Is a "sword" a euphuism? (BL)

We called it "kissing the gunner's daughter," after the traditional naval punishment.

Back in the Age of Sail, a sailor would be bent over a cannon—the so-called gunner's daughter—for a flogging. But this wasn't quite the same.

Archer straddled the cannon instead, hugging it tightly as though it might slip away beneath him. The foam cannon, disguised to look like it had been plucked straight from a pirate ship, rested between his spread legs. The position left him fully exposed—his most intimate parts framed between his buttocks, while his manhood and family jewels hung heavy and vulnerable in the open air.

"Mr. Smee, you may begin," I said, lounging lazily on the sedan chair, idly stroking Khenumra's sleek fur. The poor thing was still recovering from his encounter with the Devil's Looking Glass, unable to take human form. For now, he was stuck as a regal Egyptian Mau—fitting for a demonic dream of a long-dead prince of Ancient Egypt.

Of course, "Mr. Smee" was not his real name. It wasn't even his fake name. His actual name was dull, forgettable, and not worth my time. So I had taken the liberty of dubbing him "Mr. Smee." After all, Mr. Smee was a spy.

With his pale skin—so pale it refused to tan even under the relentless sun—his raven-black hair, swimmer's build, and delicate, almost cherubic face, he looked a decade younger than the twenty-seven his forged papers claimed. He was a delicious contradiction: legal jailbait with a body made for sin.

Spies were rarely so striking. In real life, unobtrusive looks were far more practical. But the rules were reversed when one was running a honeypot operation. Yes, seduction could be achieved with plain features and clever charm—but it was far easier when the bait was beautiful.

And Mr. Smee, unlike the rosy-cheeked, bumbling boatswain of Peter Pan, was very, very beautiful.

"Aye, aye, Captain," Mr. Smee replied with a perfect blend of deference and charm.

At this pirate-themed resort, the position of Captain aboard a vessel couldn't be bought outright. Only shares—tickets—to a particular ship could be purchased. The title of Captain, along with all other officer positions (save for the Ship's Doctor, who was always a professional), was decided democratically, in true pirate tradition.

One had to convince the crew of one's suitability, and, just as importantly, keep them convinced. Otherwise... Well, let's just say the Captain before me was currently serving as a deckhand, scrubbing the deck—and not just any deck. This being Pirate Times, there were usually plenty of fluids to scrub.

Mr. Smee raised the modified-for-safety cat-o'-nine-tails, its leather tails gleaming faintly under the lantern light. My own handiwork, of course—only the best for Archer. I had crafted it to perfection, adjusting every detail to make it both beautiful and functional, a work of art meant to draw the finest lines between pleasure and pain.

With practiced ease, Mr. Smee brought the whip down. A sharp, crisp crack echoed through the room as the tails struck their mark.

Archer only grunted.

The sound sent a ripple of satisfaction through me, though it was tempered by the challenge I knew lay ahead. I both loved and hated his high pain tolerance. It was armor, thick and unyielding, that made it a labor of love to bring him into subspace. He was resilient to the point of infuriation, and sometimes, it felt like he took pleasure in making me work harder to unravel him.

But, oh, how I loved the work.

His body barely flinched from the strike, though I could see the tension ripple through his shoulders and thighs, the faintest tightening of his jaw. His breath remained steady, controlled, though I could hear the faint hiss of air escaping between his teeth. His composure was maddening and exquisite in equal measure—a reminder of how far I had to go before he'd relinquish that precious control.

Another strike. Another crack.

I leaned back into the plush cushions of the sedan chair, deliberately casual, my fingers still stroking Khenumra's fur. The incubus prince, trapped in the form of an Egyptian Mau, purred faintly under my touch. His golden eyes flickered between Archer, Mr. Smee, and the gathered crew, watching the spectacle with a hunger that was both predatory and deeply amused.

The crew cheered, their voices rising above the sharp rhythm of the whip. Dressed in modified breeches—complete with secret Velcro zippers for ease of tearing—and open shirts that exposed their chests, they made for quite the sight. The thin fabric of their breeches did little to conceal the tension stirring among the male crew members. Most were men, though not all.

Khenumra's tongue slipped out, a small pink dart that mimicked lapping from an invisible bowl of milk. He was feeding. That was the reason I had brought him here. The emotions thrumming through the resort—the heady mix of lust, pain, humiliation, and power—were a perfect source of energy for him to recover.

This time, I wasn't the one wielding the whip, and it made the moment all the more intoxicating. Delegation had its own kind of power. Giving an order and watching it carried out perfectly—flawlessly—was a heady thing. There was something deeply satisfying about staying at a distance, my hands clean of the act, while knowing that every crack of the whip, every shudder it pulled from Archer, was happening because I had willed it so.

Mr. Smee was more enthusiastic than skilled. His strikes were harder than they should have been, and I felt Archer tense under the blows rather than sink into them. Through Khenumra's senses, I could almost taste Mr. Smee's frustration—bitter like dark chocolate, with a sharp spice of lust. But it wasn't just physical lust; it was something more abstract, more layered. Lust for purpose. Lust for success. Lust for his mission.

That part was my fault, of course.

I had played with him like a cat with a mouse, giving him just enough hope to finish his mission, only to pull it away again when he got too close. It amused me. But this was a BDSM resort. Pain, humiliation, and denial were to be expected.

"Now, now, Mr. Smee," I interrupted, my voice smooth as velvet and sweet as poison. The sound was enough to still the whip mid-air, and all eyes turned to me. "Enthusiasm is all well and good, but you're not beating a carpet."

The crew erupted into jeers and laughter, their voices a cacophony of amusement that echoed around the deck. Some whistled, others smacked their thighs, bare chests heaving as they leaned into the spectacle. A few of them slapped their companions on the back, their amusement infectious, spreading through the crowd like wildfire.

"Don't hit as you please," I continued, my tone sharpening as I gestured toward Archer, lounging deeper into my sedan chair. Khenumra purred loudly beneath my hand, his golden eyes flicking between Mr. Smee and Archer like a predator observing its prey.

"There's a rhythm to this," I said, raising my voice just enough to cut through the lingering laughter. "Look at him. Watch when he tenses, when he relaxes. You're not doing this alone, Mr. Smee. This is a joint effort."

