ELYSIUM

by houndwolfz

Summary:

A hero protects. Faces the impossible so others don’t have to. That’s who Clark Kent is—not because he must, but because he believes he should. For him, being Superman was never about power. It was about choosing the world.

Madelyne Prescott chose the stars.

Raised in Smallville but drawn to the unknown, she left Earth behind to seek answers among the stars. Becoming a Green Lantern wasn’t the plan, but duty now pulls her back to where it all started—and to the man she never truly forgot.

But something’s off.

The town remembers a life she never lived—a perfect life with Clark, as if they were always meant to be. And the most terrifying part? It almost feels real. Now, trapped in a dream disguised as home, Madelyne and Clark must uncover the truth—before the illusion consumes more than just Smallville. Before they lose the one thing they never truly had: each other.

Notes:

"Maybe we’re made from the same star."

Chapter 1: Welcome back!

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER ONE.

---

When she became a Green Lantern, Madelyne Prescott stopped feeling fear.

Or rather: maybe fear was still there, tightening her lungs, buzzing in the dusty corners of her mind like a faulty fire alarm. But that night — in that exact moment when gravitational collapse turned her award-winning research into a slow-motion nightmare — the fear went silent.

And so did she.

The mission was simple. Simple, of course, within the highly complicated parameters of any experimental astrophysics project funded by STAR Labs and overseen by three scientific ethics committees. She led a brilliant team — young, idealistic, obsessed with quantum physics and terrible coffee — aboard a lab-satellite stationed at the Earth-Moon Lagrange point. A professional dream. A logistical nightmare. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to observe and study spontaneous gravitational anomalies — the kind that showed up when you least expected and had the potential to shred spacetime into confetti.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Until something truly out of the ordinary happened.

In that instant — when space began to warp in ways that absolutely should not have been possible and panic filled her team’s headsets — Mads didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even pray. She just... accepted. Accepted that her life, with all the degrees, all the quantum theories, all the plans, was going to end in the most cosmic and ironically predictable way: swallowed by an unstable fold in spacetime she herself had helped locate.

And of course, as mission lead, she made sure her team got out. One by one, the escape pods launched safely. All alive. Except for her — left behind, trapped in the outer module, drifting on the edge of an ending as silent as it was absolute.

And it was in that moment — between the void and whatever comes after — that a beam of green light broke through the impossible.

A ring. A ring floating in the fold as if that was the most natural place in the universe for it to be. As if it knew exactly who it was looking for.

It found her hand. And it chose her.

And when it wrapped around her fingers — even through the thick gloves of her suit — a voice spoke, calm and commanding, inside her head:

"Madelyne Prescott, you have the ability to overcome great fear."

She laughed. A rough, incredulous sound, muffled by the oxygen feed.

Of course she did. Fear was just another variable. And she was very, very good with variables.

After that, things either stopped making sense or started making too much sense — which was even scarier, for someone like Mads.

Because, you see: when you’ve spent your entire life studying how the universe works, it’s deeply comforting to know that it has rules. Even if those rules involve stellar collisions, entropy, and death by explosive decompression. They’re constants. Reliable. Like gravity.

But with that ring on her finger, the rules started breaking. Madelyne Prescott became a Green Lantern not because she was fearless, but because she almost died — and from that moment on, her life was never the same.

Not that she was naturally brave. What she was, truly, was stubborn. And tired. Tired of constantly having to prove she belonged in every room she was told wasn’t meant for her. Rooms full of men with important names and fragile egos. Labs with colleagues who smirked when she proposed something new. Conferences where her work was applauded… but never cited.

So yes. Willpower? She had it in spades. Courage? That too. And fear… well, fear had faded over the years, replaced by something far more practical: irritable persistence.

And it was that persistent irritation — not divine insight or some heroic sense of purpose — that probably caught the attention of the Green Lantern ring. Because when you almost become cosmic dust and, in the process, an alien artifact saves you and promotes you to intergalactic protector, the rest of life tends to seem... less complicated. Less scary.

Except for one thing.

Coming home.

Not  a  home.  The  home. Smallville.

The only place in the entire universe she had sworn never to set foot in again. And yet, that’s exactly where she was headed — with a new cosmic title on her résumé, a slightly inflated ego, and a sinking feeling that this homecoming was going to be much, much worse than she expected.

To be fair — and Madelyne tried to be, at least once a day — she didn’t hate Smallville.

Hate required a level of emotional commitment she simply couldn’t afford. She had more important things to do with her time — like stopping dimensional collapses or keeping Guy Gardner from blowing something up out of boredom.

Besides, Smallville... was complicated.

