Between the spraying of the sand and Max’s hard breathing, he must’ve sounded like a charging bull to Gene. When he was almost right on top of her, she turned toward him, arms lifted defensively.

Max ducked under her arms, sinking into her shadow . . .

. . . and popped out of the long shadow of the servitor that was now in shadow-hopping range. The momentum from his pell-mell run added to being ejected from the shadow realm sent Max flying like a thrown ball at the servitor’s back.

He winced, throwing his arms up to protect his face. Max didn’t have an answer to the age-old question, What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? But he was about to discover what happened when a fast-moving student met an android with its artificial legs planted firmly in the sand.

He slammed into the servitor. The bone-jarring impact reverberated through his entire body, nearly knocking the wind out of him. The servitor didn’t so much as quiver, whereas Max bounced off the machine and hit the ground hard, tumbling across the coarse sand.

The servitor’s head rotated 180 degrees, bringing its unit number on its waxy forehead into view. Max had a flashback to when the servitor helicopter pilot had rotated its head to tell him to return to his seat on the ride to Villains Island. Or maybe the flashback was really just the flash of the stars exploding before his eyes from smacking into the servitor’s hard torso.

The servitor’s glowing red eyes tilted down to regard Max where he lay choking in the sand. Its artificial voice was devoid of any warmth: “Master Blackwood, it is beneath the dignity of a Prometheus Academy student to grovel in the dirt.”

Max couldn’t answer. He was too busy spitting sand out of his mouth. He had chewed so much sand today, he figured that, by now, he was at least fifteen percent glass.

Maybe my Heroic code name will be Glassman. No, scratch that—too close to Assman.

“As you should know by now, the use of your powers without authorization and supervision is strictly prohibited.”

The servitor’s chiding shook Max from his daze. Snorting, spitting, and shaking sand out of his orifices for the umpteenth time, he managed to pull himself to his feet.

“It’s an emergency,” he sputtered. “Gene—uh, Ms. Fletcher—is overextending herself.” He pointed off in the distance to where she was struggling, inching her way toward them. She swayed with each step, as if she’d topple over at any moment. “Make her stop before she injures herself.”

“Ordering a student to not fully exert herself is well outside the scope of my authorization.”

“Then radio Dr. Asclepius and have him do it! I’m telling you, she’s going to kill herself if somebody doesn’t make her stop.”

The servitor’s head tilted ever so slightly before returning to an upright position.

“Dr. Asclepius has been summoned.”

“Tell him to hurry.”

Without another word, Max stepped into the servitor’s shadow again and teleported back to Gene’s. His body aching like a well-tenderized steak, he moved alongside her, keeping her pace, well outside the striking range of her arms and legs. Knee me once, shame on you; knee me twice, shame on me.

“If you won’t stop being stupid voluntarily,” he told her grimly, “Asclepius will make you. He’s on his way.”

As before, Gene didn’t look at him. Her face was still stolidly downcast, sweat steadily dripping from it like rain. She was so grimly focused, Max thought she hadn’t heard him.

In silence, they plodded past the servitor Max had spoken to.

“You’re—a—rat!” Gene finally panted. She still didn’t look up.

“I’m your friend.”

“Rat!”

“If you insist on calling me names, I prefer Assman.”

The two lapsed into silence again. Gene trudged stubbornly on, Max easily keeping up with her slow progress despite his own exhaustion from the rigors of the day. And from being kneed in the leg. Every step Max took made the spot where Gene had struck him throb even more. The increasing pain amplified Max’s pettiness exponentially, tempting him to do to Gene what she had done to him, despite how worried he was about her. Considering her unexpected martial arts prowess, there would never be a better time for a little tit for tat than now, when it looked like she was about to keel over. Surely his and his father’s never hit a girl rule applied exclusively to punches, not kicks. He could kick Gene through that loophole.

Then he realized Gene was crying.

Her face was streaked with tears, marking clear lines down her dirt-smudged cheeks. Her breathing was ragged not just from her physical exertion, but also from the sobs she struggled to suppress. Her teary eyes were still downcast, but now they seemed that way not merely from exhausted focus, but to offer her a semblance of privacy.