The whip sagged slightly in Mr. Smee's hand. His shoulders stiffened, a flash of something dark—pride? frustration?—crossing his delicate features. He shifted his weight, his pale cheeks warming under the scrutiny of the crew. The whip was poised in his hand, but his movements betrayed his hesitation, the tightness in his jaw a silent acknowledgment of his error.

"Aye, Captain," he said finally, his voice tight but obedient.

I inclined my head, offering the faintest of smiles, as if granting approval was a gift rather than his due. Mr. Smee adjusted his stance, his grip on the handle firm as he returned his focus to Archer.

Archer, for his part, was maddeningly composed. He gripped the edges of the cannon lightly, the faint bloom of red across his back a testament to Mr. Smee's earlier enthusiasm. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, and his expression remained placid, though the corner of his mouth twitched—an almost smile that hinted at his amusement over the correction.

Cheeky of him. But that cheekiness was what made pushing him so much fun.

And his body, of course.

The way his muscles stood out in sharp relief as he gripped the cannon—strong, taut, perfectly honed—was mesmerizing. Archer's strength was undeniable, radiating from every inch of his well-toned frame. His broad shoulders and masculine lines were striking, a physique sculpted by discipline and labor, not mere vanity.

There was something so appealing in the contrast between strength and vulnerability. In power restrained.

I wasn't the only one who thought so. The crew watched him with covetous gazes, their eyes devouring the sight of him with undisguised hunger. They murmured to one another, quiet enough to pretend they weren't heard but loud enough that the low hum of their desire filled the air. Archer knew, of course. He had to. Yet he didn't falter, his composure unbroken even under their collective scrutiny.

And Khenumra… Khenumra watched them all, feasting on the naked lust that clung to the room like a mist.

The incubus prince shared the taste with me, his master. It was delicious, a symphony of emotions. The yearning of the crew, raw and unrefined, was like the rich aroma of warm chocolate, heated and heady. And it mixed perfectly with my own emotions—my amusement, my control, and that ever-present thread of desire for Archer's slow unraveling.

Even Mr. Smee wasn't immune to the atmosphere.

His strikes were losing their sharpness, the rhythm of his movements faltering. I could see it in the way his hand hesitated before the next blow, his focus drifting. He was becoming distracted, his thoughts tangling with the scene before him. Perhaps it was Archer's presence that was undoing him, or perhaps it was the simmering tension in the air, the kind that eroded discipline and replaced it with lust.

Or perhaps, Mr. Smee was simply recalibrating.

Spies were like that, weren't they? Always adapting, always scheming. Was he considering an oblique approach to his mission? A new angle? Perhaps he was toying with the idea of seducing my lover in an attempt to worm his way into my bed.

I smiled faintly at the thought. That might be giving him too much credit.

A sharp spike of emotion drew my attention. My gaze swept over the deck, landing on one of the crew—a well-toned man in his thirties with bronzed skin that caught the soft glow of the morning sun. The light streamed through the rigging above, casting long, crisscrossing shadows over his body. He shifted uncomfortably, his hand inching toward the waistband of his breeches, fingers slipping just beneath the fabric.

I straightened slightly, my voice slicing through the crisp morning air like the crack of Mr. Smee's cat-o'-nine-tails, though wielded with far more precision. "Anyone who touches himself—or herself—will be clapped in irons."

The man froze, his hand snapping back as though burned, his cheeks darkening under the weight of my gaze. The rest of the crew turned toward me, startled, their collective lust now tempered by fear—which only made it all the sweeter. Their hearts were pumping twice as fast now, the thrill of desire mingling with the edge of terror.

The irons of which I spoke were no ordinary manacles or chains. No. These were far more insidious. Chastity belts, custom-designed for both men and women, gleamed ominously in the morning sun where they hung beside the mast. Polished steel, covering both back and front, ensuring no relief could be found beneath their unyielding grip. They were a constant reminder of what happened to those who lacked the self-control I demanded.

I let my gaze sweep slowly over the gathered crew, lingering on each face just long enough to see their bravado falter. They shifted uncomfortably under my scrutiny, their earlier jeers fading into silence. The bright morning air, once alive with laughter and cheering, had grown heavy, the tension pressing down like a weight. Even the creak of the ship seemed louder in the stillness.

"I run a tight ship," I said finally, my tone calm, unhurried. "If any of you lack the discipline required to control yourselves, rest assured—I am always willing to help."

A faint smile played on my lips, deceptively kind. "I'm very generous that way."

I savored the silence like fine wine. It was a taste of power, heady and intoxicating.

"Did I tell you to stop, Mr. Smee?"

As I had said to Mr. Smee, there was a rhythm to these things. A flow. Push and pull. Stoke the lust and excitement, then choke it before it could explode. And then drive it higher again—deeper, harder—to the very edge of endurance, to a fever pitch.

The scene wasn't about pain. Pain was just a tool. The true art was in the emotions it evoked.

And as I had also said, I wasn't doing this alone.

Me, Mr. Smee, Archer, and even the audience—we were all part of a complex system, one intricate mechanism that had to be carefully maintained to produce the optimal result.

Climax. Catharsis.

Faster strikes, slower strikes. My interruptions. My instructions. My praise and condemnation. My threats and encouragements. Everything had a purpose, each element a cog in the machine, driving toward the singular moment when he—and everything else—reacted, reaching that ephemeral space where pain and pleasure dissolved into something transcendent.

"Enough," I said finally, my voice slicing through the tension like a blade, bringing everything to an abrupt halt.

The air hung heavy with the aftershocks of the scene, the silence as sharp as any cry. I let the moment linger, savoring it.

"I think Cook has been punished enough," I added, a faint smile curling my lips as I reclined back into my chair, radiating calm control.

With a single glance, I issued a silent command. Two of the crew immediately stepped forward, their movements eager, almost reverent. They carefully lifted Archer from the cannon, his body slack but not limp, and carried him across the deck with surprising care. When they reached me, they deposited him at my feet like an offering before stepping back into the crowd.

