Guilty Gear, its characters and settings are property of Sammy Studios, and are being used in this fanfiction without permission.  This fic is rated R for violence and sexual content, and it contains yaoi material. 

 

Okay, so my sister and I were fighting once as Ky and Testament (which was a mistake because I’m bad with Testament and she’s a button-masher), and at the end of the match she did Greed Sever at the same time that I did Gravedigger.  Collided in mid-air and looked awesome.  And thus the inspiration for the fight scene in this chapter.

 

She beat me, by the way.

 

Culmination

Chapter 16

 

 

Trouble always found Sol Badguy when he was minding his own damn business.

 

He had just made it through the customs after a lengthy debate with several pale-faced agents and officers.  He had to give them some credit—they looked positively terrified of him and still managed to detain him for over an hour as his visa was run again and again.  He didn’t come through Zepp often, so it hadn’t occurred to him that his visa was, by now, twenty years out of date.  Usually Zepp would overlook something like that, especially for a bounty hunter, but he didn’t look the sixty years old his visa indicated he should.  In fact, he didn’t look as if he’d aged a day from the old photo pasted in his papers.  In the end, he had somehow convinced them that certain foreign liquors helped preserve his youthful appearance, and trod off beneath their wide, puzzled stares.

 

Now, he was facing a different problem.  He knew what he was supposed to be doing, but he didn’t suspect that Potemkin would be particularly overjoyed to see him—if he could even get that far.  President Gabriel’s guards were not going to be nearly as lax as his border officers.  Chances were he wouldn’t even be able to get a word to Potemkin.  Which mean some illegal business may be in order.

 

“He’d better see me,” Sol muttered under his breath, “for Slayer’s sake.”

 

It was during these idle thoughts of his that someone cracked a baseball bat against his left shin.

 

“Goddamnit!”

 

Everyone turned to stare as Sol hobbled back a few steps, cursing and shaking his stinging leg.  His hand went reflexively to Fireseal’s handle as he swept the streets, looking for his attacker.  Everyone was staring at him, disconcerted but without suspicion, and he was starting to think he’d lost his mind until the voice of a child started wailing just at his feet.  He turned his eyes down, and suddenly wished it really had been a madman with a bat.  “Fucking Christ….”

 

It was a young blond girl, probably early teens, dressed in a ridiculous blue and white hat and dress.  Bawling her eyes out.  And as if it couldn’t get any worse, she was gripping her leg and crying, “My leg!  He kicked me!  He—He kicked me!”

 

Sol stared at her for a long moment, his face contorting into such a look of disgusted confusion as had not graced his worn features for a long time.  Everyone was staring at them—nothing good could come of this.  Pursing his lips into a graceless frown, he started quickly past her.

 

And then, as if from some B-rated horror movie from his long past youth, a pair of arms secured themselves firmly to his—still throbbing—left shin.

 

“You—you kicked me!  You big meanie, you broke my leg!  You kicked me, you—”

 

“I didn’t fucking kick you!” Sol snapped, trying to shake her off without hurting her too badly.  But by then she had taken a firm grip of the leather straps around his thigh, and when he tried to take a step she came right along with him.  “What—let go!  What do you want?”

 

“You kicked me!  You broke my leg!” she continued to wail over and over, only growing in volume when Sol reached down to pry at her fingers.  She was stronger than she looked.  By now everyone up and down the street was staring at them, calling much more attention than Sol had hoped to gather on this trip.  Finally, it didn’t seem like he had a choice; he bent down long enough to twist one muscled arm around the girl’s waist, lifting her clear off the ground so he could march at least out of view.  It was more difficult that he’d expected—the weighted belt she wore felt like iron, and his brow furrowed in confusion as he dragged her, still gripping his thigh, to a nearby street corner.

 

“Shut up—shut up already,” Sol groaned as he set her down and crouched beside her, giving up on trying to get her to let go.  “I’m…fuck.”  He rolled his eyes.  “I’m sorry, all right?  Now will ya just shut the hell up?  Your leg’s not broken.”

 

She stopped crying abruptly, lifting wide, glistening eyes.  “It’s not?”

 

“Of course not.”  No one who could walk carrying a hunk of iron like she was could have their bones break just from running into him. At least…he hoped not.  “So cut it out—you’re fine.”

