"Woah, Lex," Lucinda swallowed, craning her neck as she took in the sheer scale of the room. "I didn't know you had more… like, bigger labs in the earlier season."
Lex blinked, watching her weave past scaffolding and half-lit consoles. "Earlier season?" he repeated.
Lucinda froze for exactly half a second—long enough to be suspicious—then shrugged it off with Olympic-level confidence. "You know. Spring. Very early season."
She waved vaguely at the ceiling, as if weather patterns explained everything.
Lex narrowed his eyes, clearly considering it. Then again—this was Lucinda. Logic had learned not to argue with her.
She was already circling the unfinished time machine, fingers hovering just above the surface like she was resisting the urge to poke it. The frame was a dense alloy lattice—titanium reinforced with meteor-enhanced composites—etched with faint circuitry lines that pulsed softly beneath the metal.
Coils wrapped around the core hummed at irregular intervals, and a ring of stabilization nodes blinked in nervous-looking patterns, as though the machine itself wasn't fully convinced this was a good idea.
"I just can't believe you can build a time machine almost right away," she said, stopping at last and turning to him.
Lex stood on the opposite side of the room, still holding the lead box with the key, very deliberately unopened. "It's better to start early," he said calmly. "My specialists informed me this project borders on scientific malpractice. Time travel, apparently, is 'impossible,' 'dangerous,' and 'a waste of funding.'" He smirked. "But then it's definitely not a malpractice when I'm standing in front of the evidence."
"That's… comforting, Lex. Thanks!" Lucinda grimaced. "So when do we test it? Preferably before it decides to eat the building?"
[Read notes for Fortress information]
"As soon as it's finished," Lex replied. "And while we're at it—you're going to keep your word and offer yourself as bait."
Lucinda squinted at him. "You know what? Coming from you, that sounded less like a plan and more like a threat."
"Maybe because I am kind of threatening you this time," Lex said, snorting softly. "Given your track record, you have a talent for crashing into things that derail my plans."
"Oh, I'm so sorry for being an amazing, literally chaos-attractive person," Lucinda shot back, rolling her eyes with theatrical exhaustion. "Truly. A burden." Then she pointed accusingly at the lead box in his hands. "Also—just to clarify—that thing inside is what makes this monstrosity work, right? Or are we relying on prayers?"
Lex shrugged, infuriatingly calm. "It should."
He stepped closer, moving around her toward the machine, and tugged aside the heavy cloth draped over part of its core. Beneath it was a carved receptacle—precise, angular, unmistakable.
The pattern etched into the metal mirrored the key to Clark's ship and the Fortress exactly, down to the last impossible curve.
Dear heavens.
Lucinda bent forward, one hand braced on her knees as she squinted at the carving like it might rearrange itself if she stared hard enough. "Did your specialists actually carve this themselves? Or did you just hand them a migraine and tell them to 'match the alien geometry'?"
Lex didn't look amused. Which, for him, meant he was fascinated. "That is precisely why I believe this is the mechanism that sends you home," he said, eyes fixed on the receptacle.
"My men recovered that fragment yesterday," Lex continued evenly. "We assumed it was meteor-adjacent debris. The structure is… unfamiliar. Not terrestrial. And the object inside this box fits it exactly." He paused, eyes flicking to her. "Perhaps—are you familiar with these patterns?"
Lucinda swallowed. Interrogation. Definitely interrogation. She straightened a little too deliberately. "Uh… not really," she said, then immediately winced and corrected herself. "I mean—not personally. But they're… very familiar. Like déjà vu, but with more sharp edges." She gestured vaguely at the receptacle, as if that explained everything.
She briefly considered asking to borrow it, then immediately discarded the idea. Lionel already had his metaphorical binoculars trained on her; she wasn't about to hand him night vision.
Lex caught the distant look in her eyes and seized the opening. "I've been meaning to ask," he cleared his throat. "What does DC mean, by the way?"
