Lucinda found herself sitting inside a dark room. Not dramatically dark—just offensively empty. No walls she could properly identify, no ceiling, no exit signs to give her false hope.
Just her, a chair that creaked suspiciously under her weight, and a small table where she rested her elbows like this was some kind of low-budget interrogation scene.
She was just beginning to wonder if she should knock on the darkness for assistance when a voice spoke beside her.
"Lucinda," a woman asked casually, as if they weren't suspended in a void. "How many types of kryptonites are there in the Smallville series again?"
Lucinda turned her head slowly.
The woman sat there—mostly. Her form was present, but her face was completely obscured by an aggressive glow, as if reality itself had slapped a censorship sticker on her. Still, the voice was unmistakable.
"Tiffany," Lucinda breathed. Short bob haircut. Chronic eyeliner. Her best friend from high school. The same girl who once failed a biology exam because she wrote vibes as an answer.
Tiffany was making strange hand motions, miming eating something invisible. Fork to mouth. Chew. Nod. Repeat. There was no food. No plate. No logic.
Lucinda watched in silence, her expression flattening.
That looks incredibly stupid, she thought.
And then—without her permission—her mouth betrayed her.
"Green, Red, Blue, Gold, Black, Silver, and Gemstone. Sometimes called Periwinkle," Lucinda recited smoothly. "So... Seven?"
Her hand lifted. She, too, began eating the air. Chew. Pause. Nod. Lucinda froze mid-chew.
What the hell am I doing?
Her eyes widened as she slowly blinked, awareness crashing back in like a delayed system update.
Wait.
She glanced at Tiffany. At the table. At the darkness that suddenly felt familiar in the way old embarrassment does.
"This must be a memory," she muttered internally.
She recognized the setup instantly—though it arrived with all the wrong furniture.
This was supposed to be senior year. Midnight. The school cafeteria after hours, when the fluorescent lights hummed like they were tired of existing and the janitors pretended not to see students breaking several rules of reality.
Except now, there was nothing. No plastic trays. No long tables. No suspiciously sticky floors. Just the two of them, sitting across from each other, elbows on a table that felt more conceptual than real, both chewing on absolutely nothing like malfunctioning background characters drawn in one frame.
Lucinda frowned, watching Tiffany mime eating with unsettling commitment—jaw moving, fingers pinching air, even nodding in satisfaction as if the invisible food had texture.
For one, this conversation was never supposed to happen here. It was supposed to be in Filipino—rapid, chaotic, half-laughter, half-argument. But now? Every word arrived so English, Lucinda could gasp five times in a row out of sheer shock.
"What does each kryptonite do?" Tiffany asked again, still calmly consuming her nonexistent meal, unfazed by the void around them.
Lucinda swallowed, suddenly very aware that her mouth was also chewing nothing.
Lucinda's mouth opened, then closed again, as her brain politely requested a reboot.
"Uh," she said slowly, eyes sweeping the empty cafeteria that stretched on forever like a budget-friendly dream sequence. "Green weakens Clark. Red messes with his personality. Blue takes away his powers. Gold permanently removes them. Black splits personalities. Silver causes paranoia and hallucinations. And… gemstone kryptonite does whatever the writers feel like that week."
She paused, nodding to herself. She was about to add a footnote—something scholarly, like also causes plot convenience—when the world snapped.
No transition. No warning. Just gone. The cafeteria evaporated, replaced by an empty room swallowed in darkness, save for a single, merciless beam of light aimed directly at her face. Not ambient. Not atmospheric. Interrogation-level lighting. Then a voice cut through the silence. A familiar voice.
Lucinda spun around so fast she was fairly certain she heard her vertebrae file a formal complaint. And there they were—Mr. and Mrs. Delos Santos—standing on either side of a hospital bed.
Her parents.
They were speaking urgently to each other, but the words reached her like waterlogged echoes, distorted and just out of focus. She could see the worry etched into her mother's rigid posture, the way her father's hands clenched and unclenched like he was trying to hold himself together by force of will alone.
In any normal situation, Lucinda would have called out. Done something dramatic and emotionally charged. But this wasn't normal.
She had seen scenes like this before in TV—moments not meant to be interfered with. Interrupting them usually ended badly. Or awkwardly. Sometimes both.