 

“Oh.”  She started to wipe her face on the back of her glove, then paused, reaching forward to grab the strip of red fabric hanging from his belt to blow her nose in.

 

“Hey!”  He snatched it back with a scowl.  “What the hell are you doing?”

 

“Take me to Potemkin.”

 

Sol blinked dumbly, and when his eyes fell again on her face she was watching him with all the childish determination a girl that young could muster.  “What the hell are you talking about?” he muttered.

 

“I need to find Potemkin, but I can’t find him,” she explained, lower lip swollen in a pout.  “So you have to take me, because you kicked me.”

 

“I didn’t kick you,” Sol protested.  But he couldn’t help but be curious, and, keeping a careful eye on her, he asked, “What makes you think Potemkin will see you?”

 

“’Cause we’re friends,” she replied without falter, and to his shock she produced a badge bearing the Presidential seal—any guard who saw it would at least have to pass a message on to Potemkin.  Maybe…his luck had changed after all.

 

When Sol looked at the girl again he changed his mind back—she was smiling hopefully at him like an eager puppy, and it was…sickening.  That had never worked on him.  But if this girl had some relationship to Potemkin, then letting her tag along could at least get him inside.  All he needed was to be able to let Potemkin know he was there.

 

“All right,” Sol regretfully decided.  “I’ll take you to Potemkin.  So stop staring at me like that and let’s go.”  He started to stand up, but her hands had found his thigh straps again, tugging him back down.  He glowered at her.  “What now?”

 

She lifted both arms in the air.  “Carry me.”

 

“No.”  No discussion, no consideration on that.  “Your leg’s fine—you can walk on your own.”

 

“It still hurts!” she insisted, waving her hands at him.  “You gotta carry me!”

 

Sol sent her one of his more lethal glares.  “I’m not fucking carrying you.”

 

The girl watched him a moment, hands frozen in the air, expression stern.  But all at once her face crumpled; her eyes widened, brow creasing and mouth drooping in a childish pout.  Her chin began to tremble as her eyes glistened with fresh tears.  She began to take in a long, trembling breath.

 

“No!”  Sol clapped a hand over her mouth before she could start to cry again.  “Fine—fine!  I’ll…goddamn carry you.”

 

In an instant, her expression brightened again, and she tugged his hand away.  “Good!  Turn around.”

 

Sol groaned, but…he didn’t have a choice.  Muttering under his breath about damn women he turned, offering his back and staying still as his charge clamored up onto him.  A giggle assured him that she was situated well enough, and with a sigh that came from his pride he pushed to his feet.  He could still feel a few lingering stares on him as he started down the street once more, this time not alone. 

 

Damn him, for minding his own business.  “So, kid.”  Without really wanting to he reached back, hooking his elbows under her knees.  “What’s you damn name, anyway?”

 

She squirmed, twisting her arms around his neck and leaning close.  “I’m Bridget,” came the chirped response.  “A bounty hunter, like you.  And you should know…”

 

A mischievous chuckle tickled his ear.  “I’m a boy.”

 

*****

 

Their blades met in a blur, clashing violently close to the sand and spitting up grains around their bare feet.  Testament was swift, as always, the curved scythe easily parrying each of Ky’s sharp attacks.  They closed, and when Testament’s greater bulk pushed Ky back he felt a splash of ocean water against his ankles.  He leapt to the side and spun—they met again, and this time Ky twisted his wrist, drawing the Testament’s scythe away from his body and managing to land a kick to his gut that forced him away.

 

Ky had been hoping that Thunderseal’s familiar grip clenched in his fist would help to center his whirling mind—he had ventured out onto the beach that morning for that purpose, to let the well-trained exercises guide his body into simple tranquility.  It wasn’t until Johnny had appeared, suggesting a more interesting opponent than the afternoon heat, that he realized how mistaken his assumptions had been.  Fighting had never brought him peace.  Practicing only ever reminded him of the necessity of battle; honing his skills only awakened years of instinct he had been hoping to repress.  There were too many memories laid into the worn handle of his weapon, in the feeling of sweat dampening his hair and creeping into his eyes.  And facing Johnny, no simple opponent, had only heightened the anxiety heating his blood all morning.

 

It was Ky who brought magic into their sparring—a thin vein of lightning crackled against Testament’s hastily prepared barrier.  It seemed to open a door between them, and from then Ky thought nothing of launching a more serious magical attack.  At least Johnny was sensible enough to urge their child audience back several meters, keeping them far out of range as the combatants circled.

