Is a "sword" a euphuism? (BL)

Standing with the heart of the sun was transcendent glory—enough to banish the shadows clinging to Helena's dreams.

Even if the sun was artificial and barely the size of a basketball.

Helena's rare talents in Remote Viewing and Pyrokinesis made her indispensable in Aperture Science's fusion research lab. Where instruments lagged, she could see the reactor's energy flows in real time, tracing shifts and instabilities as they happened. Her abilities gave the researchers a live map of the system's behavior—one that no sensor array could replicate.

It wasn't the average summer vacation, but Helena didn't mind. The intricacies of the energy flows she observed fascinated her—the way they moved, the patterns they formed. Plasma currents weren't just alive to her; they were almost symphonic, beautiful in their motion. Besides, her work wasn't just extraordinary—it counted as credit toward her Aperture University degree.

The reactor itself was hard to describe in simple words. It was like nothing else she'd ever encountered. Well, except the sun—but one couldn't exactly casually peer inside the sun.

Like blood flowing through a heart, the plasma moved—but it wasn't like blood, and it wasn't liquid. It wasn't gas either. It was plasma, a state of matter that defied comparison.

The only proper way to describe it was through math, and in a way, Helena liked it better that way.

It had been work to translate what she saw into the language of numbers and formulas, but that only meant her credits weren't undeserved. And it wasn't just academic—her pyrokinesis had grown stronger too. She understood fire better now, how it lived and breathed.

But after working with plasma for so long, Helena could sense something deeper: harmony. She could feel when things worked as they were meant to, and when they diverged.

Without opening her eyes, she spoke, her voice calm and even. "The plasma currents aren't moving uniformly. The distortion is forming. Outer edge, Sector 5. Poloidal angle 7."

The response came as though from far away, faint and distorted, though she knew the speaker was standing only a few feet from her body. That was one of the peculiarities of Remote Viewing. When her mind was deep inside the reactor, the physical world around her felt distant and hazy—like sound waves had to cross a vast chasm just to reach her ears.

"Sensors aren't showing anything yet," said Dr. Lena Marquette. Her voice carried the same caution it always did, careful and measured. "But we could adjust manually."

Helena didn't need to open her eyes to picture Lena. She knew the woman's tone, her mannerisms—knew she was still feeling out her place on the team. As one of the few women on the project, and the only one in a senior position, Lena wasn't exactly embraced by the veterans who'd been with Aperture through what they called "the dark times." Helena had heard enough lab chatter to know why: Lena was a newcomer, hired after Aperture's... unusual reputation started to stabilize. Her bold theories, near-breakthroughs, and the small incident at her previous lab—a narrowly avoided explosion—had made her a perfect fit for the Aperture atmosphere, even if she wasn't fully considered one of "them" yet.

Then there was Dr. Conrad Voss. His voice, rough and gravelly, was impossible to mistake, even as it reached her as a faint murmur.

"No," said Dr. Conrad Voss, his gravelly voice cutting across the room. "This is a good opportunity to test the autocorrection system. We can't have every reactor attended by a psychic."

Voss's words were practical, not dismissive, but Helena caught the faint undertone of risk. He had always been like that: bold, decisive, and just reckless enough to fit right in at Aperture. He was one of the old guard, a veteran who'd been with the company long before the Navy canceled their shower curtains contracts and the funding dried up. Back when Aperture's founder, Cave Johnson, was still alive. Voss had stories—stories about late nights drinking with Cave, back when the man still dreamed of conquering the world with moon rocks and test chambers.

And now Voss stood here, balancing that old Aperture bravado with the realities of their new era. Testing the autocorrection system on a live distortion wasn't exactly a safe choice, but that had never stopped Aperture before.

Helena focused on the plasma currents, her thoughts steady despite the tension rising around her. She could feel the distortion intensifying, the harmony splintering into jagged threads.

"This is going to spiral if you don't adjust it," she said.

"Let's find out if it can autocorrect," Voss said, his voice calm but firm. "If it fails, then we'll know how and why it fails. There's no such thing as a failed experiment, as long as it yields data."

Helena took a slow breath, feeling her heart begin to beat faster. Typical Aperture. But that was what she loved about the place. The best discoveries were always found at the edge of failure.

She wasn't a veteran, not yet, but neither was she an outsider. She was part of the new generation, trained by Aperture for Aperture.

When the autocorrection system worked, as it should, she felt an unexpected wave of disappointment.

It was good, of course, that it worked. But there was no new breakthrough, no revelation waiting to be uncovered.

She was meeting Sen for lunch. Just Sen.

Lukas was spending his summer on one of his usual "acquisition missions," hopping between shady private auctions and secretive occult societies. He'd call it treasure hunting; Helena called it shopping with extra steps. He was after the kinds of trinkets the Director loved—artifacts with rich "occult" histories.

Helena didn't expect Lukas to find anything truly magical. Such things were beyond rare, even in a world where psychics like her existed. Most of what he brought back wouldn't be real magic, but that didn't mean it wasn't useful. The Director always said the truth didn't matter—what mattered was the belief. Ritual objects, relics, and antiques soaked up psychic charge over time, shaped by centuries of fear, faith, or obsession. They weren't magical, but they could still amplify psionic energy in ways that made a difference.

Damien, meanwhile, was tagging along with Trevor on his promotional tour. Trevor's comic series was Aperture-approved propaganda, of course, but it was popular. The two of them were touring Aperture's Transdimensional Monitoring Stations, government-funded facilities scattered across the country. Each station had an attached youth center, which Aperture ran as a sort of PR stunt—or, as the Director preferred to call it, "a strategic investment."

The youth centers were a clever piece of work. On paper, they were wholesome, government-approved social programs: STEM workshops, recreational activities, mental health support, and mentorship for at-risk youth. But Aperture didn't shy away from their other purpose. Recruitment was part of the package, proudly advertised in the brochures.

Scholarships, specialized training, and—for the best of the best—a chance to live and study in the Enrichment Center. Parents loved the idea of their kids having a shot at such an exclusive program. And if they didn't, Aperture had no problem marketing it directly to the kids. After all, who wouldn't want to live in a cutting-edge underground city?

That's what made the youth centers so smart. They were popular enough to make Aperture politically untouchable. No one was going to cut funding for a program that looked this good on paper—especially not one that offered free childcare and scholarships for low-income families.

