The tall Latino loomed like a sequoia over the blonde plus-sized girl’s table. The black guy was much shorter than his companion, with the robust build of a dedicated bodybuilder. The white guy was neither as tall as the Latino nor as muscular as the black guy, but still imposing.

Max thought just one of them alone would be intimidating. Combined, they were downright terrifying. Especially considering how they glared down at the blonde girl. She sat alone, her table companions having scattered like leaves at the ominous approach of the three boys.

Between the deactivation of the servitors and the menacing way the three boys approached the blonde girl, all the first years in the Dining Hall knew something was going down. The students stared at the blonde and the three guys arrayed before her like they were cars on a collision course, an accident inevitable.

Everyone was so quiet, Max heard the clinking of utensils as the blonde continued to eat. She was around Max’s age and pretty, with dimples showing when she chewed. Her hair had been down when Max saw her in the Grand Hall; now it was in a neat ballet bun, in compliance with the school’s dress code.

She acted as though the three boys weren’t staring daggers at her. But Max figured that, unless she was history’s youngest victim of Parkinson’s disease, her hands trembling meant she was well aware of them. There was no way she wasn’t, unless she had blindness to go with her Parkinson’s.

Finally, she put her knife and fork down and looked up. She eyed each of the boys glowering at her.

“Black, white, and brown,” she noted. “How diverse. If you were food, you’d be s’mores. Or an Oreo with a glass of chocolate milk.”

“All this daft cow thinks about is food, Carlos,” complained the white guy with the English accent.

“Fat bitch like her, what’d you expect, Ollie?” responded the Latino.

“Unless she’s trying to be funny,” said the husky black guy. His deep voice sounded like a rumbling volcano. “That it, blondie? You think you’re funny?”

“Funny ha-ha? No,” she said. “Funny strange? Yes. I’m told that a lot. ‘Eugenia, you’re so weird.’ I get that all the time. The weird part, not the Eugenia part. Most people call me Gene, after all. There’s little filter between my brain and mouth. Especially when I’m nervous. I’m nervous now. Are you?”

“We’re not nervous,” said the black guy. “We’re pissed. You embarrassed us in the Grand Hall.”

“In front of everybody. Don’t forget that part, Malik,” added Carlos.

“Seems to me you embarrassed yourselves,” Gene said. “You ought to be ashamed, talking about a stranger’s appearance the way you did. Not even I do that, and I’ve got that lack of filter issue I mentioned before. Don’t you have mothers? Were you raised by mangy wolves?”

“You made us look like fools,” Ollie said. “You sealed our mouths shut, all over some gentle ribbing.”

“What makes you think that was me?” Gene asked.

Carlos snorted. “All we did was tease you a little, and the next thing we knew, we couldn’t talk. Two plus two equals four.”

“I also enjoy first grade math,” Gene said.

Malik jabbed a finger at the insignia on the girl’s ample chest. “You’re wearing a Biomancer emblem. Freaks like you mess with people’s bodies. It must’ve been you. We’re not stupid.”

“Are you sure?” Gene asked. “That you’re not stupid, I mean. Ever heard of the Dunning-Kruger effect? Stupid people rarely realize they’re stupid. Quite the opposite, usually. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying you are stupid. I don’t know you from Adam. Or from Cain, Abel, Seth, or any of Adam’s other descendants. All I’m saying is you shouldn’t rule out the possibility you’re stupid. Maybe look into it before making your minds up. There are tests you can take.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Malik bristled. “If you were a man, I’d knock you across the room for that kind of talk.”

“Lucky I’m not a man, then. Yay ovaries!”

“A man would get the beating he deserved,” Carlos spat. “But because you’re not a dude, we’re just going to embarrass you in front of everyone like you embarrassed us.”

“By making me have this tedious conversation?” Gene gave the three a thumbs up. “Good job, guys. Mission accomplished. You got me good.”

If Max was going to master the art of winning people over to help him escape Prometheus Academy, he decided he wouldn’t take lessons from this girl. She was either breathtakingly reckless, or she really didn’t have a filter as she had said.

Ollie collected a few plates of partially eaten food abandoned by Gene’s tablemates. He dumped them in front of her. “Eat this.”

“Why?” Gene asked.