 

Testament wasn’t helping.  Ky knew what the Gear was trying to do—allowing him to work out his frustration and confusion through adrenaline and relief.  But it had never worked that way for him.  His strength was just as lamentable to him as it was precious, because here, within whirling blades, was where he lost himself.  He saw his enemy and little else.  And the fact that Testament was a Gear, his magic old and familiar to him, only drew their reality into a smear of sweat and rampant energy around him. 

 

“It’s not fair,” Ky heard his voice hiss, somewhere amidst the clang of metal and humming seals.  “It’s not right.”

 

He ducked under Testament’s scythe, and when he righted himself the Gear was watching him very closely, his eyes narrowed and intense.  “You never knew?”

 

“Of course I knew!”  Something in him hardened.  Something grew cold, and trembling.  “Even if I couldn’t think it, my heart knew.”

 

A flash of red passed Ky’s gaze, weighing his blade down and pressing the tips of both weapons into the sand.  “Then why are you so upset?”

 

“He never told me!”  It had never seemed real before.  He had never had proof.

 

Ky’s grip tightened around Thunderseal, and it flared brightly, driving its captor off.  For a moment Testament was left open, and Ky charged.  The gleam of red irises caused him to forget where he was; this was a Gear.  This was his enemy.  And when Testament bought his wooden handle before him quickly enough to block he felt a thrill of anger—he should have been able to beat him.  He was stronger than this.

 

“Is that what’s really bothering you?”

 

“Shut up!”

 

Ky spun in a tight circle, a short jump taking him into the air as his sword arched over his head and came slashing downward.  Testament jumped at the same time—his scythe spun forward, and though Thunderseal drove the blade back, Testament allowed the momentum to twist his weapon about, aiming the blunt handle for Ky’s midsection.  It caught hard, winding him, and he was forced to retreat a step as he gathered his breath back to him.  Testament, meanwhile, was still watching him.  This battle was affecting him, too; his eyes were narrowed and face strained as he gave Ky the moment he needed to regain his balance.

 

And Ky hated that.  He didn’t need a moment.  He needed to win.

 

With a growl Ky charged again, his limbs burning as he brought Thunderseal around in a lateral strike at full force.  Testament met him head on; their blades screeched madly against the impact and there halted, locked and trembling as if they themselves were long-forged enemies.

 

Their eyes met over the combating weapons—it was a familiar position for them both, and distantly, Ky’s chest began to ache.  It was a tension he well recognized, like instinct itself sliding into place and twisting his features.  “Damn him,” he hissed, gaze unfaltering from gleaming crimson Gear eyes.

 

“Ky, calm down.”  Though he realized it was Testament speaking the voice seemed to distort around him, and he heard only the unnatural hiss surrounding it.  “There’s no need for this.”

 

“Damn you!” Ky retorted, his bare feet pawing at the ground as he tried to overpower his opponent.  “He betrayed me—he was a Gear all along!”

 

Their weapon’s shifted, giving off sparks as blades slid until Thunderseal’s hilt was pressed up against the skull adornment on Testament’s scythe.  Testament clenched his jaw.  “He’s no different than me.”

 

“He’s a goddamned Gear!”

 

“So am I!”

 

A cold shudder went through the officer, hands clenching involuntarily—in a burst of unintended magic Testament’s scythe was sent pinwheeling away as Thunderseal plunged downward, narrowly missing flesh and bone and burying deep in the sand.  The children gasped, and for one, horrified instant, Ky thought the wayward blade would strike their audience.  It was Johnny’s quick reflexes that halted the scythe in mid air, catching it by the long handle.

 

Ky’s shoulder’s sagged, and abruptly Thunderseal slipped from his sweating grip.  “Testament….”  His adrenaline had fled, leaving him cold, dazed, and ashamed as his surroundings sharpened back into focus.  It was only Testament standing before him, breathing hard but his expression calm.  The children, however, were stunned into silence, their eyes on him a mix of awe and uncertainty.  It pained him to think that he had lost control of himself so terribly, that he could have hurt any one of them.  “I’m…I’m sorry.”

