There were lots of things Max was afraid of:

Heights.

Needles.

Strange dogs.

Being alone in the dark, a fear that had dialed up a few notches ever since he had gotten stuck in the shadow realm during his time with Mirrorkin.

He also had amaxophobia, the fear of being a passenger in a car. He didn’t need to dig up and reanimate Sigmund Freud so his zombie could psychoanalyze Max for him to know exactly when he had developed that particular phobia.

Less than six months ago, his father had been driving them home in their truck. They were passing through an intersection when a speeding tow truck ran the red light, not slowing in the slightest.

Max had seen the disaster coming from his perch in the passenger seat. The other truck, a hulking blur of metal and recklessness, hurtled toward them, a lightning-fast horror show paradoxically playing out in seeming slow motion. Then, the moment of impact: a cacophony of shattering glass and crumpling metal, a discordant symphony of destruction.

At that instant, something deep within Max snapped. It was as if a switch had been flipped, awakening a power lying dormant until then.

It was a life-or-death situation, warranting a fight-or-flight response.

Max’s freshly Awakened Unreal powers chose flight.

His primal instinct for self-preservation suddenly had a new weapon in its arsenal. It made him sink into a shadow for the first time, vanish from the car, and teleport unscathed to the median. From there, Max helplessly watched his family’s vehicle be compressed into a bloody accordion by the tow truck.

Max had worked for a slaughterhouse for a summer, but none of the stomach-churning sights he witnessed there had prepared him for this horror of horrors: his father turning into so much hamburger before his very eyes. Turned into someone—something—barely recognizable as human, like the offal power-washed off the slaughterhouse floor.

The tow truck driver, drunk as a skunk, had staggered out without so much as a scratch. Of course he did. They say god protects children and fools. Max would’ve added drunk assholes to that list.

Max didn’t have amaxophobia before the accident. But boy, did he have it now.

Now, being a passenger in a car triggered a visceral reaction. His palms would sweat, his heart would race, and an unbearable itching sensation would creep into his eyeballs, as if his body was trying to teleport away from the mere memory of the accident. It was a physical and psychological reaction so intense that it bordered on unbearable, making any car trip as a passenger a test of endurance and will.

In addition to the amaxophobia, Max had also wrestled with an acute case of survivor’s guilt since the accident. Haunting what-ifs played in his mind like a broken record, constantly questioning why he was spared while his father wasn’t. This guilt intermingled with a newfound sense of purpose, a burning desire to use his powers for good, to protect others in a way he couldn’t protect his father.

Max didn’t know if there was a phobia that described the fear of losing someone else he loved. But if there were, he supposed he had that along with amaxophobia.

Oh, and coulrophobia—the fear of clowns. Max was definitely afraid of clowns. Their painted faces, forced laughs, and dead-inside eyes had always disturbed him, like they were a hair’s breadth away from going postal. If law enforcement discovered most clowns were serial killers, Max wouldn’t have been the slightest bit surprised.

Screw clowns.

So yes, Max was afraid of a lot of things.

But one thing he wasn’t afraid of was spiders.

Maybe it was because, like him, most spider species were solitary. Or perhaps because growing up in a rural area had made him very comfortable with various creepy-crawlies.

So when a fist-sized gray-and-black spider plopped atop his Gadgetry class desk and then sprang at him, his impulse wasn’t to panic or recoil, which was what some other students were doing. Rather, Max’s rural instincts kicked in.

He launched a slap at the spider designed to reduce it to goo and twitching legs.

Instead, his hand sailed through the spider like it was the ghost of Charlotte from Charlotte’s Web.

What the hell?

Max spun to face the spider that had leaped completely through his body like a phantom. It landed soundlessly on the floor, spun, and started skittering back toward him.

Max was starting to think this was a job for the Ghostbusters when Gene’s repeated shouts finally penetrated his brain. She had screamed the words before, but they hadn’t sunk in until now. In Max’s defense, it was a wee bit distracting to have spiders the size of mice rappel from the ceiling, and then have one leap at you like you were a particularly tasty fly.

“Guys! Guys!” Gene was yelling, trying to make herself heard over the hubbub caused by the arachnids lunging at the students. “The spiders aren’t real! If they were, I’d be able to sense their biologic mass with my powers.”

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Waldo’s booming voice cut through the chaos, demanding attention. “Alright, who’s the prankster? Which one of you chuckleheads is responsible for this?”

His lens-enlarged eyes scanned the chaotic room, quickly landing on the small figure who had earlier shaken his head at the wrong guesses about what the students’ jumpsuits were made of.

The little person sat smugly, calm amid the commotion. The spiders causing the ruckus faded away as shimmering text appeared above his head: Guilty as charged. I created the spiders. Specifically, Darwin’s bark spiders. Theirs is the silk our jumpsuits are made of.

Waldo consulted the HUD in front of his eyes and nodded.

“Ah yes, Finn Echer. The mute. Class, illusionism is his Unreal power, which he uses to communicate with. And, apparently, terrorize gullible students.”

A chiding finger appeared over Finn’s head, accompanied by text: I’m not mute. That term died out with the dinosaurs. I’m non-speaking. I communicate just as well as anyone, and better than most. The Gadgetry Division student shot contemptuous looks at Koffi and Damian. Especially Luddites dumb enough to think our suits could be made of graphene or buckypaper. As if.

