Bitter, like blood.

"f.u.c.k," Richard whispers, as they make their final descent into the sewer, stepping onto the concrete platform.

An appropriate response. Alexander would say something similar if he could, but his mouth will not work. Nothing seems to work but his eyes and mind, and how lovely- how miraculous it would be- if Alexander could somehow turn those organs off. At the moment, they are vital to nothing but nightmare.

And the nightmare is this, what the government could have prevented, what they should have known would happen: the worms have grown. Grown large and long and strong. Their sludge is gone.

And they are still hungry.

The experiments at LuthorTech, repeated time and time again, have shown that the worms have only one instinct, and that is to feed. Reproduction is as.e.xual and infrequent, stimulated by solitude: a single worm, immersed in large amounts of sludge, will grow buds of baby worms across its body. When the worms emerge, they spill into the sludge and begin to feed.

And so the cycle goes. Feed, feed, feed- it is always feeding with them. Even when the food runs out.

Alexander watches a mouth bang against dry concrete; diverted, the orifice sucks air, seeking purchase, anything soft and wet. Flesh will do. Flesh will do just fine. It is warm, it yields to sharp lips, and just below the surface is blood, and deeper, the remnants of sludge. It is as good a meal as any, and better than death.

Alexander notices the government scientists huddled in a group, taking notes and casting surrept.i.tious glances in his direction. Some of them look sick, but even nausea seems to take on a dispa.s.sionate quality in their faces. The worms are eating each other alive, spraying blood with each bite, tearing flesh in mighty chunks, and the scientists are doing nothing to stop it. They do not want to stop it. They will let these creatures torture each other, and simply watch.

Alexander's hands curl into fists. "Who's in charge here?"

They stare. A dark-suited figure in a rain slicker pushes clear. The puker, his black eyes small and smug. He looks as though he has been ill, but power, it seems, is a fine medicine.

"You have to stop this," Alexander says.

"I don't have to do anything," says the puker. "These creatures are government property and this is our experiment. You're a guest here, Mr. Luthor. I suggest you act like one and stay out of the way."

"A guest?" Alexander feels Richard and Dr. Reynolds close against his back. "LuthorTech designed these worms. Until the handover is official, their well-being is our business, and they are clearly unwell- due to your mismanagement, I a.s.sume."

"I won't warn you again." The puker is angry. "The government paid a high price-"

"And having paid that price, what will your superiors say when they discover there is nothing left of their experiment but a few dozen corpses? Will you impress them with a barrel full of remains? Lovely. Be my guest. Go right ahead."

"Look," says a government scientist. "There was no other way to move their bodies. They're too large and the kill-gas is too slow. This way, we manage everything at once. It's not like you can't make more. That's your job, isn't it?"

"My G.o.d," Alexander hears Richard whisper. Alexander wonders if G.o.d plays such games, if He is so cruel- a disinterested observer, a scientist watching His creations in their sewer-world, watching death and malice and love and conception, waiting to see which side will win, waiting to see if there will be any side, or just clumps of blood and flesh, waiting at the very end of a failed experiment on a tiny little world in a dark little backwater of the cosmos.

No, Alexander thinks. No, we are more than that. We must make ourselves more than worms. We must take away the hunger, or else create a hunger for better things.

Behind the government scientists is a valve; if turned, it will release sludge into the trench below. Experiments have shown that the worms prefer sludge to flesh- bathe them in it, let them wallow in s.h.i.t, and they will stop consuming each other.

Alexander strides forward. The puker does not back away. He meets Alexander with arms outstretched, blocking the path.

"Not this time," he says, as though that is enough, as though his word is law.

The government scientists are smarter; they know what is behind them and can guess what Alexander plans to do. One of them says, "He's going to stop the experiment! Don't let him near that valve."

Dr. Reynolds shouts at them. Alexander cannot understand what she says because his ears are roaring, his head buzzing with rage. The worms are writhing in blood and it is another red-lit room- red with fluid, dark and dirty- and he must stop this, he must stop this torture because the worms cannot stop it for themselves. He must play a little G.o.d and intervene.