 

The quiet was broken by the sound of a slow, steady clapping, and Ky glanced up in surprise to see Johnny offering them applause.  He strode over to Testament to return his weapon to him, which vanished once in its master’s grasp.  Johnny, meanwhile, extended his hand to Ky.  “You fight like a juggernaut, that’s for sure,” he said with a laugh.  “There’s no way I could keep up with that.  Damn fine show.”

 

Ky blinked at him, and without really thinking he offered his hand.  Johnny pumped it heartily; his response spurred on the other children, and they sighed with relief and offered their impressed cheers.  None of them, however, ventured any closer.  “I’m sorry,” Ky told the pirate quietly, so that only he could hear.  “I shouldn’t have gotten carried away.”

 

“It’s all right,” Johnny assured.  “I’m getting used to it.”  He patted Ky’s shoulder with a laugh and turned away, calling to the kids.  “C’mon whelps—let’s go see if lunch is up.”

 

Distracted by the idea of food the group began to wander back up toward the House, chattering excitedly among themselves over the battles that had taken place.  Ky stayed back, trying not to notice the curious stares thrown in his direction—least of all Testament’s, whatever look the Gear may have been giving him.  When it seemed liked the children had gotten far enough away, he sighed wearily.  “I’m sorry, Testament.  It seems you were wrong about me.”  He turned his gaze toward the sea, as if it might calm him.  “I’m not as noble and forgiving as you would think me.”

 

Testament stepped closer, and when Ky was finally able to bring himself to look at him, he found Thunderseal being returned to him.  “Are you all right?” the Gear asked evenly.

 

Ky dropped his eyes as he accepted his sword.  “I don’t know,” he murmured, gulping.  “It’s too much.  Everything that’s happened….”  He ran his hand back anxiously through his hair.  “I don’t know how to deal with all of it.  Especially not him.”

 

Testament’s hand came down on his shoulder, squeezing gently.  Ky had been fearful that he might have lost Testament’s favor with his outburst, and was so grateful for that sign of support that he couldn’t help but lean into the firm hand.  “Let’s go in,” Testament suggested.  “We can take our lunch outside—just talk for a while.  If you want.”

 

Ky smiled ruefully.  How strange it still seemed, to have someone as close as this, offering comfort.  “Thank you.”  He touched the hand on his shoulder, and as if having sensed his intentions Testament twisted his wrist, allowing their fingers to curl briefly around each other’s.

 

“It’s strange,” Ky said with a quiet chuckle.  “We’ve just been…taking care of each other, back and forth, since you found me that night.”

 

Testament’s own smile was just as faint, but just as sincere as they started back up toward the House.  “Is that so bad?”

 

“No.  No, it’s not….”

 

*****

 

As Testament had suggested, the pair of them only stopped inside briefly to hide Thunderseal away and get their lunch—soup and sandwiches—before heading outside once more.  They didn’t speak at first; Ky kept his head down to avoid the gazes from the children, and Testament, for now, was content to allow him that space.  Even as they ate they were quiet, and finished quickly; neither of them had appetites.

 

But during that short break Testament never stopped watching the man at his side.  His brain was dancing back and forth, trying to make sense of everything, to puzzle out what Ky might have been thinking and, more than that, to find a way to help him.  Ky had cared for him the night before with his sympathy, and he had no idea how to go about doing the same.  He didn’t really remember what the man had done, had said, to calm and reassure him.

 

But there had been that night on Mayship’s wing; something had changed even then, as he remembered Ky waking afterwards to fix him with kind eyes.  He had only listened that night, and spoken truthfully.  Perhaps…that would be enough now, though he was amazed to think that compassion could be so simple.

 

“Ky.”  Testament reached out, closing his hand lightly over Ky’s wrist.

 

Ky sighed, giving in more easily than he had expected to that gentle prodding.  “That damn Sol again,” he murmured.  “I told you…he has a strange effect on me.  Every time.”

 

Testament nodded vaguely, and thought it best to perhaps explain the rest of what he knew.  “I did meet Sol before I was a Gear—over fifty years ago, during the war.  It was only briefly, as far as I remember, and we’ve met a few times since then.”  He lowered his eyes.  “It wasn’t until after I was a Gear that I recognized him for what he was.”

