When Bastion’s deadly fist hurtled toward Damian, the student’s reaction was instantaneous and uncanny.

He swayed to the side. Bastion’s fist whistled past his ear, close enough that Damian could surely feel the whoosh of air. Max’s heart leaped into his throat. It had been a very close call.

Bastion spun like a windmill, using the momentum of his missed punch, his other arm slicing backward through the air like a scythe that would cut Damian down. But Damian was already moving, backpedaling with fluid grace, leaning back.

Bastion’s super-strong arm missed pulping Damian by a whisker.

Bastion nearly stumbled before he recovered, righting himself. The Villain clenched his fists and charged his student.

It was David versus Goliath, a slim first year versus the hulk who had single-handedly defeated the renowned Hero group Pinnacle.

Again and again, Bastion attacked, unleashing a flurry of strikes that would have killed Damian if they connected. But Damian, darting like a dragonfly, swaying like a reed in the wind, managed to dodge every blow. Bastion didn’t so much as lay a finger on him. It was as though Damian had a sixth sense, a preternatural ability to anticipate Bastion’s every move.

The students surrounding the glowing circle went from being alarmed by Bastion’s unprovoked attack to being awed by Damian’s unexpected prowess. They stared, utterly transfixed, many open-mouthed. Whispers of awe rippled through the crowd. “How is he doing that?” someone muttered. Max, too, was spellbound. How was Damian able to avoid Bastion’s every blow, but he had been defeated by the far less experienced Malik? It didn’t make sense.

Finally, Bastion ceased his assault. He came to a halt, not even breathing hard despite all the energy he had just expended, a look of grudging respect in his eyes. Across the circle, Damian faced him, his own breathing elevated but controlled, his eyes wary for a renewed attack. The auditorium was silent, the tension palpable.

Bastion broke the silence. “Impressive, Draconis. You have an exceptional talent for anticipating your opponent’s moves. Precognition? There’s no mention of it in your file.”

“Not exactly, sir. More like acute situational awareness.” Max remembered how Damian’s morphic field abilities had anticipated Carlos’ deactivation of the Dining Hall servitors before Carlos had actually done it. “A side effect of my Unreal power. I’d prefer to not elaborate further in front of the entire class.”

“You handily avoided my every blow, yet did not perform similarly when you faced Washington. No offense to him, but I’m a far more experienced fighter than he. Much faster, too. I was holding back, but not enough to make things easy for you. The stark difference between your performances is a conundrum.”

Damian wiped blood from the corner of his mouth—a relic of his fight with Malik—but didn’t say anything.

“Draconis,” Bastion said, irritation creeping into his voice, “you clearly threw your match against Washington. Why?”

Damian responded slowly, as if considering every word.

“You specified no power usage. My situational awareness can’t be turned off like a light switch. Allowing Malik to land the blows he did seemed the fairest thing to do.”

And, Max realized quietly, Damian thought taking a beating from Malik might convince Malik that the score was settled, stopping him from carrying out his threat to kill us. Max glanced at Malik. Malik was scowling at Damian, clearly itching for a rematch after Damian’s revelation.

“May I ask my own question, sir?” Damian said.

“Go ahead.”

“How did you know? That I was holding back, I mean?”

Bastion smiled grimly. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Longer than anyone in this room’s been alive. Pattern recognition. It’s as powerful as a superpower if you hone it enough.”

“And if you were wrong? You landing a blow would have killed me.”

“Indeed,” Bastion replied matter-of-factly. “Villainy, like politics, ain’t beanbag. If it’s safety you’re after, get a job in a daycare playing patty-cake. But in this business, people get hurt. Sometimes killed. The purpose of this class is to make sure it’s not you.

“Two demerits to the Apex Division, Draconis, for you withholding relevant information. And worse, for not doing your very best. There will be no half measures in this class, no hiding your light under a bushel. When I spoke of the importance of honesty and integrity, I wasn’t talking just to hear myself speak. How am I to teach you if I don’t know what you’re capable of?

“Washington, get back over here. You’re going to spar with Draconis again. And this time, Draconis, don’t hold back. Washington, that means you’ll be at a disadvantage. Unfair, I know, but welcome to life. This won’t be the last time you’ll face someone with an edge over you; your job is to figure out a way to come out on top anyway. I’ve already spotted several ways to negate Draconis’ advantage. Let’s see if you’ve been paying enough attention to recognize them too.”

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Malik and Damian squared off again in the center of the glowing red circle. This time, their dynamic was markedly different. Before, Malik had assumed an air of boredom. Now, he was visibly angry, as if Damian had tricked him before, and Malik was determined to prove he was still the better fighter. Damian just looked resigned.

From the moment Bastion signaled them to begin, Damian took the offensive, his movements a blur of speed and precision.

The smaller student danced around Malik, seeming to be everywhere at once, a darting ghost that Malik could neither grasp nor predict. Each of Damian’s strikes was swift, finding its target. Malik floundered to respond, his blows mostly missing altogether. The few that connected were traps, giving Damian the opportunity to get inside Malik’s guard and pepper Malik with even more significant blows.

Malik, quickly realizing he was outmatched, began swinging wildly, Hail Mary attempts to end the match before Damian wore him down. But Damian, light on his feet, dodged the haymakers with ease. Now that Damian was no longer hiding his capabilities, he outclassed Malik at every turn.

Malik’s breathing soon became laborious, his attacks slower. They became so telegraphed, even Max could see them coming.