Alexander is lean and strong. He pushes the puker aside, but the man is ready for him and has his own rage, his own bruised pride. The puker strikes Alexander hard in the gut, a sharp thrust. Alexander staggers backward.

Back into Richard, who has followed close to help.

Alexander hears a gasp, a startled cry. He turns in time to see Richard teeter on the narrow ledge, flail and swing and fall. He does not hit concrete. He hits worm.

Alexander cannot see Richard's face; he lands facedown, limbs entangled in shifting flesh. Richard tries to stand but the worms are too large. All he can do is straddle, stay on top, struggle to keep from slipping into crushing darkness.

It is the worst kind of h.e.l.l Alexander can imagine, but he does not hesitate. He jumps into the trench. Alexander lands hard but the worms cushion his fall- a grotesque trampoline made of firm flesh. He lunges forward, slithering and bouncing over thrashing bodies, thick as oaks. The worms are slippery, greased with blood and s.h.i.t. Alexander swallows filth. His eyes burn.

Richard sees him. There is a moment when Alexander imagines something more than fear on the man's face- a shadow beneath the terror and disgust that looks like concern. And then a tail rises up and slams into Richard's head.

Richard disappears.

Alexander fights. His life narrows down to one thin line and he pulls his soul over this line, hand over hand, slamming fists into hard bodies, into searching mouths, razing his skin on sharp lips while his lungs fill with the hot stench of s.h.i.t and blood, s.h.i.t and blood in his mouth, on his tongue, gritty and slimy and metallic. He fights and fights, the worms tearing open his suit, crushing him between their surging bodies, squeezing him like a lemon. Ribs crack, but he pushes forward, slithering. He glimpses a white suit.

Alexander screams as he wrenches his torso against undulating muscle. His broken ribs shift against skin. The worms move, pull apart, and Alexander dives to the ground, scrabbling on all fours until he reaches Richard.

Richard is curled tight, his chin tucked against his chest, hands over his head. The suit around his upper thigh is ripped. Alexander sees bone.

Alexander covers Richard with his body, placing his hands against Richard's filthy hair, the bare skin of his neck. Richard turns his head just a fraction; his eyes are bloodshot, terrible.

"Get out of here," he says, and Alexander can hear the desperation in his voice, the despair.

"No," Alexander mouths, because he cannot make his lungs work past the pain in his ribs. A worm rolls over his legs and Alexander swallows a cry.

"Please," Richard begs.

Alexander says nothing. He does not have the strength to stand, to fight. Everything he had, he has given in his battle to reach Richard. All he can do now is curl around the body beneath him and hold on tight. He presses his cheek against Richard's hair. He closes his eyes.

The worms come up hard against his back, their mouths seeking flesh.

After the accident, the government takes possession of the worms and all a.s.sociated technology. It does this in a matter of days. Alexander does not fight when Dr. Reynolds gives him the news. He hopes the government has learned a lesson, that it will be more careful in the future. But hope is just that. It does not mean very much.

"When you stop being optimistic," Richard says, "the veil that hides the cruelty of things is removed."

"Then I've never been optimistic," Alexander says, and pushes down a b.u.t.ton. The bed whirs and his upper body propels slowly forward until he can look Richard in the eyes. Richard is in a wheelchair. He wears a hospital gown that does not quite cover the thick ban dages wrapped around his upper left leg. Alexander remembers bone every time he looks at that leg, but he is paying for the best regrowth technology money can buy. Richard will be able to walk again in a matter of weeks. It will take Alexander much longer. The doctors must repair his organs so he can live beyond the machines knitted into his body. They must finish destroying the last remnants of infection.

Richard rubs Alexander's sallow face. Flowers surround him: roses, lilies. They are pleasant subst.i.tutes for Alexander's parents, who have visited their son only twice since he entered the hospital. Alexander does not remember either visit. He was asleep.

"You're the most optimistic person I know," Richard tells him.