Sen, like Helena, was spending his summer in the Enrichment Center. But unlike her, he wasn't stuck in the labs. He was in the movie studio, filming a project that he'd written, directed, and insisted on starring in.

The Enrichment Center wasn't just a research complex—it was an arcology, a self-contained city built deep underground. Not that Aperture ever called it that in public. Words like "arcology" sounded too ambitious. They preferred to call it "a sustainable testing environment for innovative technologies."

Helena could hardly believe the Enrichment Center was less than five years old. It had existed before that, of course, but only as a testing facility—a fraction of what it had become. Back then, it was just another lab. Now, it was a full-blown arcology.

The sheer scale of it still amazed her sometimes. She wasn't the type to get sentimental, but the transformation was hard to ignore.

Since the Aperture Science fusion lab and the Aperture Production movie studio weren't close to each other, they'd chosen a cafeteria somewhere in the middle for lunch. Meals were communal in the Enrichment Center—standard practice for arcologies—but Helena didn't mind. She'd grown up in a lab, after all. Eating in the same cafeteria every day felt normal to her.

Not that the cafeterias in the Enrichment Center were sterile or mechanical. Far from it. There was greenery everywhere, splashes of vibrant color, and lighting carefully calibrated to make eating a more pleasant experience. Everything was meticulously designed to feel welcoming, as if to gently remind people that even underground, they were still human.

To get to the cafeteria, she'd taken one of the conveyor belts that served as the Center's public transport system. She didn't mind that, either. It was better than a bus. Or at least, she assumed it was better. She'd never actually been on a bus.

Sen was already seated when Helena arrived, waving cheerfully as she stepped into the cafeteria. His smile was practiced—glamorous and bright, like he was posing for a camera.

Helena didn't go straight to him. First, she picked up her meal, carefully arranged to match her personalized nutritional plan. She was pleased to see a cup of "Witch Brew" included—a warm herbal drink designed to ease the strain of using psychic gifts. Today's cup featured the Wicked Witch of the West, looking cartoonishly smug.

"So, how's the lab today?" Sen asked as she sat down, flashing his signature movie-star grin.

For a moment, Helena found herself reeling under his charm before quickly snapping her mental shields into place. Not all of Sen's charisma was psychic, but enough of it was that she knew better than to let her guard down entirely.

It wasn't that Sen was malicious—he wasn't. But he was manipulative, in a way that bordered on adorable. If she wasn't careful, he could talk her into all sorts of things. He'd done it often enough when they were younger, convincing her to share desserts she hadn't planned on sharing or helping him sneak into restricted areas.

Helena had lost count of how many sweets, snacks, and bribes she'd unwillingly parted with back then, usually coaxed out of her with that same disarming smile.

"If you have any shares in oil or coal, now would be the time to sell," Helena said as she set down her tray. The information was technically confidential, but Sen could be trusted with it.

"How's being a vampire treating you?"

Sen grinned, leaning back in his chair like he was the star of a romantic drama. "We managed to get through the whole Romeo and Juliet thing—without anyone dying, thankfully. Now we're diving into vampire politics."

The movie Sen was working on was a sequel to Kiss of Waste, a contemporary vampire romance that had premiered last September on Aperture's digital streaming platform. It had done well enough to greenlight a sequel almost immediately.

"Vampire politics?" Helena asked with a chuckle. "What, someone forgot to pay their blood tax?"

"No, no," Sen replied, waving his hand dismissively. Then, with deliberate gravitas, he leaned forward and intoned, "It's the most important vampire law: no human shall know a vampire—and remain human."

"I remember that from the previous movie," Helena said, stirring her Witch Brew. "Wasn't the whole plot about the female lead running into vampires, realizing she could get pretty and never age for the low cost of drinking blood, and saying, 'Sign me right up for the liquid diet'?"

It wasn't really her thing, but since Sen had been the male lead, she'd watched it anyway.

"You make her sound like such a gold digger," Sen said, pretending to pout. But the glint of amusement in his eyes betrayed him. "There was also love, you know. Luv."

"For her reflection, maybe," Helena shot back. "And your character was all, 'I can't turn you. I have a human fetish, and you being a vampire won't do anything for me.'"

Sen's expression turned tortured and melodramatic, the exact look teenage girls across the nation had squealed about. Slipping seamlessly into character, he said, his voice low and heavy with grief, "Turning is such a monstrous act. Is one even the same person after becoming a vampire? The memories may be the same, but the brain chemistry, the instincts, everything—it's like a wasp laying an egg. It grows inside until another wasp is born. Turning is killing." He leaned forward, voice breaking just slightly. "I love you too much for that."

For a moment, Helena wasn't Helena. She was someone else—a mortal girl, hopelessly enthralled by a vampire, eager to join the night. And Sen wasn't Sen. He was the character he portrayed: a tortured soul, carrying centuries of pain, his anguish pulling at her like a tide. She could feel it—the ache to comfort him, to be part of his dark, tragic world.

She shook her head sharply, forcing herself back to reality.

Sen's power was persuasion, and it worked both ways. Outwardly, he could influence others, coaxing them to think, feel, or do what he wanted. But the same ability turned inward, too. He could convince himself of anything—even that he was someone else entirely.

And when he did, the world around him seemed to shift. His characters didn't just exist in his mind—they spilled out into the world, pulling others into their orbit.

"So, other vampires found the human pet and didn't approve?" Helena said, ignoring his trip into vampire romance territory. Being friends with Sen came with these involuntary journeys.

And it was her fault—her defenses had slipped. It was those dreams.

"To avoid the temptation of turning her, he left her," Sen continued, slipping effortlessly into his narrator voice. "Abandoned, she threw herself off a cliff. She survived, but he thought she was dead. Wracked with guilt, he sought suicide by cop—a vampire cop. She rushed to save him and did, at the last moment, before he revealed the existence of vampires to mankind. In doing so, she exposed her own knowledge of their kind, earning swift execution. But now, the question remains: is love reason enough to break the law?"

"Is this about smoking?" Helena asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Smoking?" Sen blinked, his flow interrupted.

"Well, it's about indulging in risky behavior even when it puts others at risk, right? Like smoking in public. One person gets to feel good, and everyone else has to live with the consequences."

