When Waldo floated into the classroom filled with first years, the head of the Gadgetry Division started shooting the students.
The class erupted into chaos as gunfire cracked, an acrid smell filling the air. Students dove under desks, their screams punctuating the sudden pandemonium.
Waldo seemed unfazed by the violence he meted out, his enlarged eyes clinically scanning the room behind thick glasses. His massive blob of a body was ensconced in his high-tech, throne-like hoverchair. A robotic arm mounted on its side wielded a pistol with the precision of a marksman, apparently obeying Waldo’s mental commands.
“Stay down!” Damian yelled, as more shots rang out, each one punctuated by a student’s gasp or cry as bullets found their targets. Gene suddenly screamed, clutching her chest.
Max, heart hammering, eyed the gun-wielding robotic arm on Waldo’s chair.
Without a second thought, he disappeared into the shadows, re-emerging from a dark corner of the adjacent room to grab a heavy iron poker. He had used the same tactic when he confronted Mirrorkin in another part of the castle. It was déjà vu all over again.
In a blink, Max shadow hopped back into class, emerging from the shadow cast by Waldo’s floating carrier. His poker slashed down, swung with all of Max’s might.
The poker smashed into the robotic arm on Waldo’s chair, sending sparks flying with the scream of rending metal. The gun clattered to the floor, with the hand once holding it skittering in another direction.
Max lunged for the pistol. He pointed it squarely at Waldo, aiming right between the Villain’s eyes. Despite Max’s heaving chest and surging adrenaline, a curious cold-bloodedness pumped through his veins, like he was hunting a deer in the woods of Rebel County for food instead of aiming at a person. He didn’t have Shoot a professor in the head on his bingo card for the day, but if Waldo made another false move, Max would pull the trigger. Waldo had, after all, shot several students in an inexplicable ambush. Including Gene.
“Have you lost your mind?” Max demanded of the hulking Villain, the fattest man he had ever seen. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The classroom fell eerily silent, all eyes on the standoff unfolding at the front. Max’s classmates slowly rose, checking themselves over, faces a mixture of shocked and confused. There was no blood anywhere. Remarkably, no one seemed injured. Not even Gene, whom Max had seen get shot with his own eyes. She pawed her uninjured chest in disbelief.
Waldo, still ensconced in his technological marvel of a chair, calmly adjusted his glasses with a puffy hand that looked like it was made of bread dough.
“What am I doing?” he huffed with a smirk, his flyaway hair making it look like he had just touched a live wire. “Demonstrating.”
“Demonstrating what?” Max snarled. “Your insanity?”
“No. The protection your jumpsuits afford. They’re my creation, you know.” The morbidly obese man wheezed every word, like speaking was an effort.
“You’re insane!” Max repeated. His voice bubbled with angry disbelief. He hadn’t lowered the gun, and didn’t plan to. “You can’t just shoot at students!”
“Can. Would. Did.” The syllables came out in a phlegmy rasp. An apparatus resembling an oxygen mask glided from the headrest of Waldo’s chair, borne on a telescoping rod. It clamped securely over his face, allowing him to take several deep breaths. Once finished, the mask smoothly withdrew back into the headrest. Whatever he had inhaled seemed to fortify him because his breathing was no longer as labored. “Aside from maybe a little bruising, no one’s hurt. Stop being such a drama queen, sonny boy.”
“You could have just told us the suits protected us from gunfire.”
“Sure could have. But it’s like sex—telling you about it and actually experiencing it are two very different things. Now you all know from firsthand experience the kind of protection your suits afford. A bullet is worth a thousand words. Besides, shooting you was more fun than drowning you in technobabble about how the suits work.”
“What if you had hit someone in the head?” Max pointed out. “Our suits don’t protect our heads.”
Waldo’s fleshy face split in a sudden grin.
“They call me the Sundance Kid around these parts. I don’t miss. Or at least my servos don’t. Now, Tex, you’re pointing my own gun at me, which I don’t take kindly to. I know you think you’ve got the drop on me, but the fact of the matter is you don’t. So give my gun back before I take it back.”
Despite the cheeky grin still plastered on the Villain’s face, there was a predatory glint in his eye, like a snake uncoiling from a nap at the scent of a mouse. The big man suddenly reminded Max of Stiletto. And Strategos, Bastion, and Pantheon. Even Doctor Asclepius. Despite the faculty members being radically different behavior-wise, they all shared a common trait—the serene self-confidence of the hyper-competent. If Waldo thought he could easily disarm Max, Max had no doubt the big man could. And he probably wouldn’t be gentle about it.