There were any number of reasons why Gene could be crying: exhaustion; frustration; feeling betrayed by Max summoning Dr. Asclepius; that other first-year calling her a fat-ass, a loser, and the weakest link. Or a combination of all of them.

Regardless of the reason behind them, Gene’s tears stuck a pin in Max’s mostly facetious daydreams of kicking her, making the thought pop like a soap bubble. There was a scientific study which said there were chemicals in women’s tears that reduced male aggression. Max was no neuroscientist, so had no idea if the study was true. All he knew was that he had immediately gone from thoughts of punting Gene like a football to feeling like a world-class jerk.

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Max was rescued from every man’s nightmare of grappling with how to respond to a woman’s tears by Dr. Asclepius’ appearance far ahead of them on the shoreline. He went from a speck in the distance to a recognizable figure in the blink of an eye.

The doctor’s means of rapid locomotion was nothing short of spectacular.

He wasn’t walking or running; rather, his body was suspended above the beach. He traveled at an astonishing speed toward Max and Gene thanks to a series of metallic tentacles writhing from the silver band around his waist. The tentacles, glinting in the sunlight, held the doctor aloft as they repeatedly extended and retracted, ejecting puffs of grit as they pistoned in the sand, propelling the doctor forward. They moved with a fluid agility that made them seem like they were alive, their steady rhythm almost hypnotic.

Watching the spectacle with his mouth agape, Max was reminded of a spider using its eight legs to glide over a water’s surface, with its abdomen safely above the liquid.

The doctor covered the distance separating them with ease. As he reached them, the tentacles slowed their frenetic dance and spun him on a dime, making him plod along at the same slow pace and in the same direction as the students. Even in this sunny tropical setting, the silver-haired doctor wore his usual white lab coat. It billowed in the sea breeze, adding a dramatic flair to his already impressive entrance.

“Someone rang for a house call?” the doctor asked mildly. Aside from a gentle sway, the doctor’s lean body didn’t move at all as his tentacles conveyed him above the heads of the students.

Max finally found his voice, stolen away by the doctor’s unique method of transportation. “Yeah, I did. It’s a medical emergency.”

In addition to the silver band around Dr. Asclepius’ waist, similar bands were around his forehead and wrists. The one around his forehead flashed, and holographic screens came to life before the man’s eyes. He examined their readouts, his lips thinning into a concerned frown.

“I see. It’s a good thing you summoned me when you did. Very serious, very serious indeed. Fortunately, the treatment plan is as simple as it is clear.” A tentacle reached over and shoved Max in the back so hard, he nearly went sprawling. “Pick up the pace, Mr. Blackwood. A healthy dollop of elbow grease is just what the doctor ordered.”

“What? Huh?” Max sputtered. Being eloquent was tough while being manhandled by a tentacle and windmilling to avoid his millionth sand meal of the day. “No, no, not me! I’m talking about Gene. I mean, just look at her. She’s about to fall over.”

“I’ve reviewed Ms. Fletcher’s vitals from her jumpsuit telemetry,” Dr. Asclepius said calmly, displaying none of the urgency Max felt. “She’s fine. Better than fine, actually. Kudos to you, young lady, for really exerting yourself. It’s admirable.” If Gene heard the doctor or was even aware of his presence, she gave no sign. Her head dangled down like a balloon losing its helium, bobbing weakly with every step she took.

“Let Ms. Fletcher be an example to you, Mr. Blackwood. You’re suffering from an acute case of lollygagging. One of the worst I’ve seen amongst you hooligans.” The doctor’s tentacle shoved Max again, even harder this time. “Run, Mr. Blackwood. If your heart rate is not within the range it should be in the next minute, I’ll ladle you with so many demerits, the students in the Vigilante Division will have to mop the castle’s floors with their tongues.”

Max was so flummoxed, he hardly knew what to say. He hadn’t expected a medal for looking out for Gene—not at an upside-down place like Prometheus Academy—but he certainly hadn’t anticipated this bizarre reaction.