Mr. Smee, meanwhile, had been swept up by the cheering crew, their hands clapping his shoulders, their voices hoarse with approval. They treated him like a folk hero, their champion, reveling in the energy of the spectacle. If Mr. Smee was tired from the performance, he didn't show it. On the contrary, he seemed invigorated, his dark eyes gleaming as he exchanged a rare smile with the closest crewmember. He soaked up their applause like a performer reveling in their moment of glory.

But I ignored the noise. My attention was fixed on Archer.

I gently guided his head into my lap, my fingers threading through his sweat-dampened hair with deliberate care. His breathing was shallow but steady, his body still taut with the remnants of tension. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, catching the morning sunlight as I stroked him. Slowly, I felt the rigidity in his muscles begin to soften under my touch, his body sinking into a quiet surrender.

"The matter of breakfast has been settled?" I asked, my words framed as a question, though my tone left no room for interpretation.

Archer didn't respond—not verbally. He wouldn't, not yet. Instead, he let out a soft exhale, the faintest sound of acknowledgment.

Archer was the ship's Cook. That, like many other decisions, had been left to the elected Captain. On the surface, it seemed like a simple choice: choose a Cook from the crew or hire a professional. But in reality, it was anything but simple. A professional Cook was a costly but safe choice—safe, however, often teetered dangerously close to boring. And boring was never safe for a Captain trying to maintain their position. A bad Cook, on the other hand, could do far worse than ruin a meal. A single bad meal could breed discontent, and discontent was a spark that could ignite mutiny faster than any storm.

The whole resort was designed that way.

Opportunity and trap, all in one.

Archer, of course, was the furthest thing from a bad Cook. His meals could make professional chefs weep with envy. In truth, he didn't just prepare food—he created art. Every dish was a masterpiece, a sensory experience that elevated even the simplest ingredients into something extraordinary.

But I demanded more than excellence.

It wasn't enough for a meal to simply surpass what others could offer; each day, it had to surpass the one before it.

And yet, the crew had voted. They had judged his breakfast unworthy, though whether it was truly lacking or they simply craved the spectacle of his punishment, I couldn't say.

In my humble opinion, they didn't care about the quality of the meal at all. They wanted a show.

Not that Archer minded.

If anything, this pushing could almost be considered a reward for his work—a strange sort of appreciation, one expressed not with words of praise but with hungry gazes and the eager energy of a crowd desperate for more. He thrived under this attention, in his own quiet way. But fairness still mattered.

For the sake of balance—and because I am nothing if not just—I might have to punish the crew a little. Their voting should be fair, after all. How else could Archer get proper feedback for his work? How else could he grow if their judgment was skewed by the promise of spectacle rather than the merits of his craft?

The crew's energy was still palpable, buzzing across the deck like static electricity. Their cheers had faded into murmurs, but the excitement lingered in the flush of their faces and the restless shifting of their bodies. Some cast sidelong glances at Archer, their gazes dripping with envy and desire. Others looked to me, their expressions flickering between awe and wariness, still caught in the thrall of my command.

Archer stirred faintly in my lap, his breathing evening out as I stroked his hair with slow, deliberate care. He would recover soon, I knew, and then it would be his turn to take control. The Cook was as much a performer as the Captain, and I trusted him to wield his art as skillfully as I wielded mine.

But for now, my attention returned to the crew. They needed direction, a new outlet for their energy before it turned to mischief.

"Now," I called, my voice carrying across the deck with practiced ease, cutting through the murmurs and shifting feet. A dozen pairs of eyes snapped toward me, startled and eager.

"Who's up for hunting some booty?"

The tension broke like a wave against the shore, giving way to a ripple of laughter and cheers. The restless murmurs became a chorus of excitement as the crew stirred, ready to move, ready to act. The prospect of a new game—a new distraction—had them hooked instantly.

"Hoist the sails," I commanded next, my voice carrying over the growing commotion. "We are going hunting."

"You heard the Captain, you mangy sea dogs!" my First Mate bellowed. I was somewhat lucky to have found him—an amateur sailor who raced model sailboats and yachts for fun. It wasn't exactly the Golden Age of Piracy, but his enthusiasm was infectious, and he knew enough about rigging to fake the rest.

The ship's rigging and sails, though somewhat automated using clever mechanical devices, were designed to look like they belonged to a genuine pirate ship from the Golden Age. Hidden motors and pulleys did most of the heavy lifting, but the crew still had to pull ropes, adjust lines, and shout orders for the sake of the show.

On the island, there were workshops—part of the resort's training for common pirates and officers alike. Even merchants had their roles. Of course, the courses were crash quick. The kind of "learn to be a pirate in a weekend" sort of thing. But it worked well enough to maintain the illusion.

As the crew bustled to obey, Archer stirred in my lap, shifting slightly before murmuring, "You know that ship has engines, right?"

"I don't like using them," I replied softly, dropping my voice and momentarily stepping out of character. "It ruins the immersion."

He chuckled, his breath warm against my cheek. "You know people come here for vacation, not hard work, right?"

"Some physical work will do them good," I countered, my gaze sweeping over the deck. "Look at them—how that flabby fat has been replaced by lean muscle. Regular sword practice hasn't hurt either."

"They're hardly training to win fencing competitions," Archer teased. "You're investing a bit much into this pirate game, don't you think? You're supposed to be taking it easy."

His words struck closer to home than I cared to admit. He was referring to the whole reason I was on this vacation in the first place—recovery.

This wasn't just a holiday. It was a reprieve.

I had obligations I was not fulfilling. The fall semester at Aperture University. The tour I was supposed to be doing to promote S.W.O.R.D. And then there was the matter of waiting for the government's response to the existence of Moon Nazis.

But none of that compared to what Gram had done to me.

The sword's touch hadn't just injured me—it had twisted the Vril stored in Blood Slime, my symbiote-familiar. It hadn't just damaged it. It had destroyed it. And I was yet to replace it.

What lingered now was something I had named dark Vril. Unlike the softly glowing golden Vril I relied upon, this force was darker—both in color and in nature. Instead of absorbing and radiating light, it seemed to pull it inward, devouring energy from the surrounding area.

But that wasn't the only difference.

While normal Vril burned bright and unstable when left unstored, dark Vril lingered. It clung to me like splinters embedded in my flesh—splinters that were far more than toxic. They felt radioactive, breaking me down from within.

It also blocked healing.