She missed the seasons. The sound of dry leaves in the fall, the sudden summer storms, and the smell of wet earth afterward. She had good memories there. Friends. Laughter. Even popularity, which was almost as surprising as the glowing green ring on her finger now. For a while, she’d been happy. Truly happy.

It was the endless sky and the comforting silence of its nights. It was the town where she learned to ride a bike, to solve equations, to kiss for the first time.

It was also the place where she was loved — until she wanted more than the town was willing to give. And, well, Smallville had strong opinions about who was allowed to leave the nest and who should only fly as far as the front gate.

Madelyne chose to soar.

She went against the carefully drawn-out plans her family had made for her — especially her father, who thought "astrophysics" was a fine hobby, but maybe she should consider something more… practical. Like teaching at the local high school. Or marrying a good guy who knew how to fix a tractor. Or any other cliché that made her skin crawl.

The break was inevitable. And painful. Not with everyone — her younger brother still called her in secret on Christmas — but with her father, yes. That one hurt. And so, Madelyne walked away. Turned her back. Left with a suitcase full of clothes, a backpack full of scholarships, and a pride so big it needed its own seat on the bus.

The day she left, she looked her father in the eyes and promised: she would never come back.

And Madelyne Prescott was many things — dedicated, stubborn, a rookie Green Lantern with a slightly too-sharp sense of humor when she felt like it — but above all, she was a woman of her word.

So imagine her joy, her uncontainable excitement, her deep and sincere gratitude (pure sarcasm, obviously) when she found out her very first solo mission as a Green Lantern would be… in Smallville.

Yep. The town she had vowed never to set foot in again. The universe clearly had a twisted sense of humor. Or maybe it was personal. Hard to say for sure.

In the end, Madelyne accepted the mission. No dramatic internal monologues — or at least trying to keep them to a tolerable minimum. It wasn’t like she had much of a choice. Orders were orders. And she was a Green Lantern. That meant being ready for anything, even when every cell in her body begged for predictability.

She left home on a Friday night, triple-checking that she’d shut down the lab, and drove from Denver to Kansas. She could have flown — of course she could. Her ring could take her through deep space, across dimensions and atmospheres as easily as a normal human opened a door. But she chose the road. Chose the longer, less efficient, less "Lantern-like" route. Maybe because she didn’t know how long she’d be gone. Maybe because she needed time to brace herself. Maybe because some part of her still believed that, if she drove slowly enough, the mission might dissolve before she arrived.

But, of course, she arrived.

And when she pulled over by the roadside, right in front of the “Welcome to Smallville” sign — the same one she’d seen hundreds of times as a teenager, its edges still sun-faded — Madelyne let out a long sigh. Almost exasperated. Almost relieved. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white.

She sat there for a while. Breathing. Thinking. Gathering courage.

But naturally, the universe had no intention of giving her a full dramatic pause.

Her ring pulsed in a bright green hue. The communication was instant — and unwelcome.

A holographic image of Guy Gardner appeared before her, projected from the ring with irritating clarity. Mads forced her facial muscles to stay neutral, even as her mood began its rapid descent into barely concealed disdain.

Guy had the same posture as always: shoulders tight, chest puffed out, that permanently confrontational stare — like he was stuck in an imaginary fight, just waiting to throw the first punch. He was one of those Lanterns Madelyne went out of her way to keep conversations with as short as intergalactically possible. Not out of fear, but for the sake of her sanity.

He was antagonistic. Recklessly reactive. The kind of person who seemed born to challenge basic common sense — especially when that common sense came in the form of a scientist trying to explain gravitational folds.

Guy had no patience for “science crap,” as he put it. And she had no patience for people who mooned Batman and thought it was some kind of iconic rebellion. In short, the prospect of working with him — even remotely — wasn’t what she’d call thrilling.

But she was part of the Corps. And Lanterns didn’t get to choose the mission conditions. They just had to be ready to face them. Even when those conditions included Guy Gardner.

“You took your sweet time,” said Guy as soon as the projection stabilized. His voice was, as always, just a bit louder than necessary—like he was constantly trying to outshout an invisible hurricane. “Thought the ring lost you on the way, princess.”

Madelyne raised an eyebrow. Calmly. The kind of calm that came from years of training herself not to react to men like him.

“Good evening to you too, Gardner.” She released the steering wheel and leaned slightly back in her seat. “And no, I didn’t get lost. I chose to drive. I know the concept of terrestrial travel might seem limiting to you, but some of us still appreciate a little contemplation along the way.”

“Oh, sure. Contemplation,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Must’ve been real thrilling, staring at highway and cornfields for eight hours.”

“Fourteen, actually. I made stops.”

“Of course you did. Probably pulled over to read historical markers. You’ve got that whole rock-studying vibe.”

She smiled. Slightly. A smile that wasn’t quite friendly.