Lucinda blinked. "DC?"
"I'm not prying into what you and Elizabeth discussed," he said smoothly. "But the phrase stood out. Especially since it seemed to… summon you out."
Lucinda swallowed. Because the problem wasn't the acronym. The problem was the chain reaction.
If she said it stood for Detective Comics, then what? Why would that drag her out of hiding like she'd just heard her own name over a loudspeaker? And more importantly—why would Elizabeth know it would?
Lex didn't know Elizabeth was from the real future. And Lucinda fully intended to keep it that way not to "ruin" the plot.
Her mind sprinted through options.
Deny it.
Too obvious.
Laugh it off.
He'd already clocked the statistical anomaly.
Tell the truth.
I'll pass.
She crossed her arms, buying time. "It didn't summon me," she said carefully. "That's a very dramatic way of putting it."
Lex tilted his head slightly. "Then what would you call it?"
"A coincidence," she replied, forcing nonchalance. "A very nerdy coincidence."
His expression did not change.
Lucinda sighed internally. This was what made Lex dangerous—not the smirks, not the lab, not even the time machine. It was the patience. He would sit there and let silence do the interrogating for him.
"It's just a phrase from where I'm from," she added. "It carries… cultural weight."
"And that weight compels you to show yourself to her for only a few words?"
"Not really like that," she said quickly. "It just startled me."
Lex's eyes sharpened at that. "Why?"
Because it was the name of the entire universe you live in. Because it's the banner under which your destiny is printed. Because hearing it here means there's more like me in Smallville.
She offered him a thin smile instead. "Because most of the times," she said lightly, "when you hear something that shouldn't exist in your timeline, you react."
That made him pause. Now that—that he understood.
Lex's gaze drifted briefly to the lead box in his hand. "So DC," he said quietly, "shouldn't exist here?"
Lucinda held his stare. If she faltered now, he would start excavating. And Lex Luthor did not excavate gently.
"Yeah…"
"So," he continued smoothly, "Elizabeth Swann knows you're from the future."
Lucinda cleared her throat. Of course he'd jump straight there. She gave a reluctant nod.
"Kind of—but," she lifted a finger quickly, as if halting oncoming traffic, "I did not tell her you know about me. So relax. I didn't sabotage any of our… extremely ethical secret agendas."
Lex's lips thinned. "I'm not worried about the plans," that made her blink. "I'm worried about you."
That was… not the expected line.
"Elizabeth Swann," he went on, measured and cool, "is the daughter of one of the most influential men in Kansas. Information like that is leverage. And leverage invites risk."
"Oh, calm down," Lucinda said, lifting both hands between them as if physically pressing pause on his suspicions. "If you're worried she's going to dissect me before you get the chance—she's not going to do that. And besides, I gave you my word. I'm not going anywhere—even after we finish this time machine." She added quickly, "Unless you tell me to."
She inhaled once then continued in one rapid, unstoppable stream—so fast Lex actually leaned back half a step.
"She was only concerned about one thing, which I probably shouldn't tell you, but technically you fund my continued existence here and you did build a time machine in what feels like a long weekend so transparency feels morally responsible, if not strategically reckless."
Lex could only stared at her. "Lucy," he said carefully, "breathe."
She did. Barely. "She was only worried about what my presence does. About ripple effects. You know."
Lex gave a slow nod. He didn't respond, but she could practically hear the gears turning—calculating Elizabeth's knowledge about Lucinda, her timing, her motives. Mapping it.
Lucinda waved a hand as if dismissing the entire existential crisis. "Not my problem anymore," she muttered to herself, then cleared her throat. "So. Are we going to see the man now, or are we testing the mystery disc inside the lead box first?"
Lex glanced down at the container in his hand, then toward the half-assembled machine dominating the lab floor.
"Later," he said. "They're still installing the containment lattice and it would be more efficient to test it when you're not present."
"Why?"