Neither magecraft nor psychic powers worked against it. Even the most potent healing agent I had—the Vril itself—was useless. Whenever I tried to expose it to golden Vril, the reaction was worse than failure. It tainted the golden energy, transforming it into more dark Vril.

It was a poison I could not purge.

Dark Vril was dangerous, but it wasn't invincible. For all its destructive power, it had one weakness: it didn't grow easily. It consumed Od, but it didn't multiply the way golden Vril did. And I had learned how to move it, to manipulate it. Using jewel magecraft, I could siphon it out of my body, transferring it into precious stones where it could do no harm.

It was an expensive treatment.

Dark Vril ruined the gems it touched, draining their energy and leaving them lifeless, cracked, and dull. I couldn't use cheap stones. Only the purest, most flawless gems had the capacity to contain it, even temporarily.

That was why my captain's uniform was adorned with so many rings, bracelets, necklaces, and other baubles. To anyone else, it might have looked extravagant, flaunting wealth with little taste.

It wasn't.

This wasn't an extravagant costume, flaunting wealth with little taste. It was just bandages.

"If I do something, I prefer to do it well," I said, fingering the jewels on my coat. One sapphire, I noticed, would need to be replaced. "I have a little pride."

"Little?" Archer raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly. "You have enough pride to make Lucifer blush."

I shot him a sharp look, but he wasn't finished.

"Though," he added, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful, "if Lucifer's pride had been like yours, I can see why a third of Heaven followed him into hopeless rebellion."

For a moment, I held his gaze, searching for the teasing edge I'd come to expect. But there was none. His words, though blunt, were strangely earnest—a backhanded compliment wrapped in his usual wit.

He offered me his hand. I took it, letting him pull me up with a firm grip. As I straightened, I stepped closer to him, closing the distance between us in one smooth motion.

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" I asked, my voice low, playful. My eyes narrowed slightly, though my lips curled into a small smile. "Are you fishing for punishment? Was this morning's spectacle not enough for you? How insatiable of you."

It didn't take long for the lookout to call out.

"A fat merchantman in sight, Cap'n! Ripe for the plundering!"

But that was to be expected. The stretch of sea marked for this game wasn't particularly large, nor was it meant to be. After all, there was a fine line between creating an immersive experience and ensuring the guests actually enjoyed themselves.

Sailing for days without sighting a single ship might have been realistic, but it would also have been mind-numbingly boring. And then there was the matter of safety—especially with so many inexperienced sailors.

After all, this was a game.

It was meant to be fun.

And it was meant to be safe.

The borders were patrolled by speedboats, ready to intervene if something were to happen. Their presence served two purposes: to ensure safety and to keep intruders out.

This was a private resort, owned by Aperture Science, and only guests and staff—both from the resort and the nearby laboratory—were allowed on the island.

Some of the guests were wealthy, famous, or powerful. Often, they were a combination of all three. In my opinion, though, possessing one corner of that particular triangle often resulted in acquiring the other two. Either way, we didn't need the press sniffing around—or worse, an encounter with sensationalist claims about "real pirates."

That was also why only staff were allowed to take photographs.

Everything had to be carefully managed. No unauthorized pictures. No unintentional slips. Only staff-approved photographs, with the express permission of everyone in the shot, were ever released.

"Gunners to positions! Everyone else, grab your swords and flintlocks. We have prey to catch," I commanded.

The flintlocks were spring-loaded paintguns, designed for a balance between authenticity and safety. For the sake of immersion, they could only fire once before requiring a reload, and the process wasn't simple. Using a slim rod, the paint bomb had to be pushed down the muzzle, mimicking the effort of loading a real musket.

I turned my head toward the former captain and said, "You too. This is your chance to redeem yourself."

A few days scrubbing the deck was fine as punishment, but any longer and it would start to become… counterproductive. And if scrubbing the deck was his kink, he would've signed up as a merchantman and not a pirate. After all, the goal here was fun, not actual politics.

"My spyglass, Mr Smee," I ordered next, and spy was quicl to coply.

It was an authentic-looking brass spyglass, the kind you'd expect in the hands of a Golden Age pirate. Expensive, too. Under the hood, though, it housed more modern technology—polarized glass to deal with sun glare and a higher-grade lens for sharper magnification.

I didn't want to miss the next part.

The merchantman's crew were outfitted in crisp white sailor suits—modest by design, made to reflect their role as "helpless victims." But when the foam cannons hit their deck, their pristine uniforms grew soaked, clinging tightly to their bodies and turning semi-transparent.

Through the spyglass, I could clearly see that most of the merchant crew had decided to forego undergarments entirely.

Commando. Every last one of them.

"Cast the lines!" I shouted, letting myself get into the spirit of things.

The crew sprang into action. Those chosen to toss the ropes, weighted with grappling hooks at the ends, had earned their places through nightly competitions. Only the best made the cut for my crew.

And it showed.

The lines arced through the air with practiced precision, the hooks catching hold of the merchantman's rails with satisfying clanks. Only one missed its mark—a rare slip—but no one dared to comment. The offender, looking sheepish, scrambled to haul the rope back and prepare for another toss.

I waved a hand dismissively at him. The lines that hit were enough.

"Pull," I commanded.

The crew responded immediately, their movements swift and synchronized. The ropes groaned under the strain as the two ships began to close the gap, the merchantman no longer able to escape.

When the other ship was close enough, I gave the order, my voice ringing out over the waves.

"First wave—board!"

The first wave was made up of the most athletic and daring of the crew, the ones who had spent hours climbing the masts and practicing their stunts. They moved without hesitation, scaling the rigging and gripping the ropes tied above the deck.

With a whoop and a yell, they swung out over the water, ropes creaking under their weight as they sailed through the air like birds of prey. The morning sun glinted off their swords and paint-loaded flintlocks, and their laughter mixed with the calls of the seagulls as they arced toward the merchant ship.

The grappling hooks held fast, and the first boarders landed with precision, their boots hitting the merchantman's deck with solid thuds. A few swung back for added flair, letting their ropes carry them into their targets—sometimes with a playful kick, sometimes with a flourish of their weapons.

The merchant crew scattered at their arrival, some slipping on the foam-slicked deck, others raising their hands in mock surrender.