“Studying rocks takes more brainpower than you can maintain for five consecutive minutes, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

There was a pause. Brief, but noticeable. Guy being momentarily speechless was rare, which made it all the more enjoyable for Mads.

“Anyway—look, I’m not here for a science fair debate. You’re in Smallville, right?”

Madelyne glanced at the sign in front of her, as if she’d momentarily forgotten that yes, she was back in her hometown. The place where it had all begun.

“Unfortunately.”

“Great. We’ve got a case of concentrated energy interference near the city limits. Something interdimensional. Fluctuations are similar to your orbital incident, but more... unstable. Corps thinks it might be linked to a residual breach in the emotional spectrum.”

Madelyne frowned. He was describing a gravitational anomaly that, if large enough, would’ve already swallowed the town whole.

“You’re saying there’s an active emotional spectrum breach? Here? On Earth?”

“I’m saying you’re gonna find out exactly what it is. And if you’re lucky, you won’t blow anything up before then.”

She clenched her jaw. Felt the ring pulse in response—as if it sensed the rising tension and was already preparing for a possible escalation.

“And you? Are you going to help me?”

“Nope. I’ve got more important things to do than babysit you on a solo op. This is your real debut. Prove you earned that ring. Prove Hal didn’t waste his time training you.”

She inhaled deeply.

“I already have. Multiple times.”

On the other side of the projection, Guy smiled. That half-smirk laced with just enough disdain to suggest he was always one comment away from a well-deserved punch. The kind of smile that demanded restraint. Emotional calculus not to retaliate.

“Then prove it again.”

Madelyne exhaled sharply, glancing away for a moment like someone mentally reviewing every reason why arguing with idiots is a waste of life. Arguing with Guy Gardner was like arguing with gravity: pointless, exhausting, and you always ended up losing.

She was about to terminate the connection when, of course, he had to open his mouth again.

“Oh, and careful out there, Prescott,” he added, tone light, as if commenting on the weather—though the intent was anything but. “We wouldn’t want another Xudar incident, right?”

The name hit like a knife—small, but sharp, twisting exactly where the wound hadn’t healed. Not because she hadn’t survived. But because she remembered every second. Every failure. Every life that nearly didn’t make it home. And Guy, knowing that weight, said it precisely to hit the nerve.

She looked up at the hologram, gaze sharp and steady. His smug grin. That absurd haircut, like it had been shaped by a bowl and a lapse in judgment. The embodiment of bad taste wrapped in cosmic power.

She smiled. Sweet. Kind. Almost affectionate. The kind of smile that usually comes right before a murder in a crime drama.

“Guy?”

He tilted his head, pleased.

“Yeah?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

She cut the transmission before he could answer—which, honestly, was a public service, considering Guy Gardner always had a comeback. Always. Likely including profanity. Possibly accompanied by obscene gestures, if he was feeling especially poetic.

The screen vanished in a soft green shimmer, leaving behind a silence so blissful it should’ve had a harp soundtrack.

Mads leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Just for a moment. A moment long enough to remember what mattered. Why she was here. And why—despite everything, including Guy—she hadn’t fled to the far side of the galaxy. Yet.

When she felt as ready as she was ever going to be—to cross emotional borders left behind in her teenage years—Mads opened her eyes and took in the golden-tinged dusk. Just for a moment. A brief one. Then she turned the engine back on.

The car eased forward along the final stretch of road, crossing that invisible line that separated Smallville from the rest of the universe. And that’s when it happened.

The shift.

Subtle, at first. A light chill crawling up her spine—but it didn’t stay subtle for long. The air felt thicker and more charged all at once. Like she’d crossed some unseen barrier, and now she was... displaced. Off-kilter. Out of orbit.

Her vision blurred. Hands trembled on the wheel. Her stomach flipped with a wave of nausea that teetered on the edge of vertigo. The hairs on her arms stood on end, like someone had whispered her name in the dark. The car swerved, zigzagging for a second that felt far too long, before she wrestled the steering straight and pulled over—gracelessly—onto the curb.

She held her breath. Let it out slowly.

The road was still the same.

That narrow path flanked by open fields and weathered silos, with power lines that defied the laws of physics and engineering. Smallville looked frozen in time. As if the last decade had simply bypassed it, too distracted to notice it was there.

But Mads could feel it. Something had changed. Not the fields. Not the houses. Her.

Maybe it was the ring. It pulsed faintly on her finger, quiet, like it shared her unease. Or maybe it was the ground beneath the tires, humming with a familiarity too sharp to be comfortable. Like the land itself was... recognizing her.