“I stand corrected. But disrupt my class again, Finn, and I’ll resume my shooting spree. With your head as my first target.” Despite Waldo’s admonition, Finn didn’t seem the slightest bit cowed or contrite, a smug half-smile on his face. “As you saw, class, Finn obviously has a talent for creating lifelike illusions.” Waldo paused, glancing at Finn again with an inscrutable look on his face. “Among other things,” he added. The cryptic words hung in the air like fog.

The classroom, still recovering from the sudden appearance and disappearance of the spiders, stared at Finn. Some looked impressed, others annoyed, but all were undoubtedly curious about the extent of his abilities. The spider illusions alone had been impressive. Max understood why Mirrorkin had rated the guy as Competent-level.

Waldo directed everyone to resume their seats. First being shot at by their teacher, and then a spider attack. What was next, Max wondered. A thermonuclear blast?

“As Finn correctly stated,” Waldo continued once everyone was settled in again, “the fabric of your jumpsuits is derived from the silk of Darwin’s bark spiders. Named after the renowned naturalist, the spiders’ silk is the toughest biological substance known to man, over ten times tougher than Kevlar.”

A holographic projector flickered to life within Waldo’s hoverchair, vividly bringing a Darwin’s bark spider to life again in front of the class. The spider, magnified for detailed viewing, displayed an intricate pattern on its abdomen, a mosaic of earthy browns and muted grays. The spider’s multiple eyes, small yet keen, shimmered like tiny beads of black glass, giving it a vigilant appearance.

As the hologram rotated, showcasing the spider from various angles, the students saw the robust structure of its body. Its spinnerets—the silk-producing organs—were prominently labeled, rhythmically moving as if weaving an invisible web. The display zoomed in on these spinnerets, illustrating the complex biological machinery that produced the silk. The image then transitioned to show the spider expertly crafting an expansive web that stretched across a shimmering river, glistening in the sunlight.

“The Darwin’s bark spider weaves the world’s largest orb webs, often over rivers and lakes,” Waldo said. “These webs are so robust they can even trap small birds. Imagine the strength and resilience required. Thanks to yours truly, your jumpsuits are imbued with that same strength.

“I didn’t stop there,” Waldo continued, more matter-of-factly than braggy. “I married this extraordinary natural substance with cutting-edge nanotechnology.”

The hologram shifted to show microscopic views of the silk intertwined with what the display labelled nanofibers. The nanofibers moved like they were alive, seemingly at random, reminding Max of looking at pond water under a microscope and witnessing its teeming microorganisms.

“This nanotech integration enhances the already formidable properties of the silk,” Waldo said. “It grants your jumpsuits not only additional toughness, but also a degree of self-repair. When damaged, the nanofibers in the fabric initiate a rapid repair process at the molecular level, restoring integrity to the material.

“The nanotechnology in your suits, by the way, is how your credits and demerits are recorded. When I gave two credits to the Vigilante Division due to Max thwarting me from shooting you, for example, the tech in his suit transmitted that fact to the school’s central computer. That’s how the credit and demerit leaderboard stays up to date in real time. And how each of you knows exactly who’s responsible for your respective Divisions’ rise and fall on said leaderboard.

“I’m not showing you all this to brag,” Waldo added, a robotic arm on his chair gesturing at the holographic display. Max realized he hadn’t seen Waldo’s human arms move at all. Not once. Maybe, he speculated, Waldo had relied on technology so much and for so long that the muscles of his flabby arms were atrophied and useless. “Correction: I’m not showing you all this exclusively to brag. Genius really ought to get the credit it deserves.

“But I’m also showing you this as a teachable moment. Based on what I’ve told you about your suits’ composition and how they work, what would you do to increase their already formidable protection quotient and structural integrity?”

Several students raised their hands. Waldo called on one of them, but Max didn’t hear what the student said.

He was too busy staring at the holographic display, which had gone haywire.

The image of the inner workings of the students’ jumpsuits was warping unnervingly. The once precise lines blurred and distorted, the colors bleeding into a monochrome palette. The hologram had suddenly become like a strange high-tech ameba, contorting itself into some bizarre new shape.

An unsettling feeling descended on Max like a weighted blanket. He glanced around at the other students. Based on their expressions, they weren’t seeing anything out of the ordinary.

The image morphed into a black symbol. A cold chill ran down Max’s spine. It was the same haunting emblem he had seen in the shadow realm, when he had somehow gotten trapped there during his conversation with Mirrorkin.

The symbol’s stark blackness was broken only by faint, ghostly streaks, creating an image both strange and unsettlingly familiar. The contours of the symbol hinted at a face, like a deranged artist had been inspired by a rotten corpse’s visage and created an emblem based on it, evoking something ancient and malevolent.

Max was suddenly frozen, unable to so much as twitch, scarcely able to think. His forehead beaded with sweat as he helplessly watched the symbol twist and contort. The face-like features of the symbol became more defined, with dark eyes coalescing. Those cold eyes fixed on Max, seeming to pierce into his very soul. The classroom, Waldo’s voice, and the chatter of his classmates faded to a distant hum as Max was pulled deeper into the symbol’s hypnotic presence.

Then, in a moment that made Max’s heart stop, the symbol’s face-like contours opened into a gaping maw, screeching as if an ancient rusty iron chest were being incrementally pried open.

A voice, deep and resonant like the voice of a god, echoed not in the room, but directly in Max's mind, vibrating through his very being:

“Free me!!!”