"Planks!" I ordered, and the crew hauled out large, heavy planks, laying them between the two ships to form a makeshift bridge.

In truth, this wasn't strategy—it was roleplay. The merchantmen were going to lose. That much was inevitable.

Some pirate captains liked to lead from the front, swinging aboard with wild abandon, showing off their might and daring. But I didn't play that type. And, frankly, I was still recovering.

Arrogantly, I walked across the fake merchantman's deck as if I were strolling through a park. Archer flanked me on the right, his usual smirk firmly in place, while Mr. Smee kept to my left, his expression sharp and calculating.

Some of the merchant crew put up a valiant fight, resisting with everything they had, despite being hopelessly outmatched.

Those would be punished for their temerity.

Others surrendered immediately, throwing up their hands or dropping to their knees in mock defeat. And those, I decided, would be punished for their cowardice.

Of course, if they didn't enjoy being punished, they wouldn't have signed up as merchantmen.

"Captain, we found a passenger! A noble lady!"

A pair of pirates dragged forward a struggling figure in a wildly impractical dress. Layers of lace, ruffles, and corsetry billowed as she resisted, though not enough to stop her captors. I assumed it was a woman because of the dress, but here, that was never a certainty.

Well, I'd know soon enough. The dress wouldn't stay on long.

With a simple gesture, I ordered Archer forward. He hummed softly as he stepped close to the captive and, with theatrical ease, tore the necklace from her chest. Unlike mine, which sparkled with real gemstones, hers was cheap, made of aluminum and plastic. But the materials didn't matter. Only the colors and cuts did.

That's how nobles declared their preferences here. Pirates and merchantmen used colored handkerchiefs tied to wrists, ankles, or necks. But nobles? Nobles preferred necklaces. Vanity, of course.

I glanced at the necklace and deciphered its meaning instantly.

Humiliation. Exhibitionism. Group sex. Watersports. Corporal punishment.

This was going to be a treat for the crew.

But before the celebrations could begin, we had to sail to New Sodom.

After a victory celebration, the crew would be in no condition to sail anywhere—at least, not for some time.

I chose Mr. Smee to lead the prize crew that would return the merchant ship back to port under power. In doing so, I demonstrated my trust in him, while at the same time keeping him at a distance. A delicate balance.

Archer, meanwhile, had picked out several merchantmen sporting mustard-yellow handkerchiefs, marking their interest in being part of the feast. Not actual cannibals, of course. New Sodom's festivities were always safe, sane, and consensual.

The selected merchantmen would serve as living plates, bound immobile and lavishly garnished with food and sauces. Their role was to be displayed, devoured—figuratively speaking—by the ravenous pirates.

There were far more volunteers than I had anticipated. Archer, it seemed, had earned himself quite the reputation.

And how had we known which merchant ship to intercept in the first place? Well, that was simple.

In this game, everyone started at the same port. The pirate ships set sail a day earlier, choosing different directions before mooring overnight. The next morning, the merchant ships were released, scattering across the marked waters.

It was, in effect, the merchantmen's choice which pirate crew would take them. They more or less decided their own fate. A matter of chance—but only to a degree.

While in transit, I began interrogating the merchant crew. It was part of the roleplay, of course, but it also served a practical purpose. I wanted to see where I would fit into the celebration.

The color codes helped—a simple way to prevent mismatches. No point in making someone lick boots if they were actually into spanking. The same applied to ensuring preferences aligned with gender. After all, a gay boy would hardly enjoy a pair of tits in his face, and a straight man would only want a firm chest if it were his own.

But there was more nuance than the codes could show.

I needed to know who was experienced and who was experimenting. Who preferred muscles and who favored a leaner frame. Blonde or redhead. While I already knew the preferences of my crew, the merchantmen were a wild card, and I wanted to get it right.

Planning an orgy was a lot of work—at least, if one wanted to do it properly. You couldn't just throw people together, toss in some lube, and hope for the best.

The first thing visible as we approached the island was, of course, the tip of the volcano that dominated its center. It was mostly inactive, and no eruption had been recorded for centuries, according to the geologists.

The next thing to come into view was the tall tower of the lab, the tallest structure on the island. A striking, almost alien skyscraper that widened dramatically at the top, it invited speculation from every guest who laid eyes on it.

Most believed it was a helipad.

They were wrong.

The reason I had made the decision to buy this island was simple: its precise location on the equator made it the ideal spot for positioning a geostationary satellite in low orbit.

Ever since we discovered that the range of portals was much larger than previously theorized—that they could, in fact, reach at least lunar orbit—there was a pressing need to understand how portals might interact with satellites.

What do we need to open a portal? How hard are satellites to hit with precision? Are weather conditions relevant, and if so, how much of a problem could they pose? Could we chain portals by opening one on a satellite, then using that portal to open another, thereby leveraging the satellite's elevation to increase the effective range of portals on Earth?

These were the questions driving our work.

The top of the tower was actually covered in Conversion Gel, which served as a target for portal shots from the satellite. The satellite itself carried a similar design—a giant sail coated in Conversion Gel, making it an effective target for shots from Earth.

Of course, there was another question lingering in the background: if lunar orbit wasn't the maximum range for portals, then what was? But there were limits. A portal could only form on surfaces capable of sustaining it, which made Conversion Gel invaluable.

The next best chance for extended testing would be on Deimos, one of Mars' moons. But trying to hit Deimos with a portal was like hitting a golf ball thousands of kilometers away. The precision required was staggering.

The resort, meanwhile, was a way to recoup some of the costs. The lab hardly used the entire island. The weather was pleasant, and we already needed a harbor and an airstrip for logistics.

Technically, we could have used portals to handle transportation as well, but that would have been far more expensive. Besides, I preferred to keep our actual capabilities somewhat obscure.

And there was another reason for the resort, beyond simply recouping losses: to keep the lab from being too isolated.

Isolation could drive even the most brilliant minds to madness—or, at the very least, exacerbate certain eccentricities.

Let's be honest: Aperture's scientists were eccentric enough as it was. I was certain at least one of them had read The Island of Dr. Moreau and thought, I could do better.

Here's an expanded version with more detail about the pirate harbor, balancing the immersive fun with a touch of humor and practicality:

New Sodom actually had two harbors: one for the ships participating in the pirate game, and another, modern commercial harbor.

