The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination

CATEGORY: Unexpected Cryptozoological Ramifications

RULE 1451.2b: Pick Your Supervillain Name with Care

SOURCE: Alexander Luthor, biotechnology billionaire

VIA: Marjorie M. Liu

What is “destiny”? Does it come from the stars, like the astrologists say? Is it spun out of a person’s DNA, the kind of birthright monarchies claim? Is it measured out by mysterious figures, like the Greek Fates in their cave? Or could it be that a man’s future determined by his name?

This is a story of a man who has allowed his name to drive his destiny. Alexander Luthor, the mind behind the multibillion-dollar LuthorTech corporation, has a talent for biotech invention—and success has brought him many government contacts. With the power and protection of the federal government behind his experiments, Alexander Luthor finds himself in a position to change the world.

As he plumbs the reaches of science, Alexander must confront the choices he’s made. What is he becoming? And can he make a name for himself—one that isn’t simply villainous?

He sits very still, breathless, as the young man unfolds the shining red cloth. This moment is part of an old dream, a red dream—red on blue, with gold trim, and that lovely brand upon the young man’s fine, fine chest. The finest letter in the alphabet, Alexander thinks. A mighty letter, for a mighty myth.

But the young man grins, ruining the effect. What was to be serious, epic, suddenly feels like the farce it is, and Alexander looks away in shame. He barely notices the young man clip the cape into place, can barely stand to hear his own voice break the quiet.

Alexander does not know the young man’s real name—only the one he has been given for this evening. All part of the ruined fantasy.

Puzzlement, even a little disappointment, yet the young man does as he is told. He gathers his belongings: a business suit, with tie; thick glasses. He is a beautiful creature: long of muscle and bone, with pale eyes and dark wavy hair. A lucky find, and Alexander feels a moment of regret. But no, this is not right.

The young man leaves. Alexander sits in his chair by the window and stares at the city. There is enough light to cast a reflection in the glass; like a ghost mirror, he sees his face in shadow, transparent and wry.

Alexander is bald. He thinks he looks good bald, though it is quite unnatural. The men in Alexander’s family are fine bushy blonds, but when Alexander turned eighteen he shaved all the hair from his head. Shaves it still, so that his scalp gleams polished and perfect.

So. Alexander has the look. He has the money. Yet, he is still alone. Alone in his tower, his fortress of solitude.

It is a joke and Alexander knows it. His name is Alexander Luthor—Lex Luthor—but this is not a comic book, and there is no such thing as Superman.

The research department at LuthorTech takes up an entire city block. The building squats in the center of downtown, where streets and sidewalks are a jungle during rush hour. Alexander likes the crowds; he keeps his office on the first floor so he can watch strangers pass scant yards beyond his tinted windows. He has other offices, better offices, in prettier parts of town, but he has not seen them in over five years.

Alexander’s brothers do not understand this. The big picture has always eluded them, along with humility and the practical application of science and business theory. It is why Alexander’s father made his youngest son the principal shareholder in LuthorTech, why his two oldest pretend to manage sales and marketing while alternating between office and golf course, why the old man rests easy at night, without fear his life’s work will die. Despite their differences in lifestyle, which have crippled communication, Alexander’s father knows his son is a smart man. Too eccentric, perhaps, to be acceptable—but very, very smart.

Smart enough to appreciate the backbone of the company, to dwell close within the marrow, directing firsthand the genius on his payroll. His enthusiasm helps. The employees like Alexander. They respect him, even—though he knows they make fun of his name, his appearance. Lex Luthor in the flesh, they say. Our boss, the mad scientist. Does he keep kryptonite in his shorts? Ha. Ha. Ha.

Alexander blames his mother. She insisted on his name, on the dignity of its sound. Alexander wonders if he would be a different man if she had called him George or Simon or Larry. A name without myth or power. Without expectation.

But no, he is Alexander. He is Lex. And he has lived up to that name, in more ways than one.

“They’re growing faster than we anticipated, Mr. Luthor. We’ll need bigger cages soon.”

The lab is poorly lit. Or rather, it is well lit according to the parameters of the experiment. Batch number 381 does not thrive under bright lights, so the scientists have installed lower energy bulbs, the kind used in photography darkrooms. Everything is cast in red, blood red, and Alexander feels as though he is in the middle of a particularly nasty horror movie. The writhing masses of glistening flesh lumped in glass tanks do not help. In fact, it looks pornographic.

Alexander steps close. The tanks are completely airtight, each one equipped with an isolated oxygen pump that filters and analyzes and recycles. There are also feeding slots—storage chambers built with a series of small airlocks and safety mechanisms, timed to release sludge when the sensors indicate that tank levels have dropped below acceptable feeding levels. The creatures like to swim through shit. It is the earthworm in them, this instinct to burrow deep.

