Lucinda was now standing behind Darius like an impatient gremlin on timeout. Bored out of her mind, yes — but her focus was laser-locked on the black duffel bag sitting on the counter.
Even from several feet away, she could practically hear the money whispering to her. Her eyes glimmered with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics or freshly baked pandesal.
Were those stacks of $1,000? $500? $100?
She had no idea — Darius had positioned her so far from the bag that the cash might as well have been in a different postal code. She squinted like a detective solving a crime, leaning a millimeter forward before Darius gave her a subtle side-eye that said, Don't even breathe in that direction.
To be fair, the man was merely following orders. His phone vibrated moments earlier with a message from Lex — short, cold, and painfully accurate:
"Keep the money away from the reach of any children… height included."
Darius hadn't commented. He simply read it, sighed, and then placed the duffel bag another six inches farther from Lucinda.
Lucinda gasped softly. Six inches was cruel. But it's definitely enough for something else we should not talk about.
She crossed her arms, tapping her foot with all the moral authority of someone who had absolutely none in this situation.
Suddenly, she piped up, "I hope you know I have self-control, sir."
Darius didn't even bother to look back. "Mm-hmm," he muttered, the universal bodyguard translation of I heard you, but I refuse to emotionally invest in whatever nonsense you're about to create.
Lucinda exhaled dramatically into the SUV's stale air now that they're back in the small parking lot just beside the bank.
She still didn't understand why Lex thought it was necessary for her to accompany Darius to the bank when she wasn't even allowed to breathe in the general direction of the duffel bag once it was stuffed with glimmering, shiny, shimmering—honestly suspiciously reflective—money.
And of course, she wasn't trusted to carry the bag. Not even for a photo op. Darius himself lifted it with both hands like he was transporting a newborn royal and set it gently on the second row—directly behind her seat. Not beside her. Not within reach. Not even within temptation radius.
Once Lucinda settled into the passenger seat, Darius closed the back door with the kind of reverence most people reserved for fine china, then leaned into her open window.
"I have to run Mr. Luthor's last errand. Then we'll go back home," he said simply, straightening his tie like he was about to accept a presidential award.
Lucinda nodded. "Go do your thing, Darry."
Darius paused mid-blink at the nickname, visibly debating whether to correct her, escort her to the nearest vocabulary rehabilitation center, or simply ignore her existence. He went with the third option, glanced at the duffel bag, and delivered his final decree.
"The money was carefully counted. If something is missing when I get back, I'm dragging you straight to the police station."
Lucinda rolled her eyes so hard she briefly saw the back of her skull. "You can execute me even," she muttered in three languages and a dialect.
Darius squinted, the kind of squint that meant I understood exactly one of those curses, before walking away.
Left alone, Lucinda deflated into the seat. Her curiosity gnawed at her ribs. How did $100,000 fit into that not-so-big duffel bag? She always imagined one hundred grand filled a room. Like a dragon hoard. Or a cartel basement. Or at least a medium-sized laundry basket.
She was midway through mentally calculating how many rooms in her childhood home one hundred grand could wallpaper when she spotted someone on the far side of the street.
"M-Martha Kent?" she choked, clapping a hand over her mouth so aggressively she nearly slapped herself unconscious.
Before she could process the sacredness of witnessing the Queen Mother of All Goodness in the universe, a violent commotion erupted behind her. Tires screamed. Metal shrieked. A truck barreled down the sidewalk as if the universe had collectively decided to reenact her nightmares. The red pickup plowed through signs and displays, heading straight—straight—for Martha.
"Oh shit!" Lucinda squeaked, eyes widening.
She knew this scene in X-Ray episode. Knew it well. Tina Greer, disguised as Clark, stole Martha's keys, stole Jonathan's truck, caused this very mayhem. Martha dodged it in the show then Clark appeared.
But right now?
Martha was dug halfway into her purse, blissfully unaware, probably searching for gum or coupons or mom magic. And Clark—actual Clark—was nowhere in sight. No blur of red and blue. No super-dashing. No heroic soundtrack.
