Lucinda must have already gasped for the nth time since Lex ushered her into the laboratory moments after they parted ways with Clark and the others.
This place was nowhere near Smallville. That much she was certain of. In fact, she was fairly confident it had never once appeared on screen—no establishing shot, no ominous aerial pan, no dramatic LuthorCorp title card. Which meant, of course, that it was important.
The facility itself was massive, almost oppressive in scale. Steel walkways crisscrossed overhead like ribs in some mechanical beast, and the low hum of generators vibrated faintly through the floor beneath her boots. Scientists moved everywhere—too many of them—white coats blurring past in purposeful streams, clipboards tucked to chests, voices clipped and urgent.
The air was saturated with disinfectant and sharp chemical undertones, the kind that burned slightly at the back of the throat. Lucinda was fairly certain that if she hadn't been wearing a mask, she would have either fainted or started confessing secrets unprompted.
She walked beside Lex, doing her best to appear composed, while he spoke calmly with a woman scientist—Korean, judging by her accent and the rapid cadence of her speech.
Every word exchanged between them was in fluent Korean.
Lucinda blinked. Did Lex ever even talked in another language?
She mentally rifled through her encyclopedic knowledge of the series—boardroom scenes, villain monologues, smug wine-swirl moments—but no. Nothing about Lex casually conversing in another language that wasn't English and sarcasm.
When they reached the far end of the laboratory, the scientist bowed slightly and departed, leaving Lucinda and Lex standing before a massive glass tank.
Inside it churned a viscous, glowing green substance. It pulsed slowly, thick and alive-looking, clinging to the sides like it resented being contained. The way it blobbled and shifted sent an unpleasant chill down Lucinda's spine.
She didn't bother asking.
Green. LuthorCorp. Glowing. Definitely Kryptonite.
"This is the extract of the meteorite LuthorCorp has been harboring for years," Lex said evenly.
Lucinda nodded, summoning her most convincing wow-I-didn't-know-that expression.
"But this extract," Lex continued, stepping toward a smaller tank positioned beside the larger one, "came from plant life infected by prolonged exposure." He turned slightly, clearly waiting for her reaction.
Lucinda leaned closer, studying the faint differences—the opacity, the texture, the way the light refracted differently through the liquid.
It clicked almost immediately.
"So… if you extract the meteorite from them," she said carefully, "they revert back to normal?"
Lex didn't nod. He didn't shake his head either. But even behind the mask, she could tell he was smiling—small, controlled, and entirely too pleased with himself.
"Supposedly," he said, tapping the glass lightly. "But that didn't happen until I acquired the white meteorite."
Lucinda stiffened.
Right. That.
Her eyes wobbled slightly as the implication settled in. "Where did you find the white meteorite anyway," she asked slowly as she might slip and call it Kryptonite again, "if you don't mind me asking?"
"In the same field where I was exposed to the green meteorite," Lex answered with unsettling casualness, as though he were reminiscing about a picnic. "Although we had to dig rather deep to get it."
Lucinda stared at him. Of course you did, she thought. Because nothing in your life is ever on the surface.
"How did you even know it was there?" she asked immediately, suspicion slipping into her tone before she could stop it.
Lex straightened, squinting slightly as if the memory itself required scrutiny. "I merely observed my father," he said at last. "His habits. His obsessions with the meteorite. Fortunately, they tend to leave… trails."
Lucinda resisted the urge to point out that most people left emotional baggage, not radioactive scavenger hunts. Instead, she nodded, already aware that Lex was only sharing the portions of the truth he found convenient for her to know.
It might still be true, though. White meteorites had fallen alongside the green ones when Krypton exploded—rare, often overlooked, and, if the Smallville series was to be believed, conveniently nonexistent.
Lex gestured toward a narrower hallway branching off to the left. "After you," he said smoothly.
Lucinda nodded. He had already told her they were here to inspect the item he'd acquired at the auction—the key. The key. The one connected to Clark's ship. The one connected to everything.
And the same object that had triggered that piercing, high-pitched frequency in her head the moment she saw it displayed on stage.
One glance—and it felt like her skull had been struck by invisible glass. The ringing had been sharp and unbearable.
She suppressed a small shudder—becayze what if it happens again when she sees it? She still didn't have a proper explanation for why the key reacted to her like that. Or why she reacted to it.
She stepped forward to pass Lex—
—that's when a wet, thick blobbing sound echoed behind them.
Both of them stopped mid-stride. Slowly, they turned.
Inside the massive tank, the green blob Kryptonite was no longer drifting lazily. It churned then rolled. Thick waves rippled across its surface.