"It's about love," Sen said, clutching his chest in mock injury.

"Some people love to smoke."

"Well, if you think you can do better, you can try to write your own script," Sen said as he took a bite of his meal. "Perhaps a story based on real life. Like what happened to Steve. It had everything—action, betrayal, reconciliation…"

"Reconciliation?" Helena asked, raising an eyebrow. As far as she knew, those three—Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan—were still dancing around each other. Nine months: enough time to have a baby, but not enough to either break up or make up. Not for those three.

"It's official now. Didn't you hear? Steve and Nancy are back together," Sen said with relish, clearly savoring the chance to share gossip.

Helena shrugged. She hadn't heard because she wasn't interested. Fighting Nazis on the moon had a way of bringing people closer together. And it worked real well for Steve and Damien, and to a lesser extent, Steve and Lukas—and even Steve and Sen. But not for Steve and Helena. They just didn't click.

It wasn't that she disliked him, but neither did she like him. At most, Helena found Steve a bit dull.

To make her point, she'd once brought a potted plant with a nametag that read "Steve" and showed it to her boys, saying it was just as interesting as the man himself. Damien had pretended to be mock-offended but had taken the plant with him afterward—probably to introduce "Steve" to his "twin."

Damien, Helena thought, was a bit like a hedgehog: the closer you got, the more likely you were to get stung. But it was still an improvement over the scorpion he'd been as a kid.

"So, Jonathan's out?" Helena asked, more to keep the conversation going than out of genuine curiosity. There was something she wanted Sen's advice on, but she was stalling.

"Oh, no," Sen said, almost cheerfully. "Nancy got what she wanted—two boyfriends. They're a throuple now. All three of them together."

"And that took them nine months?" Helena asked, her voice deadpan.

"Feelings were hurt," Sen said with a dramatic sigh.

"That's why I don't do feelings," Helena replied.

"Not a romantic bone in your body?" Sen asked, grinning.

"If I had one, I'd schedule an operation," Helena replied dryly. Then, with a smirk, she added, "Besides, you're one to talk. You've got the mating strategy of a tomcat in heat."

"But I'm deeply and sincerely in love with every single one of them. At least in the moment," Sen said, his tone utterly earnest—if only for now.

Helena's lips parted in a smile, and warmth began to spread through her. She shook her head sharply. Her mental shields were worse than she'd thought. Usually, she wouldn't mind the proverbial roll in the hay with Sen—though actual hay was hard to come by in the Enrichment Center.

He was skillful, fun, and knew not to attach expectations where there were none.

But there was another matter on her mind, one she needed his advice on.

"Do you know anything about the Church of Santa Muerte?" she asked.

"Your little cult?" Sen replied with a smirk.

"It's not a cult. And it's not mine."

"It's a cult," Sen said, waving his fork like it was an indisputable fact. "And I know cults. I've gathered enough of them. Cultists are so useful—cheap, hardworking, and more than eager to volunteer as test subjects, as long as it aligns with their beliefs."

He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. "So yeah, it's a cult. And as for it not being yours? Well, hail the Red Widow, prophet and handmaiden of the Good Death."

"I didn't plan for it to be a cult," Helena said flatly.

It had been a cunning plan. On one hand, raise a team of superheroes; on the other, create a supervillain. The Red Widow would take over the drug trade, concentrate it in critical failure points, and then fall spectacularly.

Her death had been part of the plan—at least, her seeming death. The Red Widow had died dramatically, taking the entire operation with her. The collapse propped up the fledgling superhero team, a crucial step in introducing psychics to the modern world without triggering another witch hunt. And it had disrupted the drug trade, even if only for a little while.

What she hadn't expected was that the small severance package she'd arranged for her former "employees" would lead to them building churches.

"I didn't expect them to use the payout to start building churches," she muttered.

Sen leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "You took them in when no one else would. You gave them purpose and left them with a gift—and a heroic 'death' to mourn. They had nothing, and you gave them something." He gestured dramatically, as if explaining the obvious. "Of course they built you up. You're practically a saint to them now."

Helena frowned, but Sen wasn't done.

"People find hope in the strangest places. Religion's started over less. Just look at the Mormons," he said, his grin wide.

"But this isn't news to you," Sen continued after a dramatic pause, his smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

"No, it's not. I've kept up with them. And while it was baffling at first, I can't say I disapprove. They do good work," Helena admitted.

"Just as you taught them," Sen said with a sly smile. "And just as he taught us."

"But lately, I've been having dreams," Helena said, skipping over his comment and moving straight to the point. "Strange dreams."

Sen's smile faded slightly, replaced by curiosity. "Go on."

"It started as whispers," Helena began. "But then it grew—louder, clearer. And beneath the words, I felt… something else. It wasn't just whispers. They were prayers. Prayers to me."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Sen said with a casual shrug. "Dreaming of being God could be fun. As long as you remember you're not one in real life."

"It wasn't bad at first," Helena admitted. "I even woke up more invigorated after the dreams. More ready. Most of the prayers are just thanks and shallow wishes. Nothing harmful." She paused, frowning as she gathered her thoughts. "But the last few days, it's been different. One prayer… it was from a young woman. She married fast and regretted it just as quickly. Her husband's not treating her well. And by that, I mean I think he's beating her—leaving her black and blue."

Sen leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a thoughtful expression. "I'd say it's just a dream, but we both know better. We've got gifts. Maybe you're seeing something real, something that's happening." His tone shifted slightly, more pragmatic now. "But do you really need to get involved? You're not their goddess or their saint. And let's be honest—saints, angels, gods? They rarely answer prayers anyway."

"I don't know," Helena said, frowning. "That girl might really be in trouble. And she's asking me for help—or at least, asking the Red Widow." She hesitated. "I do want to know if this is real."

"If you actually start answering their prayers, they're going to get real fanatical, real fast," Sen said, his tone serious now. "And they won't stop praying. Find out if you must, but I think you should leave it alone. Once you start, where does it stop?"

"I would ask him for help, but he's been so busy lately," she replied.

Not all the Nazis who attacked Aperture's Moon facilities had died. In fact, the company was left with quite a lot of prisoners—more of a drain on resources than anything else.

