Catching up to Gene on the beach gave Max and his weary muscles a welcome reason to shift from a punishing run to a more manageable walk.

One good look at the blonde Henchman Division student made Max’s relief transform into alarm.

Normally, the plus-sized girl’s complexion was smooth and clear, like fresh buttermilk. But now, Gene’s face was mottled, mostly red with splotches of unhealthy paleness. Her lips were ashen. Her hair had escaped the confines of what had once been its neat ballet bun, and was now a chaotic blonde tangle that would make a bird homesick for its nest. Gene struggled mightily to continue power-walking through the thick sand, each enervating step seeming to cost more effort than the last. She panted heavily, her breaths ragged and uneven, as if the air were a too-heavy weight she was forced to hoist with each inhale.

“Are you all right?” Max asked, concerned. It was easier to speak now that he wasn’t running.

Gene nodded weakly, not even looking at him, her face fixed firmly on where she was planting her next heavy step. Sweat dripped off her downturned face, immediately absorbed by the hot sand. The sun was lower in the sky than when the class had begun its run, casting long shadows behind Max and Gene.

“You don’t look so good,” Max said.

“I’m—fine.” The brevity of Gene’s panted words were as alarming to Max as their raspiness. Normally, it was an effort to shut her up.

Gene was clearly more than just struggling; she appeared on the brink of collapse. She was easily the most overweight, out-of-shape student. If this run was hell on earth for Max, he couldn’t imagine what it was like for her. It was a wonder she was still moving at all, especially after that hard weight room workout earlier.

“You don’t look fine. Why don’t we stop for a breather?”

Gene shook her head stubbornly, sending perspiration flying.

“You look like you’re going to pass out.” Or worse, Max added silently. “Let’s take a break.”

Gene shook her head once more, her eyes still on the ground.

“Inter—Division—race,” she finally managed to pant, each word an effort. “Henchman—student—said—I’m—weakest—link. Called—me—fat-ass. A—loser.”

Gene continued to plod forward, not slackening her pace in the slightest, the fat under her chin jiggling like cherry jello with each step. Her big breasts strained the fabric of her jumpsuit with every labored heave of her chest.

“Forget that guy,” Max said. “Whoever said that is a jerk.”

She shook her head again.

“He’s—right—am—fat-ass. But—not—loser. If—Henchman—Division—loses—won’t—be—coz—of—me.”

“There’s not a billion-dollar prize at stake if the Henchman Division wins, you know. And not a Division-wide flogging if it comes in last place. This dumb race isn’t worth giving yourself a heart attack over.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

But Gene, as if determination had rendered her deaf, simply ignored him, grimly slogging forward.

Further exhortations were ignored like Max had turned invisible, camouflaged within shadows. Max threw up his hands. Where’s a teacher when you need one? He glanced around.

Doctor Asclepius—who had been patrolling the race route to supervise the students—wasn’t in sight. A servitor was up ahead, however, just out of range of Max’s shadow hopping ability. Servitors weren’t omnipresent out here the way they were in the castle, instead posted merely sporadically along the race route. Maybe, if the servitor ahead saw the kind of distress Gene was in, it would order her to stop.

But, the way Gene looked and sounded, Max doubted she would make it far enough for the servitor to take note of her.

“Gene, I’m not trying to be a jerk about this, but you look awful. Stop for a few minutes to catch your breath.”

She shook her head again. She looked like she’d rather die than stop. Based on how terrible she looked, Max thought she just might do that—die. He’d admired her tenacity if it weren’t so stupid. Why kill yourself over some meaningless race?

He grabbed Gene’s left wrist, intending to force her to stop for her own good. But her wrist was slick with sweat, and she easily twisted out of his grasp. She kept moving, ignoring him as if he were just an annoying gnat buzzing around her.

Max tried again, lunging for her forearm.

Gene’s response was as swift as it was startling.

She jerked her left arm back, making Max lurch for it, setting him up for what came next. Her right arm whipped around, her open hand cuffing Max’s ear like a fastball.

Dazed, his ear ringing, Max staggered from the blow. Gene followed up with a hard knee to his outer thigh, making his leg collapse under him.

He hit the ground hard, the sand cratering around him.

Blinking sand out of his eyes, he watched Gene’s ample backside trudge away. She had barely broken stride in knocking him down, resuming her relentless walk without giving him so much as a backward glance.

Max lay there a moment, stunned both physically and mentally. He could not have been more surprised if Gene had kissed him on the lips and told him she was pregnant with his baby. She had taken him down with the instinctive, practiced ease of a martial artist whose moves were second nature.

Max’s preconceived notions about Gene disintegrated like a sand castle hit by a wave from the nearby sea, rearranging into a new mental model.

He had never taken Gene as seriously as he had the other first years, people like Malik, Damian, and Molly. Without consciously doing so, he had discounted Gene because of her size and nonstop stream-of-consciousness prattling. But, as Edgar had pointed out, the students who were at Prometheus Academy voluntarily were the best of the best. Despite her appearance and personality, Gene was not to be underestimated.

Before, Mirrorkin assigning Gene to a group of bruisers like those in the Henchman Division had seemed dumb, like the mirror entity had a few cracks in its glass. Now, with Max sprawled on his butt, spitting out grits of sand, he realized that maybe he was the dumb one.

Stabbed by Stiletto, threatened by Malik, assaulted by Molly, shot at by Waldo, knocked down by Gene . . . Max was heartily sick of being these people’s punching bag.

And, if Max were being totally honest with himself, being so easily handled by a girl was an affront to his ego.

Anger ignited in Max as he stared daggers at Gene’s retreating back.

Pushing himself up with arms that felt like cooked noodles thanks to the earlier weight-lifting session, he managed to lurch to his feet. He shook sand out of his sweat-drenched hair and dug more out of his ears.

Wincing with every step, favoring the leg Gene had slammed her knee into, he began pursuing her.

After a few steps, he was already outpacing her, closing the short distance between them.

Despite the leg Gene had kneed, despite how exhausted he was, fury soon gave his feet wings. Before he knew it, he was running as fast as the sand allowed toward Gene.

His eyes were locked on her back like it was a bullseye.