So instead, she walked. Carefully. Slowly. Circling behind her father, slipping between him and her mother like she'd done a hundred times as a child when they argued in the kitchen. Same instinct. Same placement. Same quiet certainty that this was where she belonged.
Her mother was still immaculate, even here—black business suit, crisp lines, authority stitched into every seam. Her sunglasses were perched atop her head, as if she'd simply stepped away from a boardroom meeting to worry about her daughter. Her father matched her in dark attire, though his glasses were lighter, less opaque.
Lcinda swallowed and followed their gaze... Towards the bed to where a girl is lying on it.
Her.
"Holy mother of nature," Lucinda gasped, eyes widening to see carefully and no matter how much she would want to deny it, given the situation, she could never deny that it's her.
Her unconscious body lay still beneath thin white sheets, skin pale, lips faintly parted as if she had been interrupted mid-complaint. Tubes and wires sprawled across her like a technological spiderweb—IV lines feeding into her arm, a heart monitor blinking steadily beside the bed, adhesive pads attached to her chest in a way that was deeply unflattering and aggressively necessary.
A ventilator rose and fell in a soft, mechanical rhythm, breathing for her with all the enthusiasm of a machine that had never once been emotionally invested in anyone.
Machines hummed. Lights blinked. Numbers scrolled with unsettling calm.
Every sound screamed alive—yet somehow not fully here.
Lucinda stared at herself, at the fragile rise and fall of her chest, at the quiet war being fought by machines and medicine. And then she saw it.
Right over her sternum—just beneath the skin—something pulsed. A shard of blue meteorite had been embedded directly into her chest, not crudely, not violently, but precisely. Like it was stabbed right into her for the sake of the plot.
Lucinda stared at the glow. The pulse synchronized with her heartbeat. Each luminous throb sent a faint blue ripple beneath her skin. It looked less like a medical anomaly and more like a cosmic Thou Shall Not Touch sign—bioluminescent, judgmental, and deeply committed to its aesthetic.
She had to admit, if she were going to almost die, at least it came with special effects.
"What do you mean they can't remove it, Anton?!" Mrs. Delos Santos sobbed into her hands, her voice cracking as she hovered helplessly beside the bed. Her shoulders shook, but her eyes never left Lucinda's chest—never left the glowing shard embedded just beneath the skin, right over her heart.
Mr. Delos Santos stood rigid, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides like he was holding himself together through sheer willpower.
"The doctors said the meteorite has completely merged with her tissue in such a short time," he said quietly, every word weighed down by dread. "It's bonded to her. If they try to extract it… her heart will stop."
Mrs. Delos Santos looked up sharply. "Then why isn't she waking up?"
"Because that thing," he said, gesturing helplessly at the shard, "isn't supposed to exist inside a human body, Dolores. It might be keeping her alive, but it's poisoning her at the same time. Slowly... slowly."
Lucinda's breath caught. Her eyes wobbled as understanding slammed into her all at once, late and unapologetic.
"Goddamnit!" She swallowed. "If this is happening real-time, then... then I am truly dying in my world?"
Her gaze dropped back to the glowing shard. "M-Meteorite," she murmured. "I got struck by meteor, not by lightning."
Her thoughts raced, snapping together like puzzle pieces she'd been aggressively ignoring.
The instability. Clark's powers faltering around her. Her reversing the effect of Green Kryptonite to that man. And Sean. Lucinda's warmth might have felt different for him because she could actually heal him.
"Blue Kryptonite," she breathed, the realization settling in with the dramatic weight of a season finale cliffhanger. "Of course it is. Of course it has to be."
She let out a hollow laugh, rubbing her temples. "Maybe the reason it never showed up in Smallville is because the White Kryptonite took its place. Narrative balance. Budget constraints. Perhaps, the show itself is trying to correct the plot," she nodded to herself, as if this were a perfectly reasonable academic theory. "That sounded impossible but here I am."
"The Blue Kryptonite hit the earth—the real world—me—" she tapped her chin, "—the Blue Kryptonite might have opened the door of the impossible."
Her gaze drifted back to the hospital bed.
Her body lay there unnervingly peaceful, as if it had simply grown tired and decided to clock out early. No bruises. No scars. No sign of the chaos happening everywhere else—except for the glowing shard embedded in her chest.
"What if I die here," Lucinda whispered, a chill sliding down her spine, "do I also die in Smallville and vice versa?"