Alexander does not feel like arguing. Instead he says, "Did you see Dr. Reynolds on her way out?"

"Yes. I thanked her." Richard looks at his palms, rubs his knuckles with one finger. "I suppose she's the reason we're still alive."

"Yes," says Alexander. "I didn't know she had safety protocols in place. I thought the lockers were full of scientific equipment. Not stun rods." Stun rods powerful enough to take down an elephant. Powerful enough for the worms. Dr. Reynolds and her team, who jumped into the trench, stunned the worms long enough to drag Richard and Alexander to safety. A miracle. Alexander is very happy Dr. Reynolds has decided to remain at LuthorTech. She tells him it is good to be needed.

Richard stops looking at his hands. His gaze is clear, unwavering. "You didn't have a stun rod."

Alexander's cheeks grow warm. Before he can say anything, Richard reaches into a cloth bag attached to the side of his wheelchair and pulls out several familiar objects. Comic books. He places them on Alexander's lap. Superman shines on the covers. Alexander touches that bright face. He traces the edge of the red cape.

"You're wrong, you know," Alexander says softly, not looking at Richard. "About why I've done this to myself. I don't want to become Lex Luthor because it's all I can get. I want to be Lex Luthor because wherever he is, there's Superman. And the world needs something of Superman to exist, even if it's in the form of his very worst enemy. The world needs someone good."

I need someone good, Alexander thinks.

"Superman is a fantasy."

"He doesn't have to be." Alexander hesitates. "The laws of nature are human invention, a relationship between man and what he perceives. What there is, what man needs to keep himself going, is illusion, the dream."

Richard sits back. "A dream of better things, huh? Is that what keeps you going? Is that all Superman is to you?"

"People need to be reminded of what they can become, not what they are."

"Maybe," Richard says. "But you're still full of s.h.i.t. People don't care if you're Lex Luthor or if Superman exists. I don't care. The only person who cares is you. And that's okay, kid. It really is. I've changed my mind. You're not f.u.c.ked up. You're just fine the way you are. But"- Richard leans forward, so close Alexander can feel the heat of his breath on his face-"you didn't answer my question, and I don't think I was entirely wrong. What is Superman to you, really? Do you love him? Are you in love with that man on the page, that fantasy?"

Alexander swallows hard. He remembers the worms tearing off chunks of his body and wishes that he was back in that moment, because blood and pain are easier than telling the truth to this man. Alexander forces himself to look into Richard's eyes.

"Yes," he whispers. "I love him. But not just him."

Richard goes very still. Alexander listens to the slow thrum of his aching heart.

"I can't be something I'm not," Richard finally says. "I love you, kid. Just not like that."

"I know," Alexander says, and his eyes feel hot, as hot as his body, burning with shame. Richard reaches out and gently rests his hand on top of Alexander's scalp. He has not shaved since the accident. He has hair again.

"The problem with you," Richard says quietly, "is that you love too much. You love so d.a.m.n much, you expect the world to do the same. And when it doesn't, when all you see is the horrible c.r.a.p that goes on, day in and day out, it hurts you. It eats at you. Just like those worms, bleeding you dry. But what you're forgetting, kid, what you've let slip by, is that the world doesn't need a Lex Luthor or a Superman. The world just needs people like you. Honest, good men."

"I'm not good," Alexander says, and his voice is low, rough. He can barely speak through the lump in his throat. "I will never be that good. I cross all the lines, Richard. I make monsters. I do it for money and I ignore the consequences. I don't care about the consequences."

"Kid," Richard says, so gentle it makes Alexander's breath catch. "It isn't inconceivable that the same man who can make a monster, might also be the same man who risks his life to save a friend from that monster."

"I can't be both," Alexander whispers, but he wonders if such a thing is possible, if the myth can be carried on in some fashion other than desire and fantasy and desperate dream. He wonders if the world can be given its Superman and its Lex Luthor, and whether that will be enough for whatever it is Alexander believes can be made better, an answer to the need that runs deep inside his heart.