“What kind of ass-backwards doctor are you? Gene looks like she’s about to collapse, and you’re hassling me? What’s wrong with—Ow!” A tentacle had snaked out to touch Max’s neck, shocking him like it was a cattle prod. The jolt tingled down his spine, and his hair stood on end. “What the hell!”

“Run, Mr. Blackwood,” the doctor repeated mildly.

“Is literally everyone at this godforsaken school insane?” A tentacle darted in again, zapping Max at the nape of his neck despite his dodge attempt. “Ow! Stop that!”

“Run, Mr. Blackwood.” Dr. Asclepius zapped Max again, nailing him on the cheek, making his eye twitch and spasm.

Max had been raised to do what he was told, especially when the person doing the telling was a teacher or doctor. Asclepius was both. But Max could only be pushed so far before he pushed back.

Confusion and frustration came to a boil within him, transforming into rage.

He launched himself at Dr. Asclepius with a clenched fist, intending to punch the doctor’s lights out. But the doctor’s tentacles crisscrossed in front of Max like jungle vines, keeping Max well away from their master.

Max tried to dodge around them to reach the doctor, but they shifted, flowing like quicksilver to bar every path. Their tips darted in like bees, repeatedly stinging Max with electricity on his hands, neck and head, where his suit provided no protection.

Max changed tactics. Feigning fear, pretending like he was abandoning his attack and obeying the command to run, Max spun, sprinting after Gene. She had opened a gap between herself and the two males as she forged relentlessly ahead. She seemed to be in a catatonic state; Max wondered if she was even aware of the altercation behind her.

Max jumped headfirst into Gene’s shadow like he was diving into a pond . . .

. . . and shot out of the doctor’s shadow like a spat watermelon seed, rocketing upward toward the doctor’s hovering body.

The doctor’s tentacles swiftly countered. They snatched Max out of the air before he could land his intended strike. Max jerked to a stop, his back and joints popping loudly.

For a moment, the tentacles held him in the air like a fly trapped in a spider’s web.

Then, with what somehow seemed casual indifference, the tentacles flung Max away.

Rotating like a tossed stick, Max sailed through the air, his surroundings a sudden blur of smeared colors. He hit the hot sand, skipped, hit again, tumbled, and came to a jumbled halt.

Before Max could catch his breath, spit out sand—again!—or even so much as get his bearings, the world lurched once more. With a painful jerk of his arms and shoulders, Max was yanked off the sand.

With his feet dangling inches off the beach, he realized the tentacles had descended upon him once again, this time lifting him by his wrists. Suspended in the air, a dazed Max vaguely registered the fact that other of the doctor’s tentacles were brushing sand off him. They did it gently but thoroughly, like a conscientious valet armed with a lint brush trying to make his drunk and disheveled master presentable for company. Dr. Asclepius, hovering well outside of Max’s striking range, examined the student’s limp body critically as the tentacles primped and preened him. The doctor looked so nonchalant, he almost seemed bored.

Max wobbled when the tentacles gently set him down.

“Run, Mr. Blackwood,” Dr. Asclepius calmly said. If he was even slightly annoyed by Max’s assault attempt, he gave no sign.

“Screw you.” Max would have been prouder of his defiance if the words hadn’t come out slurred. His body felt heavy, his limbs like lead, and who the hell had dropped this loaded barbell on his chest? “No one barks orders at the mighty Glassman.”

“Run, Mr. Blackwood.”

“You run if you love it so much,” Max panted. “But as for me, I’m hungry, tired, and dizzy from some jackass spiking me like a volleyball. Not to mention sick of this twisted place. I’m good right where I am.”

Max yelped when the doctor goosed him with a jolt of current again, this time in the back of his skull. Max’s damp head conducted the electricity, making his entire scalp feel like it was on fire.

“Run, Mr. Blackwood. The next application of voltage will be higher, administered directly to an eyeball. You pick which. Would you prefer star-shaped cataracts in your right or left eye?” The doctor delivered the threat in the same indifferent tone as a waiter might ask, Chicken, or fish?

Max ran.