Max ran like he had never run in his life.

Whenever he faltered, a jolt from Dr. Asclepius’ electrified tentacles spurred him on. Pain was an effective motivator.

Asclepius easily kept pace with Max as the 17-year-old sprinted feverishly through the sand. Unlike Max, the doctor wasn’t sweating buckets. In fact, he didn’t appear to sweat at all. He looked like he was taking a leisurely Sunday stroll, his tentacles doing the heavy lifting—or, in this case, walking—as he hovered above the ground, serene as a frolicking butterfly, probably not burning enough calories to work off a grain of rice.

Max, on the other hand, was working like a whipped slave. His lungs burned as if he’d swallowed fire, his muscles ached with the sort of deep, wrenching pain which clawed at his every molecule, and his legs felt like they would cramp and collapse if he didn’t maintain their movement through sheer force of will. Every gasping breath was a battle, each step a war won against his screaming body’s pleas to just stop.

As Max pushed through the torture, a dark thought crept into his mind, unwelcome at first, but increasingly appealing.

He found himself picturing Dr. Asclepius, not floating effortlessly anymore, but struggling for breath just as Max was, with Max’s hands around his neck, tightening like a boa constrictor. Max fantasized about wringing the life from the doctor's body, watching the smug calmness drain from his face. It was a daydream as alien as it was violent, yet it brought a twisted knot of satisfaction to Max’s gut. The only time Max had been more enraged and lusted more for revenge was in the aftermath of his father’s sudden death, when Max had laid eyes on the drunk driver responsible.

As the run dragged on, even the potent fuel of his anger burned away, leaving behind nothing but the mechanical need to keep moving. Thought became a luxury too expensive to afford; there was only the endless rhythm of pain and perseverance, the need to put one foot in front of the other. Max’s world shrank to the next step, and then the next, a never-ending sequence of small victories against his own body’s rebellion.

Dr. Asclepius glanced at the holographic screens flashing before his eyes, projected from the metal band around his head. Max, too exhausted to notice an abrupt change in the doctor’s demeanor, kept pushing himself until the doctor’s voice, calm as ever, cut through the haze of his fatigue.

“Mr. Blackwood, slacken your pace, please. You’re overextending yourself. Slow to a walk.”

Max stumbled at the words, his relief so overwhelming it nearly bowled him over.

“Really?” he croaked. Suspecting a honey trap, Max still didn’t slow, fearing the doctor would use it as an excuse to zap him again.

“Indeed,” the doctor continued, his eyes focused on his readouts. “Headmaster Strategos will have words with me if a student suffers a cardiac event while I’m three feet away. Embarrassing, you see.”

Max wanted to laugh, cry, and collapse all at once. The intensity of his relief was so profound he could’ve kissed the doctor right on the mouth. While he was there, he’d stab the bastard in the throat. Or at least he would if he still had the Swiss Army knife his father had given him. Max wondered what Stiletto had done with it.

A sudden thought hit like a thunderbolt: Had Stiletto stabbed Sheriff Barker to death while Max was unconscious? While gloved, she had thrust her dagger into Max’s bare hands. If she used it to kill Barker as she had previously urged Max to do, Max’s fingerprints—and his alone—were all over the murder weapon.

Max had disappeared from Rebel County immediately after Barker was stabbed to death. (Assuming he really was dead.) Max was no homicide detective, but he had read enough murder mysteries to know whom the authorities would consider the prime suspect.

Shit.

Max had been so overwhelmed dealing with the harsh realities of life at Prometheus Academy, the thought of what Stiletto had done with Barker’s unconscious body had literally never occurred to him until now. He had been too busy putting out fire after fire during his time at the academy; in the case of the Librarian combusting, quite literally putting out a fire.

As if Max didn’t already have enough problems, a new one had just fallen from the clear blue sky onto his overflowing plate. Ninety-nine problems, and that bitch Stiletto was a big one.

He slowed to a walk, hands on his hips, catching his breath in heaving gulps. Dr. Asclepius produced a clear bottle containing a pink liquid. The doctor must’ve snagged it from one of the servitors along the race route when Max’s attention had been monopolized by putting one foot in front of the other.

“Drink this,” the doctor instructed. One of his tentacles thrust it toward Max.

Max didn’t take it, eyeing the liquid suspiciously. As the saying went, beware Villains named after Greeks bearing gifts. Or something along those lines; Max was too exhausted to think clearly.

“What is it?” he asked warily.

“A concoction of my own devising,” Asclepius replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “Think of it as a sports drink, but considerably more effective. It contains a blend of electrolytes derived from Himalayan pink salt, glucose for immediate energy replenishment, amino acids for muscle recovery, and a smattering of less conventional ingredients—ginseng for stamina, dragon fruit extract for its anti-inflammatory properties, and a dash of powdered horn of the endangered Javan rhinoceros. Plus, a sprinkle of crushed pearls for . . . well, let’s call it the aesthetic value. A bit of extra zhuzh.