 

Ky stared intensely down at his own hands, perched on the table in front of his half eaten lunch.  “I really do hate him,” he said dully.  “He really was everything I hated about the war.  His apathy, his recklessness and destructiveness—it was all those things that brought our world to ruin.  He was even…everything I hated in myself.  As the war dragged on more of us were being pulled into his thoughtless style of fighting, his cynical outlook on our mission.  Even me.  And…I hated that, watching myself fall, like him, into that kind of rampant, bloody battle.  Into his…insensitivity for the defenseless innocents.

 

“But even so, I did look up to him once,” he confessed, very quietly.  “I was just as drawn by his confidence and…freedom…as all the others.  To think now that he was a Gear, that he might have been looking down at us the entire time, toying with us, even….”  His fingers curled into fists, though by now he was so weary from contemplation that the gesture was only half-hearted.  “What did he do all that time, when he could have challenged Justice with that strength of his?  Was he waiting for us—us humans—to take care of it?  For me?  Or…did he not care at all about us, leaving that monster alive until he got bored of watching us suffer….”

 

“I don’t know,” Testament said quietly, his grip tightening carefully around Ky’s wrist.  “I really don’t know.”

 

“Damn him.”  Finally a look of pain broke Ky’s features as his shoulders tensed.  “Damn him, for all of it.”

 

Testament shifted his hand, brushing his fingertips lightly over the backs of Ky’s palm until his hand relaxed.  He slipped his fingers between Ky’s and curled them.  “There’s something else that’s bothering you.”  Something more personal, internal.  Testament recognized the brief flickerings of shame that passed between Ky’s tense eyebrows.

 

“He….”  Ky paused to take a breath, wetting his lips.  “It’s just hard for me to accept,” he murmured, shivering.  And suddenly his unbound hand fisted and pounded against the table, rattling their dishes.  “Why?  What good is the Holy Order—what good is justice—if our fate was controlled by Gears all along?  We struggled under Gears for over a hundred years only to have one of them save us on a whim.  What good was any of it?”

 

Ky turned his blue eyes, wild and pained, on Testament.  “What good am I, if all I could do was bide time for when a Gear—a goddamned Gear—could come and save us?  Even now…I’m helpless.  Our peace is crumbling around us, and still Sol tells me that he’ll take care of it alone, as always.  That I need do nothing!  What good are police and soldiers and faith if in the end the only thing that’s ever mattered is one lawless Gear acting outside of morality and order?  One…selfish, arrogant Gear…”

 

Ky sagged, his chin falling forward onto his chest in defeat, his shoulders hunched and trembling.  “Damn him…I hate him.  I hate him!”  A thick, dry sob crumbled from his lips.  “I hate him….”

 

Testament’s eyes thinned, his hand still caught against Ky’s as the man drooped and quivered.  He didn’t know what to say.  Even if Ky’s words to him before had been so simple, so easy, he could think of nothing now to console Ky’s anger and grief.  He wasn’t even sure such things existed.  But it pained him to see this man who had accepted him suffer; and suddenly he was pushing to his feet, dragging Ky with him.

 

“Let’s go,” he said quietly, but with urgency.  He took Ky by the shoulders and forced him to stand.  “Let’s get out of here—let’s go to the town.  Anything.”

 

“Testament…?”  Ky stared up at him, bewildered.  “What…?”

 

“Please.”  Testament touched Ky’s face briefly, swiping his thumb along his brow as if he could ease the knots of pain there.  “Come with me, Ky.  We don’t have to worry about all that now.  Let’s just go somewhere.  This place…is skinning us raw.”

 

Ky took in a quiet breath, and though he was still confused he nodded, gulping back thick emotion.  “All right,” he whispered.  “Let’s go.”

 

Testament took his hand, and together they started away from the House, leaving even their lunch dishes behind.

 

*****

 

Bridget thoroughly enjoyed his ride through the city.  He couldn’t help but gawk at everything he saw; small motorcarts milled about everywhere bearing people with their groceries, store windows displayed all manner of bizarre metallic devices, and everywhere he looked he could spot some kind of construction taking place.  He felt as if the entire city were building itself around them, expanding and alive despite the odor of oil and smoke.  More than that, he couldn’t have asked for a better chariot.  Sol was an impressive figure as he lumbered down the street on long strides, and with his thick musculature and wild hair it was almost like he was riding a horse.  Sol did not find the comparison as amusing as he did.

