Max stepped into the infirmary, a world apart from the rest of Prometheus Academy.

The medieval ambiance of the rest of the castle was replaced here by the sleek, clinical efficiency of advanced technology. The infirmary was awash in a soft, calming blue light coming from panels in the ceiling, casting a serene glow over the entire space. The air was filled with a gentle hum, the sound of machinery working in perfect harmony. The walls were lined with holographic displays, each showing vital statistics in real-time—heart rates, brain activity, and more mysterious metrics that Max couldn’t begin to comprehend. The beds below the displays were occupied by first-year students, many of whom Max recognized from the brawl with Malik’s imps.

In the center of the room were several high-tech beds, each resembling a cocoon more than a traditional hospital bed. They were equipped with transparent covers that could be pulled over patients, presumably to create a controlled environment for healing. Along one wall, a series of robotic arms extended from the ceiling, each poised over a workstation filled with an array of medical instruments. These robotic arms moved with a smooth, deliberate grace. The far corner of the room was dominated by a large machine that Max couldn’t even begin to guess the purpose of. It hummed softly, its screens flickering with data.

Max was so taken aback at stepping out of the rustic charm of the rest of the castle into this sterile environment of cutting-edge medical care, that he barely noticed the applause until it grew to the point of thunderous.

The eager faces of first years beamed at him with approval. Max did a double take.

They were applauding him. What were they doing that for? Was this some kind of prank?

A silver-haired man in a white lab coat came hurrying out of an office.

“Quiet. Quiet!” The man had to raise his voice to be heard over the applause. “This is an infirmary, not a stadium. What are you, football hooligans? Show some decorum, please. Or I’ll slip a laxative into your next round of gelatin.”

There were some good-natured boos in response, but the students quieted down. A few shot Max a thumbs up.

The silver-haired man bustled up to Max. He was thin and angular, with thick silver bands encircling his head, waist, and wrists. Doctor Asclepius was sewn on the lapel of his lab coat.

“Name and ailment?” Dr. Asclepius asked Max crisply.

“Max Blackwood. But I’m not sick.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Everyone’s sick, it’s all a matter of degree.” A holographic display projected from the band around his head, creating a head’s up display that hovered before the man’s face. “Ah yes, Maximilian Blackwood. I previously reviewed the results of your physicals and recommended the optimal diet. A bit calcium deficient and some prediabetic precursors, but otherwise healthy. You need to lay off the sugary beverages, young man. Have you been drinking your milk?”

“Yes, but that’s not why—”

“Excellent. Milk does a body good. I coined that expression, you know. A shame I didn’t get around to trademarking it before the National Dairy Board got its grubby hands on it. Prediabetes can lead to constipation, so how are your bowel movements?”

“Uh . . . good, I guess.” Embarrassed, Max eyed the surrounding first years, many of whom were still looking at him. “Is this really something we should be discussing publicly?”

“You let me worry about doctor-patient confidentiality, and I’ll let you worry about your poops,” the doctor said haughtily. “I erected a cone of silence the moment I approached, so no need to fret over eavesdroppers. Now, where was I? Oh yes—I hereby prescribe the proverbial apple a day. That should help with your poops. Also, take two aspirin, throw them in the trash since you don’t need them, and don’t call me in the morning. I sleep in. Treating rambunctious students is exhausting, and I need my rest.

“Speaking of rambunctious students, why did these first years greet you with applause? When I walk in, I’m lucky to get a ‘What’s up, doc?’”

Dr. Asclepius snapped his fingers.

“Wait a second. Are you the same Max who instigated the fight that led to the imp infestation?”

“I wouldn’t say I instigated it,” Max protested.

“Of course you wouldn’t. ‘It doesn’t matter what this roomful of witnesses says, officer, the other guy started it.’” Dr. Asclepius tapped the side of his nose slyly. “Don’t get caught, amirite, Mr. Blackwood?”

“But I really didn’t—” Max stopped himself. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. If these guys think I started the fight that led to them being here, why would they applaud me? You’d think they’d be mad.”

Dr. Asclepius snorted.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“The day a Prometheus student gets mad because he was sucked into a brawl is the day I’ll retire to Antarctica to watch the glaciers glace. Unreals love a good fight. The data shows that those of us who develop Unreal powers are more aggressive post-powers than we were pre-powers. It’s why so many of us slap on Halloween outfits and sally forth to bash each others’ heads in.”

Max couldn’t help but wonder if the doctor was right. He had jury-rigged a superhero costume and attacked Sheriff Barker. Would he have done such a thing before he got his powers? Had they really made him more aggressive?

The doctor was still talking. “I’ve got some theories as to why people’s aggression levels shoot up after they manifest Unreal powers, but I need to dissect some Unreals’ brains pre- and post-Awakenings to confirm them. Alas, despite my pleading, Strategos has forbade me to crack open the skulls of a few first years and scoop out your brains with a melon baller. What’s wrong with your hands?”

It took a few seconds of Max untangling the eccentric doctor’s word jumble to realize Asclepius had asked him a question. He looked down at his hands, which bore bandages from the imp attack.

“There’s nothing wrong with my hands,” Max said. “They’re fine.”