Most of the Nazis had been born in exile on the Moon, and those who hadn't had been there since the end of the Second World War—nearly forty years. They'd completely adapted to the Moon's lower gravity, making transportation to Earth not just logistically challenging but also ethically questionable. It could easily be considered torture.

That meant they had to be kept on the Moon, provided with food, medical attention, and perhaps some form of stimulation to avoid unrest.

It was no surprise the Director wanted to get rid of them. But mass execution—like simply pushing them all out of an airlock—was against company policy. That wasn't going to change anytime soon. Helena smiled faintly at the thought; even with Nazis, something like that would have been a public relations nightmare.

Legally, handing the prisoners over to the American government was complicated. The conflict had occurred entirely on the Moon, outside Earth's jurisdiction. Even practically, it was impossible—there were no U.S. military bases or government facilities on the Moon. Of course, now that the Moon's potential was obvious, Helena suspected that might change sooner rather than later.

Returning the prisoners to the Fourth Reich was the only workable solution. But simply handing them back without conditions wasn't politically viable. There had to be concessions.

Helena didn't know much about the negotiations—she only knew what little had trickled down to her because of her involvement in the Moon incident. Not the attack itself, but the aftermath: the rescue mission and the effort to stop the Nazis' superweapon.

The main problem was that the Fourth Reich didn't have much to offer in return. Official recognition of Aperture's claim to part of the Moon sounded good on paper, but it wasn't worth the paper it was written on.

To complicate matters, American diplomats were involved in the three-way negotiations. Everyone had different objectives, and the political situation was fluid. Helena had a suspicion that even the American representatives weren't entirely unified in their goals. It made everything even messier.

And that wasn't even touching the other matter.

The whole Nazi Moon base situation was confidential, sure—but there were plenty of people already in the know.

The super-secret project to reveal the lizard men infiltrating governments? That had to be kept much more under wraps.

Which government? Every single one of them.

Otherwise, Helena surmised, they could end up in an open war, like the Russians.

She'd known about the Vril-ya for a while. Witches—what they used to call psychics back when leeches were considered top-tier medical treatment—had spoken of fighting lizard people ever since Nero barely escaped being a snack for a shapeshifter who'd replaced his uncle, Emperor Claudius.

Considering how the history of witch hunts had gone, Helena could easily guess who won that fight.

The Director had a new approach. Instead of relying solely on psychics to find the Vril-ya, he'd brought in anthropologists, historians, sociologists, and even xenopsychologists—anyone who could build profiles and detect the infiltrators without triggering panic.

Helena and the other psychics in the know were just reserves, a backup plan for when traditional methods failed.

Helena wasn't sure how she felt about it.

On one hand, she'd prefer to be integral to the plan. On the other hand, the Moon Führer—a Vril-ya who'd been commanding the Nazis—was dangerous in ways she'd never seen before. That one had handled both Damien and Sen at the same time without breaking a sweat.

"He'd find the time," Sen said, cutting into her thoughts. "Even if it wasn't for us, he'd find something like this interesting enough. But if you're determined to figure it out on your own, I'm willing to spot you."

"You mean," Helena said, the thought warming her slightly, "rather than just letting the voices come to me in my sleep, I should search for them deliberately?"

"We could borrow one of the sensory isolation tanks from the Psy Labs," Sen suggested, ever practically.

It had been a long time since Helena actually needed a sensory isolation tank to visit that place. These days, she didn't even need a blindfold—just closing her eyes was enough.

But Sen was right. With this, she needed more precision, more oomph. And when one went that deep, having a spotter wasn't just practical—it was essential.

Some researchers liked to call that space the Astral Realm, but to those who'd actually visited it, the name didn't fit.

The Astral Realm, from what little Helena knew—bits and pieces she'd overheard from people more interested in theory than practice—was supposed to be a place of thoughts, abstract concepts, and dreams.

This wasn't that.

It was Nothing connected to everything.

It was a non-place, somehow adjacent to every other place. She didn't know who first called it the Void, but the name had caught on.

Distance didn't matter—except it did. Not to the Void itself, but to those who visited it. Perhaps, Helena mused as she and Sen traveled along the conveyor belt toward the labs, it was different for natives.

If there were any natives.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Sen said suddenly, cutting through her silence. "You've been quieter than usual."

"Do you ever wonder if there's anything native to the Void?" she asked, glancing sideways at him.

"Well, there's never been a single report of anyone meeting one," Sen replied, his tone light. "So either we can't perceive them, or they don't exist." He paused just long enough for dramatic effect before adding, "Or meeting one is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Lethal kind."

Helena rolled her eyes. "If that were true, there'd be more recorded incidents. More unexplained deaths. It's not like there haven't been enough experiments—both here and in Hawkins."

At the lobby of the Psy Labs, they were greeted warmly by the receptionist—a perky young thing, pleasing to both the eye and the psychic senses. Probably chosen for that very reason.

The Psy Labs were open to any psychic willing to explore their gifts in a safe, scientific environment. In practice, though, it was mostly used by those residing in the Enrichment Center. But then, Aperture had always been eager to recruit and employ any psychic they found.

Sen immediately set to charming the receptionist.

Helena thought it was an unnecessary gesture. Most of the equipment was free to use, as long as one didn't mind being recorded. Scientific progress, after all, was ever hungry for data.

Leaving Sen to his amusement, Helena let her gaze wander to the walls. Like the rest of the Enrichment Center, the severe, mass-produced metal panels that formed the basic structure were softened by greenery. Here, though, the plants didn't seem random. Several species stood out—ones she recognized from witches' Shadowbooks as soothing or empowering.

There was lavender, thought to calm the mind and heighten focus. Rosemary, said to strengthen memory and clarity. And vetiver grass, which supposedly grounded psychic energy. Helena had no idea if the plants actually worked in the way the old writings claimed, but she had to admit the atmosphere felt… balanced.

A few motivational posters dotted the walls as well. Those were everywhere in the Enrichment Center, like part of the air they breathed. Most were easy to ignore, but one caught her eye.

It was an illustration of the Director sitting under a golden birch tree, its luminous leaves glinting like sunlight. Around him, a group of children sat cross-legged, their hair adorned with flowers, listening intently as he taught them something unseen. Beneath the image was the caption:

"Flourishing Together."

She found herself liking it more than she wanted to admit.

"I've got us a guide," Sen said, approaching from behind.