Mads brushed a stubborn strand of red hair behind her ear and only then realized where she’d stopped. Right in front of what used to be Mrs. Kilner’s flower shop—now renamed Root & Bloom. Of course. Cute name, tiny font, minimalist hipster branding. A subtle reminder that even Smallville wasn’t immune to the ironic clutches of modernity.

She didn’t get out of the car.

She just sat there, staring at the faint reflection of the sign on her windshield, trying to piece her thoughts together. Breathed in. Again. The silence filled every corner of the car.

What she’d felt back on the road… wasn’t normal. Not physical. Not emotional. It was as if something—invisible, unsettling, inevitable—had crossed paths with her the very moment she returned.

And if there was one thing Madelyne Prescott knew for sure, it was this:

Nothing in this universe happens by accident.

Not even in Smallville.

 

---

 

Coming back to the town where she was born felt like stepping into a time capsule programmed to poke at every vulnerable corner of her memory — only instead of doing it gently, it was more like being wrapped in an old blanket that still carried the scent of childhood and the poor decisions of adolescence.

The sun was already starting its descent in the sky when Mads parked the car in front of Mrs. Coleman's bookstore. The façade, once olive green with white lettering faded by time, now featured a serene shade of blue and a fresh coat of paint. The gold letters on the sign shimmered in the late afternoon light, and although Mads still had a slight preference for the green, she had to admit the blue looked good on the place. Maybe even better.

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket — not because it was cold, but because she needed somewhere to store the sudden swell of nostalgic and mildly inconvenient feelings that threatened to leak out through her fingertips.

The bookstore had been the kind of place where she spent her entire allowance when she was twelve. Other girls collected dolls, plastic bracelets, and magazines filled with photos of teenage actors with ridiculously styled hair. Mads bought books on black holes and Einstein’s theories — most of which she didn’t fully understand yet, but made her feel connected to something bigger. Something far away.

Maybe that was the point.

She left the bookstore behind with a small smile — the kind you give an old friend who’s somehow still exactly where you left them. Then she kept walking.

The town was strangely quiet in the late afternoon light, like even time itself had decided to slow down and savor the sun’s last breath. Still, she knew it was only a matter of minutes before someone recognized her. Smallville wasn’t a place where you could disappear into a crowd — it was the kind of town where news spread faster than the internet, and everyone was still in the same elementary school WhatsApp group.

Mads, with her usual practical logic and a perfectly justifiable dose of emotional cowardice (the kind that comes with equal parts degrees and trauma), had promised herself she wouldn’t go straight to the family farm. Not yet. There were hotels. Inns. Motel rooms with loud AC units and suspicious bedspreads. Anywhere that didn’t force her to breathe in memories soaked into every corner of the house — or worse, face the gaze of Carl Prescott.

Carl, her father. A man who farmed corn, stubbornness, and silent judgment with equal skill.

But she wasn’t stupid. Just emotionally resistant to unnecessary suffering. She knew she was only delaying the inevitable — and honestly, she didn’t have much “inevitable” left in her to delay.

Still, her mission was more urgent. And, to be brutally honest, easier to deal with than her personal life.

Because yes, Smallville was a tiny town — the kind where everyone knew your first-grade teacher's name and how many times you crashed your car in high school. But it was also the kind of town that kept messing with the fabric of reality. A weird little knot in the universe. And if something here was... off, Mads needed to know. She needed to map the terrain. Look for patterns. Stay focused on the mission.

With that in mind, she walked along the sidewalk, absorbing every detail like she was preparing to write a field report. She passed by a newsstand she was almost certain hadn’t existed when she left. The red awning looked new. And the man behind the counter looked exactly the same — just with more white hair and less patience.

Her eyes caught a headline printed in bold, self-important letters: “Wayne Industries Acquires Tech Lab in Metropolis.”

Mads raised an eyebrow but didn’t step closer. Gotham always found a way to meddle in Metropolis — and apparently, now the rest of the planet too.

Downtown Smallville was exactly as she remembered — with a little extra nostalgia and the uncomfortable feeling that every wall, every storefront, every slightly crooked lamppost was watching, waiting to yell, “Hey! I saw you grow up here! Remember when you fell off your bike right there? In front of the ice cream stand?”

Yes. She remembered. Thanks for asking.

She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, keeping the hood of her jacket slightly lowered — as if the fabric were some kind of invisibility cloak and not just a flimsy excuse to avoid social interaction.

The goal was simple.
Well — simple-ish.
Walk around the area, check for any noticeable shifts in the local gravitational pattern. Look for signs of space-time distortion, any lingering trace of the rift still pulsing erratically. In theory, a spontaneous rupture forming this close to Earth’s surface should be impossible — but then again, she was living proof that the improbable had started losing its grip on reality.

And honestly? She’d take a hundred spatial rifts over… this.