“Perhaps most significantly, the drink contains some proprietary ingredients I’d prefer to keep on the q.t. In case I decide to monetize the formula, you understand.” Dr. Asclepius tapped the side of his nose, his eyes darting around suspiciously like eavesdroppers might be lurking behind sand dunes. “Does Colonel Sanders publicize his chicken recipe? Does the CEO of Coca-Cola shout Coke’s secret formula from the rooftops? No and no. So don’t press for more details, because I’m not talking. Industrial espionage is ubiquitous. I learned my lesson from the National Dairy Board stealing my ‘Milk does a body good’ slogan.”

Now that he wasn’t spurring Max like the student was a wild stallion he was trying to break, the doctor seemed back to his old eccentric self. His neck still throbbing from repeated electric jolts, Max didn’t trust the doctor’s bonhomie. Never again would he let his guard down around this mental patient who ought to be in a straitjacket instead of a lab coat. Physician, heal thyself.

“Regardless, I’ve dubbed the mixture Villain-Ade.” The doctor paused, frowning. “Though now that I’ve said it aloud, I admit the name needs workshopping. I’m a doctor, not a marketer. Anyway, down the hatch, youngling; you’ll feel worlds better.”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

A tentacle shook the beverage in Max’s face, but he was still leery of it. What if the drink was poison? At this point, he wouldn’t put anything past the doctor, Stiletto, or any of the other psychopaths in this crazy place. What if the so-called Villain-Ade was really hemlock or something? What did hemlock look like, anyway? If Max stumbled across the shade of Socrates while trudging along the beach, he’d ask.

Forcing his jumbled mind to think logically, he tried to dismiss his suspicions. If the doctor were trying to kill him, would he have halted Max’s heart-jeopardizing run? Besides, his legs were cramping, his mouth and throat felt like the Sahara Desert, and the pink beverage the doctor shook beguilingly was beginning to look like an oasis.

Max snatched the Villain-Ade and ripped off its top with quivering hands. Despite his body screaming at him to chug the cool liquid, he took an experimental sip instead. At the first sign of poisonous effects, Max would go in for that kiss he’d thought about before—no homo—swap some spit with Asclepius, and drag the doctor into that big beach in the sky alongside him.

Even with just a tentative sip, Max felt a rush of cool relief flood through him. Maybe his body’s immediate reaction was just the placebo effect. Or maybe it was the drink’s eleven secret herbs and spices. The taste was peculiar, but not unpleasant, reminiscent of carbonated fruit punch—a tangy, sweet concoction that tingled on his tongue.

Throwing caution to the wind, Max downed the entire bottle in a few thirsty gulps as he continued to walk. In moments, the aches in his muscles began to ease, and his breath came more easily.

Thanks played on Max’s tongue for the Villain-Ade, but he swallowed the word before good manners spit it out. Southern etiquette notwithstanding, he wasn’t about to thank the man who had used a cattle prod on him like he was a stubborn cow. Now that he was beginning to catch his breath, Max was back to daydreaming of choking the life out of the doctor. Molly, Stiletto, Asclepius . . . Max had a lot of scores to settle.

Dr. Asclepius saw the look on Max’s face, raising an eyebrow. “You’re angry.”

“Nope. I enjoy discovering what being electrocuted feels like.”

“You ought to be thanking me. I did you a favor.”

“For not zapping me in the eye as threatened? Thanks. Thanks a lot. I’ll nominate you for doctor of the year.”

“The favor I did is teaching you something about yourself.”

“That I don’t like being shocked? I already knew that.”

“I taught you that you’re capable of more than you think you are if you really push yourself.”

Max tried to keep a straight face, but his skepticism must’ve shone through because the doctor sighed.

“Mr. Blackwood, have you asked yourself why a medical man as learned as myself is riding herd over you hooligans during a mindless gym class instead of some mouth-breather armed with a whistle, knee-high socks, and an eighty-eight IQ?”

“Never thought about it. I’m guessing the reason is sadism.”

The doctor smiled the smile of a cat reminiscing over disemboweling a mouse.

“My sadistic tendencies find ample opportunities for expression in the infirmary. No, Mr. Blackwood—I’m out here instead of the stereotypical mustachioed creepy gym coach to prevent you students from killing yourselves. And by that, I don’t mean stopping you from murdering each other; the servitors do a passable job of that. I mean that my role here is to prevent you all from pushing so hard that you overextend yourselves, inflicting permanent harm.”

“Yeah, you did a bang-up job of that with Gene. She’s probably splayed on the sand right now, passed out from sun stroke. Good job.”