Damian closed on his opponent, executing a swift combination of kicks and punches Malik was too gassed to block. Malik staggered, dropping to his knees, his arms shielding his head as Damian continued to pound him.

Bastion stepped in to stop the thrashing.

The fight had been so lopsided, it could hardly be called a fight.

Malik got up slowly, his face the bloody one this time. He and Damian tapped gloves together. Despite the sportsmanlike gesture, Malik’s anger and humiliation shone through. He tried to mask it, but the clenching of his fists and the tightness of his jaw betrayed his true feelings. He had the same empty-eyed look he had when he told Max the story of his “friend” with the heart attack.

It was obvious to Max that Damian’s plan to placate Malik by throwing the first fight had backfired spectacularly. Instead of extinguishing the animosity, this second fight had poured gasoline on it.

Bastion clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. The noise from his enormous paws sounded like a thunderclap.

“To be frank,” Bastion addressed them, “I wasn’t anticipating having a conversation about tactics when many of you don’t yet know how to throw a proper punch. But, as with combat, you play the hand you’re dealt. So let’s take a deep dive into what we witnessed.

“Mr. Washington acquitted himself admirably against someone with ‘acute situational awareness,’ as Mr. Draconis calls it. The question now becomes how do you defeat someone with his abilities. We’re groping somewhat in the dark here as Draconis wisely declines to elaborate on them. You’ll find that typical; opponents rarely hand you a dossier of their strengths, weaknesses, and vulnerabilities before fisticuffs commence.

“Let’s brainstorm. How would you counter someone like Draconis, someone who can apparently anticipate your every move?”

“When I awoke this morning, I didn’t realize the means of my defeat would be crowdsourced,” Damian quipped.

Many of the students laughed, but Max could tell Damian was chagrined. For someone who didn’t like to draw attention to himself, he was getting more than his fair share of it.

A hand shot up. “Fake him out! Feint with one hand, then blast him with the other,” one student suggested eagerly.

“I like your enthusiasm,” Bastion said, “but Washington can attest that won’t work. He tried that very tactic. Several times. And he has a bloody lip to show for it. Next?”

A girl in the back spoke up. “How about using the environment to your advantage? Trap him or trip him up somehow?”

“Environmental awareness is always key,” Bastion agreed. “But from what I’ve seen, he’s likely to anticipate being maneuvered into a trap as readily as he anticipates your fist flying toward his jaw. Keep thinking.”

“Super speed,” Edgar Tomlinson suggested sullenly. The speedster couldn’t conceal his anger at being in Prometheus despite Max pleading with him to keep a low profile and his feelings to himself until they could figure out a way to escape.

“Excellent suggestion, Mr. Tomlinson,” Bastion said. “For even if Draconis knows a speeding car is coming, he’s still going to get hit if he’s too slow to get out of its way. Unfortunately, super speed is a very rare Unreal power. But even someone with just preternatural reflexes could compensate for Draconis’ predictive ability from what little I’ve seen of it. If such reflexes aren’t part of your power set, they can be mimicked through technological or magical means. Someone with prep time should be able to negate Draconis’ tactical advantage.”

“Sir, what about overwhelming him with a number of attackers? He can’t dodge everyone,” another student proposed.

“That would likely work,” Bastion agreed. “But what if you don’t have backup? Let’s stay focused on how you might take him down alone.”

Gene’s hand shot up, her eyes eager. Max shot her a look, mumbling under his breath, “Put your hand down. Don’t give Malik and his boys ideas on how to deal with Damian.”

Gene, flushing, lowered her hand.

“Oh! Right,” she whispered back. “I got swept up in the heat of the moment. I gotta really good idea, though.”

“Well, keep it to yourself.” Max also had some ideas on how to counter Damian’s situational awareness. But he followed his own advice and kept his thoughts to himself.

Bastion pointed at Gene. “You have something you’d like to share with the class, Ms. Fletcher?”

Gene’s flush deepened. “No, sir.”

“But you raised your hand.”

“I do that when I get flustered, sometimes.” Both of Gene’s hands flew skyward like she was being held at gunpoint. “See? Happens all the time.”

Bastion looked like he was suppressing a laugh. “Try to have it happen less often, Fletcher.”

“Can’t make any promises, but I’ll try my best, sir.”

The students threw out other suggestions about how to counter Damian’s ability. They ranged from silly to ingenious. Max prayed that one or more of the cleverer students were abductees to the school like him. While it was good that Max had Ed to hash over escape plans with, Max had concluded the speedster wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. The senator’s son was entitled and lazy, more inclined to bitch nonstop about what had happened to them than to actually do something about it.

Bastion finally signaled the end of the class.

“Today’s session took a turn I hadn’t expected, but it was still instructive. Next class, all of you will get hands-on training regarding combat fundamentals. Washington and Draconis have proven themselves to have mastered the basics, so I’ll enlist them to assist me in your instruction.” Max groaned silently, getting a mental image of being forced to punch himself in the face while Malik pissed himself laughing. “Between now and then, read two chapters of each of the following texts on your class reading list: The Art of War by Sun Tzu, The 33 Strategies of War by Greene, Fighting in the Clinch by Mireles and Christensen, and No Powers? No Problem! by yours truly. Don’t forget—”

Bastion’s voice cut off like a needle had been lifted from a record. Darkness engulfed the room. The blackness was so total, Max couldn’t see his own body, much less anybody else.

The floor was gone.

Max fell, tumbling into an inky void.