As young as five, Lucinda Delos Santos had already learned to read. Not the ABCD, one-two-three kind of read that makes kindergarten teachers nod and smile like they've won some medal for patience. No, Lucinda was a reader of substance: comics. Superhero comics.
The glossy, page-flipping, kind of comics. And in her case, specifically, Smallville.
Her parents were perpetually buried under mountains of paperwork and client calls, which meant they were basically functional ghosts. Her older brother, meanwhile, was a blur of hair and limbs, incapable of sitting still for even a microsecond without bouncing off walls or tripping over absolutely nothing.
Lucinda wasn't lonely in the conventional sense—she had neighbors, classmates, and every kid in the vicinity who wanted to drag her into hopscotch tournaments or Barbie fashion shows—but she had the sense to know that none of them understood the subtle majesty of Clark Kent's glasses or Lex Luthor's slow, delicious descent into villainy.
At six, her life reached a critical turning point: her parents bought her the Smallville DVDs. Oh, the ecstasy! The angels in heaven probably paused their harp playing just to witness her tiny, fangirl squeals as she watched Tom Welling's jawline in HD for the first time.
Lucinda adored Clark Kent with the kind of fervor that makes rational adults worry. She rooted for him to be with Lana Lang with the dedication of a medieval knight swearing fealty. And she even liked Lex.
Yes, Lex, the shiny-headed enigma.
Until season five, when Lex apparently got the memo that he was supposed to ruin everything. And ruin everything he did. Lucinda's seven-year-old heart shattered a little with each betrayal.
The tragedy compounded when the DVDs ran out. Her parents didn't just stop at "out of stock"—no, it was the Great Void of Season Continuation. Lucinda mourned. She sulked. She considered filing a missing-person report for Clark Kent's happiness.
And she waited.
She waited fifteen long years, surviving on nostalgic clips and fan forums, until, at last, a pirated site appeared like a beacon of destiny. It was raining cats, dogs, and probably some confused squirrels that day—but Lucinda didn't care.
The rain should adjust. The thunder should politely wait. Lightning? Well… lightning should definitely negotiate first.
It did not.
A particularly judgmental bolt of lightning apparently had other plans, because before she could even scream "Clark! Lana! Save me!" everything went black.
And then… she opened her eyes.
The first thing she noticed: the ceiling was enormous. Vaulted. Gleaming. Grand enough to make Versailles look like a dollhouse. The chandelier alone could probably illuminate an entire small town. Her feet were on a carpet so thick it threatened to swallow her socks whole.
She blinked rapidly. The scent of polished wood, leather, and sheer wealth assaulted her senses. And then, in a moment of absolute clarity, she knew: she was standing inside Lex Luthor's office.
The office was everything she had ever imagined: walls lined with modern art so abstract it probably required a PhD to understand, sleek mahogany furniture with glass tops that probably cost more than a small car, a massive desk with precisely arranged papers and gadgets that screamed "I could destroy you now or later," and, of course, the omnipresent aura of power, ambition, and slightly-too-expensive cologne.
Lucinda gasped so audibly that if there were dust on the desk, it probably whirled into the air just to escape her lungs.
Her awe was cut short by the sudden swinging of the door behind her, which made her jump so violently she almost knocked over a priceless sculpture of a bull.
In walked Lex Luthor and Clark Kent. Or… the actors. Tom Welling and Michael Rosenbaum. Her heart did a somersault that could have qualified for the Olympics.
They froze. The three of them are equally bewildered and mystified. The two clearly had never seen the damned woman in black satin pajama set and mismatched socks before.
And then Michael Rosenbaum—channeling all the calm menace his character Lex ever had—spoke first.
"How did you even get inside when the door's locked?" he asked, waving a paper with casual authority.
Lucinda stammered, a perfect blend of awe and terror: "I—I don't know! I just… woke up here..."
Tom Welling blinked, glanced at Michael, and, ever the teasing sidekick, grinned. "Lex, if you're dating her and don't want me to know, I'll pretend I was never here today."
Michael simply smirked, the kind of smirk that suggested he could destroy entire empires with a casual shrug.
"That date you're saying could get me arrested," he murmured then stepped forward. "She looks just around your age, Clark. C'mon."
Lucinda's brain short-circuited. She could have sworn he's not so tall on her computer's screen, but now that he's front of her, her perception warped, her knees threatened mutiny.
"I don't know how you got in," Michael said, finally, "so I believe you should leave. I'll have one of my guards escort you outside."
Guards. Lucinda nodded obediently, because yes, of course, Michael Rosenbaum is an actor. He should have guards.
Michael dialed, and Lucinda, in between internal squeals and fainting fits, started daydreaming. She imagined herself taking a casual stroll past Lex's priceless art collection, accidentally brushing the papers with the back of her hand, totally not knocking over any objects that cost more than her house.
Michael glanced at her, up and down, and smirked that she had to clutch her chest with a dramatic thud.
"Oh god… such a beautiful dream."
Tom giggled, because yes, apparently her monologues were audible.
"You know what, Lex? I'll head out too. Maybe I could walk her outside," Tom offered.
"Oh, alright then," Michael said, placing a hand on Tom's shoulder and putting down the phone. "I'll just stop by the Talon. You and Lana should be there at seven."
Tom smiled, shrugged toward Lucinda, gesturing for her to follow him. Lucinda was rooted to the floor. She didn't know what to say or how to react with what she's dreaming right now, because everything feels so real.
Are they really that committed to their jobs as actors that they have to address each other as their characters even behind the scenes?
And where were the cameras? The directors? The crew? The teleprompter?
She wasn't even asking the right questions. Because honestly, who starts with "Why am I here?" when your brain is trying to process everything at once?
Like, how did she even end inside this place? A place that, according to some cosmic map of impossibility, was located at 2005 Sooke Rd, Victoria, BC, Canada—while she, very much alive, very much real, and very much drenched, was from the Philippines.
Canada is place she had not visited, had never even Googled, and now apparently had somehow teleported into.
Lucinda's mind was doing gymnastics: Am I dreaming? Did I get abducted by aliens? Did I eat something weird? Did I get hit by lightning? The answers made her head spin faster than Lex Luthor's private jet on a midnight takeoff.
"Miss?" Michael's voice cut through the cyclone of her thoughts, polite but carrying the undertone of I am the most powerful man in this office, and you are about to ruin my feng shui.
Lucinda tried to respond. Tried to even focus. But her vision started spinning like a blender on high. The walls stretched and twisted, the chandelier above her head multiplied into a dozen glittering, judgmental eyes, and somewhere, faintly, she could hear Lex's papers whispering insulting words like, "another gold digger is trying to win Master Luthor's wealth."
In my dreams... Lucinda thought.
Before she could even formulate a coherent sentence—or trip over a priceless artifact—Tom, as if guided by divine timing and sheer muscle memory, caught her mid-collapse like he always does to Lana.
She flailed like a cartoon character, arms and legs windmilling, and then, as the world went black around her, she briefly thought—Lex's head is truly shiny.