Mads passed another shop window, where a group of teenagers was lining up colorful milkshakes along the ledge, laughing about something that probably involved social media, high school drama, and an energy level Mads hadn’t seen since her grad school days — the kind fueled by three hours of sleep and intravenous coffee.

She made her way to Beanie’s, the town’s café. Same dark wooden door with the bell. Same display case filled with pies. Same bittersweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with cinnamon, comfort, and the promise of poor dietary choices.

For just a second, Madelyne hesitated.
Just long enough to summon her mental, spiritual — and possibly intergalactic — strength, in case she had to face someone familiar. Or worse: someone who thought they knew her.

Mads pushed open the door. The bell chimed.
A woman behind the counter — hair tied back in a low bun, floral apron, wide smile — looked up from a little notepad, and for a split second, time froze. Literally.
Like, if the universe had a remote control, someone had just hit “pause.”And the woman Mads had never seen before blinked at her like a robot being rebooted. Then:

“Mrs. Kent! ” the woman said brightly. “ Welcome back! Table for two, as always? ”

Mads froze.

Literally froze.

There she was, stuck in the doorway, still holding the handle, wearing the expression of someone who’d just heard a dog speak fluent Latin. She glanced behind her. Nothing. Not a single soul trailing her. Looked around. The handful of people inside the café carried on with their lives, blissfully unaware of the metaphysical meltdown happening at the counter.

She, however, remained still.
An art installation titled Stupefaction in C Major.

And once it became painfully clear that yes, the waitress was indeed talking to her — and no, this wasn’t some kind of intergalactic prank — Mads managed to string together one glorious, stunned question:

“ Mrs. What? ”

 

Notes:

Welcome to Elysium!
My brand-new fanfic set in the Superman: Legacy universe.

I know the movie hasn’t been released yet, but I was so excited that I just had to get started on this project right away. Besides, this story takes place before the events of the film — so what better time to dive in, right?

Elysium is a wild idea I’ve been itching to bring to life. Inspired by WandaVision, The Butterfly Effect, and Black Mirror, it’s almost a rom-com… with a twist. There’s a bit of action, alternate realities, and a good dose of whatever chaos my warped imagination can conjure when it’s bored. I’d say it’s one of my lighter stories — but don’t be fooled, it’ll definitely have its darker moments too.

Just a heads-up: this is an alternate universe fic. While I’ve been doing my research on Superman and the Green Lanterns to build the story, I’m also taking a lot of creative liberties. So if a character doesn’t quite match their usual comic book personality, that’s because I’ve adapted them to better fit this narrative.

If you're curious about how I picture the characters:
David Corenswet is Clark Kent, and Marina Ruy Barbosa (a Brazilian actress) is Madelyne Prescott. You’re free to imagine them however you like, but I’m following those visual references as I write.

🎵 If you want to check out the fanfic playlist on Spotify:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/66z6BqJIGJoDZ1y287sBQg?si=3a09026c07df4600

💞 And here’s the ship playlist for the main couple:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5gOiQwscEUd1UrbZ6N8m7E?si=f8e6c937da6d483a

Chapter 2: The Kent Farm.

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER TWO.

---

“Sorry, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else,” Madelyne said, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a facial spasm than any socially acceptable expression. The kind of smile that screamed: I’m not freaking out, you’re freaking out. “I’m not married.”

“Oh, come on now,” the woman behind the counter said with a laugh, like Mads was just being coy. The kind of coyness that came right before a romantic reconciliation—and maybe a breakfast of heart-shaped pancakes. “The whole town was at your wedding! The catering had three kinds of potatoes. Three, sweetheart. That’s not something people forget.”

She giggled conspiratorially, like they were sharing an inside joke.

“You two had another fight, is that it? Marriage is like that. One moment you want to kiss each other, the next you want to hit them with a metal shovel. Totally normal.”

Mads opened her mouth to object, or at least to produce some articulate noise resembling polite denial. All she managed was a breathless “I—” before being saved/interrupted/doomed by a new figure entering the diner like he’d rehearsed a dramatic entrance for a community theater musical.

“Mrs. Kent!” called an elderly man in a Smallville Meteors cap, balancing a box of peaches.
“So good to see you back! Poor Clark’s been counting the seconds. Talked about you all week. Been even dumber with longing, if that’s even possible. And that boy was already very committed to being a lovesick fool.”

Mads blinked. Smiled. Stepped on her own foot just to make sure she was still awake.

Mrs. Kent.

Clark.

Peaches.

All wrong. All too right. And wrong because it was so right. Madelyne started to wonder if she was going insane.

“Okay, this is a dream, right? One of those weird half-romantic, half-nightmarish ones?” she muttered to herself, trying to remember how many head injuries it took to cause hallucinations of this caliber.

