determined by keywords, context, and user engagement. The more relevant and popular an article, the higher it appears."

The stick figure pulled a chain, and a cascade of search results tumbled down, labeled with icons: news, social commentary, academic papers, and shopping.

"Results are also interconnected. Clicking on one link provides related articles, allowing you to navigate through the web of information."

The stick figure clicked on an article labeled "Aperture Science Innovations" and a web of connected topics appeared—Research Breakthroughs, Product Announcements, Consumer Reviews.

"To refine your search, use specific keywords. You can also filter by date, source, or type of content."

The stick figure added "Aperture Science" as a keyword, and the web changed—Company History, New Inventions, Aperture Bazaar.

A small shopping cart icon appeared next to Aperture Bazaar, marked with "Ad" in tiny letters.

"For advanced users, you can combine multiple keywords or search within specific categories. For example, you can search for 'Aperture Science AND New Inventions' or 'Aperture Science NOT History.'"

The stick figure proudly gave a thumbs-up, and the tutorial ended with the message:

"Happy Searching! Remember, knowledge is power—and S.W.O.R.D. puts it right into your hands."

Andrew barely registered the words.

"Lizardmen," he said, his voice steady and low.

The screen blinked, then filled with search results.

The first few links were neon-colored conspiracy blogs, with headlines screaming in all caps: "WORLD LEADERS ARE LIZARDMEN!" and "EXPOSED: SECRET REPTILIAN RULERS!"

Andrew's lip curled. Garbage. He clicked past the first few, his eyes skimming over bright, flashing ads for anti-mind-control crystals.

At the bottom of each ad, in tiny, neatly printed letters, was the disclaimer:

"Aperture Science does not guarantee the effectiveness of this product. Results may vary. Please consult scientific literature for evidence-based solutions."

He kept scrolling, the conspiracy theories blending into each other. Ancient Myths. Shapeshifters. Reptilian Gods.

It was all folklore, paranoia, and nonsense.

He needed something serious.

"Vril-ya," he said, his voice firmer.

The search results shifted. The neon conspiracy blogs disappeared, replaced by serious news articles and political analysis.

Andrew's chest tightened.

He'd expected this.

But seeing it confirmed was something else.

A headline caught his eye: "Ozerov Claims Gorbachov was a Vril-ya Infiltrator."

It was from the New York Times.

He clicked on it, his eyes moving quickly over the text.

Ozerov was claiming the Vril-ya had corrupted communism, betrayed the promise of a better future. They were the real enemy, the invisible puppet masters.

It was exactly what he'd suspected.

Andrew's mouth went dry.

He remembered the Vril-ya in Rome, hunting them with Nero, from Senate halls to hidden Christian cults.

Andrew's hands were shaking.

Of course, they were here. They'd never left.

But this?

This was worse than he'd imagined.

Ozerov knew. And he was naming them.

Andrew's fingers tightened. He was fighting the same war. But Ozerov was fighting it openly.

The screen flickered, shifting to another article.

"Vril-ya: A New Tool of Propaganda?"

It was an analysis piece, questioning whether Ozerov was using Vril-ya as a scapegoat to silence political enemies.

It quoted Western diplomats calling Ozerov a paranoid dictator, accusing him of inventing a mythical enemy.

Andrew's eyes narrowed.

He knew better.

But was Ozerov really fighting the Vril-ya, or was he using them as an excuse?

He felt a chill crawl down his spine.

He'd feared the war to follow him home.

He just hadn't expected it to be this bad.

Andrew had to know more.

He read frantically, clicking through article after article, video after video. With each new report, his chest tightened, his breath grew shallower.

More executions. In Russian winter, men stripped naked and doused in ice water until they froze where they stood.

More massacres. Cities burned to the ground, the sky black with smoke.

More horrors. Mobs tearing people apart limb by limb.

Children given rocks, ordered to kill their own parents.

More and more.