The modern harbor was where supplies were delivered and where new guests arrived. It was efficient, industrial, and deliberately separated from the immersive side of the island. After all, nothing ruined the illusion of swashbuckling adventure faster than the sight of a cargo crane unloading crates of toilet paper and rum barrels stamped with shipping labels.

The pirate harbor, on the other hand, was a spectacle straight out of the Golden Age of Piracy. Wooden piers stretched into the turquoise water, their surfaces uneven and weathered—artfully aged, of course. Tall masts crowded the skyline, and sails fluttered lazily in the tropical breeze. Barrels and crates were stacked haphazardly along the docks, though their contents ranged from fake treasure to rum bottles filled with sweetened iced tea.

Everything was designed to feel authentic—right down to the dockhands, who were costumed in loose breeches and shirts, their movements theatrical as they loaded "supplies" onto the ships. Occasionally, they would loudly haggle over goods that didn't exist or fake a brawl to entertain the guests.

The smell of saltwater and wood mingled with the faint scent of citrus, courtesy of an orange grove nearby. It was perfect—almost too perfect. But that was the point.

Guests playing pirates were never supposed to set foot in the modern harbor, and the pirate harbor's immersion was meticulously maintained to keep them in the fantasy.

New Sodom was to Port Royal what Luxor is to the pyramids—a tribute and a mockery at the same time.

But when we docked, there was a surprise waiting for me.

A letter.

It was a very nice letter—expensive paper, elegant penmanship.

I unfolded it slowly, my curiosity piqued, and after reading its contents, I turned to the First Mate.

"It seems you'll be running this celebration," I said, folding the letter neatly and slipping it into my pocket. "I'll be engaged elsewhere."

He began to protest, but I raised my hand to cut him off.

"I've already finished the plans," I said firmly. "Your job is simply to execute them."

After all, this was just a game.

But this invitation to the Governor's mansion—although styled the same as everything else—was decidedly not. Probably in case it was intercepted.

It was an urgent summons from the Governor.

Not too urgent, of course. The ship had a radio for emergencies, and no one had used it.

Still, Reggie wouldn't interrupt my fun unless it was serious. Probably. Then again, with Reggie, even the unserious could turn out to be fascinating.

The Governor—well, it wasn't an official position. But Reggie was the principal investor, not just in New Sodom, but in the entirety of Aperture Science. He'd stuck with us even through Aperture's nadir, when others had bailed, thinking the company doomed.

He was also the reason New Sodom was as grand as it was. When I first proposed the idea as a way to recoup some of the money invested in the lab, Reggie had fallen in love with it. Not only had he expanded the budget more than tenfold, but he'd also had his personal residence built here and taken to spending most of the year on the island.

Some would call him crazy. But Reggie was richer than Croesus, which meant he was merely eccentric.

The streets of New Sodom were meant to feel period-authentic, but if any pirate from that time were to see them, he would probably think they were the work of the fey—a scene plucked straight from A Midsummer Night's Dream.

At least, the more educated among them might think so. There were always a few—fallen gentlemen, disgraced scholars—whose vices or misfortunes had landed them among disreputable company.

The streets were far too clean.

The men and women walking them wore clothing that looked correct for the time, but the colors were too vivid, too pristine, like an artist's rendering rather than something worn by people battered by the hardships of life at sea. And then there were their faces, their bodies. Everyone was well-fed and healthy, their skin free of pockmarks, their teeth white and straight. No signs of disease or deprivation marred the illusion.

Even the so-called slaves were fit and well-fed. No sunken cheeks, no rotted teeth, no broken bodies. Victim and villain alike were merely playing their roles, indulging in a fantasy where no one truly suffered.

It was amusing, really. How the legends of the fey realms—those strange, exaggerated mockeries of human society—could so easily be mirrored by people on vacation, playacting their more primitive culture, but with a deeper understanding of its flaws.

The Governor's mansion was a bit too far for a casual walk, so I took one of the electric cars designed to look like a horseless carriage.

At first, the idea had been to use real horse-drawn carriages for authenticity. But the logistics—caring for the animals and dealing with, well, the inevitable byproducts—had proven impractical. So, we combined the concept with another project and decided to test experimental electric cars instead.

There were advantages to testing them here. The first was the controlled environment: distances on the island were limited, making it the perfect place for early trials. The second was infrastructure. Charging stations were already being built to serve the resort, and adding them was far simpler—and cleaner—than gas stations.

There were a few horse-drawn carriages, but the "ponies" pulling them came on two legs.

As we passed through the streets, I occupied myself by enjoying the scenery. Stocks, whipping posts, gibbets, crosses, and even a few gallows dotted the landscape, each one carefully placed for both dramatic effect and use. Some were occupied, the participants bound or displayed, their flesh catching the tropical sun.

Every station was guarded by hooded executioners, their menacing presence lending an air of danger to the resort. But the executioners weren't there to impose punishment. They were there to enforce the rules—rules that guests had encoded in their flags.

The flags were simple: clear signals of consent. Whether someone could be touched, struck, or handled—and by whom—was all detailed there. Some flags restricted interaction to specific partners, while others invited the whole crowd to participate.

The most elaborate setups, by far, were the gallows. Most were occupied by men, their necks caught in nooses, balanced precariously on their toes. The fine line between breath and strangulation was intoxicating for some, but breath play was notoriously risky, and those indulging were carefully monitored. Executioners stood by, watching for any sign that the game might slip into something more lethal.

The road led out of the town, winding through the outskirts. The Governor's Mansion was located beyond its boundaries, deliberately placed for both privacy and tranquility.

As we left the noise and bustle of New Sodom behind, the sounds of the town slowly faded, replaced by the stillness of open land. It was almost serene—until we reached the massive concrete wall that marked the edge of the Governor's domain.

The wall was imposing, stretching high enough to deter casual curiosity, its smooth surface broken only by the heavy iron gate at its center.

The gate was guarded by sharp-eyed soldiers of fortune, their presence impossible to ignore. They wore period-appropriate clothing, loose-fitting and colorful, but the Kevlar vests beneath betrayed their modern practicality. These were just the visible ones.

The not-so-visible guards—the ones I could feel more than see—were a reminder that Reggie took his privacy very seriously.