The woman behind the counter was already setting a cappuccino in front of her.

“With oat milk, as always. And a blueberry donut. You’re so predictable, Maddy.”

Predictable. Maddy. Mrs. Kent.

It was official: either the universe had rebooted, or she’d tripped into a reality-warping field. And honestly, it was hard to tell which was worse.

And the scariest part? A little voice at the back of her mind—the one she usually ignored, especially when it whispered things like “just text him, what’s the worst that could happen?” —was now murmuring:

“What if… you wanted this to be real?”

She pushed the donut away like it was radioactive.

Time to head to the Kent Farm. And if anyone tried to arrest her for trespassing, she’d at least have a perfectly reasonable excuse:
“I’m just trying to understand why everyone thinks I married my childhood best friend and served three types of potatoes at the wedding.”

Totally normal.

Except absolutely nothing was normal.

Madelyne left the diner with her shoulders tight and the unsettling sense that she was being watched—by ghosts, or worse, by warped versions of people she’d known her entire life. The murmur of conversation trailed behind her, like a well-rehearsed play was being staged and she was the only actor who didn’t have her lines memorized. She unlocked her car with a sharp click, sank into the driver’s seat, and backed out like she was fleeing a fire.

As she drove toward the Kent farm, Mads did what she always did when the world stopped following the laws of physics—or logic, or sanity: she started forming theories.

The most reasonable hypothesis—and reasonable was working overtime here—was that it was the gravitational anomaly’s fault. But in all her experience as both an astrophysicist and a Green Lantern, Mads had never seen an anomaly do this.
This being… turning Smallville into some kind of Hallmark fanfic written by someone with a wedding kink and a thematic potato buffet obsession.

Anomalies collapsed matter. Disrupted patterns. Created vacuums.
If this distortion hadn’t swallowed the town whole, then what exactly was it doing?

“Forcing me to confront unresolved feelings for my ex-childhood-best-friend?” she muttered, like the road might have answers.

Maybe it was a simulation. The Green Lanterns had enemies who could create false realities, didn’t they? Of course they did—Sinestro types, cognitive illusions, telepathic parasites. There were files on that. There was logic to that. Mads’ brain, ever the analytical one—Cartesian, educated across three and a half institutions in space—nodded along with the cold reasoning of the facts.

Yes, yes, yes. Simulated reality. Mental invasion. Altered frequencies.

Right, whispered her scientific mind.
Wrong, screamed her stomach, still churning like a starving black hole.

She gripped the steering wheel tighter, fingers aching with tension, and drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the heavy air of the countryside. The scent of corn, earth, and memory.

The road to the farm felt longer than she remembered. More... nostalgic. As if each white fence post was trying to whisper happy memories in her ear.
But frankly, Mads had already hit her daily quota of weirdness with three kinds of potatoes and a cappuccino she genuinely liked—but couldn't recall ordering in the past few years.

When she reached a certain point in the route—where the Kent farm officially began and stretched toward the yellow-and-white house—her pace slowed slightly. Mads glanced out at the landscape, letting the familiarity pull old memories to the surface.
Back when she was just a curious little girl who liked to drag her shy best friend into everything. Clark, with his impossibly big heart, never said no.

The cornfield had seemed so much bigger when she was a kid. Like it could swallow the entire world with its golden stalks and constant rustling.
Madelyne saw herself there again, small, with scraped knees, a dirt- and sweat-stained T-shirt, kicking a cob of corn like it was a soccer ball. Clark watching her with that quiet smile of his—the kind that said he knew something the rest of the world hadn’t figured out yet.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she’d asked, eyes fixed on the sky as fluffy clouds drifted by.

Clark had shrugged.

“I don’t know. A farmer? Like my dad.”
Then, after a pause:
“Or… someone who helps people.”

Mads had turned to him, one eyebrow raised.

“Like a firefighter?”

“Like... more than that. Someone who’s always there when people need them. Even if they don’t know it.”

She’d gone quiet. A warm breeze blew from the cornfield, ruffling her uneven pigtails tied with glittery hairbands, sticking a strand of red hair to her mouth. She puffed it away, nose scrunched in concentration.

“That’s kind of vague, Kent,” she’d said, and Clark had pulled a face.

“And you? Do you know what you want to be?”

She’d grinned, showing off her crooked front teeth.

“A space scientist. Or a disguised alien. I’m still deciding.”

Clark had laughed.
“You’re weird.”

“You’re more .”

“And yet you still follow me out to the field every Saturday.”

She’d crossed her arms, defiant.

“Because you have good popcorn. And a cool barn. That’s it.”
Madelyne had replied with her chin lifted high and her voice dripping with fake indifference—like admitting any kind of affection was a violation of childhood honor codes.

