He steps close and it works; the man retreats, unwilling to entertain s.h.i.t on his rain slicker and shoes. Alexander keeps moving, faster and faster, dangerous on this narrow path, these close quarters, his smile wider and brighter, and the puker's eyes narrow, hands fumbling for air, for a gun, for something to stop this strange, strange, man from coming too near.

The puker stumbles. He cries out. Alexander grabs his rain slicker, keeps him from falling off the ledge into the sewage with its hidden worms. He holds the puker close, smearing him with filth, and whispers, "Nothing, you idiot. Nothing comes out the other end. The worms just suck it in and keep it there, growing pregnant on the stuff. They could probably eat you, when they get big enough. And they will. Imagine that. Digested in a body full of s.h.i.t."

Alexander releases the puker, who gasps and clings to the wall. He vomits.

Alexander does not feel compelled to apologize. No one seems to have noticed what happened. He does not worry about the puker complaining. The puker is a little man and Alexander is powerful, untouchable.

Sunlight beckons, and this time his smile is genuine.

I am not a nice person, Alexander thinks. And for the first time, he truly believes it.

Alexander pulls his old Superman comics out of storage and spends the evening thumbing through the varied adventures of the caped wonder, lingering over those stories that pit him against Lex Luthor. An old habit; Alexander has sought comfort in these pages since he was four years old, the age he discovered the meaning of his name, the purpose to his life.

"Ah ha!" Lex Luthor says to Superman. "I've got you now!"

If only, Alexander thinks. But that is the thing about Superman. In the comics, no one ever really has him. Not even Lois, who must share her man with every bleeding body and broken soul to cross his path. Superman is good, the best kind of man, and that means he never truly owns himself. Pure compa.s.sion cannot live in isolation. It demands the world.

And the world demands it back. The world needs more compa.s.sion. The world needs the kind of man Alexander knows he will never be.

The government proposals are still in Alexander's office safe, waiting to be signed. All of them require the creation of new life, creatures as of yet beyond the ken of man. Their desired purposes are varied, innocuous on the page. Alexander is not fooled. These organisms, should LuthorTech succeed in making them, will change the world, just as the worms- when their existence is finally, inevitably, revealed- will forever change the way people view bioengineering. It is not enough to say one supports science. The real test is to see the finished product, fat and glistening, and not flinch.

Even Alexander is incapable of that, which should be all the answer he needs, but still he keeps the papers, and still he promises the government that yes, any day now, he will sign and return them, and once again begin the process of evolutionary quilting, piecing together sc.r.a.ps of biology into a useful whole.

Because if he does not do this, someone else will, and while Alexander does not entirely trust himself, he has even less faith in those who would take his place. It is a strange sensation, wanting to save the world- while at the same time creating the very things that will irrevocably change it, for better or worse.

Heroes and villains. Shades of gray. Sometimes he wishes he could talk to his father about these things.

Of course, it helps that the money is good.

The next morning, he signs the papers.

A week pa.s.ses, and then two. Dr. Reynolds provides daily reports on the worms, which are along the lines of, "They're still down there." A complete and accurate statement, which tells Alexander everything he needs to know.

The worms are down there. They are eating. They are growing.

Alexander hopes the government understands what it is doing, though he himself does not fear reprisals, bad press, or protestors on his doorstep. The government provides complete anonymity to keep LuthorTech free and clear to run its experiments, safe from eco-terrorists, uneducated journalists, and public concern. It is very liberating, this lack of oversight, though Alexander still feels his moral compa.s.s with its needle swinging, and the shadow of a dream on his shoulder. The good and amoral, holding hands.

He wishes he really could hold someone's hand, just once.

Richard has been spending more time in the general vicinity of Alexander's office. Alexander knows this because he continues to pay attention to the man. Even if Richard does not care about Alexander in any special way, Alexander cares about Richard and what he has to say. Richard is not afraid of Alexander. He is not afraid of the truth.

If only Alexander's other employees were so bold, or kind.

Alexander hears them talking on a day when he wanders through the labs, peering into microscopes and poking around spreadsheets, enjoying- for once, without guilt- the simple plea sure of great thoughts applied to science.

Alexander hears them because his employees return late from lunch and do not know their boss is communing with sea slugs behind a pile of newly arrived supply crates.

"He's a freak, that's what," says a man, indignation softened by laughter.

"Freakishly bald, you mean," says a woman. "I go blind from the glare every time he walks by. Whoever said men sans hair are s.e.xy needs a lobotomy."