Helena wasn't startled. She had been absorbed in watching the greenery, but not so much that she'd failed to notice his presence.

"Why do we need a guide?" she asked, turning to face him. "We've been here often enough."

"Wait and see," Sen said, wagging his finger. "What are you looking at?"

She gestured at the poster. "It reminds me of simpler times. I sometimes miss it."

She meant the time spent on Io after Hawkins. But some things were better left unsaid.

Every conversation, every sound, every image in the Enrichment Center was recorded—to help everyone living in it. Helena assumed GLaDOS already knew about Io; she believed it was likely.

Even so, mentioning it aloud would serve no purpose. At best, it would be unnecessary. At worst, it would prompt a quiet reassessment.

She understood how things worked here. If she let something slip, it wouldn't lead to punishment or a reprimand. There'd be no alarms, no questions. But it would be noted. A thoughtful, careful note that she couldn't keep certain things to herself.

It wasn't about punishment. It was about trust.

And if Helena couldn't keep secrets, then it only made sense—for her sake as much as anyone else's—that she wouldn't be trusted with more. She believed that. It was the logical way things worked.

Still, she didn't like the idea of being reassessed.

She liked knowing things that few others did. She didn't intend to lose that.

Still, she missed the time spent with only the other Numbers, their servant, the Director, and his mate. If the Director had been human, she might have used simpler terms—lover, partner, even husband. But the Director was certainly not human.

Even when wearing the face of Ace Johnson, he was too fair, too graceful, and frankly, too young for forty. And beyond the partial nature of his presence—utterly blank to psychic senses—there was always something off.

Sometimes she wondered if Ace Johnson the human had been replaced at some point, but that didn't fit. He was too methodical, too precise for such a messy substitution.

No, he was probably Ace Johnson from the beginning.

And what were forty years to someone like him?

"I don't," Sen replied. "When a plant truly flourishes, it needs to be repotted—to stretch its roots. Birds leave the nest, and children grow. Looking back with rose-tinted glasses only steals the joy of the future."

Here's a slightly refined version to smooth out the transitions:

"Britton Claud Tiber, at your service," a young man's voice came from behind her, startling Helena.

She turned quickly, expecting a man. Instead, she saw a boy—high school-aged, perhaps a senior, though probably not.

"Are you the ones I'm supposed to guide?" he asked.

Stranger still, she couldn't sense him. How peculiar.

Helena paid closer attention to their guide. His features were sharp, his face dominated by a prominent, aquiline nose that wouldn't have looked out of place on a Roman coin.

But it wasn't just his face that caught her attention. It was the way he moved. He walked like someone used to being watched, his posture impossibly straight, his steps light and deliberate, as if he were ready to dodge an invisible blade.

Everyone in the Enrichment Center wore the same short-sleeved, unisex jumpsuit. Helena and Sen did, too. Scientists often added lab coats, security personnel wore armor, and some people added personal flourishes.

Britton's addition was a pendant hanging from a chain around his neck.

The pendant itself was oval, its surface engraved with an intricate spiral pattern that seemed to twist endlessly inward. At its center sat a black gemstone—obsidian, perhaps—its smooth surface catching faint light but giving nothing back. Around the black stone, tiny red gems were set in precise intervals, their color rich and dark, like drops of blood.

And it was the source of the anomaly.

Even curious, Helena didn't probe further. This looked like the Director's work.

"Yes," Sen said, his gaze also flicking briefly to the pendant. "I'm Sen, and this is Helena."

"I know," Britton replied with a polite but distant smile. "You're quite famous. I've enjoyed watching your performances."

"You're volunteering, then," Helena cut in. He couldn't be formally employed at his age.

The personalized education Aperture provided often included opportunities for volunteer work. Assignments were tailored to individual interests—no need for sullen teenagers forced into tasks they didn't care about.

It was completely voluntary—no pressure, no tangible rewards, just the satisfaction of doing work that genuinely interested the volunteers.

Still, participation—or the lack of it—was always quietly noted. It helped put people in their proper places.

People often said that character was revealed under pressure, but the Director had once told her otherwise. "It's in their free choices," he'd said, "that people reveal who they truly are."

"Yes," Britton replied, a faint but unmistakable pride in his tone. "We must all do our duty."

Helena nodded, appreciating his answer. Duty. Responsibility. It was a good foundation. And she couldn't deny her curiosity. The Director's interest in him meant something.

Thinking it over, she wondered if she should pursue this connection further. The system always encouraged connections like this. Cross-generational and cross-disciplinary friendships were integral to the Enrichment Center's philosophy. Different perspectives helped one grow, sharpening understanding and fostering creativity. And cohesion was vital—for individuals and for the collective.

She could sense they'd have enough common ground to connect, and enough differences to keep things interesting.

Perhaps that was why he'd been chosen as their guide. The Center had a way of arranging things like this. It wasn't something that could be proven, exactly—just a sense, a pattern she'd noticed.

It was an opportunity, one she could ignore if she wanted to. But ignoring it would still be a choice. And choices always mattered.

There was no right or wrong answer. Either path would be a step forward on her personal journey. But if she acted contrary to her nature, it would set her back.

"Lead on, then," she said. There was no rush. Now that she knew his name, arranging further contact would be easy—if she chose to. And, of course, his choice mattered too.

Following Britton, the two of them entered the Psy Labs. They passed by the Children's Wing, where underage psychics could explore their powers in safety. Helena had never been inside, but she imagined it wasn't much different from the common room in the lab she'd grown up in. Games and toys, carefully chosen to double as training tools. A place to visit, not to live.

Balance in all things, as the Director was fond of saying.

There was nothing in there to teach more than minor tricks. How to play telekinetically with marbles, or make toy ships float. In comics, superpowered children were charming little prodigies. In reality, they were problems waiting to happen. Raising ordinary kids was hard enough; add superpowers, and it was chaos.

Papa had used shock collars to keep order. Efficient, perhaps, but hardly what one would call appropriate child-rearing practice.

Papa loved them. She knew that. He had killed enough people for them. But proper parenting required more than love. 

They passed by the Kinetics Wing and entered the ESP Wing. As they walked, Helena's gaze drifted to the doors lining the corridor. Each had a small screen displaying the room's name and a looping animation featuring those familiar stick figures—stylized and overly enthusiastic—demonstrating the activities within. Beneath the screens, placards listed the minimum age required for entry.

