It had been an hour since Clark finally left the station—an hour of him circling her like a well-mannered but deeply suspicious golden retriever with heat vision.
He kept insisting she knew something. He even mentioned the X-Ray vision. Clark is supposed to be very secretive, now what the heck is that?!
Lucinda, meanwhile, clung to her only line of defense: the fine art of denying everything and pretending she was helping him look at Lex properly.
Clark didn't buy it. Obviously. But Lucinda had reached her quota for the day—three lies, two near-death experiences, and one accidental timeline disruption. She spent the rest of his interrogation dodging questions, feigning fainting spells, and offering him tissues until he just… gave up.
Unfortunately, she wasn't allowed to leave.
Sheriff Harris insisted she stay put, since Lex had called Molly and ordered her and Jess home to prepare Lionel's meal. Lucinda nearly saluted the heavens. At least Molly wasn't here to witness her descending into a full-blown Smallville crisis.
The station itself looked exactly like it did on TV—small, cramped, and aggressively beige. A single counter divided the office from the "interrogation" area, though honestly it looked more like the lobby of a dentist who only handled cow emergencies.
A pair of metal filing cabinets leaned against one wall like they, too, wanted to retire. A coffee machine burbled something ominous in the corner. The fluorescent lights flickered like they were considering unionizing.
Sheriff Ethan Harris—broad-shouldered, firm-jawed, and sporting a mustache that screamed I arrest teenagers for fun—kept eyeing Lucinda from behind his desk.
She didn't blame him. He had asked for her ID three times. Three times she smiled and pretended to check her pockets.
Three times she produced absolutely nothing.
Lucinda wasn't even listening anymore. She was scanning every corner of the station, eyes narrowed like a cryptid hunter. She was waiting for one particular presence. Sheriff Nancy Adams.
Her queen.
Her icon.
Her patron saint of sarcasm.
But Sheriff Adams never appeared.
Instead, the door swung open with the self-importance of a wealthy man entering a charity gala.
Lex Luthor stepped in, clean as sin in a tailored black coat, followed by a lawyer who looked like he billed by the breath.
His gaze flicked around the room once before landing on Lucinda.
And he smirked—Lucinda almost fainted by the way. The more time she looked at Lex, the hotter he had become in her eyes.
Lucinda stood up too fast and nearly knocked over the chair. The officer beside her scrambled up as well.
Lex approached like he owned the station—because knowing Lex, he probably did. He shook Sheriff Harris's hand, unbothered, unshaken, immaculate.
"Mr. Luthor," Sheriff Harris greeted with that Smallville polite smile.
"I understand the case has already been resolved?" Lex asked, tone smooth, faintly amused.
"Yes, Mr. Luthor," Harris said. Then he threw Lucinda under a bus, a truck, and a tractor all at once.
"I was simply concerned about your maid's identity. I can't find anything about her on record. Keeping someone undocumented isn't ideal for you."
Lucinda internally threw a chair at him. Lex let out a soft, knowing chuckle and turned his gaze to her.
"I'm touched by your concern, Sheriff," Lex replied. "But she is already under my care. As you can see" —he placed a hand on Lucinda's shoulder as if helping the Sheriff measure her tiny body— "she's harmless."
Lucinda mentally grimaced.
"And," Lex continued smoothly, "that is precisely why I had her remain at the station. I want her identity sorted out immediately." He glanced at her again, expression unreadable. "Surely that will not be a problem?"
Lucinda froze. Shit! Her internal monologue combusted. She cannot have a record in this universe!! She was already corrupting Clark's character—she didn't need to become a legally documented citizen of a fictional town!
Lucinda wasn't even able to sputter a protest before Sheriff Harris nodded briskly.
"I'll get the forms," he announced, then shuffled off to a nearby metal cabinet that had definitely survived more meteor showers than it should have.
Lucinda turned to Lex, wide-eyed, desperate. "I-Is that even necessary, Mr. Luthor? The identity, I mean."
Lex gave the most unhelpful shrug in the history of shrugs. "Well, since you clearly failed to fill out the employee form I gave you—due to your… circumstances... which I understand—I thought I'd assist."
Assist. In Lex-speak, that word usually involved bribes, background checks, or hostile takeovers.
Before she could react, Lex handed her a small folder with the weight of doom inside. Lucinda opened it—and nearly fainted.
It was an ID! A fully laminated, perfectly aligned, official-looking ID with her face on it. Not a mugshot, not a random candid—no. This was a studio-quality photograph she was absolutely certain she had never taken.
Does AI already exist in this damned universe?!
"Lucy Bryce…" Lucinda whispered. Then louder, strangled, "LUCY BRY—"
Her panic was abruptly muffled when Lex, with all the gentleness of a man silencing a malfunctioning alarm, placed one entire hand over her face.