And then there was the contingent of the finest killer robots Aperture had ever made. But those were even more hidden. Reggie only showed them off to a select few, which was a pity.

The idle rich were an untapped market for military robots. All those sentry turrets needed homes, after all. And Aperture Science needed money—experiments weren't going to fund themselves.

It took ten more minutes until we reached the house. Well, more of a complex, really.

The core of it was a manor that wouldn't have been out of place in the English countryside. Reggie had bragged, I remembered, that he'd purchased an actual 18th-century English manor and had it moved here brick by brick.

Of course, it wasn't just an English manor anymore. Reggie had made some adjustments. The building retained its traditional elements—tall chimneys, mullioned windows, and the classic gray stone façade weathered by time. But layered over that was an unmistakable Persian influence.

The rooflines were edged with delicate arches, gilded and intricate, inspired by Islamic architecture. A pair of ornate Persian doors, carved with floral patterns and studded with bronze, replaced the original oak entrance. Vibrant tilework framed the windows and traced the edges of the stone, bright blues and greens contrasting sharply with the muted gray. A fountain in the courtyard gurgled softly, its design a mix of English formality and Persian elegance—symmetry married with extravagance.

It was as if Reggie had taken the best parts of two worlds and fused them into one.

And yet, somehow, it worked.

I suppose when one has money, one can hire the very best architects, interior designers, and all the necessary personnel to make even the wildest ideas come to life.

When the limits of imagination are your only constraints, why not turn an imported English manor into a fantasy fusion of cultures?

He was the proper investor for Aperture Science—where the main motto was: "We do what must, because we can."

As always when I visited, the Head Butler greeted me personally. Lesser guests would have been attended to by one of his underlings.

I assumed he had a name—he was a graduate of The British Butler Institute, not some Nameless Thing of the Outer Dark. But I didn't know it, nor had I ever asked. He seemed content to identify himself solely by his title, as if no other designation were necessary.

Whether this was Reggie's sense of humor or the man's own distinctly British flair for playing to stereotypes, I didn't care to guess.

He played the role to perfection, adhering to the image of the ideal butler almost too well. Even his hair, dyed a precise shade of gray, was part of the performance, lending him an air of distinguished age and experience that may or may not have been genuine.

He spoke in clipped, measured tones, each word polished and deliberate, as though he were reciting from an etiquette manual. It always made me want to poke him a little.

"So, how's the Batcave going? Is Bat Guano hard to clean?" I asked.

About a year ago, Reggie had asked for a Batsuit. He was probably joking, but that was no reason for me not to put a team on it—and bill him for the pleasure. He was good for it. And that research had provided a dozen products that could be used for police work.

"If such a thing existed, it would be something we'd keep discreet," the Head Butler replied, his tone drier than the Sahara.

As we entered, he asked, "Your coat, sir?"

"I think I'll keep it with me," I replied. Although I could take it off, I preferred to keep it on for the sake of my recovery. It would be uncomfortable otherwise. There were subtle spells woven into the fabric that kept both moisture and temperature in a comfortable range. "It makes me sparkle."

"It's not the most ridiculous outfit I've seen on the premises," the Head Butler dryly acknowledged.

We passed through several luxurious rooms, but I hardly paid attention to them. Finally, we reached the main parlor, where Reggie was not alone.

He was accompanied by a severe-looking woman in her forties, dressed in a British Navy uniform, keeping to the theme.

"Colonel Mitchell, what a surprise—but a nice treat to see you," I said, recognizing her immediately. We'd first met in the wake of the Missing Mile Incident.

Here was a riddle: How is an angel like a nuclear bomb? Both need to be introduced with fear not.

"The uniform suits you well," I added with a polite nod.

"It does not," she replied bluntly. "I'm Army, not Navy. And this costume is British Navy, no less. There are three things they're known for: rum, lash, and sodomy."

Her delivery was straight and unyielding, just as I remembered. Rising to the rank of colonel in the U.S. Army in 1988 required certain personality characteristics, and she had them in abundance.

"I never cared for drink, never needed the whip to maintain discipline, and I lack the proper equipment for the last," she continued, her expression perfectly deadpan.

"Well, there are some nice strap-ons in our catalog," I replied smoothly, and Reggie chuckled.

"Not something I'm interested in buying," she returned, her tone sharp but not without a glint of humor. "I came here for something else."

"She's not here on vacation like you, Ace," Reggie butted in, wearing a sly smirk.

"As if anyone in the know believes that kind of fiction," she muttered, more to herself, though her sharp gaze flicked toward me. She was, of course, referring to me.

"Did you run into a monster your equipment couldn't handle?" I asked, leaning casually against the back of a chair.

After the Missing Mile Incident, she had been tasked with leading a specialized unit to deal with unusual threats to national security. In that capacity, she often worked somewhat closely with Aperture Science. There was nowhere else, after all, where one could properly obtain weapons designed to neutralize entities that defied the usual laws of physics—or equipment capable of detecting phenomena that didn't quite fit into the standard four-dimensional spacetime.

Black Mesa? Don't make me laugh.

"No," she replied simply. "It's not about that."

I raised an eyebrow, exaggeratedly, and she continued, "With Aperture's Monitoring Station covering most of the U.S., there's less and less need for the Task Force."

"Sorry to hear. You were interesting customers, even if you never bought in bulk," I replied.

"Pity it's all classified. It would make a stellar movie. I might even be persuaded to pay for it," Reggie added, taking a sip from his drink. He turned to me with a sly grin. "You want something to drink, Ace? I offered her, but she refused."

"Just some lemonade. Doctor's orders," I replied.

The last part was a lie, of course. I had enough anti-venom spells on me that I could drink absinthe like water, and with the same effect. But I didn't care for the taste of spirits enough to drink them just for flavor.

Without hesitation, Reggie waved his hand, and the Head Butler, ever attentive, gave a small nod to one of the servants—probably a junior butler—who promptly brought me a glass of lemonade on a silver tray.

"You shouldn't even know about that. That's the meaning of the word classified," Colonel Mitchell said, giving Reggie a slight frown.

I took a sip. It was unsweetened, just as I preferred. Professionally prepared, but it lacked Archer's special touch.