The Card Chamber showed two stick figures seated at a table. One held up oversized cards while the other gestured wildly, as if guessing something absurd. The Blind Maze Chamber depicted a blindfolded stick figure shuffling through a shifting labyrinth, occasionally bumping into walls. The Meditation Chamber had a figure in lotus position, emitting calm, wavy lines like some peaceful psychic antenna.

The Touch Museum Chamber caught her attention. The animation featured a stick figure carefully poking at various objects, one of which lit up dramatically.

Helena knew the room was used for psychometry training. Lukas had told her about it once, his pride unmistakable as he bragged about curating the exhibits. He'd tracked down artifacts charged just enough to be effective for training but harmless for beginners.

And then they passed by the Tank Chamber, where the stick figures floated inside stylized sensory isolation tanks. The animation showed a little stick figure reclining inside one, surrounded by wavy lines that radiated outward, a cartoonish depiction of deep focus—or blissful detachment. Of course, the real tanks didn't have windows; that would ruin the entire point. But it was a clever way to convey what went on inside.

"Are we not going in?" Helena asked. That was, after all, why they'd come here.

"You're in for a treat," Sen replied with a grin, echoing his earlier words.

Britton began to say something—probably to explain—but Sen held up a hand and shushed him. "Shh. I want it to be a surprise."

Britton led them farther down the corridor, past unmarked doors. Helena knew the Psi Labs were relatively new—until recently, most of the work in applied psionics had been conducted in other labs scattered throughout the Enrichment Center. These unmarked spaces, she guessed, were reserved for future expansion.

The door they finally stopped at bore a nameplate that read Amplification Chamber. Beneath it, the animated cartoon was almost identical to the one outside the Tank Chamber: a stick figure floating in what was clearly meant to be a sensory isolation tank. But this one had an added flair—cartoonish lightning bolts surrounded the figure, crackling outward in exaggerated bursts of energy.

"This is the first Psionic Amplification Device approved for public testing," Britton said as he placed his palm on the scanner. "I hear they're planning to install one like it in the Kinetics Wing soon. But this one's the first."

The door slid open with a soft hiss, and they stepped into the room.

"It's big," Helena said, surprised. That was something of an understatement.

The tank dominated the room, large enough that not just she, but even someone much taller could comfortably float inside it. Around the tank, massive cables coiled like serpents, thrumming with invisible power. There wasn't any actual sound, but she could feel it—like a low hum vibrating at the edges of her awareness.

She wasn't particularly gifted in Electrokinesis; Pyrokinesis was her specialty. But disciplines overlapped, and even a much less attuned psychic would have been able to sense the energy radiating from the tank and the capacitors lining the walls.

It wasn't on the same scale as the fusion reactor she worked on, but still—it was impressive.

"Aren't those usually much smaller?" Sen asked. "Like wearable."

This wasn't a secret. Both Sen and Helena knew more than most. Aperture had already provided similar devices to a government-sponsored team of psychics—a team chosen less for their raw talent and more for their politically convenient backgrounds. The kind of team that looked good in photos, standing heroically with the flag in the background.

The devices gave them just enough of a boost to punch above their weight class—though without the tech, Helena doubted most of them could even bend a spoon.

She could have taken that entire team down by herself. Blindfolded.

But since they were playing superheroes, the amplifiers were wearable. Flashy, discreet, and small enough to integrate into a uniform.

"This is a new direction in Psionic Amplification," Britton said, his voice carefully measured but carrying a hint of pride. "At this stage, it's bigger and more robust, but it's already cheaper to produce, easier to replicate, doesn't rely on esoteric components, and runs on electricity instead of exotic fuels."

Helena supposed the technology could have broader applications, but she found it hard to care. For one, she was strong enough not to need amplifiers. And if she ever did need—or want—one, she'd get an elite version, custom-made by the Director himself. Not this bulky mess.

In truth, all this felt like a bother. They could have found a quiet place and let her concentrate. Was all of this really necessary, or had Sen once again convinced her to do something unnecessary for his own amusement?

Well, since she'd come this far, she might as well try it.

She began to strip. The inside of the tank was filled with a saline solution, carefully calibrated to match the buoyancy of the human body. It made floating effortless, but it would soak her clothes.

Not that she minded. She wasn't body shy.

"You're very enthusiastic about this," Sen said to Britton as Helena took off the last pieces of her clothing. "Are you also one of the gifted?"

"Not me. I'm not so blessed," Britton replied. "But my brother is. Well, he's both my stepbrother and my cousin. Father adopted his nephew. Family should stay together."

Helena raised an eyebrow at the peculiar phrasing but didn't comment.

"You can flirt later, Sen," she said as she climbed into the tank. "You're supposed to be spotting me. And besides, he's too young for you."

"I'm not flirting! I'm just being friendly," Sen said, pretending to look offended. He waved his hand and then closed his eyes, settling into focus. "Go on. I'll watch from here."

She could feel the shift as Sen connected to her mind—a steady presence at the edges of her thoughts. He wasn't intrusive, just an anchor, ensuring she wouldn't drift too far while her consciousness extended.

Satisfied, Helena adjusted the air mask over her face and slipped into the tank. As the lid closed, light vanished, and she sank into the dense, buoyant saline. The only sound was the soft hum of the amplifier. Slowly, the physical world dissolved, leaving her suspended in darkness.

Helena had plenty of experience, so her transition into the Void was swift. It happened between one breath and the next.

It was hard to explain the sensation as the darkness of the tank melted into the Void.

She was still surrounded by emptiness, but the darkness here wasn't just the absence of light. It was potential.

The Void was sharper somehow, more vivid—like reality stripped of distraction. She could feel the currents of potential thrumming all around her, a strength waiting to be tapped.

The amplifier worked. Not dramatically, but enough.

For a weaker psychic, the amplifier might have been exhilarating—like riding a powerful motorcycle for the first time. For Helena, though, it was like adding a small gust of wind to an already blazing fire. Noticeable, yes, but hardly necessary.

Still, enough distraction. She wasn't here to judge an amplifier that was beneath her.

She had questions, and she intended to get answers.

The Void was connected to everything. That's what made it so useful.