"Now," he said calmly, as if this were the most routine thing in the world, "go get your new identity."
And with that, he guided her forward by the face—by the face—nudging her toward Sheriff Harris, who was now holding an old box camera roughly the size of Lex's trust issues.
As she trudged toward the sheriff, she couldn't help but spiral internally.
Bryce. Bryce. Why does Bryce sound like a walking red flag? Who had that surname? A meteor freak? A villain? Someone who dies horribly?
But even after signing papers, swearing oaths she definitely did not read, and posing for a mugshot that would haunt her descendants, she still couldn't remember who Bryce belonged to.
Before she knew it, she and Lex were stepping out of the Smallville Police Station—her clutching a neatly sealed folder containing her brand-new, government-certified, absolutely fraudulent existence. She could cry. Maybe she would.
"You look bewildered," Lex observed as his thumb clicked the remote of his silver Porsche Carrera. "Hop in. I'll get you some coffee."
Lucinda forced a smile as he opened the passenger door for her. Very gentleman. Very dangerous. Very problematic for her blood pressure.
"Don't worry, I got your age corrected," Lex added casually. "Molly said you're already an adult, so I asked her to order new ones." His eyes flicked pointedly toward her pants. "Appropriate ones."
Lucinda squeaked and slapped her folder over her crotch. "It's fine, Mr. Luthor. The Barbie ones fit perfectly."
Lex chuckled—actually chuckled—and gestured for her to get in. And so she did.
He usually drove like the road owed him money, but today he eased the car forward gently, carefully, as though she were a nervous raccoon he'd inexplicably adopted.
"So," he began lightly, "did you really see the robber properly?"
Lucinda exhaled. "I did and he looked exactly like you, Mr. Luthor. You already talked to Clark, right? He was a witness too."
"No, I haven't. I went straight to the station. I figured you'd be… unsettled."
Something in his tone softened—barely, fleetingly, but enough that Lucinda felt her stomach twist. It was genuinely sad that this man—this attentive, infuriatingly thoughtful man—was destined to become a villain because the universe enjoyed emotional tragedies.
"I'm really glad you weren't arrested, Mr. Luthor," she said with a small smile.
"Well, you know I was in Metropolis, hosting two hundred fertilizer distributors," he replied. "Very solid alibi. And the fingerprints and signature didn't match mine. Are you sure your eyes weren't playing tricks on you?"
Lucinda blinked.
WAIT. That line—That is literally what he says to Clark. At the Kent farm. IN THIS EPISODE.
When she didn't answer, Lex glanced at her.
"You look scared, Miss Bryce," he said, voice taking on a familiar, velvety charm.
Lucinda froze. "I'm going to call you Lucy from now on," he added smoothly, deciding her entire identity like it was part of a corporate merger. "Don't worry. I promise I'm not a criminal mastermind."
Lucinda almost choked. GOOD LORD.
THAT WAS ANOTHER LINE FROM THE SHOW. She needed confirmation—fast.
"I-I know, Mr. Luthor," she said weakly. "A criminal mastermind would've… worn a mask."
Lex smirked, and that was it.
That was the final nail in her coffin.
Lucinda had successfully—irreversibly—stolen Lex's canon dialogue with Clark. Lex should've been at the Kent farm right now, but instead, he was driving her to get coffee.
She had ruined not one—Not two—But THREE canon scenes in a row.
Lucinda briefly contemplated hurling herself out of the moving car just to escape the impending self-destruction, but Lex beat her to it by screeching to a halt in front of a coffee shop.
"Stay here. I'll get the coffee," he said, already halfway out of the car. "Oh, do you have anything you want?"
Lucinda looked up with the confidence of a woman who had momentarily forgotten her place in the universe. "Seasonal Peppermint Mocha and Caramel Brulée Latte, please. Oh! And if they have pumpkin cream cheese—"
Lex blinked. Lucinda blinked back… processing… processing… ERROR.
She snapped into a smile faster than a malfunctioning robot. "I-Iced caramel macchiato and, uh… some sweets. I-I mean. That's it."
Lex stared at her like she had just ordered a three-course meal in Elvish, then slowly—painfully slowly—closed the car door.
The moment he stepped into the coffee shop, a man materialized beside the car like an uninvited NPC with a side quest no one asked for. Lucinda squinted. He looked familiar—sharp features, calculating eyes, the general vibe of someone who alphabetizes his blackmail files.
"Must be one of the vital characters," she muttered, immediately whipping her gaze forward before he caught her staring. The man, dressed in a crisp black suit despite the Kansas morning sun, looked about mid-50s—old enough to be wise, but clearly choosing violence instead.
"Ahh you're still young to be dating Lex Luthor, miss."
Lucinda groaned internally. Of course he was already behind her. Of course he was looming. She pretended not to hear, hoping ignoring him would make him despawn.