"Ha! Ol' Lex Luthor. s.e.xy Lexy. Now that is obsession."

"Hey, he can be obsessed with sheep, for all I care. I just want him to sign my paycheck. And stay the h.e.l.l away from me."

"You're just afraid he'll hit on you and you'll have to put out."

"Right. Who knows what kind of freak show goes on in his pants? He probably paints his b.a.l.l.s green."

"Meteor rocks, fresh from Krypton."

This is uproariously funny. They laugh until they choke, and walk away.

Alexander does not follow them. He does not move. He stares at the sea slugs in their tank, his mind drifting, drowning, his chest growing tight and tighter. He stands there, waiting to feel better, but time pa.s.ses and he knows he must leave; someone will find him eventually, and he cannot bear to face the owners of those voices.

Yes, he is the man in charge, but pain is pain, no matter the t.i.tle or bank account.

Holding his breath, Alexander listens hard and carefully slips out from behind the crates. He takes one step, two, and just when he thinks he is free to run, movement catches his eye. Too late; he has been seen.

It is Richard, holding a mop and pail.

The two men stare at each other. Alexander cannot fathom Richard's expression, but his silence is confirmation enough. He has heard every word of that awful conversation.

Heat suffuses Alexander's face; he cannot meet Richard's eyes. Staring at the floor, he turns and walks quickly to the door. Richard does not stop him.

Dignity bleeding, Alexander returns to his office.

Alexander does not dwell long on the incident. He has overheard many variations of that particular conversation, and while each one cuts raw, he recovers quickly. Life is too short to waste on insults.

Still, he wonders what Richard makes of it, what else the man has heard during his time at LuthorTech.

Alexander does not have to wonder long.

He is sitting at his desk, staring out the window at the sun-splashed rush-hour foot traffic, when Richard knocks on the door and enters. The secretary knows not to stop him. Richard is free to come and go as he pleases, though he has never been told this explicitly.

"We need to talk," he says, and Alexander nods, somewhat distracted. He is thinking about worms, wondering how big they have gotten. It is the beginning of the third week.

Richard says, "Kid, you're a mess. You're f.u.c.ked up."

Alexander blinks, refocusing his entire attention on Richard. Richard places his palms on the desk and leans forward. "Yeah, you heard me. f.u.c.ked. Up."

"I can tell you've been giving this some thought," Alexander says, struggling to maintain his composure.

Richard sinks into the soft leather chair in front of Alexander's desk. "Enough to make me crazy."

Alexander does not know whether to be pleased or worried. "So. I'm making you crazy. Why is that?"

Richard shakes his head. There are shadows under his eyes, new lines around his mouth. Alexander wonders if perhaps Richard has been going a little crazy thinking of him.

"I don't get you," he says. "Haven't from the beginning, but that was okay. I could tell you had a good heart. And after I was here for a while and saw how you ran this place, I knew you had more than that. Real brains. Talent. One of those bright futures you hear people bragging about, but don't really deserve. Well, you deserve it, kid. You really do."

This is not what Alexander expected. Richard leans forward and drums his fingers on the desk, a harsh rough sound.

"But here's what I don't understand. You let your own employees talk s.h.i.t- real abuse- and hard as I try, I just can't feel sorry for you. You know why? Because you ask for it."

"I ask for it," Alexander echoes, tasting those words.

Richard's gaze is pained. "Little things add up, kid. Like your head, the way you shave it. What, three times a day? Or the name of this place- LuthorTech, LuthorTech- not even the name it started out with. You changed it when you took over. Changed everything except your name."

"I like my name," Alexander says, soft.

Richard blows out his breath. "Yeah. I can tell." He points at the poster of Superman. "But that is the final straw, kid. Nothing else would matter, except for that right there. You've taken it past a hobby. You've taken it past a joke. You've taken it right into a way of life, and you're trying to be the villain."

"Because someone needs to be," Alexander says, shocked at how easy the words come to him. He wonders, Why? What has happened?

Richard frowns and says, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Alexander almost lies, but this is Richard. Richard, who has always been honest and who Alexander has always been honest with, because such is the currency between them, and it is too late, too late for anything else. The truth has become one of Alexander's worms; it exists and grows and cannot be denied. The line has been crossed.

So.

"It means," Alexander says, "that someone needs to be the villain. I want that person to be me."

Silence, and then: "You want to be Lex Luthor."

Alexander goes very still. "I think I already am."

Richard says nothing for a long time. He merely stares at Alexander, and then- to the young man's relief- turns his gaze on the window, on the hordes of nameless, nearly faceless, people tramping down the sidewalk. He stares and stares, and Alexander grows light-headed from holding his breath.

