If Damien's grin got any wider, it would split his face in two. He couldn't help it—he was having too much fun.
There was nothing better than unleashing his power on a deserving target. And who deserved it more than Nazis?
"Using blitzkrieg against Nazis," Damien shouted to Sen. "Isn't it brilliant?"
Sen didn't reply. He couldn't. His friend was too busy humming the Imperial March. Damien grinned wider—it wasn't just for fun, though he loved having a theme song while crushing Nazis. Sen was using the sound to push waves of emotion into the enemy, breaking them before they even knew what hit them.
It probably ruined any stealth, but it was so worth it.
And it wasn't just hitting the Nazis—Damien could feel it too. The rhythm, the power, the surge. Boosting him, making him faster, stronger, invincible. Like Vader.
This was why he loved it. The rush. The domination.
Nothing could beat this.
He didn't even have to draw his lightsaber. He was tempted, but the weaklings he faced didn't deserve it.
The lightsaber hung at his hip, secured by the new armor. Another great invention.
Sure, it was as revealing as body paint, but who cared? Damien's body was a work of art—it deserved to be on display. The suit cupped him perfectly, supporting everything without being too tight. It made running, even when hard, effortless.
And yeah, he was hard. So what? Pounding Nazis was almost as fun as pounding Trevor.
"I kinda wish Trevor was here instead of stuck on Earth," Damien said casually, grinning to himself. "I know he's gotta take care of Fred, but a proper victory celebration would've been fun."
Of course, Sen couldn't reply—not with the way he was humming the Imperial March like his life depended on it. But Damien liked that. He always liked Sen's mouth better when it was busy.
Damien sensed the Nazis long before they rounded the corner. Telekinesis wasn't just about moving stuff with his mind—it was about sensing movement, too. It was like having an inbuilt motion detector.
One more reason he was the perfect point man.
There were fewer Nazis this time, but they had managed to fortify their position with a makeshift barrier—metal crates stacked high.
As if that would work. The fools had just given Damien ammunition.
Tossing something like that would've been easy, even on Earth. On the Moon, it was almost laughable.
Of course, there was the downside of Moon gravity. It made running awkward, though Damien had figured out a trick using the slime armor's adhesion to stick better to the ground. Still, it deprived him of one of his favorite advantages. Back on Earth, when he telekinetically hurled something upward, gravity did half the work for him on the way down.
Here, he had to slam it down manually.
As soon as Damien turned the corner, the Nazis opened fire. The gunfire was deafening, but to Damien, the bullets themselves were even "louder." They tore through the air at breakneck speed, and to his telekinetic senses, they translated into something akin to a blaring sound or flashes of bright light.
Easy to spot. Easy to trace.
Almost all the bullets missed both him and Sen, veering wildly off course. The few that might have grazed them? Damien casually redirected those with a flick of his mind. It was second nature to him now—deflecting bullets was like swatting away flies. He didn't even need to think about it.
And that was good, because he had other plans for his mind. Like flattening Nazis.
The enemy had set up a makeshift barrier, metal crates piled high in a futile attempt at fortification. Behind it, a squad of stormtroopers, clad in black, heavy exosuits, hunkered down.
Their helmets, shaped like gas masks, moved around as if they were trying to sniff him out. These weren't sleek, elegant designs like Aperture's robots; these were something more primitive, more brutal—like the embodiment of sheer, blunt force.
Damien grinned, his eyes narrowing as he focused. With a mere thought, the stacked crates trembled, then launched into the air like paper blown by a strong gust. They flipped and crashed into the soldiers behind them, scattering the Nazis like bowling pins.
Some tried to recover, raising their rifles, but Damien wasn't done. He flicked his wrist, and one by one, the stormtroopers were slammed into the ground. Hard. The crunch of metal and bone echoed in the narrow corridor as their exosuits crumpled under the sheer force.
The few who managed to stand were quickly swept off their feet—Damien twisted the air around them, yanking them into the wall with bone-shattering force. In seconds, the Nazis were nothing more than broken heaps.
But alive. Incapacitated, maybe crippled, but none were dead.
Who would care about Nazi lives? The answer was on Damien's hand, where a demon was bound in a beautiful ring—its silver gleam at odds with the dark power it contained.
It was a demon of survival, born from the last gasping breath. As long as Damien wore it, he couldn't die. But there were fates far worse than death.
Because all the demon wanted was for people to live. Live, even as their bodies rotted, their minds shattered, and their souls begged for the sweet release of death. Such was the compassion of a demon—a twisted mercy that needed to be bound.
As its chosen jailor, Damien could channel its power, augmenting his own abilities. He didn't have to follow its whims, but it was always easier when he did.