But these pulsing undulating worms are as thick as Alexander’s arm, and it is not soil they are consuming.

Dr. Reynolds, a tall woman of middle years, quirks her lips. “Mercury, toluene, and just about every other heavy metal we can think of. They eat it right up, with no visible side effects. It’s incredible, Mr. Luthor. That sludge is so toxic the fumes alone could probably kill a person.”

Alexander cannot tell if Dr. Reynolds is joking; the amusement in her voice does not reach her eyes. This is worrisome, because Alexander trusts her judgment.

“Kathy,” he says. “What’s wrong? If there’s a health risk to all of you—”

“No, nothing like that.” Dr. Reynolds stares at the tank. One of the worms momentarily swells, ridges flaring in response to some mysterious biological cue. Its slick bulk disappears beneath a rolling heave of supple bodies that slip sideways to strain against the sludge-packed glass. “I hate looking at these things,” she finally says. “They scare me.”

“Good,” Alexander says. “We’re playing God, Kathy. We should be afraid.”

“The only fearless God is the one who doesn’t have to live with His mistakes. If that were us, I wouldn’t be forced to keep more than a hundred lawyers on the company payroll.”

There is little more to discuss. Alexander ends his meeting with Dr. Reynolds. The red lights and the red worms are too much, and it will be lunch in an hour. To stay inside that lab any longer would be cruel.

So Alexander wanders, moving through each floor of his building with methodical abandon. He has a purpose, which is to make sure all the lead projects are progressing smoothly, but he does not care how he gets there. It is enough that his legs are moving. He is still thinking about worms.

It is a long-known fact that certain kinds of bacteria eat toxic waste and sewage, but such organisms are slow and require sensitive environments. More than two years ago, LuthorTech was given a government contract to develop creatures that are not so … sensitive. Not so slow. And now Alexander’s team has succeeded. Or so he thinks.

Alexander will not lose sleep, either way. The government has paid for a genetically engineered solution to toxic spills, and that is what it shall receive. Only, there is a tiny fear in Alexander’s heart. His alter ego, after all, is a wicked man. A wicked man, without any counterpart in the world to balance his darkness.

The wandering continues into lunch. Alexander had planned to eat in his office, but the sun is shining and his mind is still trapped in a red-lit room. He leaves the building and hits the sidewalk, carried by the crowd toward a destination unknown.

He knows why the worms frighten Dr. Reynolds. It has nothing to do with the way they look. It is enough that they are new and powerful and man-made. Evolution favors the strong, but these creatures are products of disparate evolutions. Distant biological paths, forced to collide into one body.

The government calls them Living Machines: a deceptive term, meant to soothe. There are more planned, for various purposes; the contracts and proposals are locked within Alexander’s safe, awaiting his signature. The government likes to dream big and it favors LuthorTech because the company is discreet, because it gets the job done. No fuss, ever. LuthorTech does not raise moral objections. Not when the price is right.

But Alexander knows there are all kinds of prices to pay—a price for every action—and he wonders about lines and points of no return, how far he can go before he becomes the man he pretends to be; how far he can push before myth becomes reality. He wonders, not for the first time, if creating that reality will not invite another collision of coincidence. Darkness, after all, is always offset by light.

The sidewalk ends; he can turn left or right, but ahead of him is a vast expanse of green, and he decides that grass might be a nice change from concrete and glass. He crosses the street, passes through the open iron gate, and enters the park. The sounds of traffic fade instantly. Alexander feels cocooned by sunlight and the scent of fresh turned soil.

The smell of grease soon overpowers the smell of nature. Alexander finds a concession stand and buys a sandwich, chips, a large soda. The surrounding benches are taken, so he wanders off the path onto thick grass, plopping down in the shade cast by a gnarled oak. He does not sit there long before he feels a presence at his back, the subtle hint of shuffling feet.

Alexander glances over his shoulder and sees a man approaching. Middle-aged, with a dusting of silver in his hair. He has a homeless sort of look, which has nothing to do with his somewhat scruffy clothes, his tangled beard, or the limp backpack in his hand. Alexander can tell the man is homeless because his eyes are hollow, hungry. It is a gaze of desperate despair, and Alexander feels a rush of fear to be confronted by such helpless sorrow. But then he remembers the worms and the papers in his safe, the other projects percolating in his labs, and he thinks, I am much more frightening than this man. And he, at least, is human.

Alexander nods at the man, who hesitates for just one moment before setting down his backpack and slumping to his knees in the grass. Alexander does not make him ask; he gives the man half his sandwich, and pushes over the drink and chips.