Clark, sitting beside her on the hay-covered floor, knees dirty and hair all wind-tossed from losing yet another fight with the breeze, had only smiled.
He already knew her well enough to understand that was her version of a serenade.
From her, it was practically a lifelong love confession.

Not that he’d say that out loud. He was sweet—not stupid.

Instead, he’d turned a little, propping an elbow on the hay, and held out his pinky with all the solemnity a nine-year-old could muster.

“Promise me that when we grow up, you’ll take me on a spaceship?”

She’d looked at his hand, at those hopeful blue eyes, at the sky turning soft pink.
And she’d hooked her pinky with his like someone who understood what promises meant in the heart of Kansas.

“Only if you promise to keep being weird. And good.”

He’d nodded with the conviction of someone who truly believed that was possible. That being good was possible.

“Deal.”

That memory left Madelyne with a warm sensation in her chest, like an old blanket that still smelled like childhood.
She blinked, grounding herself back in the present—the wheel in her hands, the endless straight road ahead. A smile tugged faintly at her lips—more muscle memory than conscious choice—and she pressed the accelerator just a little more.

That road, that field, that sky.
Everything was too familiar to be random.

She remembered.
All of it.

Of how she used to spend entire afternoons there, among barns and freshly baked pies, as if the Kent farm were a second home. Or maybe the first real one. Where Martha welcomed her with open arms, a generous slice of pie, and sometimes a gentle silence for the days when Madelyne just needed to be held. Martha, who spoke of Amalia—Mads’ mother—with a tenderness her own father seemed to have forgotten. As if Amalia had once been flesh and blood, not just a polite absence at the end of a sentence.

Maybe that was why she always came back.

Because in that house, on that farm, people didn’t pretend her mother had never existed.

She passed the old tree that marked the entrance to the farm and felt as if she were crossing an invisible threshold between what was real and what could have been. Between life as it was and life as it might have been, if only things had turned out a little differently.

And now, maybe... maybe this reality was trying to show her what it might have looked like.

Which was incredibly sweet.

And absolutely terrifying.

She parked in front of the wooden gate, which now looked like it had received a few fresh coats of paint. She took a deep breath, like someone about to dive into deep water—and maybe she was—and pushed the car door open, stepping onto the familiar packed earth of the driveway.

With every step, her senses sharpened, as if her whole body were trying to confirm that this was real. The chirping of crickets, the dry texture of the air against her skin, the unmistakable smell of wood and soil, and the faint hint of lavender always drifting from the kitchen windows. Everything was just as she remembered.

When she reached the door, she hesitated.

She had never needed to knock before.

Not once.

But now she wasn’t so sure if she should.

The door swung open before Madelyne could even finish raising her hand—as if they had already known it was her. As if they had been waiting at the door with hearts wide open.

And then, in a second, two pairs of arms wrapped around her tightly. A double embrace, heartfelt and breath-stealing, warming her all the way to the bone.

Martha and Jonathan Kent.

The same Martha, with a wide smile and eyes that knew how to listen. Her hair now shorter, practical, and streaked with soft gray that framed a face still full of life and emotion. And Jonathan, always a bit taller, with the top of his head nearly bald now, but with the same kind eyes and a laugh that made the ground feel steadier beneath your feet.

They were older, of course. The wrinkles around their eyes and mouths betrayed the years, but instead of diminishing them, they only seemed to deepen who they were. To make them more… real. More them .

"Finally home!" said Martha, pulling her in like Madelyne was her daughter, her daughter-in-law, and her personal miracle all at once.

Jonathan chuckled, giving her a fond pat on the back.

"You took your time. We were starting to think you weren’t coming today."

"Yes, we were getting worried, sweetheart," said Martha, her tone shifting from warm to maternal.

"Not as much as Clark, of course," Jonathan added with a laugh, and his wife nodded in agreement. "There wasn’t a single day he didn’t think about you while you were gone. You could see it in his eyes."

"I think the last time we saw him that anxious was on your wedding day," said Martha. "He was a wreck."

Jonathan shook his head, laughing at the memory. And Madelyne… she laughed too. Or tried to. The sound came out strange, choked, like her chest had remembered how to laugh before her mind allowed it.

Because they were talking like all of it had actually happened. No hesitation. No knowing glances. No “we’re messing with you, Mads.” Just pure conviction. As if they had lived every second of that wedding, of that story—and she was the only outsider.

"Clark’s in the barn, by the way," Jonathan added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if everything were perfectly in place. "He should be just about finished—come in while you wait."

She nodded slowly, like someone accepting a poisoned slice of pie just to be polite.

She stepped inside.