But that same connection made finding specific things incredibly difficult.

It helped to be familiar with the object of focus—like the fusion reactor. Before projecting into it, she'd examined it in painstaking detail, much to the annoyance of certain scientists. Or her trick with puppets. By making them by hand, she'd made them an extension of herself. They became intimately familiar. Easy to find, easy to inhabit.

But for the voices—the prayers—she needed a different approach.

She recalled the dream, fishing the memory from her mind like a skilled angler reeling in a catch.

In the end, it was much easier than she'd expected.

The Void was full of stars.

They hadn't suddenly appeared—they'd always been there. It was just that, until now, she hadn't been able to notice them.

It was a bit like an optical illusion: staring at a vase and suddenly realizing it was also a picture of two faces.

The stars each felt like connections she had to her puppets, but brighter, clearer. And she hadn't made nearly that many puppets.

From one came a familiar presence—a voice she hadn't heard in years.

Antony.

Helena thought of him as the Preacher Boy. Despite his Italian heritage, he'd been raised Protestant, not Catholic. After all, he was the preacher's boy, and Catholic priests didn't marry.

He would be a young man by now. But when he'd first stumbled into the abandoned warehouse claimed by the Red Widow, he'd been a boy—a bit younger than Britton was now.

Abandoned and cast out by both his father and his father's flock.

Raised as an honest and nurturing young man of strong convictions, Antony had been taught to embrace truth wherever he found it. So, when he discovered love, he proclaimed it boldly to the heavens.

Love could not be wrong, not in his naïve mind.

Even love for another boy.

Faced with what he deemed an unrepentant sinner, the preacher declared he had no choice but to cut off the offending hand, lest it lead the rest of the flock to damnation. Antony, his only son, was cast out into the freezing Detroit streets with nothing but the clothes on his back.

And the preacher's congregation followed their shepherd's will.

The Preacher Boy was abandoned by his family and friends.

He was too righteous to sell his flesh, too moral to steal.

Yet, he couldn't turn away from those weaker than himself, earning the ire of both the exploiters who preyed on them and the indifferent who ignored their suffering.

If he hadn't stumbled upon Helena's operation, his story would have been short and sad.

A martyr for whom no churches would be built.

Antony never spoke of his past, but he dreamt of it often enough.

And for Helena, that was enough to know.

Of all those who had once sheltered under the Red Widow's wings, Helena was least surprised that Preacher Boy had used his severance money to found a church.

While many in his position might have abandoned religion altogether, Preacher Boy still believed in God. He just believed that his father's interpretation of the Holy Word had been wrong.

One might have expected anger—resentment, perhaps—but Preacher Boy only carried sadness. Sadness and worry for those who had abandoned him. Because if his father was wrong, did that mean they were bound for hell? Did it mean he'd unknowingly led them all into damnation?

The Red Widow had been a performance, sharp-edged and calculated. The faith she'd feigned wasn't her own but something Helena had pieced together from the minds around her—a patchwork of borrowed convictions and half-remembered rituals.

It had grown into a creed of Santa Muerte, flourishing among the abandoned. A ghost story wrapped in whispers of a martyred bride, a dream of death's embrace, and the weight of unspoken expectations.

But Preacher Boy's mind had been fertile ground, rich with faith from which she had harvested much of the creed and ritual. He often thought in verses from scripture, making them so easy to weave into the fabric of her performance. Perhaps that was why he had embraced the new faith so deeply—it was, in many ways, a reflection of his own personal beliefs, mirrored back to him.

Even back then, he'd preached whenever he wasn't otherwise occupied. And he'd been good at taking care of the others—older kids, younger kids, anyone who needed guidance. A natural leader.

So she'd let his quirks slide. In the end, they'd only helped sell the story.

Recollection only strengthened the bond, and like gravity, the star drew her in.

The Void gave way to the real world. She found herself seated at the center of an altar. It was adorned with offerings—food, flowers, swords, and skulls. The skulls, though, were not real. She could tell at a glance. Sugar skulls, crafted with care. Each was uniquely detailed, yet none had ever been part of something living.

The sensation was familiar enough—she was inhabiting a puppet. There was a faint red tint to her vision, a hue she recognized. The puppet was veiled in crimson.

It was harder to see without moving the puppet's head, but she wasn't here to draw attention. She was here to observe, not to create a commotion.

Although she need not have bothered. Preacher Boy was alone, kneeling with his eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer.

Well, silent to anyone else. While his vocal cords rested, his thoughts practically shouted at Helena, broadcasting everything without restraint.

She learned more about his day, his flock, his worries, and his triumphs than she cared to.

But while the information itself wasn't particularly interesting, the process was. As he prayed, his mind wasn't entirely open, but it felt almost like he was reaching for her—telepathically—despite having no psionic gift.

And then there was something else. A faint bond, like the threads of a psionic gestalt. An offering of power. Minuscule, but unmistakable.

It wasn't the connection with a non-gifted person this way that surprised her. She knew it was possible. She'd been part of experiments designed to test it—because, after all, the Director was nothing if not thorough.

The prevailing theory was that all humans were psionic to some degree, just so weak that their gifts had no practical use. Helena had always found the theory tiresome. What difference was there, really, between a gift too small to matter and nothing at all?

Still, the process was fascinating. Connecting to someone mundane—or even mildly gifted—was inefficient. More energy would be expended keeping the link than could ever be harvested.

But Preacher Boy was different. His power, small as it was, came to her easily, like water running downhill. It wasn't much. Hardly worth taking. But it was interesting.

And then there was the doll. The idol at the altar's center.

It was as easy to inhabit as one of her handmade puppets. Effortless to channel her power through. As though it had been made for her.

Helena had learned what she could without being reckless, so she dropped the connection, finding herself once again adrift in the Void.

Next, she reached for one of the silent stars.

The Void shifted, and she found herself seated at an altar, once again in the body of a doll. The offerings here were familiar: flowers, food, sugar skulls. But there was something new among them—a small, handheld mirror. Its silver frame was old-fashioned, tarnished but elegant, as though it had been carefully preserved for years.

The room, however, was empty.

She stretched the doll's fingers and joints, twisting and testing its mobility. It moved as expected, though with slightly less effort than before. The doll was attuned to her, responding to her commands almost instinctively.