“Thanks,” the man says. Alexander can hear the desert in that voice, which carries the dry timbre of sand. Elegant and coarse, like its owner. “My name is Richard.”

Richard nods. The two men say nothing more. They eat and watch joggers and mothers with strollers; children on leashes and dogs running without; teenagers slinging Frisbees, shouting obscenities at each other with adolescent affection. It is a very nice afternoon.

“Tell me about yourself,” Richard finally says, finishing the last of the chips. “What kind of man are you?”

An interesting question, considering the source. Alexander studies Richard, but the man’s eyes are stronger now, more full. He even looks belligerent. Defiant. Alexander smiles.

“Oh, the insult.” Richard slurps down the soda and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are you? Thirty, thirty-five?”

“You’re wearing a nice suit. Armani, by the look of it. And you’re sitting in the grass, getting it dirty. You must be pretty successful.”

“Good enough.” Richard climbs to his feet, brushing crumbs off his clothes. Alexander stands with him; he senses their conversation is over, and it leaves him awkward. Confused. He has not asked his own questions. He knows nothing about this man, who in less than a minute has managed to both surprise and disconcert.

Alexander feels like they were just getting started, but that is not right, either.

“You have a good life, kid. Stay honest.” Richard releases him, stoops to pick up his backpack, and begins shuffling away with a good deal more dignity than at his arrival. Alexander stares after him, heart pounding.

Richard turns, fixes Alexander with a pointed stare. “I’d rather have a job.”

Richard will not talk about himself, who he was before losing home and livelihood. Alexander finds him work as a janitor. He is probably overqualified to clean toilets and mop floors, but that does not matter. According to Richard, the past—that life—is done. Besides, being a janitor at LuthorTech pays well. Alexander takes care of his employees. Keeps them from unionizing.

And Richard, in turn, takes care of Alexander. Small things, only. Words more than actions. Alexander does not have many friends—his own family rarely speaks to him—and while Richard might not count as much more than an acquaintance, Alexander enjoys talking to a man who does not ridicule him behind his back, but always, always to his face.

“You have problems,” Richard says, the first time he sees Alexander’s office, the poster of Superman on the wall.

Richard gives him a look. Alexander suddenly feels as though he has been caught in church with both hands on his dick. The most embarrassing sin, exposed.

“Kid.” Richard stares at Alexander’s naked scalp, still moist from a recent shave. “There’s nothing fun about this.”

It is the truth, the closest truth Alexander has ever heard spoken aloud, but he says nothing. To speak would acknowledge a truth that would reveal a secret, a secret too close to Alexander’s heart, too entangled in his soul, to ever be breathed. Alexander has built his life around this myth. He cannot stop now—will not stop—no matter the pain.

They have passed all initial tests, and except for their size—which is startling, unusual, and somewhat disturbing—they are ready for a real-world scenario. The government has picked the time and place, and if the worms succeed within the parameters set for them, the government will take possession of the creatures and begin using them in earnest. The first of many Living Machines, created for the public good.

Which is why Alexander is encased in a rubber sleeve, standing thigh-deep in open sewage, trying not to vomit into the oxygen mask strapped over his face.

He is not the only one struggling for balance in the sludge. Dr. Reynolds and her team are present, along with scientists from the federal government. This section of the city sewer system is completely blocked off, sealed tight to prevent any of the worms from escaping into the main line. Alexander objects to the use of a public facility for this test, but the government wants to make sure the worms will thrive outside a controlled environment.

These particular worms, which are waiting to be released from the plastic containers carried by Dr. Reynolds and her assistants, are young and small, fresh from the incubator. The others, the mammoths of Batch number 381, have been destroyed, their bodies conserved for study. Alexander’s skin prickles, remembering those massive bodies, heavy with sludge, resting torpid at the bottom of their enlarged tanks. Still alive, still healthy, and still growing.

Alexander catches Dr. Reynolds’s worried glance. They share a moment of perfect doubt. This is a lot of sludge and they are releasing a lot of worms. When the experiment is over, the government’s plan is to carefully drain the remaining sludge from the system, thereby revealing—and trapping—the worms for easy collection. Alexander does not think it will be so easy, but the government scientists have insisted.

Dr. Reynolds inches close. “You really don’t have to be here for this, Mr. Luthor. Once they get the instruments calibrated, all we’re going to do is dump the worms into the sewage.” Alexander hears an odd thumping sound. Dr. Reynolds tightens her grip on the container.

“What?” Alexander drawls, eyeing the cloudy plastic. “And miss this? You shock me, Kathy.”