He wonders if he will ever stop loving the two men he can never have.

"I'm tired of being alone," Alexander says, throwing away the last of his dignity.

Richard takes Alexander's hand, holding it palm to palm. "Don't worry," he says, and his eyes are kind, so kind. "You're not alone."

And that is enough.

Marjorie M. Liu is the New York Times bestselling author of the Dirk & Steele series of paranormal romances, as well as the Hunter Kiss urban fantasy series. Her short fiction has appeared in a number of anthologies, such as Masked, Songs of Love and Death, Hotter than h.e.l.l, and Inked. She also writes for Marvel Comics, penning, Black Widow, X-23, Dark Wolverine and Astonishing X-Men.

What does it take to change a life?

Not save a life, as Sally Struthers and the big-hearted nonprofits working in Third World countries work to so hard to do. But to radically change the course of one's fate. To make a better life for one's self.

Outside of winning a lottery or performing hard work, it seems impossible. A person can struggle to move up in the world- but most of us are stuck with the hands we've been dealt. We're only so smart and have only our own limited skills to help us along. We can get help from our friends and family, but there's no magic switch a person can flip to suddenly make life better.

But in our next story, there might be a way to do just that.

THE PITTSBURGH TECHNOLOGY.

JEFFREY FORD.

George Tisdale stepped off the bus at the corner of Merton and Pine and headed up the block toward his apartment building. As he trudged along, he considered the grim prospect of what he'd have for dinner. For a guy who worked at a grocery store, his refrigerator was always oddly empty. He pictured the frozen wasteland with its head of browning lettuce, a half stick of rancid b.u.t.ter, and a plastic bag holding a ball of chopped meat the color of jade.

"Same s.h.i.t, different day," he mumbled to himself, and stepped aside to let a couple coming toward him arm in arm pa.s.s on the sidewalk.

"h.e.l.lo," said the young woman, making eye contact with George.

He nodded and was momentarily startled by her looks- dark hair cut short, striking hazel eyes, and perfectly red valentine lips. It didn't take much to get George excited, seeing as the last date he'd had was a year earlier. He smiled. The woman's companion also said, "Hi," but George paid no attention to him. The two pa.s.sed in a moment, and just as George was about to head on his way, he heard the man say, "Tis?"

George spun around at the mention of his nickname.

The fellow had turned back and was approaching. Now George noticed him. He wore a sharp, camel hair overcoat with a plaid scarf around his neck. The guy's hair was neatly cut and he was smooth shaven and handsome.

"Tisdale," the guy said, wearing a big smile. He held his hand out to George, who was certain he didn't know him.

"You must be mistaken," said George, but the guy grabbed his hand and shook it.

"It's me, Tis."

George stared and some vague sense of recognition crossed his mind, as if he might have seen the face once in a dream .

"Loopy," said the stranger. "From the grocery store."

"What?" said George, but now it became clear to him. Loopy had been the cart collector at the grocery store. The first person called upon by the managers for any kind of scut work. He was forever cleaning out the fish and deli cases, mopping up broken jars of pickles and tomato sauce, scouring the toilets. But back then, his hair was long, greasy, and straight, which earned him the name, Shemp, from the old women in the bakery. Otherwise, he was Loopy, the guy who everybody s.h.i.t on. A sad sack who could clear the break room with a single utterance. He'd been fired for failing to punch out one night. The manager caught up with him in front of the deli counter one afternoon, and in the presence of both customers and fellow-employees, proclaimed him a lost cause and told him to get out. People recounted the story in the break room and laughed for a solid month after his departure.

What George saw before him now was no less than a miracle, as if Loopy had been radically made over by a team of genius designers and beauticians. What was even more astonishing was that he had somehow traded in his dull affect for a look of- there was no other word for it- "intelligence."

"How are you doing, Tis?"

"Okay," said George, still stunned.

"I don't go by Loopy anymore," said Loopy. "I use my real name. You can call me John."

"John, good to see you," Geroge managed to get out.