The room erupted into applause once more at Strategos’ words, louder and more resounding than before. Max joined the others in their enthusiastic clapping as he wondered if his Academy Award for acting would be mailed to him instead of presented in person.

Despite his fake enthusiasm, Max had to admit Strategos made some good points in his criticisms of the Unreal Accords. Though the Wild Years amply demonstrated how superpowered folk operating willy-nilly without proper training and supervision was a recipe for disaster, ever since becoming an Unreal, Max had thought some of the Accords’ dictates were ridiculously severe. For example, being forced to get Agent X injections to suppress his Unreal powers if he couldn’t become a certified Hero. The thought of needles alone made Max queasy. But when a synthetic compound that would strip away the one thing that made Max special was added to the equation, Max got sick to his stomach.

Strategos stood still before the students as their applause thundered, his gaze sweeping over them with pride like they were his children who had made the cut for the Olympics.

Finally, he raised his hands for quiet. The applause died away.

“And now for more information about your new home,” Strategos said. “Much like a conventional college is divided into a Department of English, a Department of Biology, et cetera, Prometheus Academy is divided into seven Divisions of learning.”

He paused as spherical spotlight drones swooped down to shine their lights on one of the huge crimson banners on the wall. Each banner had a gold emblem on its face, and the emblem on the spotlighted banner was of the Earth on fire.

“The Anarchy Division,” Strategos said, “for those of you with the urge to set the world ablaze just to watch it burn.” Max remembered how the fourth year student Ravi had warned them to stay away from the students in the Anarchy Division. That sounded like good advice.

The drones darted over to illuminate a banner whose emblem was a mountain peak with a crown at its summit. Max recognized it from Ravi’s uniform.

“The Apex Division,” Strategos announced, “for you aspiring Caesars and Alexanders with the itch for domination and the determination to ensure it is scratched.”

Next was illuminated an emblem consisting of a wrench lying diagonally over a futuristic pistol. “For the technologically inclined, the Gadgetry Division. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but so is the yearning for technological advancement.”

The drones darted away from the Gadgetry Division banner to illuminate another emblem, a raised fist clenching a shield. “The Henchman Division,” Strategos proclaimed, “is for you who understand the power of collective action. Remember, behind every great woman and man is a great henchman.”

The drones’ spotlights shone on an emblem depicting a pentagram within a circle. “The Occult Division,” he intoned, “is where you can unlock the mysteries of the arcane. Your power will transcend the mere physical realm and tap into forces that others dare not even name.”

The drones then moved to highlight a banner featuring a stylized hand with its index finger extended vertically to touch a pair of lips. “The Stealth Division is for those who operate best in the shadows.” Max’s ears perked up at the word shadows. “The ability to hide your movements, camouflage your intentions, and strike unseen and unheard will give you an edge that others underestimate at their peril.”

Then the drones illuminated an emblem depicting a balanced scale with the tip of a sword as its fulcrum. “And finally, the Vigilante Division,” Strategos said, “for those who thirst for the justice so rarely obtained by the conventional forces of law and order.”

Strategos gave the audience a moment to take all of that in.

“Each of you will be slotted into a Division based on your Unreal powers, existing skills, natural inclinations, and your own desires and long-term goals. Your Division will have a major impact on which classes you take and which skills you will cultivate.

“Soon you will discover which Division you will be in. In the meantime, I present to you the Division heads. Each is a master of their field. You are truly fortunate to be the beneficiary of their decades of experience and wisdom.

“Please welcome Pantheon, head of the Apex Division.”

A large man strutted onstage as if claiming it as its rightful owner. Pantheon’s intricate costume of royal blue and gold shimmered under the spotlights. A golden visor hid his eyes, and intricate gold patterns adorned his blue chest plate, gauntlets, and greaves. The man’s appearance was met with polite applause.

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Then, the astonishing occurred. Pantheon’s body quivered and budded, reminiscent of bubbles forming when a child blows into a bubble wand. Each bud fell away from Pantheon and morphed into a duplicate version of him, except each replicant was surrounded by a unique aura—one replicant crackled with electricity, another exuded a frosty mist, a third was sheathed in fire, and so on. The students murmured excitedly, their applause swelling at the Villain’s display. Pantheon’s doubles merged back into his single original body in the blink of an eye.

“Mr. Puzzles, head of the Anarchy Division,” Strategos announced. Maybe it was Max’s imagination, but he thought he detected a note of distaste in Strategos’ voice when saying the Division head’s name.

