“Welcome to Prometheus Academy.” Strategos’ words echoed throughout the Grand Hall.

Damian and the other first years burst into enthusiastic applause. Many also hooted and hollered. Only a few sat on their hands, including Max. Though Max couldn’t see everyone, he took note of those in eyeshot who weren’t applauding. Maybe they, like him, had been kidnapped and had no interest in joining this asylum for young and ambitious criminals. Or maybe they simply didn’t like following the herd. Max would have to find out if the non-applauders were like him and wanted to escape.

In the meantime, he began applauding too. Blending in seemed the wisest course until he got the lay of the land and figured out how to flee it.

One of the applauders, the guy in the dashiki from the beach, caught Max’s eye from a few seats away. He leaned over to give Max a thumbs up, grinning like he and Max were cashing in a winning lottery ticket. Max grinned back and gave him a double thumbs up, feeling like the forced grin might make his lips bleed. Some leggy blonde in a tight sequined dress didn’t shimmy over to present Max with an Oscar for Best Performance in an Insane Asylum, but he felt like he deserved one.

Strategos resumed speaking when the sustained applause finally died.

“Prometheus Academy is the world’s premier school of supervillainy.” The tall man paused, the whiteness of his smile a stark contrast to his dark face. “Of course, that is unrelated to the fact it’s also the world’s only school of supervillainy.”

That got a laugh from the crowd.

“Every Villain depicted in the holograms you watched is a Prometheus alum. Some of the world’s most notorious costumed Villains are Prometheus graduates. Prometheus graduates are also non-costumed elected officials, dictators, monarchs, billionaires, scientists, inventors, college professors, stay-at-home parents, farmers, kindergarten teachers, and beach bums whose feet have forgotten the feel of shoe leather.

“In short, Prometheus graduates become who and what they want to become. The only thing all Prometheus graduates have in common is an unwavering belief in freedom. Freedom to use our god-given Unreal powers in the ways we see fit, instead of the way society tries to force us to use them.

“As you already know unless you slept through your standard science and history classes, an invisible force known as Unreality permeates everything, undetectable by conventional means. Humanity would doubtless still be unaware of Unreality’s existence if it weren’t for the Carrington Event of 1859. During that event, an interplanetary coronal mass ejection from the sun—the most significant one in recorded history—collided with the Earth’s magnetosphere. This resulted in worldwide auroral displays and in sparking and fires in many telegraph stations. More significantly, the solar storm unlocked man’s latent genetic ability to tap into Unreality.

“Those of us who can wield the awesome powers of Unreality are known as Unreals. Every person in this room is one. As an Unreal, you laugh at the limits of conventional science and reality. For you, the impossible is possible. For you, the possibilities are endless.”

Strategos paused, scanning the eager faces looking up at him. Even Max couldn’t help but be riveted by the man’s words.

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“The world at large, however, doesn’t want those endless possibilities realized,” the headmaster continued. “The so-called civilized world calls the years of unfettered Unreal freedom between the Carrington Event and the enactment of the Unreal Accords ‘The Crazy Years’ or ‘The Wild Years.’ But you and I see through those Orwellian terms. The Unreal Accords were nothing but a naked power grab, a successful attempt by powerful non-Unreal interests to reclaim what they believed was their proper place at the top of humanity’s hierarchy before the Carrington Event.

“Under the Accords, all Unreals must register their powers with both their countries’ governments and the Unreal Council. The Unreal Council is an international body currently under the auspices of the United Nations that monitors Unreals and regulates their conduct. Unreals who wish to use their powers can legally do so only by becoming so-called Heroes, aka superheroes. Becoming a Hero entails graduating from an Unreal Council-sanctioned Hero academy and obtaining a Heroic certification. Once a Hero, your powers and very life are at the service of society at large.

“Registered Unreals who don’t want to jump through the hoops to become Heroes are compelled to take drugs for the rest of their lives that suppress their god-given abilities.

“Unreals who refuse to register and/or who use their powers without a Hero certification are considered Villains. Criminals to be hunted down, imprisoned, and have their powers suppressed forever.”

Strategos shook his head, seeming disgusted at the thought. A few of the first years booed.

“Society’s propaganda dresses up this blatant discrimination against us Unreals in the finery of bromides like ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ and ‘to whom much is given, much will be required.’ But let’s not fool ourselves. The Unreal Accords aren’t about the greater good. They are about control. They’re about the weak asserting control over the strong, all while duping the strong into believing it’s admirable to be under the thumb of their lessers. The Accords are chains on Unreals to keep you from reaching your full potential. The moment you register, the moment you bend the knee to the Unreal Accords, you lose your freedom forever and enslave yourself to society’s wishes.”

Strategos leaned forward earnestly, his long torso looming over the podium as his dark eyes blazed with the fire of a zealot. The pose reminded Max even more strongly of a vulture, one bending to peck at roadkill. Max couldn’t decide if the man believed what he was saying, or if it was all a put-on. Strategos certainly seemed sincere. Then again, so did Sunday morning evangelists who had been sinning and raising hell all night Saturday.

“As a man whose ancestors were chattel slaves,” Strategos continued, “slavery in all its forms is repugnant to me. As it should be to you and all freedom-loving people. And so I reject the authority of the Accords over people like us. I reject their attempt to enslave us and to give the undeserving the fruits of our uncompensated labor. Lex iniusta non est lex—an unjust law is no law at all. The Accords take away your freedom of choice, dictate your destiny, and force you into roles society deems ‘acceptable.’

“And that, my young friends, is why Prometheus Academy exists. Here, you need not conform to the self-serving expectations of the world. Here, you are free to explore your Unreal powers without judgment or constraints. Here, we teach you not just how to control your abilities, but how to use them to mold both your life and the wider world according to your own vision. According to your own will. The mice can only bell the cat if the cat consents to it. We at Prometheus Academy do not so consent.”

Straightening, Strategos pounded the podium, the smacks punctuating his words.

“Will you be society’s puppet, forced to wear a Hero’s mask of conformity?”

In answer, a chorus of students shouted “No!”

“Or will you be a puppeteer, pulling the strings of destiny?”

“Yes!”

A sudden smile split Strategos’ face.

“Need I even ask, my young friends? By entering these august halls, you’ve made your choice clear. I’ve already said our official motto is ‘One is a warrior.’ But, until the Accords are moldering in the dustbin of history alongside apartheid, witch trials, and debtor’s prisons, heed the words of Prometheus Academy’s unofficial motto: Don’t get caught.”