Without another word, Max pulled back the slide of the gun, ejecting the chambered bullet. He then released the magazine, removing it from the grip.
Keeping the bullets and the magazine, he tossed the empty gun to Waldo. Another mechanical arm, sleek and precise, emerged from the chair, catching the gun effortlessly.
“The bullets too, por favor.” Waldo’s eyes were hooded behind his fishbowl glasses.
“I’ll hold onto them until the end of class,” Max replied. “Just in case you get the itch for another demonstration. My head suddenly feels mighty naked, being uncovered by the suit and all.”
Waldo stared at Max like he was summoning laser vision to burn the student to a crisp. Max wanted to look away, but didn’t, holding the Villain’s intense gaze. One is a warrior might be the school’s motto, but Never show weakness or fear, especially when you feel weak and afraid was rapidly becoming Max’s. Dealing with the people here was like dealing with wild animals.
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“What’s your name, Tex?” Waldo finally demanded.
“Max. Max Blackwood.”
A holographic heads-up display popped up in front of the Villain’s gelatinous head. He scanned its scrolling data, nodding knowingly.
“Hmmm . . . Vigilante Division, I see. Guess I should’ve known, the way you acted to protect the class. One credit to the Vigilante Division. Not for sticking your neck out for everyone; that’s just stupid, and we’ll beat the selflessness out of you soon enough. Rather, for your quick thinking while your fellows were getting picked off like fish in a barrel. Imagine a roomful of Unreals being shot at, and only one with the brains and the stones to stop the shooter. If you students aren’t already ashamed of yourselves, I’m ashamed for you. This is a school for Villains, not one for sitting ducks.
“And a second credit to the Vigilante Division, Max, for wisely holding on to those bullets. You hear that, everyone? When someone shoots at you, don’t be dumb enough to re-arm him.
“Now that you’ve amazed us all with your derring-do, Max, how about taking a seat? Unless you think you’re qualified to explain to the class how your lightweight jumpsuits are durable enough to stop bullets.”
As Max returned to the others, many of them glared at him, muttering as he picked his way back to his seat.
No good deed goes unpunished, he thought. Earning praise from a teacher who had insinuated the rest of them were less intelligent was not the way to make new friends. Especially not with students as competitive and aggressive as these were.
Molly tried to trip him as he went by, but he easily sidestepped her foot. Only Malik smiled at him broadly, like they were best friends. It was weird that the person who had promised to kill him was ostensibly the most friendly. Maybe there was a twisted life lesson in that: Beware a smiling man sharpening a knife. The downside of being at Prometheus was Max’s freedom had been stolen and he was surrounded by immoral lunatics, some of whom wished him harm. The upside was the nightmarish experience was resulting in some pretty neat aphorisms.
I should compile them into a book, Max thought wryly. Poor Max’s Almanack.
Gene was still rubbing her chest and wincing as Max sat down next to her. “Are you all right?” he whispered to her.
“He almost shot my nipple off. My favorite one, too!” Gene glared at Waldo with pure venom. “I betcha it was the tinfoil I’ve got on that stopped the bullet, not his stupid jumpsuit.”
Max didn’t know how to respond to that, so he said nothing. Besides, Waldo was speaking:
“As you know, my name is Waldo. I am the head of the Gadgetry Division, and was voted Best Looking Prometheus Professor four years in a row. I have no doubt you all will make it five. Welcome to your first Villainous Science and Applied Technology class. Because I’m too lazy to refer to it by its full title, I’ll simply call it Gadgetry class from now on. This semester we’ll dive into the science behind your Unreal powers, and explore the technology that can help you achieve your Villainous aims.
“We’ll begin with your suits. The reason some of you aren’t bleeding or dead right now is because of the material your jumpsuits are made of. Any guesses as to what that material might be? When you speak, first tell me your name. Unlike some of your other professors, I’m too lazy to have learned your names beforehand. Laziness is a trait all the best engineers share. Why do something yourself when you can build a device to do it for you?
“Yes? You in the back.”
Koffi lowered his hand. “Koffi Soglo, sir. Are the suits made of buckypaper?”