On both sides.

It was almost as if Ozerov was competing with the Vril-ya, proving that humans could match—maybe even surpass—them in cruelty.

Andrew was no stranger to hard choices. He had been Praetorian Prefect under Nero, had ordered men to their deaths for the sake of Rome.

But this?

This made him wonder if victory was even worth it—if this was the cost.

And yet, it erased any doubt.

The sudden betrayals. The attacks designed to kill as many civilians as possible.

Poisoned city water supplies.

Bombs planted in refugee corridors—killing the enemy, but slaughtering innocent families too.

This was the Vril-ya's work.

They had done the same in Rome.

And now, they were doing it here.

Twice, the computer interrupted, forcing him to pause for meals.

He ate mechanically, barely tasting the food.

The rest of the time, the interruptions came again and again. Every forty-five minutes, maybe? He wasn't sure. Time blurred together.

Mandatory breaks.

He was expected to follow along with light exercise videos—calm, polished recordings of attractive men and women smiling as they demonstrated breathing techniques.

Andrew gritted his teeth.

He couldn't skip them. The computer refused to continue unless he complied.

He didn't even know how many times it had happened.

And more than once, it reminded him to hydrate.

Andrew tracked the history of the rebellion, watching how it had begun as a scattered movement, growing larger, stronger—unstoppable.

He read Ozerov's speeches, the way he denounced nationalism as a Vril-ya weapon.

Gaunt, hollow-eyed, almost corpse-like, Ozerov stood before his followers and spoke:

"We are human. All division is artificial."

There was something both compelling and chilling about his face.

Andrew kept reading.

The Baltic Fleet, wiped out in an instant. Not by war. By a meteor strike.

A cosmic accident—or so it was claimed.

Tens of thousands dead in moments. Warships shattered, sinking into the freezing sea.

A disaster.

And for Gorbachov, a deathblow.

The fall of Moscow. Ozerov declared the secret police enemies of the people. Mobs tore them apart in the streets.

He read of heroes and betrayals, of unspeakable violence.

Piece by piece, Ozerov took the nation.

Then, something even stranger—

Osama Bin Laden had joined forces with Gorbachov. After so many years fighting each other, they had become allies.

Speculation ran rampant. Had Gorbachov bought Bin Laden's loyalty? Or was it a desperate last stand?

Thatcher had called Ozerov a madman, a threat to global stability.

And then—her assassination.

Andrew stared at the headlines.

Gorbachov had retreated into Siberia, fighting a war he had already lost.

Ozerov pursued.

The final battle.

A million dead.

And then, the interruption.

"Reminder: Your first scheduled meeting will begin in five minutes."

Andrew supposed he should make himself presentable.

But first—just one more click.

He needed to see the latest updates.

To know more about the march to Antarctica.

"Mr. Evans."

A man's voice interrupted him. This wasn't the computer.

Andrew turned his head, blinking as if waking from a dream. Beyond the transparent quarantine barrier, a man stood watching him. He wore a jumpsuit similar to Andrew's, but with an additional layer of sleek, futuristic armor—light plating over his chest and vital organs, thinner protection along his limbs. It was nothing like Roman armor, and yet, in a way, it was. Different materials, different purpose, but the same concept. Protective. Practical.

Words spilled from Andrew's mouth before he could stop them. Unwise words. But it was too much.

"Ozerov is right, you know. The Vril-ya are real. They're here. I've fought them. For eight long years."

The moment the words left his lips, he knew how they sounded. Like a spy. A traitor. A commie. Like he'd spent those years in Russia.

He rushed to correct himself. "Not in Russia. In Rome. Not modern Rome. Ancient Rome."

And now, he sounded like a lunatic.

Silence stretched between them. Andrew waited—for the laughter, the dismissal, the call for sedation.

But Harrington didn't laugh.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm but firm.

"This conversation is now classified under Red-Class security clearance. Code Jörmungandr."