The question barely finished forming when her father's voice cut through the room like a guillotine.
"If she's not going to wake up soon, Dolores… I think it's better for us to just let her go."
Lucinda whipped around, eyes wide.
"Excuse me?" she snapped instinctively.
Dolores turned on Anton like a storm breaking loose. "Are you hearing yourself?!" she cried, voice trembling but fierce. "You're talking about our daughter like she's already gone! She's still fighting!" Her hand slammed against the bedrail. "And as her mother, I will fight with her. So you will too."
Anton's shoulders sagged. The man who never bent, who negotiated million-peso deals without blinking, closed his eyes as tears slipped free.
"I-I can't," he whispered, voice cracking. "I can't watch her suffer every day, Dolores. Every machine. Every alarm. Every doctor telling us maybe tomorrow," his hand clenched at his side. "It feels like I'm dying with every single time."
Lucinda felt something sharp twist in her chest—something no meteorite, no crystal, no cosmic rule could explain. She had watched villains cry on screen, watched heroes crumble in slow motion, watched entire cities get leveled before a commercial break. None of that prepared her for this.
This wasn't scripted grief. This wasn't dramatic background music sorrow. This was her father, shoulders shaking, breaking quietly beside a hospital bed.
"Not yet, Dad," Lucinda murmured, her voice quivering even though it dissolved uselessly into the sterile air. "Please… not yet."
She swallowed, forcing a weak, crooked breath. "I don't even understand what's happening to me. I don't know how I ended up inside Smallville, why I'm standing here watching you and Mom argue over my very inconveniently half-dead body, or how any of this makes sense on a scientific, metaphysical, or emotional level."
Her lips twitched despite herself. "Frankly, it's deeply still unsettling. Possibly illegal. Definitely traumatizing."
She stepped closer, instinctively reaching out, even though she already knew her hand would pass straight through him. Still, she tried. Habit. Hope. "Until I fulfill my promise to fix Lex and Clark's friendship, I can't return," she whispered. "I didn't come all this way just to… tap out before the third act."
She inhaled shakily, forcing a small, crooked smile. "So please. Bear with me for a while longer."
Lucinda's hand hovered near her father's shoulder, stopping just short, as if afraid to disturb him even as a ghost. "And—uh," she added softly, eyes flicking away, "I just want you to know… I regret every single time I refused to study math, science, and psychology properly."
A quiet, humorless laugh slipped out. "Turns out those are very useful subjects when you're stuck between universes, bleeding space rocks, and hanging around billionaires with unresolved parental trauma."
She blinked, glancing around the sterile room as if the walls themselves might judge her. "I would've been a great help to Lex," she muttered. Then paused. "Actually, no. That's a lie. I'd still argue with him. A lot. But I'd argue better."
Her lips curved into something gentler, fond despite herself. "And speaking of Lex," she continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "you're right, Dad. It is really hard to deal with young businessmen."
She huffed a breath. "They're egocentric. Definitely narcissistic. Emotionally constipated. Allergic to vulnerability."
She tilted her head. "But… I think I'll learn a lot from him. Whether I want to or not."
Lucinda looked back at her unconscious body, at the faint blue glow pulsing beneath her skin. "Maybe when I come back," she said quietly, "I'll actually be interested in business just how the way you like."
Her voice cracked then, just slightly. "So please," she whispered, eyes returning to her father. "Don't let me die just yet. You and mom."
The machines kept humming around her—steady, tireless, almost smug in their consistency. The heart monitor continued its patient beeping, each sound a reminder that time, annoyingly, was still moving forward. Slowly, everything around Lucinda began to blur. The walls softened. The edges of the room dissolved. Her parents' figures faded first, then the bed, then the lights—until nothing remained but the beeping.
Just the beeping. It grew louder making her eyes flutter. It wobbled and opened—then immediately shut again as a blinding white light assaulted her senses.
"Lucy?"
That voice—gentle, familiar, unmistakably maternal—cut through the haze.
Lucinda forced her eyes open again, squinting through the brightness. She turned her head slightly to the right and froze. Sitting beside her bed was Martha Kent, hands folded neatly in her lap, concern written plainly across her face. Standing just behind her, tall and awkward as ever, was Clark.
"M-Mrs. Kent?" Lucinda croaked, her throat protesting like it had personally been betrayed. "What are you doing here?"
"Here," Clark said quickly, already reaching for a glass of water.
