can’t show a starving man a meal and expect him not to gorge himself.”
—Matthew Icarus, testifying before the
Executive Committee re the killing spree
of Subject 6524, code name “Razor”
It was another bank robbery, in a string of at least a dozen, pulled off with style and flair by Arclight, New Chicago’s most dastardly villain.
It would also likely be the last. First Federal was one of the only banks in the city not to install heatproof vaults in the year Lester had been on the run from Corp.
Still, he didn’t believe in looking gift horses—bank vaults?—in the mouth.
Shouldering one sack of digichips and one of bearer bonds, Arclight stepped from the vault, his black cape swirling around his ankles.
What if you get yourself killed? Valerie had demanded the first time he’d stepped out in his new costume.
Not a costume. A uniform, a symbol of the resistance. Of the amends he was making to Holly Owens and her daughter Joan.
Haven’t come close yet, he’d said, with perhaps more arrogance than was strictly necessary. He’d come home to Valerie in the small hours after he’d pulled George Greene’s little daughter out of that closet, in that awful abattoir, and, instead of breaking down, all he’d felt in his chest was a steely resolve.
We’re finished with Corp, and Corp’s rules, and the heroes who abide by them and allow themselves to be prostituted and killed.
Valerie had agreed. They’d planned, all through George’s trial. They’d waited for the right moment, for the furor and the press to die down. Luster had used the underworld contacts he’d developed from years on the street to procure new identities and secret bank accounts for the money he’d been funneling into Callie’s college fund.
And then one morning, when nobody would miss them for a few days—no press conferences, no training—before Yuriko had brought them coffee and the day’s correspondence, they’d woken up Callie and run.
It had been so easy once Lester had seen the truth. His family or Corp. One or the other would have to wither and die to allow the other to flourish.
It had been easy to stop being a hero.
It had been easier to start being a villain. All he needed to remember was Holly’s body on the floor and the face of that little girl. And the consistent, ever-present reminder:
You set this in motion. George killed her, but you started it.
Valerie, after she stopped worrying about him dying at the hands of some second-rate Team Beta wannabe, got into the act. She liked Arclight. Every once in a while, she even joined him as the newly dubbed Glitter Vixen.
And the sex had never been better.
There were even hints from Val about a second child. Lester let that bring a smile to his lips as he stepped through the melted front door of First Federal and into an onslaught of press.
Some things never changed.
“Arclight! Do you really think you’ll get away with this?”
Lester flashed his smile into the cameras—the smile Corp had taught him, charming and devoid of real feeling. “Abso-bloody-lutely.”
A wail of sirens in the distance put him on to the appearance of New Chicago’s Finest, which meant he had less than a minute before some hero or another showed up.
“Anything to say?” another reporter shouted. “Anything to say to Corp?”
Lester tipped a wink at the reporter, a petite blonde with an unfortunately nipped and tucked face.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He hefted his loot so that the First Federal logo would be sure to show up on the newsfeeds in a few hours.
“And what’s that?” the reporter prompted.
Lester grinned. This time it was real. “Catch me if you can.”
“Where have you been?” Valerie demanded as Lester stripped out of his cape and dumped the two bags into the floor safe in their closet. He kicked a pile of dirty laundry over the spot, and spun to face his wife, who handed him a shirt and tie with a frown on her face.
“Check the vid. You’ll see.”
“Did you forget that your daughter has a birthday party going on as we speak?”
Lester skinned into the shirt and tie—nothing he’d have been caught dead in, in his old life. But this wasn’t life. This was a cover. Charlie Ryan wore poncey ties even at home, so Lester donned it without complaint.
“Of course not. I told you I’d make it in time, didn’t I?” He smoothed down his hair in the mirror. Now that Corp had stopped demanding he dye it, there were a few streaks of