Reggie waved off her concern with a smirk. "When you have my kind of green, rules become more like suggestions."

"It's about another matter," she said, shifting her gaze upward.

Reggie frowned, clearly puzzled by the gesture.

I caught on immediately. "Moonrise is still a few hours away," I replied. "But if she had actually looked where the Moon is right now, it would be even less clear."

"Ah, this is about the Nazis, isn't it?" Reggie said, realization dawning as his confusion gave way to a sly smile.

"You know about that too?" she asked, her voice calm but edged with suspicion.

"I've invested quite a lot in the Moonbase," Reggie replied, swirling his drink like he was discussing stock portfolios. "Naturally, I'd be informed of any incidents."

"I thought about asking to speak with you privately, Director Johnson, but if Mr. Harrington knows everything, there's little point," she replied.

"I told you, call me Reggie," Reggie chimed in with a grin.

Ignoring his interruption, I added, "I'm more surprised—you know about it?"

"I deal with the unusual. Nazis squatting on the far side of the Moon certainly counts. I was consulted," she replied simply. But her subtle frown betrayed her. There was more to it—something about this clearly displeased her.

She straightened slightly, her tone growing sharper. "What does Aperture Science have to offer to deal with the menace? And how quickly?"

"While I'm sure the government has the matter well in hand," I began, keeping my tone deliberately neutral. Then I added, "Though, I'll admit, I'd be quite surprised if they've already reached a consensus. That doesn't usually happen this quickly. And you're not the usual military procurement officer. Unless, of course, your Task Force has been assigned to handle this?"

Reggie, casually swirling his glass of what was undoubtedly some absurdly expensive vintage—likely pre-war, knowing him—snorted. Taking a slow sip, he leaned back with practiced ease and added, "In simpler words, don't kid the kidder. Tell us what this is really about. Cards on the table, or we walk."

She sighed and began to explain. "There's consensus that we need to deal with the threat, but the details are the problem. It's almost certain that this will primarily be a military matter—even if there's any diplomacy or spycraft involved, we need to be prepared for an attack from space. The issue is which branch of the military will take the lead. The Air Force insists that, because it involves flight, it's their jurisdiction. Meanwhile, the Navy argues that spaceships are still ships, and their institutional knowledge from submarines and other vessels could be translated."

"And the Army is staying out of it?" I asked skeptically, arching an eyebrow.

Under President Mondale, with his defense spending cuts, any new influx of money was going to be fought over like weasels trapped in a sack. The branches wouldn't miss a chance to tear each other apart for a larger share of the pie.

"Of course. When we occupy the Moon, we'll need boots on the ground—even if they're astronaut boots," she replied proudly. "But there's more and more talk that it would be useful to have a new branch to handle these matters. 'Space Force' is the name that keeps coming up."

"Well, that's a nice story," Reggie said, swirling his drink lazily, "but what does it have to do with you?"

"Now, now, Reggie. It's quite simple," I said smoothly. "With the Task Force becoming less relevant, a girl has to think of her career."

A subtle flinch crossed Colonel Mitchell's face—brief, but enough to show that my guess had hit the mark.

"The newly funded Space Force seems like the kind of opportunity an ambitious officer could find appealing," I continued, letting my words linger. "But our Colonel Mitchell wouldn't be the only officer with such thoughts. So, she's here to secure herself an advantage."

"Shouldn't you add 'Elementary, dear Reggie'," Reggie grumbled, swirling his drink with a faint smirk. Despite his sarcasm, he still seemed interested. "So, how does knowing Aperture's future space-borne weapons catalog fit into all this?"

"I need to know what assets I'd be working with," she replied, her tone steady, though her subtle glance in Reggie's direction hinted at a question: did he really need to be present for this conversation?

I gave a slight nod, subtle but deliberate. Of course, he did. After all, he'd be footing the bill—with the expectation of earning much more later from the government. That's just how investments worked.

But that couldn't be communicated to her in a simple gesture.

"Then I can submit a detailed, step-by-step plan for building an effective space force," she finished, her tone steady and matter-of-fact. "If Aperture can build what we need quickly enough."

"A working plan? I see," Reggie said, swirling his drink as if he were already savoring the outcome. "When people are panicking—and the folk in Washington are scuttling like mice who've just realized the cat is in the room—any plan is better than no plan. And the one who provides such a plan…" He paused, flashing a sly smile. "Not bad for us, since you'll be buying from our staff."

Colonel Mitchell inclined her head slightly, just enough to show acknowledgment, though her expression remained sharp. "Exactly. At a time like this, the ability to act swiftly—and show leadership—is everything." Her gaze flicked between the two of us, weighing how quickly Aperture could deliver on her ambitions.

Reggie, unbothered by the pressure, turned to me. "How soon, Ace?"

"I could have a prototype before the end of Mondale's second term," I said. It wasn't idle boasting. Between the Nanocores and the samples of damaged Nazi spacecraft, it was entirely possible. A fighter model, at least—not a carrier.

"That would be perfect," Colonel Mitchell replied, as if there were any doubt. Naturally, politicians preferred actions that showed results while they were still in power, not after the next administration took over.

"But mass production would be a problem," I continued. "Aperture would need to either build or buy and retool factories. That wouldn't just take an obscene amount of money—it would also be politically problematic. Between industries failing and potential monopolies, it wouldn't go over well."

"That's not a problem," Reggie interjected, swirling his drink with casual confidence. "With proper guarantees—written, of course—I could deliver green by the boatload."

"There's another option, one that's more politically palatable and less costly," I said. "We could stick to building prototypes and license the production of parts to others. Let them handle the costs of retooling. We'd just need strong guarantees from the government about property rights and strict protections in the patent office."

"That could be arranged, for the sake of national security," Mitchell replied, her tone sharp and decisive.

"We'd also have to share profits with others," I pointed out, glancing at Reggie.

"I don't mind being the richest person," Reggie said lazily, swirling his drink as if considering the idea. "But I don't really want to own everything. That sounds exhausting."

I smirked. "I've got a book to recommend: The Man Who Owned the Earth."

He raised an eyebrow. "I prefer movies," he said, completely serious. Then, with a casual shrug and a grin, he added, "You know what? Make that movie, and I'll pay for it. Blank check. Just so I don't have to read the damn thing."