Dr. Reynolds snorts, but her face is pale, her eyes just a little too large beneath her mask. She has seen what the creatures become; she knows what will happen down here.

“Science.” She draws the word out, low and hard. “And here I thought we were playing God.”

Dr. Reynolds turns away toward the other scientists. Alexander watches her go, unable to call her back. She is right, of course, and he wishes he had chosen this moment to be honest, to speak again the truth voiced in the red-lit room when he told her it was all right to be afraid because yes, what they were doing was too big for mere mortals, too much responsibility to put on human shoulders.

We’re doing more than science, Alexander thinks. He watches Dr. Reynolds flip the locks on her rattling container. We’ve crossed the line into something bigger.

Dr. Reynolds opens the lid and Alexander hears a hiss that is not human, a sound that exists only because he signed a piece of paper.

The worms fall free in a tangle, smacking the sludge, writhing against the surface before sinking, sinking, out of sight. The other containers open: worms are unceremoniously dumped. Alexander imagines them working their way through the darkness, feeding, growing. He feels something brush his ankle and it takes all his strength not to shudder.

Everyone begins to clamber out of the sludge. Alexander realizes he is being left behind. It is a short climb up the ladder to the wide shelf jutting from the sewer wall. Dripping shit, Alexander is greeted by a man wearing a yellow rain slicker over a dark suit. A nameless government liaison paying his dues in a crappy assignment. His eyes are bloodshot and he keeps swallowing hard. Even better, then. A puker.

Alexander rips off his mask; he almost doubles over from the smell, but manages to maintain his composure better than the other men and women removing their facial protective gear. Amidst a symphony of gagging, Alexander forces a smile. The puker grunts, his gaze sliding sideways to the sludge below them.

“Like the finest chocolate,” Alexander says, still smiling. He wants to run, to scratch this man from his path and fight for sunlight. He hates this place.

A stupid question. Alexander imagines the worms in their liquid heat, sucking in filth and growing large and strong. It is the bacterial strain in them, this unexpected and fortuitous ability to process sludge without creating any. Alexander would say that it defies the laws of nature, except Dr. Reynolds has assured him there is waste—only, it is processed at an extremely slow rate, released in nontoxic dribbles. Very alluring. Very practical.

The government has been given reams of paper on this subject: data and speculation, photographs and samples. Nothing has been held back, nothing, but this fool—this dangerous fool who is their liaison—remains ignorant. Alexander cannot stand it.

He steps close and it works; the man retreats, unwilling to entertain shit 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 shit.”

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.

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.

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 compassion cannot live in isolation. It demands the world.

And the world demands it back. The world needs more compassion. 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 scraps 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.

A week passes, 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.

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 ecoterrorists, uneducated journalists, and public concern. It is very liberating, this lack of oversight, though Alexander still feels his moral compass with its needle swinging, and the shadow of a dream on his shoulder. The good and amoral, holding hands.

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.

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 pleasure 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 sexy needs a lobotomy.”

“Hey, he can be obsessed with sheep, for all I care. I just want him to sign my paycheck. And stay the hell away from me.”

“Right. Who knows what kind of freak show goes on in his pants? He probably paints his balls green.”

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 passes 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 title 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.

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.

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.

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.

Alexander blinks, refocusing his entire attention on Richard. Richard places his palms on the desk and leans forward. “Yeah, you heard me. Fucked. 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 shit—real abuse—and hard as I try, I just can’t feel sorry for you. You know why? Because you ask for it.”

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.”

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?

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.

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

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?”

“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 hoarse whisper, disturbed with awe. “But you believe. You believe it all.”

“Yes,” Alexander breathes, because to say it louder would feel coarse, 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 shit wrapped up in the myth. You want him to be real so you can fuck him, and if you can’t fuck 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.

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.”

“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.”

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 button. 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.

“Fuck,” 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.

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 asexual 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 surreptitious glances in his direction. Some of them look sick, but even nausea seems to take on a dispassionate 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.

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.

“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 assume.”

“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 God,” Alexander hears Richard whisper. Alexander wonders if God 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 shit, 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 God 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.

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 Hell 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 shit. 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.

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 shit and blood, shit 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.

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.

After the accident, the government takes possession of the worms and all associated 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 button. 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 bandages 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.

Flowers surround him: roses, lilies. They are pleasant substitutes 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.

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.”

“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?”

“Maybe,” Richard says. “But you’re still full of shit. 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 fucked 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.

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 damn much, you expect the world to do the same. And when it doesn’t, when all you see is the horrible crap 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.

“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.”

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 Hell, and Inked. She also writes for Marvel Comics, penning Black Widow, X-23, Dark Wolverine, and Astonishing X-Men.