Lucinda slapped her hands to her face. "No, no, no… I am NOT going out there to be a hero. Absolutely not. Clark would definitely save his mom. Of course he would!"
She peeked again.
Still no Clark.
And Martha was seconds away from becoming an unfortunate hood ornament.
Lucinda froze for a heartbeat then her body made an executive decision without consulting her brain.
She threw the SUV door open, sprinted across the street, defied traffic laws, physics, her own survival instincts—everything—and launched herself at Martha Kent.
They tumbled together behind the corner of a nearby shop just as the red pickup blasted through the exact spot they had stood.
Lucinda stayed sprawled on the pavement like a cartoon character whose soul momentarily slipped out of her body. Martha had already pushed herself upright, bewildered eyes tracking the red pickup that had nearly turned her into road décor. Meanwhile, Lucinda remained horizontal, blinking at the sky as if reconsidering every life choice that led her to Smallville's death row.
Three full seconds passed.
Then Martha's gentle, velvety voice floated down to her.
"Honey, are you alright?"
Lucinda turned her head. And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Martha Kent—actual Martha Kent—was looking at her with soft blue eyes, haloed by the sun in a way that made her seem like an angel who'd just descended to compliment her rescue form. The woman was stunning. Red hair, porcelain skin, a maternal aura so strong it could heal generational trauma on contact.
Lucinda let Martha pull her into a sitting position, still staring. For a moment, Martha wasn't just Martha—she was Mom.
Her real mother.
Her gentle, soft-spoken mom who always smelled like Sunday mornings.
Lucinda felt her throat close. Tears burned dangerously.
Perfect time to be dramatic, she thought.
Absolutely perfect.
Then—
"Mom!"
Clark's voice shattered the moment.
He barreled into the scene in a panic, practically sliding to Martha's side and pulling her into a tight hug. "Are you alright? What happened?"
Lucinda awkwardly scrambled to her feet before anyone could accuse her of being dead.
Martha smiled and touched Clark's arm. "I'm alright, honey. This girl saved me."
Lucinda visibly winced at the word girl—as if she'd been demoted from human adult to lost child at a mall. Clark whipped toward her, eyes going wide.
"Lucy?" he blurted.
"Yes, it's me, Clark. You don't have to ask," she muttered, brushing dust off herself like this was just another Tuesday.
Clark leaned closer to his mother and whispered—loud enough for Lucinda's soul to hear it echo. "She's the one I was talking about, Mom."
Lucinda froze— Of course Clark had already told his parents about me. He had no one else to talk to anyway.
Martha turned to her with warm curiosity. "It's Lucy Bryce, right?" she asked, stepping closer. "Thank you so much for saving me."
"It's nothing, Mrs. Kent," Lucinda replied—and only then realized Martha hadn't even introduced herself yet. But of course she knew who she was. Clark had already called her mom. It's already given she would be Mrs. Kent.
"Perhaps…" Martha reached for her hands gently. "Can we invite you home? We have something we'd like to talk to you about."
Lucinda's stomach executed a full gymnastics routine. She knew exactly where this storyline was heading—and she had zero intention of ruining more scenes of this episode.
She shook her head with all the grace of a declining nun. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Kent, but I'm in a hurry. Mr. Luthor sent me to run an errand and I need to return as soon as possible—"
"I already told Lex," Clark interjected, with tragic confidence, "and he agreed for you to come with us. He'll stop by the farm, too, to personally take you home after."
Lucinda's entire face contorted. In her mind's eye, Lex Luthor stood smugly behind an invisible curtain, pulling puppet strings and sipping expensive metaphorical tea.
"Oh, that bald-headed gremlin," she muttered under her breath, eye twitching violently.
But the moment Martha looked at her—hopeful, grateful, and impossibly gentle—Lucinda's resolve collapsed like wet cardboard.
"A-Alright, Mrs. Kent," she said, forcing a smile that barely held its shape. "I'd be honored."