The doctor waved a dismissive hand; it flew through the holographic readouts he was still monitoring.

“I’m keeping an eye on Ms. Fletcher’s vitals via her suit’s telemetry. I would intervene before she caused permanent harm to herself. As I would with any of the first years.

“Ms. Fletcher is neither blind nor stupid. Her every look in the mirror is a reminder that, as far as physical conditioning is concerned, she lags well behind the rest of your class. She is doing everything humanly possible to rectify that fact, to defy the belittling labels many of her peers are applying to her. You did her no kindness in spotlighting her struggles. I dare say she’s both embarrassed and insulted by you coddling her.”

Max didn’t want to believe the doctor was right, but hadn’t forgotten Gene’s tears. Or how she had knocked him down when he tried to get her to take a break.

“If anyone’s bad behavior deserves being spotlighted,” Dr. Asclepius continued, “it’s yours.”

“Me?” Max sputtered. “All I did was look out for a classmate. Is that a crime?”

The doctor waved his hand dismissively again.

“Not that. I’m referring to your lackadaisical efforts today, both in the weight room and here on the beach.”

Max was so stunned, he was rendered speechless. Finally, he found words.

“What on earth are you talking about? I just ran to the moon and back. Full-tilt. You should know—you made me do it.”

“Precisely my point. I made you do it. Before I spurred you on, you weren’t trying as hard as you could. Remember, I can see your vital signs too. Ms. Fletcher didn’t need prodding to give her maximum effort. Nor did most of your other classmates. They gave their all today because they know such an effort is what it takes for them to succeed, both here and in the wider world. You share your class with aspiring plutocrats, master criminals, and more than just a few would-be conquerors. To climb the greasy pole of power, your classmates know they need to give their absolute best. Because if they don’t, someone smarter, faster, and stronger will knock them over the head and take their spot.”

“But I don’t want to be a criminal!” Max cried, exhaustion making his tongue reckless. “I don’t want to conquer anything!”

Dr. Asclepius looked back at him knowingly.

“I am well aware you are at Prometheus Academy involuntarily, Mr. Blackwood. That fact is noted in your school file. Also noted is the fact you were turned down by every Hero academy you applied to. Have you ever stopped to wonder why? On paper, you’re an ideal Hero candidate. Your powers are unusual and amenable to enlargement. Your tests indicate you are of above-average intelligence. You’re surprisingly well-educated for someone from an impoverished area. And, as demonstrated by your concern for Ms. Fletcher, you have that Dudley Do-Right spirit Hero academies fetishize.

“Why, then, did they all reject you?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Max said bitterly.

“Actually, Mr. Blackwood, my guess is far superior to yours. Though I’m certainly not on the admission committees for any Hero academies—their loss—I can make an educated guess as to why they didn’t want you. After all, I’ve had decades of experience with Heroes and Villains alike. Not to mention a slew of Prometheus students.

“Regardless of their race, national origin, gender, sexual orientation, size, power set, or which side of the law they’re on, the most successful Unreals all have one thing in common: a killer’s instinct. Sometimes literally. But always at least figuratively. They have a winner’s mindset, an ethos that champions the pursuit of victory above all else. An understanding that to win, one must be willing to do whatever it takes. It’s about pushing beyond what you believe are your limits, about seeing every setback as a lesson rather than a defeat. This mindset doesn’t accept mediocrity; it demands excellence.

“You, my dear boy, don’t have that mindset. That is almost certainly why the Hero academies rejected you. Why Prometheus Academy would have also rejected you had you not been shanghaied here for reasons I can’t even begin to speculate on.”

The doctor’s words stung Max more than his electric tentacles had. “What the hell do you know? You don’t know me.”

“I know you didn’t try your best today. I know you capitulated to my electric prodding when many of your classmates would rather be electrocuted than knuckle under to me or anyone else. And I know people with a killer instinct when I see them. Even a blind man begins to spot patterns after dealing with countless students over the years.”

The doctor shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger.

“Want some free medical advice?”

“No,” Max said sullenly.

“A shame, because I’ll dispense some anyway. The spirit of the Hippocratic oath demands it. What kind of doctor would I be to not steer you away from a life certain to get you killed?

“In the unlikely event you survive the rigors of Prometheus Academy, Mr. Blackwood, abandon the dream of becoming a Hero. Embrace the life of the ordinary. Get your annual Agent X injections like a good little boy to suppress your Unreal abilities, marry some nice girl who’ll grow to loathe you, and sell car insurance for a living. You’re temperamentally unsuited for life as an active Unreal. Because, while you continue on the path you’re on—sleepwalking through life, doing the bare minimum to get by—someone somewhere will be grinding.

“And when you two meet, it’ll be like a kitten facing a lion: he’ll kill you. And there won’t be a blessed thing you can do to stop him.”