The Next Day In Scotland.
Lex stood near the helipad with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his trousers, long coat pushed back by the downdraft as the helicopter descended in slow, deliberate circles. The wind tugged at the fabric like it wanted to peel him open, but he remained still—immovable, composed, rehearsed.
He tilted his head up, eyes narrowed against the rotors' assault. His pulse, traitor that it was, beat loud and insistent in his ears. Because stepping out of that helicopter—inevitable as gravity—was Lionel Luthor.
The landing skids kissed the platform. The engine whined down. The door opened. Power radiated first, before the man even appeared.
Lionel descended with the confidence of someone who believed the world had been built merely to support his footsteps. Impeccably dressed. Perfectly balanced. His presence carried the same weight it always had—an invisible hand around Lex's throat, not squeezing, just reminding him it could.
Lex didn't move. He didn't smile. He didn't straighten. He just waited and their eyes met across the pad.
Lionel's gaze flicked over him in a fraction of a second—measuring, cataloging, assessing damage. Approval did not register. Disappointment didn't either. That would have required investment.
"Lex," Lionel said, voice smooth as polished marble.
"Dad," Lex replied, tone equally neutral.
No embrace followed. There never was one. They fell into step beside each other, their strides perfectly matched as they descended the stairs into the building below—a structure of glass, steel, and money so old it practically breathed entitlement.
Inside, the air shifted.
A group of businessmen waited—powerful men with expensive watches and careful smiles, each one orbiting Lionel like moths around a controlled flame. These were men who bought governments with signatures and buried scandals with handshakes.
They had not come for Lex. They had come because of him.
Lex took his place half a step behind Lionel, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. He did not speak. He did not need to. His role was not participation—it was presentation.
Lionel began immediately. "Gentlemen," he said, spreading his hands with theatrical warmth, "thank you for indulging my… curiosity."
Curiosity. Lex almost smiled.
The men murmured greetings, eyes flicking—always flicking—toward Lex. Some openly. Others through reflections in polished surfaces. One man, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, didn't bother pretending discretion.
"That's him?" the man asked, voice low but eager. "Your son?"
Lionel didn't look back. "That's Lex."
Lex met the man's gaze calmly.
The man leaned forward, intrigued. "Interesante."
Lex had heard that word before. Usually right before someone tried to cut him open metaphorically—or literally.
Another man cleared his throat. "Your paper suggests prolonged exposure to meteorite radiation can… alter human physiology. Strength. Endurance. Cognitive acceleration."
Lionel nodded. "Yes. The data is compelling."
"And your son," the man continued, eyes fixed on Lex now, "grew up in Smallville. Ground zero."
Lex felt it then—not fear, not anger—but irritation. A low, steady burn.
Lionel gestured vaguely toward him, like one might gesture at a painting. "Lex has always been… exceptional."
Lex kept his face still. Exceptional, in Lionel's vocabulary, was a double-edged blade. It meant useful. It meant exploitable. It never meant loved.
"So," another man said carefully, "you believe he may be one of the infected?"
Lionel turned his head just enough to glance at Lex. The corner of his mouth twitched.
"I believe," Lionel said, "that Lex represents a unique intersection of environment and heredity."
Lex finally spoke. "If I may," he said smoothly.
Every head turned. Lex stepped forward half a pace, hands still in his pockets, voice measured, polite—sharp as a scalpel wrapped in velvet.
"Gentlemen, if I were meteor-infected, you'd already know," he pause. "If I possessed enhanced strength," he continued, "I wouldn't have required years of physical therapy. If I had accelerated healing, my medical records would read very differently. And if my cognitive abilities were supernatural…" He tilted his head slightly. "You wouldn't need my father's research. You'd be asking me for it."
One man chuckled nervously. Another frowned. Lionel said nothing.
Lex smiled—small, controlled, lethal. "But I understand the confusion," he added. "I was near the meteor shower and survived. People find that… disappointing and amusing at the same time."
The room was silent now. Lionel finally placed a hand on Lex's shoulder. Light pressure. Possessive. Performative.
"My son is not infected," Lionel said. "But he is proof that proximity alone does not create miracles."
Lex felt the hand on his shoulder and did not flinch.
No, he corrected himself with quiet precision. Miracles require intent. Accidents were for people who believed the universe cared enough to improvise.
The meeting resumed as if nothing sacred—or dangerous—had just brushed past him.
Voices layered over one another in polished cadence. Numbers followed. Projections bloomed on screens. Words like viability, containment, and ethical discretion were spoken with the same casual reverence others reserved for prayer. Funding was promised in neat increments, each pledge a polite admission of greed wrapped in academic concern.
Lex retreated instinctively, slipping back into his father's shadow where he was expected to stand—present, silent, ornamental. His posture was relaxed, his face unreadable. Anyone watching would see an obedient son.
They would not see the calculations unfolding behind his eyes.
Because while the room debated meteor-infected bodies as if they were commodities—while his father spoke of breakthroughs and necessary sacrifices—Lex was thinking about Lucinda.
The way she had thrown that man lingered in Lex's mind. He had seen it up close, and that kind of strength did not come from an adrenaline rush.
Her stance had been instinctive—almost innocent. Untrained, yet precise. He had caught the look on her face in the aftermath, the brief flicker of shock before fear took over.
It was the expression of someone who had not known they were capable of doing something like that.