Martha intercepted it with practiced efficiency. "Easy," she murmured, guiding the glass to Lucinda's lips while nodding at Clark. "Raise the bed a little."
Clark complied instantly, fumbling just enough to remind everyone he was still very much Clark Kent. The bed adjusted with a soft whir, and Lucinda finally took in her surroundings.
White walls. Curtains. The faint smell of antiseptic.
"Oh," she muttered. "Hospital. H-How am I here?" she asked, trying to sit up straighter with Clark's careful assistance. Notably, he avoided touching her more than necessary, like she might come with a warning label.
"You collapsed yesterday in Metropolis. You don't remember?" Martha explained gently. "Lex called us to look after you while he's gone to attend an important business."
Lucinda blinked and gasped when she remembered the very reason why she passed out.
"The spaceship's key," the swallowed hard, her gaze snapping to Clark, who stiffened under her sudden intensity.
"Clark," she said immediately, voice low but urgent. "You already know about your spaceship, right?"
Both Clark and Martha froze.
"You—" Martha's eyes widened. "You know about that too?"
Lucinda nodded weakly. "I do, Mrs. Kent. And I know it's not supposed to be time yet, but…" She hesitated. "I saw the key."
Clark exchanged a look with his mother before stepping closer. "W-What do you mean, the key?"
"Just like cars," Lucinda shrugged, immediately regretting the movement when she accidentally nudged her IV line. "Spaceships have keys, Clark."
Martha inhaled slowly. "And where did you see this key?"
Lucinda looked at her. Then at Clark. Then back again. "Metropolis," she said. "At the auction Lex took me to. The key was one of the items."
Clark's breath hitched.
"And Lex bought it," Lucinda added helpfully.
Martha visibly paled. "H-How did it end up there?" she whispered.
"I don't know anymore," Lucinda admitted, voice quieter now. "But I think… I think it was calling me. There was this sound—high-pitched, overwhelming. It hurt. Physically. That's why I collapsed."
Neither Clark nor Martha spoke. Confusion settled heavily between them. They're as equally as confused as Lucinda.
She stared up at the ceiling, brow furrowed. As far as she remembers, the key only called Jonathan. Because he became Jor-El's temporary vessel.
She swallowed. If that's still how it works, she continued slowly, then there's a chance I might've… become one of the vessels.
Clark sat down on the edge of the bed far too abruptly. The mattress dipped under his weight, causing Lucinda to bounce slightly.
"Clark," she muttered, wincing. "You weigh like a small tractor."
"Sorry," he said quickly—but his face was serious. "Why do you think Lex wanted it?"
Lucinda hummed, thinking. "Scientific curiosity. Obsession. A desperate need to explain the unexplainable," she shrugged. "Also trauma. As per my futuristic vision, the key was found in the Miller's field where your spaceship landed. Lex was caught by the radioactive impact of a meteor landed very close to him in Riley's field."
"And Miller's is right next Riley's," Martha exhaled. "But, is that it? Just pure curiousity?"
"He'd connect it to Clark, eventually," Lucinda sighed. She shifted slightly against the pillows, careful of the wires tugging at her arm, then lifted her gaze to Clark—serious now, uncharacteristically still.
"Curiosity always starts harmless. A question here, a coincidence there. But unanswered questions don't stay polite. They turn obsessive. And once the mystery is gone…" She tilted her head. "What's left to chase?"
Clark's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping near his cheek. He stared at the floor for a moment, as if the linoleum held the answers he was too afraid to say aloud. He knew exactly what she meant. Lucinda had never outright told him what to do—but she had nudged, suggested, circled the truth like a satellite waiting to land.
He wanted to tell Lex. God, he did. Some nights, the words almost slipped out on their own. But wanting didn't erase the fear—the fear that Lex's curiosity wouldn't stop at understanding, that it would sharpen into something dangeorus. That knowledge, once gained, could be twisted. Weaponized against him, his family, and friends.
As Lucinda studied Clark's reaction, her gaze sharpened, measuring every flicker of confusion and dawning dread.
Instinctively, her fingers drifted to her own chest—resting over the place where, in her world, Blue Kryptonite had once pierced flesh and rewritten fate. The memory pulsed there, cold and undeniable.
Her lips barely moved.
"What happens next?" she murmured, less a question than a challenge to the universe itself.