A slender man emerged from the darkness onto the stage, moving with the elegance of an old-money aristocrat. He wore an old-fashioned suit consisting of a black tailcoat, white wing-collared shirt, black top hat, and black gloves. The net result was Mr. Puzzles looked like he had stepped out of a time machine from the Victorian era.

But if his suit was from the 19th century, his helmet was definitely from the future. It was a mirrored dome that enshrouded his head, completely hiding his features. Its surface swam with shifting jigsaw puzzle pieces, as if they were some sort of screensaver.

“Please welcome the head of the Gadgetry Division, Waldo.”

Incredibly, Waldo was even more of a sight to behold than Mr. Puzzles or Pantheon. He floated onstage in a futuristic, throne-like apparatus that enveloped him from the waist down. Seeming to be a wheelchair without the wheels, the metal chair bristled with waving robotic arms and flickering holographic displays. Nestled within this high-tech cocoon, Waldo was massively obese, probably the biggest man Max had ever seen. He sported a scruffy beard, flyaway hair, and Coke-bottle glasses that he probably could see the surface of Uranus with. Piercing intelligence radiated from his enlarged eyes.

“The head of the Henchman Division needs no introduction . . . .”

The rest of what Strategos said was drowned out by gasps, followed by applause and cheers that made Max’s ears ring. Most of the students leaped to their feet. Channeling his inner lemming, Max followed suit.

The head of the Henchman Division was none other than Bastion, the holographic version of whom had easily defeated the Pinnacle before the first year’s eyes. Despite that battle having taken place over a decade ago, the Villain who took the stage looked just as formidable now as he had then. He was a hulking figure, with thick, rope-like muscles rippling under a skintight, dark-blue costume. The suit was supplemented by pieces of advanced armor that looked like something a soldier from a thousand years in the future might wear.

The only indication of the passage of time since Bastion’s battle with the Pinnacle was the Villain’s face was more weathered than it had been then, with deep lines of age and experience carved into his features. Salt-and-pepper hair framed his blocky head.

Bastion seemed embarrassed by the standing ovation, and waved for the first years to stop, which made them applaud all the harder. Max noticed that Pantheon, still onstage with the rest of the Division heads, was frowning. He appeared irritated by the crowd’s response to Bastion; Bastion’s reception made Pantheon’s look tepid by comparison.

A voice, barely more than a whisper, rustled in Max’s ear from an unseen mouth. “Sede et tace,” a feminine voice murmured seductively.

Suddenly, all Max’s thoughts of blending in by clapping along with the others ceased. His arms dropped listlessly to his sides, and he was sucked into his chair as if it and his butt had become powerful magnets. The other first years also collapsed into their seats, and the room became abruptly still and silent as a crypt.

A blinding flash of light accompanied by a swirl of purple smoke erupted before them all. When the smoke cleared, a new figure stood onstage. She was tall and thin, her face angular and imperious, her skin almost translucently pale. She was draped in flowing robes of deep purple and midnight blue that were edged with strange symbols. Her raven-black hair cascaded in thick waves past her shoulders, interspersed with luminescent streaks of gray. Around her neck, a pendant glowed softly, pulsing with an inner light.

“A dramatic entrance as always, Matilda,” said Strategos, sounding indulgently amused. “Students, a warm round of applause for the head of the Occult Division, Professor Arcane.”

The pendant around Professor Arcane’s neck stopped glowing. Max could move his arms again. Students began applauding, but this time he did not join them. He was too busy grappling with the implications of what he had just experienced.

Apparently, Professor Arcane had made him and the others stop applauding and sit down. She had created an irresistible compulsion that Max obeyed without thought. Without question. How was he going to escape a place whose faculty included a witch whose whispered words compelled complete capitulation?

Max was so busy reeling, he barely noticed Strategos’ introduction of Tinfoil, the head of the Vigilante Division. Of all the Division heads, Tinfoil looked the least likely to belong to a criminal organization like Prometheus Academy. He was an unassuming man of medium height and forgettable features, someone who would go completely unnoticed walking down the street. His brown hair was neatly combed, and he was dressed like a small-town banker in an off-the-rack suit. Only his eyes stood out. Something about them was disconcerting. Even from this distance, Max saw Tinfoil’s hawklike eyes methodically sweep over the students, as if he were taking mental photographs of them all.

“Finally,” Strategos was saying, “the head of the Stealth Division . . . .”

But Max didn’t need to hear the name of the costumed woman who glided onstage with the sinuous grace of a snake. He’d seen her before.

She had literally stabbed him in the back.

Stiletto, Max’s kidnapper, was the head of the Stealth Division.