“Because if you look like a pig,” Ollie said, “you should be slopped like you’re one.”

A smattering of giggles—some nervous, others malicious—bubbled up from the onlooking first years.

“If you eat everything on this table,” Malik said, “We’re square.”

“But without using utensils or your hands,” Carlos added. “Hogs don’t use them, so why should you?”

Gene took a long time to answer.

“I won’t do it,” she said quietly. “I’m not an animal, and won’t be treated like one.”

“If you don’t, you’ll regret it,” Malik warned.

Max had started off uncomfortable, and his discomfort increased exponentially with each passing second. He scanned the room, wondering if anyone would put a stop to this harassment.

The servitors were still slumped over, out of commission. The expressions on the spectating students’ faces ranged from distaste to studied indifference to eager anticipation. Clearly no one planned to intervene, not even the students who had been eating with Gene at her table. It was the bystander effect in operation. Plus, Max thought, these survival of the fittest types probably thought a victim of bullying deserved what she got.

Screw that. This has gone on too long already.

Max started to stand. Damian’s hand shot out from across the table, grabbing Max’s wrist.

“Stay out of it,” Damian murmured.

“I’m not going to just sit here like a bump on a log,” Max whispered back as Gene and the three boys continued their back and forth, “watching while she gets picked on.”

“That girl should fight her own battles. She’s nothing to you. If you intervene, you’ll just make yourself a target. The tallest poppy gets cut first.”

Max twisted out of Damian’s grip.

“Feel free to sit and do nothing while an innocent person gets picked on,” Max hissed. “But not me.”

He strode around his table, toward Gene and her three bullies. He would get the situation under control. Growing up poor and scrawny, he had been a bully magnet, and knew how to deal with them.

His confidence shrank the closer he got to the bullies. Ollie was the smallest of the three, and even he was bigger than Max. Plus, the chests of all three were adorned with an emblem depicting the world ablaze.

The boys were in the Anarchy Division.

Of course they are, Max silently despaired. Everyone had warned him to stay away from the nutjobs in the Anarchy Division. And yet, here he was, walking into the lion’s den. He wished he had a lion-tamer’s chair and whip. Or at least the poker he had threatened Mirrorkin with.

He sidled up to the blonde, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Hi Gene. Why don’t you come sit at my table?”

Gene’s amber eyes shot Max a look of astonished gratitude that made putting his neck on the line feel worth it. She started to rise.

“Sit down, you stupid git!” Ollie barked at her.

“Who the hell are you?” Malik demanded of Max.

“I’m just a guy trying to eat his meal in peace. Come along, Gene.”

Carlos laughed, pointing. “Look! He’s in the Vigilante Division. The squirt thinks he’s a Hero. Boys, we’ve stumbled across the infamous Captain Save-A-Hoe. I thought he was a myth.”

“Is that what you are?” Malik rumbled, clenching his fists. “A Hero?”

Malik’s oversized fists rivaled Sheriff Barker’s. Malik apparently drew the line at hitting a girl, but seemed eager to take a swing at someone else. And here Max was, without a pair of ovaries to hide behind.

Max felt like gulping, but not showing fear was Dealing with a Bully 101. He knew from bitter experience and from Malik’s body language the situation would likely devolve to blows; he was already planning a preemptive strike. Striking before you got struck was Dealing with a Bully 102. He had learned that in middle school when, during recess, he had walked up to the ringleader of a group of kids that had been harassing Max, and cold-cocked him. The kids had left Max alone after that.

The insignia on the guys’ chests told Max that Malik was a Void Walker like him, Carlos was an Elementalist, and Ollie was an Energist. If things turned violent, Max decided to go after Ollie first. Him being an Energist probably meant he was capable of some sort of energy attack. With an opponent capable of a ranged attack out of the way, it would be easier to deal with the other two.

It’ll be a snap, Max thought sardonically. At what point does positive thinking become delusional?

“Fellas,” he said, hands raised placatingly, “I’m not looking for trouble. Why don’t you come sit with me, too? Hope you like smoked herring, cause I’ve got lots of it. We’ll talk things over.”

“You might not be looking for trouble,” Malik snarled. “But you found it.”

He lunged over the table, grasping for Max.