Richard says, "I had a son. He died. He took drugs and it killed him. He'd be about your age now. You're not on drugs, are you?"

"No," Alexander says.

"I didn't think so." Richard glances at him. "Then why? You told me once you believe a man can fly. But men can't fly. That's a fantasy. Superman isn't real."

He's real to me, Alexander thinks, and maybe it shows on his face because Richard straightens and looks hard in Alexander's eyes. Alexander senses a fissure between them; closing or opening, he cannot tell. Just, only, that he wants to cross the distance and does not dare.

Richard stirs. "You are not Lex Luthor." A pause, then. His voice drops to a hoa.r.s.e whisper, disturbed with awe. "But you believe. You believe it all."

"Yes," Alexander breathes, because to say it louder would feel coa.r.s.e, like a desecration of the truth, the myth. "Yes. I've always believed."

Believed in the perfect essence of the myth, the stark lines between good and evil. How one must have the other to survive, to make whole the heart.

Perhaps Richard is psychic. Perhaps Alexander has revealed more than he thought possible: in his face, his words. Richard looks at the poster of Superman. His eyes grow dark, dark with understanding, and he says in a deep strange voice, "You're in love with him."

Shocking, to hear those words out loud. Shocking and thrilling. Alexander struggles with himself, unable to speak. The silence is confirmation enough for Richard. He presses on. His voice is cold and hard.

"I understand now. I didn't before. Not really. You're in love with Superman. The man himself, along with his ideals and all the s.h.i.t wrapped up in the myth. You want him to be real so you can f.u.c.k him, and if you can't f.u.c.k him, then you want to be Lex Luthor because then at least he'll be your enemy, and you'll have him like no one else ever will."

Truth rises within Alexander, triumphant and powerful, a force within his heart beating like thunder. He leans out of his chair, steady and full and ready to speak. Someone knocks on the door.

It is Dr. Reynolds. Her face is flushed.

"There's a problem," she says.

Richard follows them to the car. When Dr. Reynolds slips into the backseat, he places a strong hand on Alexander's shoulder, holding him still. His eyes are clear and hard.

The two men do not speak, but it is enough. Their conversation remains unfinished and neither man dares let the other out of his sight until some final word has rung. What has already been said is too strange. Like a dream, it might fade if not held tight.

Alexander steps aside and motions for Richard to precede him into the car. Dr. Reynolds looks on with some surprise, but Alexander does not explain. He is the boss and today he will take advantage of it.

They drive from downtown into a shabbier part of the city. Not so worn as to be inhospitable, but not so clean as to be frequented by anyone who might think to question the odd comings and goings of windowless utility vans, the frequent descent of uniformed men and women into the shadows below the street.

It is just the city government doing work, the locals think. Special maintenance. Very special.

Dr. Reynolds says, "Everything was fine on Friday. The sludge levels were getting low, but the Federal Scientists promised- those idiots- they promised me they would put more in over the weekend."

"Kathy-"

"They did it on purpose, Mr. Luthor." Her voice breaks. Alexander wonders if he will lose this woman after today's work. "They wanted to see what would happen."

Alexander closes his eyes. Richard remains silent, watching them both.

A member of Dr. Reynolds's team meets them at the site, bearing enough protective gear for two people. Alexander sends the young man back for another suit; Richard is coming with them. A bad decision, perhaps, but it is part of Alexander's reckless drive toward honesty. He cannot stop, no matter the price.

Richard asks no questions when Alexander gives the order- he says nothing at all- but his eyes are sharp, sharp, sharp.

Alexander helps Richard dress. The protective gear- suit, mask, oxygen- are tricky for the uninitiated. Alexander does not look at Richard's face as his capable hands zip and tug and b.u.t.ton. The moment is inappropriate for words.

And what can Alexander say? Don't be afraid of my touch. Don't be afraid of me. Please, don't be afraid.

Dr. Reynolds bounces on her toes, agitated. "We don't have time for this. Please, Mr. Luthor."

"I'm done." Alexander steps back from Richard. Their eyes meet and Alexander turns away, toward the sewer entrance. "Let's go."

They descend. Down, down deep into shadow, Alexander leading the way. His mask is off, his ears keen for screams, shouts- cries of horror. Nothing. He hears nothing human.

Nothing human. Nothing coherent. Just flesh, whispering, dry and cool; the sucking of large mouths.

He smells s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t, and something stronger, bitter.