FOREWARD

This story is something that's been stewing in my brain for years in one form or another. I think it ultimately stems from an ancient fanfic (still up on FFN by the way) that novelizes Guilty Gear: The Missing Link. The chapter expanding upon Potemkin's backstory is really strong, but I remember there was one element of it that stuck out to me like a sore thumb, despite the story's attempt to adhere to canon wherever it could: Potemkin has a wife and child in it. Now, I dunno if you've ever read the essay "Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex" before (if you're going to look it up right now, it's NSFW, so don't say I didn't warn you), but it discusses the problems with the physical end of having children if you have super strength, and while it ironically doesn't apply to the Man of Steel himself, it should apply to Potemkin, who can't control his strength.

And that thought was basically the genesis of this whole story. Super strength seems like an awesome power on paper, but only if you can control it. Potemkin doesn't have that luxury, to the point of needing reinforced pencils, and adding on to that, there's the lore tidbit that his mutation is still making him stronger with or without his input. Of course, that also logically means he wouldn't have been as strong when he was younger, and that's a little unsettling to think about, because it implies he had to grow into not being able to hold a pencil without breaking it.

After some time spent writing, this story grew from a simple exploration of a character's youth and background to a chronicling of his journey to manhood. I didn't originally anticipate it would be this long, but I kept adding more and more under the pretense that I needed more in-universe time to flesh out the character development and make all of the dots connect from my mental impression of Potemkin's depressing youth to what we actually see in the games.

This is the first time I've actually completed a writing project of this size, fanfiction or original fiction, and I'm really happy with how it turned out. Despite it being a Guilty Gear story, I really wanted this to stand on its own, and I wrote it with the intention of feeling like a complete, self-contained story from front to back.

I hope you enjoy it.

April 19, 2171

"May I ask you something before we begin?"

It was hard to believe those words came out of the mouth they did. It was way more formal than something you'd expect a child to say, even if they were a slave. Then again, nothing about the child was ordinary, and his choice of words was quite possibly the most normal thing about him.

According to all official records, he was ten. He did not look ten. He looked much more like someone in their mid teens, at least as far as height and weight were concerned, and even that was a bit off the mark. Most teenagers, especially in Zepp, didn't look half as athletic, and his upper body especially had an almost unnatural amount of muscle definition. His arms were about a hand's length longer and closer to the ground than a teenager's should have been, and a hand's length by his standards was quite literally the length of a dinner plate. His face was unmistakably boyish and youthful, mostly appropriate for a child his age, but it didn't look "right". His eyes had no color to them, looking almost like they were covered in cataracts from a distance, but he could see just as well as anyone else.

Outside of that, though, he wasn't too unusual. The barcodes on his bare shoulders, reading "4595605381", were unmistakable proof that he was a slave, and the rest of him looked the part. He was unkempt and disheveled, with hair that probably hadn't been cut properly in years, and certainly never by a professional. It was scraggly, drooping into his face and past his shoulders.

Sergeant Gabriel looked the boy straight in the eyes (mildly alarmed that, despite his age, he was only a head shorter) and said, "You may."

"Why am I here?" the boy asked.

"Because you were shot point blank in the back of the head and didn't die."

The boy reached around to the back of his neck with those dinner plate-sized hands of his and rubbed it gently. He winced. It had been a few days since that happened, but touching the bruise was still a little uncomfortable.

"I don't know what you were shot with, but I was told it was something they bring out when they want to be sure one bullet gets the job done. You're a very lucky kid. It's not every day someone gets acquitted of treason."

"Treason". There was that word again. The boy had heard it a lot during the past several days, and he was pretty sure it was being used the wrong way. The crime he'd been arrested for was labeled "treason", but in practice, it was only petty theft. He was starving and stole his warden's rations. The other kids did it all the time, and he probably wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been assured by them that no one ever got caught, and if they did, they didn't have much to lose anyway. It was a lot harder for him to get away with it compared to his peers. He was bigger and much easier to notice. He never imagined they'd try to execute him over stolen food, but of course, they justified it as "setting an example". Problem was, they couldn't execute him. The incident had to be reported to their higher ups, and the boy was largely left in the dark about what was going on.

"With due respect, sir," the boy said, bowing his head. "I'm still not sure what surviving a bullet has to do with getting combat training."

Gabriel sighed. He wasn't sure of all of the details either. He was just following orders, but he supposed the boy was at least owed something of an explanation. It wouldn't hurt to say what he knew.

"I assume you've noticed by now that you're not normal," Gabriel said. The boy silently nodded. "Since the symptoms first presented themselves, it's been assumed that you simply had a growth disorder. The Empire never cared about that. If you can work harder sooner, it's not as much of a concern if you die younger too."

The boy tried to hide his discomfort with that statement. He knew it was true, but most people wouldn't have put it that bluntly, even when addressing a slave.

"One of your superiors mentioned that you could bend steel. That's quite impressive, but not completely inconceivable for someone your size, depending on what was meant by 'steel'. A bullet bouncing off your skin, though? That shouldn't be possible.