Max noticed a student he had never spoken to before shaking his head at Koffi’s suggestion. He was so short, he might have been a little person. His chest insignia indicated he was in the Gadgetry Division, an Energist, and one of the few first-years whose powers were Competent-level.
“Buckypaper’s a pretty good guess, Koffi,” Waldo said. “I’ll assume from the blank looks on most of your classmates’ faces they wouldn’t know buckypaper from buckwheat pancakes. Explain for the dullards what it is.”
Koffi shifted in his seat, clearing his throat.
“Buckypaper, sir, is a thin sheet made from carbon nanotubes. Only about twenty-five microns thick, and yet extremely strong. When sheets of them are stacked, the composite is stronger than steel.”
Waldo nodded, his eyes twinkling with interest as he skimmed the flashing HUD before him.
“Considering your ability to conjure elements, Koffi, I’m not surprised you know about buckypaper. Exactly how much stronger than steel is buckypaper?”
“Um, about 250 times stronger, sir. But also ten times lighter.” Koffi’s voice grew more confident as he spoke.
“Astounding, isn’t it?” Waldo’s voice boomed across the room. “Now, considering its strength and lightweight properties, why might buckypaper not be ideal for your jumpsuits? Not you again, Koffi, you’ve shown off enough. You, the blonde in the back.”
A young woman lowered her hand; she had been on Damian’s team during the Capture the Flag tournament. “My name’s Luna Rayburn. There’s no way our uniforms are made of buckypaper. Despite its strength, buckypaper’s not flexible enough for something like a jumpsuit.”
“Exactly, Luna! While buckypaper’s properties are impressive, it lacks the necessary suppleness for garments. Plus, producing it in large quantities is prohibitively expensive, even for a genius such as myself backed by Prometheus Academy’s considerable resources.”
Waldo turned to the rest of the class, his chair swiveling smoothly in the air.
“Buckypaper is not the answer. Anyone else have a guess? Go ahead, Mr. Draconis.”
Damian lowered his hand. It was not lost on Max that Waldo knew Damian’s name without asking. And that he referred to Damian by his last name, whereas he called everyone else by their first. It reinforced Max’s impression that Damian’s family were bigwigs in Villainous circles, but Damian had always deftly changed the subject when Max tried to explore the subject.
“What about graphene?” Damian suggested. The short redhead in the Gadgetry Division shook his head firmly again, just as he had with Koffi’s suggestion of buckypaper.
Waldo, however, greeted Damian’s words with a respectful nod.
“Nice thinking, Mr. Draconis. Graphene,” Waldo said to the entire class, “is a single layer of carbon atoms in a hexagonal lattice. It’s incredibly strong, the strongest material known to conventional science, with a tensile strength of 130 gigapascals. Imagine hanging the weight of 20,000 African elephants on a pencil-sized piece of graphene, and it still not breaking.”
Eyes widened at that statistic.
“But,” Waldo continued, “there’s a catch. Despite its strength, graphene is brittle. It’s more likely to crack like ceramic than bend like something supple. This makes it unsuitable for a jumpsuit, which obviously needs flexibility. Using it for clothing is as silly as shoving the world’s strongest male bodybuilders into an Olympic female gymnastic event—sure, the bodybuilders are strong, but they lack the flexibility necessary for gymnastics. Strength isn’t everything. For a jumpsuit like the ones you wear, you need a material that’s both strong and flexible. Graphene’s brittleness makes it unsuitable for the purpose. Good thinking though, Mr. Draconis. I like where your head’s at.”
Waldo addressed the entire class again.
“Anyone else have a guess? Tell you what. To ensure we’re not here playing Twenty Questions for the next week, I’ll give you a hint: your jumpsuit’s fabric has a biological origin.”
The classroom fell silent as students pondered Waldo’s words.
Suddenly, an ear-piercing scream shattered the silence.
From above came huge spiders, descending with silent grace. Their bodies were nearly the size of a human hand, with legs spanning even wider. The silk they dangled from shimmered slightly in the overhead lights.
Gasps and shrieks filled the room as the spiders plopped atop desks. Students recoiled, some leaping away from their desks, others frozen in shock.
A huge arachnid landed on Max’s desk. Stunned, he stared at it, not knowing how to react.
Lunging like a rabid dog, the spider leaped toward him.