And that man, the very same infected subject now secured beneath layers of glass and steel in Lex's private laboratory. The ones his father had been searching for, whether he knew it yet or not. The first undeniable proof that the meteorites did not merely poison—they rewrote humans. Perhaps even in different ways.
Lex still did not know Lionel's true objective. His father preferred ambition to remain shapeless, adaptable. But if Lex were forced to deduce—and he always was—then the answer was simple, if unsettling.
Power.
Not control. Not defense. Power in its rawest form. The kind that bent men's spines and erased moral hesitation. The kind that would make Lionel Luthor untouchable.
Lex knew a little about what the meteorites could do. He had catalogued their effects himself, dissected the data with almost religious discipline. Flora warped. Fauna mutated. Humans… changed.
The infected man had been his proof. The first controlled subject. No extraordinary abilities manifested. No invulnerability. No miracles. Instead, the body stabilized briefly, as if holding its breath—then began to decay from the inside out. Cellular collapse disguised as adaptation.
Perhaps the effect depended on the duration—or the severity—of the exposure. And Lucinda had touched the man. Maybe that was why she had been able to haul him clear off the ground.
Lex glanced down at his own hands, his jaw tightening. But I touched him too, he mouthed. And nothing happened.
Lex swallowed, the movement sharp enough that he felt it in his throat. He had not intended to fixate on her—not now, not here—but the thought returned with irritating persistence.
The room blurred at the edges as his focus narrowed inward.
Perhaps…
The word echoed louder than the businessmen surrounding him.
Perhaps she had done something to him.
Not deliberately. Lucinda was not calculating in that way. If anything, she was disastrously sincere. But unconscious influence was far more dangerous than intent. Intent could be controlled. Studied. Weaponized.
The unconscious was chaos wearing a friendly face.
Lex exhaled slowly through his nose, schooling his features back into neutrality just as Lionel's voice cut through the room—sharp, authoritative. Applause followed. Lex did not join in. He was no longer listening.
He knew that Lucinda had been lying to him all along.
He believed her claim about coming from the future—oddly enough, that part rang true. Even when she sounded careless, even foolish, there was something in the way she spoke that makes her truly different. Her vocabulary, her cadence, the way she framed ideas. It was not modern intelligence—it was future intelligence.
And yet, there were too many omissions to ignore.
It was not that she lacked curiosity. It was that she asked nothing. Not about the infected plants in the laboratory. Not about the White Meteorite. Not about his open, deliberate interest in Clark. She was not apathetic. She was aware.
It seems as though Lucinda knew exactly what was happening. And then there were the socks, branded with the Smallville logo. One printed with a stylized image of him and Clark—animated, exaggerated, unmistakably familiar.
It was the one detail Lex could not rationalize. No theory, no timeline, no psychological profile could neatly account for it.
And that, more than anything else, unsettled him.
"Lex, son."
He blinked and looked up at his father's voice. Only then did Lex realize the room was already thinning out—chairs scraping softly against the floor as people drifted toward the adjoining hall for lunch.
Lex turned to Lionel, lips parting to speak, but his father cut in first.
"You seem distant," Lionel observed pleasantly, a smile curving his mouth. "What could possibly have stolen your attention from such an important meeting—one you claimed to be so interested in?"
Lex's smirk was immediate. "I was never interested in your interests, Dad. I'm here to watch you sell impossible fantasies to powerful people and call it vision."
Lionel laughed, rich and indulgent. "Oh, son. How dramatic," he reached out, resting a hand on Lex's shoulder as if claiming him. "As if I don't know where your imagination tends to wander. Clark Kent, for instance. That curiosity of yours—it's going to lead you absolutely nowhere."
Lex chuckled softly. "Then I suppose we share the same flaw," he turned to leave when Lionel talked which made him halt.
"I understood your fascination with Clark," Lionel continued smoothly. "After all, he did save your life," he paused and laughed. "But your new housemaid?"
Lex's jaw clenched.
"What is it about that woman," Lionel went on, amused, "that has you parading her through Smallville—and even Metropolis?"
Slowly, Lex turned back, his expression calm, his voice low.
"Keep your hands off my friends, Dad," he said evenly. "You won't enjoy what happens when my patience runs out."
Lionel's smile did not falter. If anything, it softened. "Friends," he repeated lightly, as though testing the word.
He withdrew his hand and adjusted his cufflinks, unhurried. "You always have such generous definitions. I merely find it prudent to stay aware of the… variables in your life."
"You mistake surveillance for concern, dad," Lex said evenly.
Lionel leaned in just enough to make his words private. "I mistake nothing, son. I simply dislike surprises. Especially ones that appear out of nowhere, carrying their own intentions and secrets."
Lex smirked. The tone in his father's voice gave him all the confirmation he needed—Lucinda was already being watched.
"They are simple people," Lex said lightly. "Leading simple lives. Do not trouble yourself with the insignificant."
"They are insignificant," Lionel answered, straightening. "Until they are not. And if they truly mean nothing to you, then my attention should trouble you not at all."
Lex finally stepped closer, his voice low and steady, danger coiled beneath the calm. "If anything happens to those I care about," he said, "you will not need to wonder whether I noticed, dad."
Lionel studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp with interest rather than fear.
Then he smiled. "Ah, there you are," he said warmly. "The son I recognize."