"Be careful what you wish for," Steve muttered as he ran, his voice low. The slime-armor he wore made him feel exposed—way too exposed. It was like running barefoot on cold metal—he could feel every surface beneath him, yet it cushioned his body like the softest sneakers. Except this wasn't a jog on soft ground. It was a full sprint through the eerie, metallic corridors of a Nazi Moonbase.
And don't even get him started on the way it clung to his—well, everything. It was like being naked, but worse.
"What did you say?" Helena asked, her breath coming in steady puffs as she kept pace beside him.
"Be careful what you wish for," Steve muttered again. The weird, bulky Q-rifle slung across his shoulder bounced awkwardly as he ran. Uncomfortable as hell, but surprisingly light. Even for Moon gravity. Then there was the music. Sen, running point with Damien, was humming the Star Wars theme. Loud enough for Steve to hear despite the distance. More weird psychic bullshit.
"I mean, I wanted something to distract me—that's why I took this mission to the Moon. But Nazis, zombies, and that giant flying saucer rising out of the ground? That's a bit too much."
Lukas chuckled, a mix of a snicker and the odd clicking sound he made from time to time. "Run into any monkey paws?"
Up ahead, there was a sudden commotion
Another small squad of Nazis had appeared around the corner, emerging from the shadows of the Moonbase corridors. They were heavily armored, their dark exosuits making them look more like machines than men. Rifles gleamed under the dim lights, and their steps were as synchronized as a machine.
Damien barely broke stride.
Before they could even raise their weapons, Damien flicked his wrist. The air around the squad seemed to warp, and in an instant, the Nazis were thrown backwards, slamming into the walls like rag dolls. They dropped to the floor in a heap, their weapons scattering. Damien didn't even need to use his lightsaber thingy.
"Didn't even have to light up the fancy weapon," Steve muttered, shaking his head.
"Against that?" Helena added.
Steve's eyes were drawn to her lips. He couldn't help it. He wasn't being weird. It was just—after he lost consciousness (he didn't faint, he lost consciousness), he'd woken up with her lips on his. But it wasn't a kiss. It was more like... a mother bird feeding a baby bird.
Emergency medicine.
And it was good stuff, too. Not only did it taste like chocolate, but it spread warmth through his body, fixing everything. He had been beaten by Nazis, drugged, brainwashed, drugged again to wake him up, escaped through a Nazi base, and then ran into undead—undead with life-draining auras, like something from Dustin's game. What was it called? Dragons in Dungeons or something...
And, yeah, after all that? One gulp of that medicine, and he was fine.
Just... how it was applied. That was the embarrassing part. Steve knew it was just a medical thing, but still. He didn't want to be weird about it.
"It would be a waste," Helena continued, either oblivious to Steve's inner conflict or choosing to ignore it. Probably the second. Steve wasn't subtle, and she was psychic. "But more importantly—distract you from what? Another fight with Nancy?"
Steve didn't want to say it. It was too personal. And it hurt.
But he also did want to say it, because keeping it inside hurt too. It was different with Helena and Lukas than with the cultist he didn't know. They were his friends.
"I caught Nancy having sex with Jonathan," Steve said, the words spilling out faster than he'd expected. It stung, but there was also a strange sense of relief, like lancing a boil.
Of course, that's when the Nazis decided to show up again.
A T-section in the corridor loomed ahead, and the sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the narrow space.
Nazis must've shown up after Sen and Damien had already passed because the gunfire wasn't aimed at them. It was aimed at Director Johnson, Chief Iverson, and Dr. Hutter.
They didn't seek cover, didn't even slow down. Director Johnson and Dr. Hutter moved with strange, graceful steps, almost like they were dancing. But not the kind of awkward dancing you'd see in a club—this was precise, calculated. Almost professional.
Chief Iverson fired his Q-gun, each shot hissing as it cut through the air. For every shot he fired, Hutter let loose three arrows, each one whistling past with deadly accuracy.
It took barely a few seconds for them to clear the crossing, cutting through the Nazis with brutal efficiency.
And now, it was Steve's turn.
He bolted through the perilous crossing, heart pounding, but was met with an eerie silence. Steve stole a quick glance down the corridor. All he saw were corpses. A couple of Nazis had been crushed by the Q-gun's bullets, their armor pierced clean through, but most had arrows protruding from their helmets—right through the lenses.
The precision of hitting such a target while running full tilt was mind-boggling. More action flick than real life.