"As far as I'm aware and anyone will tell me, you're completely human and you have no magical aptitude to speak of. This is apparently the result of some genetic mutation. I was told your grip strength was measured at 500 kilograms a day after you were brought in. That's about thirty times what it should be for someone your age, and far beyond ordinary human limits. You also haven't reached puberty yet."

"I still don't understand," the boy said. He wasn't as tense as he was earlier. Unlike most of the other men who gave him orders, Gabriel didn't make him feel like he was always doing something wrong.

"You're young and malnourished. Despite that, you literally have the strength of ten men. How strong do you think you'll be as an adult?"

The boy silently puzzled for a moment. His train of thought was almost immediately interrupted.

"Fact of the matter is, no one knows. Not you, not me, not Zepp. But it wouldn't make sense for you to get any weaker, and no sane government would pass up a soldier with your strength as-is."

"You want me to be a soldier?" the boy asked.

"I don't want you to be a soldier. Zepp wants you to be a soldier," Gabriel said.

The boy wanted to say something, but thought it was best to hold his tongue.

"Now then, if that's out of the way, you should start stretching."

Sweat glistened down the boy's face. He'd been granted permission to stop and have water. It was a reprieve he needed. Most of his life had been spent doing manual labor, but it was never this exhausting. He had always been strong enough to get done what he was told to do without much effort. That didn't matter here. He was told to do the same thing over and over until he got it, even if it took hours.

He didn't know anything about fighting. He had been in a "fight" once, and it would be generous to call it that. There was an argument over food and he stepped in. One kid punched him and he slapped him back. It was enough to break his jaw. That was years ago, and no one had dared to pick a fight with him since.

No one had ever taught him how to make a fist. No one had ever taught him how to stand while fighting or how to look someone in the eye. It was alien to him.

Almost the entire day had been spent going over how to punch properly. There was a clock in the courtyard they were practicing in (it had to be a wide open space, for fear of him accidentally breaking something), and he started watching it three hours ago, when he was already part way in. He was much stronger than Gabriel had anticipated or planned for, and it wasn't for lack of trying. Just finding an appropriate target to practice on was an impossible task. The boy managed to go through more than a dozen sandbags practicing. Gabriel eventually gave up with the sandbags and offered himself for target practice, but the boy refused and couldn't be convinced it was okay. He was too afraid of hurting someone. After that, they decided to take a break.

Gabriel was sweating too, but less from strain and more from stress. The boy was strong, but he was not a fighter. He constantly pulled his punches, even when he was told not to hold back, and it was probably because of his instincts. There was too much variance in their force to be explained by sloppy technique alone. The boy just didn't have the conviction to put everything into a punch. That was probably a good thing when he was working in labor camps, but the military was a completely different beast.

"I think that's enough for today," Gabriel announced.

The boy breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He almost thought it'd never be over.

"We'll meet again in three days and continue to do this every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afterward."

His gut turned over with disappointment. There was a brief moment of silence before Gabriel broke it again.

"You know, I never did get your name," he said.

"4595605381," the boy answered.

"No, not your code number, your name," Gabriel said firmly.

The boy looked at him uncomfortably. It was a question he'd never been asked before. Even the other kids usually just shortened it to "381".

"I... I don't have one, sir," the boy sheepishly said.

Gabriel was momentarily stunned. Even slaves usually had names. They weren't always supposed to be used, but they still had them. Most of the ones who didn't were the children of political prisoners, raised by the state. Either that or their parents - or anyone else who would call them by their given name - were dead. He wondered what the case was for this boy, but tried not to dwell on it too much. It wasn't something he wanted to come up while training. There was no greater distraction than drowning in old memories you wanted to leave behind.

"Do you... want a name? It's easier to communicate that way than using your designation."

Despite his lack of defined irises, the boy's eyes lit up, but he quickly restrained himself. He'd learned to never look too eager for anything. "Y-yes. Please," he said anxiously.

Gabriel took a moment to think on it. It was a long moment. A long, quiet moment. He needed to take his time, because this was bound to change the boy's life forever.

Finally, he said, "How about 'Potemkin'?"

"What does it mean?" the boy asked with the type of wide, eager eyes that only children could have.

"It was the name of an ancient battleship."

"What's a battleship?"

Gabriel blinked. He shouldn't have been so surprised. Slaves were often sheltered to the point that they knew little of the outside world, especially its history.

"They were large ocean vessels used in naval warfare centuries ago." Judging by the look on his face, the boy didn't know what that meant either, but Gabriel ignored it and continued. "Battleships were symbols of power for the nations that owned them, imposing enough that they didn't always have to be used in combat to serve as a threat."

"...Is that how you see me?"

Gabriel snorted. "Not exactly." Though it was probably how the military saw him - a thought he decided to keep to himself. "The Potemkin was famous for an act of mutiny during the Russian revolution of 1905. Big, tough, rebellious." That last part with said with a smirk. "It also sounds strong. I think it suits you well."

The boy took a moment to digest what Gabriel was saying before he replied, "I think so too."

"Potemkin it is then."

Potemkin smiled. It was the first time in his life anyone had treated him like a human being.