"Perhaps, can you tell me how long have you been dating Mr. Luthor?"
That was when she finally turned to face him, mostly because she could feel him bending physics to lean even closer.
"I am simply his maid, sir," Lucinda smiled sarcastically. "So, if you'd be so kind to leave me alone."
The man shrugged, completely unbothered, and instead of walking away like a decent human being, he leaned on Lex's expensive car like it was some public bench. Lucinda almost swung her folder at him—but the fear of accidentally derailing canon kept her hands primly folded and her sanity barely intact.
Less than five minutes later, Lex stepped out of the coffee shop with a coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other—because even when annoyed, the man multitasks like a billionaire.
Lucinda immediately pointed at the unwanted car-leech. Lex, calm as ever, shrugged and approached.
"May I help you?" he asked.
The man lifted a hand and flashed his ID like he was revealing a cursed artifact. "Roger Nixon, Metropolis Inquisitor."
Lucinda gasped softly. Ahh him. The headache in human form.
Lex barely glanced at the ID before smiling politely—dangerously. "Get off my car," he said as he stepped closer.
"It's a hell of a picture, Lex," Roger said, still glued to the car like gum on a shoe. "You know, it really boosted our sales," he added, flicking the black folder in his hand.
Lucinda leaned nearer ever so slightly—professional eavesdropping mode activated.
"I've read comic books with less fiction than your rag," Lex answered, now looking at whatever Roger was showing him.
Lucinda recognized it instantly—the newspaper accusing Lex of robbing a bank. Classic.
"Well, what about this? Is this fiction?" Roger flipped something in the folder, tapping at it dramatically. "It's your juvenile record. Fascinating reading. That must have taken a Brinks truck of your dad's money to keep those people quiet."
"Those records are sealed," Lex said confidently.
"I'm a resourceful guy," Roger replied with even more confidence, the kind that made Lucinda seriously consider smacking him—if only the canon police wouldn't arrest her.
"You know, I saw that picture yesterday, and it got me to thinking of a follow-up," Roger said, lifting the folder. "'Lex Luthor's Wild Youth in Metropolis.' Does the name Club Zero ring a bell?"
Lucinda perked up. "Yeah! Club Zero. I remember that," she whispered to herself like someone watching a rerun and cheering.
"You print one word about that, I'll sue you!" Lex snapped, irritation edging into his voice.
"Lawsuits take years," Roger said, unfazed. "The genie will be out of the bottle and all the people will know that the new and improved Lex Luthor is nothing but a facade."
Lex laughed—not the fun kind. "You know what I think, Rog? If you wanted to print that, it would already be in the paper. I think you're looking for a pay-off," he said, then walked toward the driver's seat.
"It's a business proposition," Roger said, finally standing upright as Lex handed Lucinda the paper bag with practiced finesse.
"A $100,000 and these records will disappear forever," Roger added.
"I'd question your integrity, but you're a journalist."
Lex started the engine.
"Did your father really think he could hide you here forever?" Roger continued, pulling out a calling card and leaning an arm on the windshield like he owned the place.
"You've got 24 hours, and this hits the front page," he said, dropping the threat casually as poison.
Lucinda blinked at the calling card—blinked—because Lex snatched it so fast it gave them both a whiplash. Then he floored the gas and sped away.
For a full five seconds, Lucinda tried to behave. Truly. She clasped the folder containing her new identity, pressed her lips together, and watched the world blur past the window like a responsible adult.
But Lucinda, by nature, was not built for silence. Silence felt like a tax she refused to pay. So of course her mouth opened because it has its own brain.
"If only I were your bodyguard, I'd have smacked him straight across the face," she declared proudly—because nothing calms a billionaire after blackmail like the promise of violence.
Lex huffed a laugh, the tension easing from his shoulders. "You can barely reach my head, Lucy." His tone lightened, that familiar teasing returning. "Let's not pretend you're taking down grown men on sidewalks."
Lucinda put a hand on her chest, scandalized. "Oh, but that's true. I'll have you know, back in the Philippines, I learned jujutsu and karate," she gave him the universal eyebrow wiggle of someone lying confidently but with style. "I can knock your stalkers off in one hit."
Lex glanced at her for a full 3-second, it almost felt illegal. "Oh? Can you now?" His voice dipped into something questioning, amused…and just a bit suspicious.
Lucinda raised her chin, channeling her inner action heroine. The Karate and Jujutsu thing is true though. She had joined clubs in highschool and polished those skills in college.
"When you live in dangerous streets," she began dramatically, wearing a sweet smile that absolutely did not match the statement, "you can do a lot of things just to survive."
Lex's expression soften. "You kept intriguing me, Lucy," then he smirked.
Lucinda froze. That sounded bad. She thought.