In the smaller tank, the plant-derived extract responded in kind—bubbling violently, rising in uneven swells that struck the glass with dull, gelatinous thuds.
Then it slowly glowed until it became a little unbearable that Lex and Lucinda had to cover their eyes with their hands.
Green light flickered across the metal walls, casting sharp shadows over Lex's angular features and trembling across Lucinda's hands.
The movement wasn't random. The extracts were reacting. And their reaction triggered the alarms.
Panic rippled through the laboratory. Scientists scrambled in every direction—some rushed to the monitors along the walls, frantically checking readings; others approached the tanks, cautiously assessing the bubbling and quivering masses; a few directed Lex and Lucinda away from the glass as if mere proximity might spark an explosion.
Lucinda stumbled back, heart thumping, eyes wide. She could feel the residual hum of energy through the soles of her shoes, and for a moment, she feared the green light might leap out and wrap her in its glowing mess.
But then, as if obeying some unseen command, the extracts began to settle. The violent ripples slowed, the glowing green dimmed to a calm shimmer, and the red alarm lights above their heads flickered back to green—then vanished entirely.
"W-What the hell was that?" one of the scientists gasped, his voice loud enough to make Lucinda flinch. He immediately blinked, realizing how audibly he'd spoken, then muttered an apology under his breath before returning to the monitors.
"Yeah, you're right," Lex said, eyes widening as if the room had just become a physics experiment gone rogue. "Because what the hell was that indeed?"
Then his gaze shifted to Lucinda. A slow realization crossed his face—the same way he looked at the meteorite-infected man slowly revert back to normal merely by her touch.
The Korean scientist from earlier stepped closer, concern written clearly across her face. "Mr. Luthor, I suggest you evacuate to the other room. We'll check into it first, for your safety."
Lex barely acknowledged her, his attention fixed entirely on Lucinda. He gave a faint, almost wry smile. "I think you will not have any problem," he said, voice low.
His eyes continued studying Lucinda—not with suspicion, but with that calculated curiosity Lex always carried, as he is aware she were the epicenter of this unexpected chaos.
Without a word, he reached for her arm and guided her toward the hallway from earlier, moving deliberately to keep her away from the tanks. Lucinda stumbled slightly under the firm but controlled grip, blinking up at him.
The way Lex held her, she knew right away she did that. She, after all, knew she was ✨special✨
She slightly giggled with the thought.
Lex's jaw tightened just slightly. He didn't want anyone—even his own team—to suspect that she had triggered the reaction. He had learned long ago that trust in these halls was a rare commodity.
Some of his scientists were brilliant, but brilliance often came hand-in-hand with ambition… and, occasionally, betrayal. Lex's instincts whispered that a few of them might already be feeding information straight to his father.
Now that Lionel had made his presence known—and had fixated on Lucinda—Lex understood the stakes with unnerving clarity. His father's attention wasn't casual; it was calculated, probing, and potentially disruptive. One careless word, one subtle observation, and Lionel could piece together far too much.
Keeping Lucinda close wasn't merely a precaution—it was containment. One wrong glance at the wrong monitor, one overheard comment, and the secret of her unexpected influence could compromise everything. Lex's control over the situation depended on proximity, on silence, on the fine line between observation and interference.
The moment they stepped into the other room, Lex slammed the door shut behind them with a click. He planted one hand on his hip, the other pressed against the door, and froze for a few seconds for dramatic effects.
Then he snatched his mask and stepped closer to Lucinda, closing the gap—but didn't say a word. He just stared at her.
Lucinda returned his stare, equally intense… but with judgment sprinkled on top.
"Yes, Lex. You don't have to say it," she finally said, rolling her eyes so theatrically it could have been a stage performance.
Slowly, she peeled off her mask, letting it dangle from her hand like a limp sock.
The room offered nothing to hide behind—just empty flasks, dusty test tubes, old monitors, and a door to the left where she suspected the key had been kept. She leaned a little closer, smirk creeping onto her face.
"I'm amazing, I know," she said with mock gravitas, wriggling her eyebrows like she was auditioning for a cheesy infomercial. "You can put it in your notes.'"
Lex blinked. A twitch of a smile threatened at the corner of his mouth—but he stopped himself, lips pressing into a firm line.
Lucinda noticed. Of course she noticed. And she silently congratulated herself for being the only person in Smallville—or anywhere, really—who could make Lex Luthor teeter that dangerously close to losing composure without touching him.
Beat that, Lana Lang—charot!
"I didn't expect you could do that," Lex exhaled, sounding part impressed, part… suspicious.