“Really, Dr. Blackwood? And what august institution did you take your medical degree from? South Park Elementary? If your hands truly were fine, they wouldn’t be bandaged.”

Before Max could react, four metallic tentacles exploded from the band around Dr. Asclepius’ waist. Two wrapped around Max’s hands like whips, and pulled them closer to the doctor. The other two tentacles began removing the bandages.

“What thumb-fingered relic wrapped these bandages, anyway?” Dr. Asclepius complained. “A time-traveling, one-eyed Civil War medic?”

“No, the servitors did it. After the imp attack.”

“Humph! You’re lucky they didn’t bleed you to purge you of your bad humors while they were at it. Count your blessings they didn’t try to give you a hysterectomy. Imagine! Using bandages in this day and age. It’s practically barbaric. I keep begging Waldo to let me update the servitors’ medical capabilities, but he won’t hear of it. Something about how their AI is evolving, and he doesn’t want to derail its progression. Blah, blah, blah. You should have come here for treatment instead of letting those antiquated mechanical sawbones fiddle with you.”

“It’s just a few bites and cuts,” Max protested.

The tentacles finished unwinding the bandages, exposing Max’s raw flesh. Twin blue beams of light emitted from the ends of the tentacles, and the prehensile metal ran the beams over Max’s injuries. They tickled.

Dr. Asclepius let out a long-suffering sigh as he reviewed the new information scrolling by on his HUD.

“‘It’s just a few bites and cuts,’ he says. The last time a patient said that to me, she turned into a werewolf the next full moon. My dear boy, microscopic pathogens have shuffled off more mortal coils than wars and old age combined. Additionally, the imps that attacked you students were from another dimension. Goodness only knows what sort of exobiological infectious agents you’ve been exposed to.”

That was unsettling. Max looked at his hands, halfway convinced they would shrivel up and fall off.

“Fortunately for you,” the doctor continued, “my scans indicate no signs of infection in your hands. A shame, that. I haven’t had a chance to perform a double amputation in an age. My skills are getting rusty. Not to mention my saw. Hold still. The tissue regenerators might sting a little.”

The scanning beams turned from blue to pink, and the tickling sensation transformed to pinpricks of pain. As the beams passed over Max’s wounds, his flesh knitted together.

In seconds, it looked like his hands had never been injured. Even the scar from when he sliced his hand open on an exposed screw on a swing set in elementary school was gone.

Max clenched and unclenched his fists, looking at his hands in wonder. The pain that had been lingering since the imp attack was gone.

“Much better than some nineteenth-century bandage, eh?” the doctor said smugly.

“Much better. Thanks!” With a doctor like this on duty, it was no wonder none of the injured students had died in the imp attack.

Dr. Asclepius’ tentacles retracted, disappearing back into the metal band around his waist.

“My dear boy, the next time you decide to instigate—ahem, I mean not instigate—a fight, try not to send me so many customers. All this work is impeding on my nap time. Anyway, you’re as good as new. Better, actually, since you’ve had the pleasure of making my acquaintance. You’re welcome. Off you go.”

Dr. Asclepius turned to walk away.

“Wait!” Max said. “I didn’t come here to be healed.”

“No? Then what on earth brings you down here? If it’s your serving of milk you’re after, they issue those in the Dining Hall.”

“Malik Washington. The guy the imps came out of. I want to check on him. And to talk to him.”

“Isn’t your contretemps with Mr. Washington what started this whole mess?” The doctor’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “When I said to not instigate a fight, I meant for you to not instigate it elsewhere. Not here. This is a place of healing, not a wrestling ring.”

“I just want to talk to him. Honest. I’m not looking for trouble.”

Dr. Asclepius studied him.

“Humph!” he finally said. “Very well—I’ll take you to him. But if you lift a finger against one of my patients, I’ll remove it for you. Along with the rest of your hand. My amputation skills are rusty, as I said, but it’s like riding a bike.”

Max followed the doctor as he threaded his way through the infirmary, out of the common area to where there were private rooms. They passed an open door, through which Max saw someone he recognized. It was the speedster, the one who had attacked Ravi and been so easily repulsed by the experienced fourth year. What was his name? Max flogged his memory. Landing on Villains Island hadn’t been long ago, but so much had happened since, it seemed like a lifetime. Oh yeah—Tomlinson.

Tomlinson stared up at the ceiling sullenly. Unlike all the other students in the infirmary, Tomlinson’s wrists and ankles were handcuffed to his bed. Considering how angry the speedster had been about being abducted, Max wondered if he been disruptive in the infirmary, resulting in him being restrained.

Tomlinson disappeared from view as Max and Asclepius proceeded further down the corridor. Asclepius knocked on a closed door, waited a beat, then opened it. Max followed him inside.

Malik, wearing a hospital gown that exposed just how muscular he was, sat upright in a high-tech medical bed. A tray of food was in front of him that he was using a knife and fork to eat.

His eyes hardened when they fell on Max. A cut of steak froze on its way toward Malik’s mouth.

Malik shoved his tray out of the way. It clattered to the floor, food flying. He surged out of bed, brandishing the knife.

An ugly look on his face, he rushed toward Max.