“I need to go to the bathroom,” said Doctor Davidovich. The Gentleman ignored him; however, Pharos turned and smiled. They were sitting in a row—the burned man on the far end, swathed in bandages and connected to his wires and tubes, and Pharos and the scientist on his left. The two mercenaries stood fifteen feet behind the row in postures approximating parade rest. The screens on the walls were alive with noise and movement as the day continued to crack apart. “Do I go by myself?” asked Davidovich. “Or—?” Pharos allowed a slow smile to form on his face. “You’re one of us now, doctor. You don’t need to ask permission. Merely directions.” He gestured to the door. “Go out and left. Third door along the passage.” Then he turned back to watch the screen. He did not see Davidovich, but he could imagine the uncertainty, the fragile trust warring with horrible doubts on his face. That was fine. This was a teaching moment. Pharos heard the scrape of the scientist’s chair, the hesitant footfalls as the man walked toward the door.