Lucinda grinned, puffing out her chest like she'd just won a ribbon at a science fair. "I didn't either," she said smugly. "Honestly, I'm not even sure I did that. But, you know… this is me we're talking about—" She paused, blinked at him rapidly, and tilted her head. Lex's face twitched ever so slightly, the grimace betraying that her antics were hitting their mark. "I'm seriously speechless by my own mysteriousness."
Lex arched a brow, lips pressed into that carefully controlled line he used when plotting global domination—or just trying not to roll his eyes at her. "Yeah, sure," he said dryly, letting the sarcasm hang like a neon sign over her head.
Lex ignored her entirely, pivoting toward the other door with that practiced precision that made him look like a man who could walk through fire and spreadsheets simultaneously. "The key's this way," he said, already moving ahead, leaving Lucinda to trail behind him with a visible grimace.
She braced herself for something dramatic behind the door—vault lasers, ominous lighting, perhaps a melodramatic hum for ambiance. Instead, when Lex opened it, she was greeted by a room roughly the size of her bedroom back at the Luthor Mansion.
Plain. Boxy. Disappointingly normal.
The only things occupying the space were rows of metal lockers lining the walls. They looked old, utilitarian—likely filled with employee records, archived projects, or secrets that had been deemed too inconvenient to remember and too dangerous to destroy.
Lucinda closed the door behind her and glanced around. "I didn't expect you'd hide the key in a place like this," she said, mildly offended on the key's behalf.
Lex didn't look at her. He walked straight to a specific locker, spun the combination lock with practiced ease, and opened it. He reached inside, blocking her view entirely with the locker door—clearly intentional, clearly irritating.
Then a low hum echoed through the room.bShe only realized where the sound was coming from when the floor beneath her feet trembled slightly. Her gaze snapped to the left—near Lex—just as one of the floor tiles lifted by a fraction.
Lex crouched, pried it open, and revealed a concealed compartment beneath the tile. Inside was yet another digital lock.
Lucinda grimaced as she watched him enter the code—without even attempting to shield it from her line of sight.
"This is probably one of the first places my father would NOT check," Lex finally replied calmly, pressing the final number. Another hum followed, deeper this time.
Lucinda instinctively stepped back, bracing herself. The memory of the auction—the piercing noise, the sudden pain, the blackout—rose uninvited. She did not want a repeat performance.
Lex glanced up at her, as if anticipating the reaction. "Don't worry," he said evenly. "I kept it safe."
The compartment opened, and he removed a small box made of lead—the same kind. The same unmistakable design. Lucinda's stomach tightened.
Of course it's the Lana Lang necklace box, she thought. Because of course it is. The very box Lex placed her Kyrptonite neclace when he found it on the cornfield where Lana Lang's current boyfriend, Whitney Fordman, bullied Clark Kent by stringing him up on a post in a cornfield, where he was left in his underwear as a scarecrow.
Lex finally closed the compartment, replaced the tile, and stood upright, now fully facing her. "I suspected the item triggered you back in the auction hall," he continued. "Your reaction now only confirmed my theory."
Lucinda swallowed. "And what theory would that be?"
Lex tilted his head slightly, eyes lingering on the box before flicking back to her. "That this item belongs to the future you came from," he said calmly. "I reviewed every recorded anomaly on the day you appeared in my office—weather irregularities, power surges, cosmic interference."
Lucinda swallowed. Of all the events she least expected to alter—to fracture beyond recognition—this was the one she never meant to touch.
The key.
It wasn't just an artifact. It was a cornerstone. One of the silent, immovable pieces in Clark's path toward becoming Superman. A catalyst. A proof of destiny.
And now, somehow, the universe had threaded it to her.
In this warped version of the story—this broken, misaligned plotline—the key might never answer to Clark anymore. It reacted to her. It hurt her as though it recognized her.
Which meant she had already disrupted everything vital at this point.
Lucinda's thoughts spiraled, sharp and merciless. If the key no longer belonged solely to Clark, then what did that mean for his future? For the choices he hadn't made yet, the man he was still becoming?
And more frightening still—if the key, assumingly belonged to her and the real world, what will happen to Clark?
And what, exactly, had the universe decided she was supposed to be?
Lucinda swallowed once more, her throat tightening as the thoughts she had been trying to outrun finally caught up.
The theories in her mind were no longer scattered fragments. They had aligned—clean, logical, and merciless.
Two paths.
Either her presence in this timeline would fracture Clark's trajectory—tilt him, slowly and irrevocably, toward the dark. A hero nudged off course. A savior rewritten into a warning.
Or—she would be the one standing in his place when the inevitable collision with Lex arrived.