Curious, she reached for the mirror and tilted it to look.

A red veil covered the bare skull staring back at her. The visage was haunting yet strangely beautiful—a spectral bride draped in crimson.

The scream startled her.

She turned the doll's head sharply, catching sight of an older woman standing frozen at the entrance to the room. Her face was pale, her hands trembling as she clutched a rosary.

Helena didn't wait to see what the woman would do. Hastily, she abandoned the connection, pulling herself back into the Void.

Sen didn't need to know about this. He would never let her live it down.

She examined the other stars more closely, even the ones that seemed silent.

Her assumption was simple: the silent stars were tied to those who weren't actively praying at the moment. It made sense, at least as a starting point. Hypotheses had to begin somewhere, and this one, at least, could be tested easily enough.

Focusing on the stars, she realized they weren't completely silent after all. Each carried a faint echo—or perhaps a scent, or even a taste. The Void always seemed to blur the senses, making it difficult to define.

It wasn't enough to discern words or coherent thoughts, but each star carried impressions—traces of emotion, fragments of lives. The feelings were mixed, tangled in ways that made them hard to interpret. Some stars felt sharper, clearer, and carried more weight, as if their minds had been etched into the Void more deeply.

Some she recognized immediately from the prayers she'd already heard.

Mary Ann, an old widow who couldn't keep up with the rising costs of medical bills and rent. She'd lived in her car until it was repossessed, taking what little stability she had left with it.

Jerry, who heard voices—constant, unrelenting whispers. He wasn't psychic, just schizophrenic, struggling with an illness he couldn't control. His family hadn't understood, and when they couldn't handle him, they cast him out like trash, leaving him to fend for himself on the streets.

Hesus, a son of a supposed bruja. He'd come to America to escape the whispers about his mother and to find work. But without proper documentation, he was vulnerable—working under-the-table construction jobs until a dispute with an employer left him evicted and penniless. It was dangerous to have no papers, and many were eager to exploit that vulnerability—or to make examples of those who resisted.

And there were more.

Some she recognized, but more she did not.

Helena had never been particularly close to those she sheltered. She'd cared for them in the same way one might tend to plants: feeding and watering them, keeping them from the cold, and protecting them from predators.

In the urban jungle, most predators were human—and far crueler and more dangerous than tigers.

But even so, this was too many.

Had her flock grown in number?

Had they started recruiting?

Anyway, it had little to do with her. She hadn't asked them to believe, much less to preach. She owed them nothing. She had already given them more than anyone else ever had. Even if it had been for her own purposes, this wasn't her concern—it was merely curiosity.

A now-familiar cry shook her up.

"Forgive him," the young woman prayed fervently, her voice breaking into sobs. "Forgive him. Forgive him. Forgive him. He doesn't know what he's doing."

She never asked Red Widow for salvation from her man, only for forgiveness.

Annoyed, yet intrigued, Helena reached for the star.

As the vision replaced the Void, she noticed immediately that something was wrong. The perspective was sideways. The doll was still in its prominent place, but it had been thrown to the ground, lying among the broken remains of a small altar.

In front of her stood a pair: a slightly older man, holding a younger woman—no more than twenty-five—by her hair.

Helena supposed the man might have been handsome enough under different circumstances, but the rage twisting his features ruined it.

In his free hand, he held a plastic jerrycan of gasoline. He was splashing it liberally across the doll Helena inhabited, the shattered wood of the altar, and the ruined offerings.

"I won't have this hoodoo shit in my home!" he shouted, his voice sharp and furious. "I said get rid of it! You didn't listen, so now you're gonna learn a lesson."

He tossed the can away, the hollow clang of plastic against the floor mixing with the woman's muffled sobs and whispered prayers.

Helena's gaze fell on the woman's face—bruised and swollen, with blood trickling from her split lip.

She should have ignored the whole situation.

It meant nothing to her if the doll burned. It wasn't even her doll, just a trinket made in the image of a dead persona.

And the girl hadn't asked to be saved. Quite the opposite.

Still, there was something about using fire against her that irked Helena.

It would be simple—subtle—to snuff out the flame before it began.

And the man's frustration? That might even be amusing.

One click. Then another. A third.

He shook the lighter, frustration twisting his features.

"Is this you?" he shouted, his voice sharp and accusatory. "Are you doing something?"

"No," the woman muttered, her voice barely audible. "It's Her will."

"I SAID," the man roared, his anger surging, "I won't have this hoodoo shit in my home!"

With a furious motion, he flung the lighter at her. It struck her cheek, just below her left eye.

"You're a witch!" the man shouted, pulling a gun from behind his back. His face was twisted with rage. "And the Good Book says, 'Suffer not a witch to live!'"

Well, that escalated quickly, Helena thought dryly.

It seemed she would have to intervene.

It might not be her business, but she couldn't stand by and let a pitiful, foolish woman be killed in front of her. Especially not when, in some small way, it might be her fault things had escalated this far. Not entirely, of course. This ending had always seemed almost inevitable.

Still, it was trivially easy to make the gun misfire. All it took was a bit of heat directed at the bullet.

The weapon exploded in the man's hand, tearing through flesh and leaving a mess of blood and bone. He dropped to the ground, clutching his ruined hand and howling in agony. For someone so adept at inflicting pain, he didn't seem to handle it well when the tables were turned.

"Forgive him!" the woman cried, prostrating herself before the doll. Her voice was thick with desperation. "He will do better! Don't hurt him anymore!"

Some people just don't want to be saved.

Helena had killed before, and it was likely she would kill again. If she were truly a just and merciful saint of death, the woman's pleas would have fallen on deaf ears. Gods, after all, were supposed to give what one needed, not what one wanted.

But this woman was not someone Helena recognized. And every time Helena killed, it had for a purpose. This time, it had none.

Perhaps the man would learn his lesson. Perhaps not.

Perhaps the gunfire would draw the authorities, and someone else would deal with the situation.

Perhaps not.

Helena had learned what she came for, and there were limits to her benevolence. She was done.

With a thought, she returned to the Void, its vast, indifferent darkness closing in around her. And with another thought, she was back in her own body.

She had gathered enough for now. When she returned, she would refine her findings, map her variables, and build testable hypotheses. Like the Director had taught her—methodical and precise.

For now, that was enough.