"You lost consciousness at the auction because of it, didn't you?" Lex replied smoothly. "So, I prefer not to repeat the spectacle."
He was already gesturing her forward.
They exited the main lab, the hum of superconductive coils fading behind them as he led her toward what he casually referred to as his "other lab room."
Which, in Lex Luthor terms, meant deeper. And more secretive.
They descended a narrow industrial staircase tucked behind a reinforced partition. The air cooled perceptibly with each step. The walls shifted from polished concrete to seamless metallic paneling—brushed steel fitted with recessed security scanners and small, dark camera domes that tracked movement without so much as blinking.
"Comforting," she murmured. "Nothing says trust like biometric checkpoints."
"At least three redundancies," Lex replied. "Four, if you count the one you can't see."
"That's even more comforting."
At the bottom level, the hallway narrowed into a long corridor lined with matte white alloy plating. The floor panels were uninterrupted—no visible seams, no exposed wiring—just sterile precision. Soft strip lighting ran along the edges, casting a clean, clinical glow that made the place feel less like a lab and more like a surgical wing for secrets.
At the very end stood a heavy white metallic door—featureless except for a palm scanner and a narrow vertical slit of reinforced glass.
Lucinda slowed.
"You know," she said carefully, glancing at Lex, "if my memory still serves me right, you distinctly said I caused a reverse phenomenon in this meteor-infected man." She folded her arms. "Why does he need to be stored like a national secret?"
Lex turned to her slightly, expression composed—too composed.
"Well," he replied evenly, "sometimes reversals don't stabilize. We're being cautious."
Lucinda narrowed her eyes. "Define cautious."
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he placed his hand against the scanner. The system hummed softly, reading his biometrics. A thin line of blue light swept downward across his palm.
"His cellular structure did revert completely like we expected," Lex said as the internal locks disengaged in measured succession. "However, the scans indicate intermittent energy spikes. Residual meteor radiation attempting to reassert itself."
Lucinda's stomach tightened. "So," she said slowly, "he's not exactly cured."
"He is no longer mutating," Lex corrected. "But the equilibrium is… fragile."
The final lock released with a subdued click.
Lex glanced at her. "Your interaction with him did disrupt the foreign radiation in his system. We don't yet understand why. I'm hoping you, being here today, might provide… enlightenment."
Lucinda gave him a flat look. "No pressure."
The door finally slid open with a muted hydraulic hiss. Lex gestured inward with the same hand holding the lead box—casual, as if he were inviting her into a conference room rather than a subterranean containment chamber.
"After you."
She didn't argue this time.
The air inside was cooler—clinical, filtered, carrying that faint sterile scent of antiseptic and ozone. The room was circular, reinforced with layered steel and observation panels.
At its center stood a thick glass containment cell, the walls multi-paned and faintly tinted, likely bulletproof and meteor-proof and possibly ego-proof.
Inside the cell, a man lay on a reinforced medical bed. He looked ordinary now. Pale. Exhausted. But human. And Lucinda somehow felt relieved to think she had helped someone.
Clear tubes ran from his arms to monitoring units mounted on the wall. Electrodes dotted his temples and chest. A mesh of thin fiber-optic wires traced along his skin, glowing faintly as they recorded bioelectric fluctuations.
Beside the bed, two scientists observed the readouts on a transparent display panel—heart rate, neural activity, radiation residuals, cellular regeneration markers.
They paused when Lucinda and Lex entered. They gave Lex a nodded and continued to what they were doing.
"He's stable," one of them reported to Lex. "Residual energy levels remain low. No signs of re-mutation."
Lucinda stepped closer to the glass. The man's chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm. The angry green veins that had once crawled beneath his skin were now faint—like bruises fading after a fight with something that didn't belong in this world.
"Thanks to you," Lex said quietly, "this man looks and feels better than the last time you saw him."
