When Max was in the second grade, he was suspended for fighting.

More specifically, for fighting a girl.

It’s not like he started it. Jenny Alfeld had sucker-punched him in the face for taking the last chocolate milk, the one she wanted. It had been first come, first served, and only the dreaded strawberry and even more dreaded plain milk cartons were left. It wasn’t Max’s fault Jenny hadn’t gotten in line soon enough. You snooze, you lose. Everybody knew that.

Naturally, Max had immediately punched Jenny back. The hittee had the god-given right to hit the hitter back. Everybody knew that, too. That ancient law of the dog-eat-dog schoolyard was practically enshrined in the elementary school Bill of Rights.

Max’s dad had to leave work early to pick his suspended son up. As they rumbled home in their rickety truck, his father informed Max there was an important amendment to that Bill of Rights.

“Max, don't ever hit a girl,” he had said.

“But she hit me first!” Max protested, outraged at the injustice of being suspended while Jenny was still in school. To add insult to injury, Mrs. Driscoll had made him surrender his chocolate milk to Jenny. He prayed it was spoiled, lumpy, and gave her a bellyache.

“I hear you. But still, you never hit a girl.”

“Why not? It’s not fair!”

“You’ll understand when you're older.” His dad’s jaw had clenched stubbornly. “For now, just do as I tell you. Don’t ever let me catch you hitting another girl.”

As Max aged and grew, he did come to understand. The average man was so much stronger than the average woman, he could kill her with his bare hands, and there wasn’t much she could do to stop him. The “don’t hit girls” rule was society’s attempt to prevent that from happening, to curb the physically stronger sex from abusing the physically weaker sex.

Not everyone followed the rule, of course. The all-too-high domestic violence rate provided ample evidence of that. But the fact the domestic violence rate wasn’t even higher indicated that, like Max, most men had internalized the “don’t hit girls” rule long before they hit puberty, when the strength gap between males and females widened into a gulf. Society’s attitude about the matter was changing but, due to his conservative upbringing, Max never bought into the equal rights, equal lefts rhetoric increasingly common in male-dominated online spaces.

But if Max was ever tempted to hit a woman, that woman would be Molly Tanaka.

Dr. Asclepius’ examination notes indicated Max hadn’t tripped and hit his head during the Capture the Flag tournament, despite appearances at the scene where his unconscious body was found. Rather, the doctor thought Max had been attacked. Further, Dr. Asclepius believed Molly’s own head wound had been self-inflicted, not psychosomatically caused by her powers’ psychic link to Max as she claimed.

Max didn’t need the deductive powers of Hercule Poirot to draw the obvious conclusion:

Molly had knocked Max out, and then knocked herself out to divert suspicion.

But why? Why would she do such a thing?

Max didn’t have an answer yet. He was bound and determined to get one, and maybe settle the score while he was at it. But he hadn’t yet confronted Molly about her attacking him. He was sure she’d just deny it, and he couldn’t prove otherwise without admitting to breaking into the doctor’s office.

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So Max was biding his time, waiting for an opportune moment when he had some sort of leverage over Molly, something to force her to tell the truth about what she had done and why she had done it.

Not only had he not confronted Molly, he also hadn’t told anyone what he discovered in Dr. Asclepius’ notes. Not even Damian and Gene. In a place like Prometheus Academy, no one could be fully trusted. Being sneak-attacked by Molly, a supposed teammate, had hammered that point home. The still-tender lump on his head was a not-so-gentle reminder he wasn’t in Kansas—or Mississippi—anymore, where people’s good intentions could be assumed.

But, regardless of what Molly had done to him—regardless of the freedom she had stolen by denying him the opportunity to escape Villains Island—the “don’t hit girls” rule his father had taught him all those years ago still applied.

So when Molly swung on him after VICE class, he didn’t think of hitting her back, despite the fact she was solidly built and could really hurt him. He had but one thought as her fist rocketed toward his head:

I’ll never hit a girl. Max shadow hopped out of the way. Molly’s fist sailed through empty air, making her stumble. Max popped up behind her from her own shadow, giving her a firm shove that sent the already off-balance girl sprawling to the floor. But I’ve got no problem shoving the bitch who stopped me from escaping this place.

Molly popped right back up. Her fall had loosened one of her braids, and her silken black hair spread out like a horse’s mane. She charged Max again, armed cocked, fist clenched, dark eyes blazing with rage.

Max again tapped into the shadows beneath their feet and vanished, reappearing just behind her. Molly, however, anticipated his move this time. As he emerged from the shadows, she spun around, her elbow aimed for his head.

But Max was one step ahead, having predicted her adaptation, his countermove ready. Clock me in the head once, shame on you; clock me in the head twice, shame on me. He grabbed her arm mid-swing, using her own momentum against her to spin her around, sending her tumbling to the ground once more. Molly’s fall was even less graceful than before, her thick body thudding against the hard floor with a force that echoed in the lecture hall.

“Take that!” Gene cried gleefully. She wasn’t the only one thrilled by the altercation. Around them, a circle of students had formed, their faces alight with an almost feral excitement. Maybe Dr. Asclepius had been right about Unreal powers making their possessors more aggressive.

“You’re not supposed to use your powers without permission!” Molly hissed accusingly as she slowly lifted herself to her feet, her chest heaving.

“You’re not supposed to attack people for no good reason,” Max replied coldly, ready for another assault. “And yet, here we are. Run after Strategos and tattle about me having the nerve to defend myself from an unprovoked assault. He can’t have gone far.”

“It’s not unprovoked!” Molly jabbed a finger at him. “You’re the clown who cost our team the Capture the Flag tournament. Tripping over your own damned feet. Imagine! Who’d you blow to get your sorry ass admitted to this school? Because there’s no way you’re here based on merit.”

Max almost admired Molly’s chutzpah. If he didn’t know better, he would believe she was just an extremely competitive person, furious that her teammate had cost her a win. She should go study at Juilliard instead. Her acting abilities are wasted here. But I can playact too, so she won’t suspect that I know what she did.

Max looked Molly squarely in the eyes. “We were a team, Molly. We win or lose together. No blaming, no finger-pointing. That’s how a team works.”

“There’s no ‘I’ in team, right?” Molly barked out a derisive laugh. “That’s loser-speak. Did you crib it from some do-good Hero? The bottom line is your incompetence cost us the win. More importantly, it cost me the win. I’m a winner, and getting stuck with a loser like you on my team screwed me big time. I won’t forget it.”

Max let some of his genuine anger at Molly peek through his facade. “You won’t forget it? Oh no! How terrifying. What are you going to do, fall on your winning ass a third time? Bet that’ll really teach me a lesson.”

Molly’s face darkened, her fists clenching again. Max thought he was going to have to do more floating like a butterfly when a servitor managed to push its way through the onlooking throng of students. Its inhuman red eyes swept over Max and Molly.

“Do you two not have another class to attend?” The servitor raised its artificial voice. “And that applies to the rest of you as well. Please clear the room immediately and resume your normal schedule.”

Molly and Max glared at each other.

Finally, Molly moved toward the exit. She shoulder-checked Max hard as she brushed past him.

“This isn’t over, Blackwood,” she growled.

Max turned to watch her go.

You’re right, he silently agreed, his thoughts dark. This isn’t over.