 

When they reached Zepp’s central compound Bridget finally realized why he hadn’t been able to find the building by himself; the compound, though stretching across a wide area at the city center, was only four or five stories tall, and looked like an old warehouse.  Despite its simple appearance it was somehow impressive, with its bold, angular lines and high fences.  Guards patrolled about everywhere bearing what must have been bullet-shooting firearms—Bridget had never seen a real one before.

 

“Wow…it’s awesome!”  Bridget hopped lightly off Sol’s back and trotted up to the main gate, uncaring that the guard there promptly set a warning hand on his shoulder.  He stood up on his toes as he tried to get a better glimpse of the compound interior.  “I didn’t think it would look like this.  I saw the capital in London once, but it wasn’t anything like this!”

 

“Hey,” Sol grunted as he came up behind him.  “Your leg’s fine, you little shit.”

 

Bridget stuck his tongue out at him and turned back towards the guard.  “I’m here to see Potemkin,” he explained, displaying his badge.  “I’m a friend of his.”

 

The guard checked his pass critically and, deciding that it was legitimate, nodded to one of his companions in a nearby booth.  With a metallic squeal the chained gate began to swing open.  “Thanks, Mister!” Bridget chirped, and he started happily inside.

 

Sol followed, rolling his eyes, but as soon as he reached the guard he was stopped by the barrel of a gun digging into his chest.  “I’m with him,” he grunted, jerking his thumb at the skipping Bridget, but the guard didn’t budge.

 

“I can’t let you in without a pass, Sir,” the man informed him steely.

 

“But I’m with him,” Sol insisted.  “Shit—Bridget, we had a deal!”

 

Bridget smirked to himself—it wasn’t often one got to tease the most powerful bounty hunter in the world.  When he turned about he was smiling innocently.  “Did we?”

 

Sol fixed him with a fierce gaze, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s okay,” he assured the soldiers.   “He’s with me—Potemkin’s expecting us.  Sol, Show them your vi—”

 

“Here’s my ID,” Sol interrupted, flashing the guard his identification.  “And I’m with him.  So if you want to stop me from going in, shoot me.”  Shoving his wallet back into his pocket he stomped after Bridget with a twisted frown.

 

“Sorry, big guy,” Bridget chirped, giving his shoulder a pat as he fell into step next to him.  “But we’re in, right?”  He skipped ahead.  “So let’s go find Potemkin.”

 

They went through several more guards, giving Bridget more chances to proudly display his badge, until they were at last guided to an elevator taking them to the fifth floor of the building.  A short, guarded hall led them to a closed office door, and a young man with clipped hair and a trim uniform.  “I’m sorry, you can’t see Potemkin now,” he reported shortly.

 

Bridget all but pounced on the desk with his badge, but the official was ahead of him.  “He has a visitor,” he explained.  “No one is to interrupt them.”

 

“Can you please just let him know we’re here?” Bridget asked hopefully.  “It’s really important, and I’m in a hurry.”

 

“You’re going to have to wait,” the man replied stiffly.  “Please take a seat.”

 

Bridget was about to protest further, but just then the door behind them clicked open.  He whirled, and was relieved to see Potemkin himself stepping out of the wide exit.  He was as impressive as always, with his broad shoulders and thick limbs, but when his gaze fell on Bridget his expression softened gladly.  “Ah, Bridget,” he greeted.  “It’s good to see you again.”

 

“Potemkin!”  Bridget offered his hand for a formal greeting—his entire arm seemed to disappear in the man’s wide palm.  “Your secretary’s mean.  He wasn’t going to let use see you.”

 

Potemkin smiled, though it faltered somewhat when he noticed Sol behind the younger boy.  “Well,” he replied diplomatically, “I already have company.  I’ll introduce you.”

 

Potemkin stepped aside to make way for his guest.  The man was, naturally, dwarfed by his host, but he was still somewhat short; he had a round face creased with a few lines brought by age, his hair frosty from the same cause.  The only outward indication of who he might be was the addition of a white band around his arm—the mark of a scientist.

 

Bridget, however, fell back at the first sight of him, bumping into Sol.  He had never met this man before, but there was no mistaking the deep-set, dark eyes swiveling to meet him.  Even his manner, so strict and still, was an eerie reminder to the man he had followed through the streets of Rome.  He gulped.

 

“This is Bridget and Sol Badguy, acquaintances of mine,” Potemkin introduced to his guest.  “Gentlemen, this is Dr. Arthur Galleon.”

 

 

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