Lucinda turned to him sharply. "Do you really think I can just… fix him?" She gestured vaguely at the glass, the wires, the monitors. "Because what if I only delayed it? What if I made it worse later?"
Lex's jaw tightened. "There's only one way to find out."
Lucinda blinked. "Oh no," she said, stepping back a fraction. "Don't drop that 'necessary sacrifice for the greater good' speech on me. I'm familiar with that kind of tone. I hear that from my parents' business partners everytime they plan something... scary, let's say."
Lex's expression didn't soften so faced her completely.
"Look! I'm not," she continued, pointing at herself, "going to accidentally upgrade someone into a radioactive sequel. I refuse to become a murderer just because you're curious."
"I am not asking you to harm him, Lucy," Lex said evenly.
"That's comforting, because that's exactly how it starts."
The monitors inside the cell gave a soft electronic chirp as the man shifted slightly on the bed. At first, it was subtle—a minor fluctuation in heart rate. A twitch in the neural activity graph.
Then the numbers spiked. The steady green lines on the display jagged violently. Radiation markers flared. The soft hum of the containment field deepened into a strained vibration then the red alarm lights snapped on overhead.
"What happened?" Lex demanded sharply.
Neither scientist answered immediately—they were already scrambling over their consoles, fingers flying across transparent panels.
"I—his cellular activity just surged—"
"It wasn't trending this way two seconds ago!"
Lucinda's stomach dropped. "I think he's reacting to me again," she huffed, instinctively grabbing Lex's arm.
Without hesitation, Lex pulled her behind him, positioning himself between her and the glass.
The man's body arched slightly on the bed. Faint green luminescence flickered beneath his skin—stronger now, brighter than before. The tubes rattled as his pulse climbed erratically.
"Containment field holding at seventy percent!" one of the scientists called out.
Lex's voice was steady but sharp. "Increase it."
Before anyone could comply—everything cut.
The alarms died mid-wail. The red lights blinked out. The monitors flatlined for half a breath—then recalibrated as if nothing catastrophic had just attempted to happen.
Everything fell in complete silence until one of the scientists muttered. "That's impossible."
She turned slowly toward Lex and Lucinda.
Dr. Miller, 23, straightened, smoothing down her pristine lab coat with controlled precision before stepping toward the glass door that separated the observation area from the containment floor. Confident. Composed. Almost statuesque—nearly Lex's height, sharp features, sharper eyes.
"I believe," she began coolly, addressing Lex first, "you've brought us the subject, Mr. Luthor."
Lex's posture shifted—subtle, but deliberate.
"She's my business partner, Dr. Miller," he corrected evenly. Then he stepped aside, allowing Lucinda to move forward. "This is Lucy Bryce. She will be assisting us in neutralizing meteor-infected individuals."
Assisting.
Neutralizing.
Lucinda offered a polite smile that said I did not sign up for branding.
Dr. Miller's lips curved upward in a professional expression that didn't quite reach her eyes. She extended her hand.
"Nice to meet you, Miss Bryce."
Lucinda took it warmly. "Likewise."
For approximately three seconds, everything appeared civil.
Then Dr. Miller's gaze drifted—slowly—down Lucinda's outfit and back up again. The smile changed. Not gone, but harpened.
"Ah," Lucinda thought. "Might be the first one of the Lex-obsessed characters not projected on-screen, I see."
Dr. Miller leaned in. Lucinda could only hope it was a European-style greeting—professional, cultured, mildly unnecessary.
But of course, Dr. Miller stopped just short of contact and murmured against the air near her ear— "Don't get too clingy on him, housemaid."
Lucinda's lips thinned. "Of course."
"He's mine."
Then Dr. Miller leaned back, all brightness and courtesy again.
Lucinda's face twitched—just barely—as she processed the whiplash between sterile professionalism and playground-level territorial declaration.
Behind her, Lex had not moved. But the temperature in the room had clearly shifted, even Lex felt it on his scalp.