And then the world shifted.

The house was… the same. And yet, it wasn’t.

It was as if someone had combed through her most intimate memories—the sweet ones, the warm ones, the ones filled with insignificant details that only matter when you miss them—and then improved them. Smoothed the edges. Varnished the broken corners.

The couch was still in the same spot, but now draped with a knitted blanket in her favorite colors. The smell—freshly baked bread, lavender, and coffee—was just as she remembered, only stronger. As if the house knew she needed that. Needed to feel... welcomed. And that’s exactly how she felt.

Welcomed.

Loved.

Wanted there.

Which only made everything worse.

Because that’s when she saw the photos.

And time actually stopped.

On the hallway wall—the same one that used to hold harmless cross-stitched Bible verses and quaint paintings of old barns—there was something else now. Proof. Records of a life Madelyne Prescott definitely didn’t remember living. Couldn’t have lived. And yet… there they were.

Framed photographs. Arranged in chronological order, like a perfectly curated timeline: her, Clark, and his parents. Years and years of togetherness, captured on glossy paper. Clark and Mads as kids, their faces smeared with cake and their grins lopsided. Jonathan and Martha on their wedding day, glowing like they were straight out of a butter commercial. A collection of familiar, sweet, safe images.

And then… those .

The ones that made Madelyne forget how to breathe for a few seconds.

She and Clark, smiling in front of a flower-covered altar. She wore a lace dress, her hair down, her eyes locked on his like… like the whole world had been reduced to that moment.

The two of them holding hands on a beach. On a mountaintop. In the snow. Curled up on a couch under a blanket. Laughing. Kissing. Living .

She stumbled back a step, her heart switching rhythms like a drunk drummer. Her left hand rose instinctively, and her fingers found the delicate band of a wedding ring she definitely hadn’t been wearing that morning.

“This isn’t real,” she whispered, voice cracking halfway through.

But it was. Too real. Painfully tangible. The floor beneath her feet was solid. The cinnamon in the air, familiar. The ring on her skin, undeniable. The photos existed. The Kents loved her.

And that, as much as it should have been a blessing, felt like a trap—delicately hand-stitched and sweetly baited.

She brought her fingers to her lips, as if she could erase a kiss she didn’t remember giving. As if she could wipe away the taste of something she didn’t recall ever savoring. Her eyes stung. Her chest ached.

You didn’t live this.

You’d remember if you had.

Wouldn’t you?

Martha stepped closer, resting a gentle hand on her arm.

“Mads, sweetheart? Are you okay?”

She blinked a few times and tried to smile. Managed a faint sketch of one.

“Just… drove straight in from the city. I think I’m a little tired.”

Martha nodded, always understanding. She squeezed Madelyne’s hand gently.

“Of course, honey. You should get some rest. I’ll ask Jonathan to go fetch Clark from the barn—he’ll be so happy to see you.”

Clark will be happy to see you.

The words echoed in her head, sweet and dangerous. And for a moment, Madelyne wished —more than anything—that it were true. Because if this was a dream, it was the cruelest she’d ever had.

And if it wasn’t ... then she needed to figure out whose dream she had walked into.

Martha finally stepped away, leaving a warm absence where her hand had been. And, naturally, like any normal, emotionally stable person would do, Madelyne turned to the nearest wall and stared again at the endless photos of her and Clark that adorned the Kent home.

One in particular caught her eye. She and Clark, standing in front of a ridiculously cinematic sunset—postcard-worthy, butter-commercial-worthy, indie-romance-movie-worthy. They were laughing, arms wrapped around each other. And Madelyne… well, she looked happy. Truly happy. Relaxed. Completely unaware that the moment she was living was, most likely, an illusion crafted by… who even knows.

Seeing the life that could have been displayed so proudly by the Kents—the romantic, well-lit, idealized version of the two of them—wasn’t something she had been prepared for. And definitely not something she was emotionally equipped to handle. Not now. Not ever, if she was honest.

She remembered a specific day. She was eight years old, hiding on the stairs, making faces while her stepmother Ava’s friends whispered that it was “obvious” she and Clark would end up married someday. Ava beamed, smug, as if she’d already booked the church and ordered the cake. Mads, being a sensible child, responded with disgust. Clark had been her best friend since… always. They traded stickers, fought over crayons, built blanket forts, and in her world, people like that didn’t kiss. Ever.

But time passed. And with adolescence came hormones, longer glances, unspoken questions. Still, the line between them was never crossed. Clark dated Lana Lang (of course he did), and kept Peter Ross around like the three of them were a package deal. Madelyne had her cheerleader phase—brief, bright, and strategically rebellious—and dated the Turner boy. The quarterback. Gorgeous. Awful. Everything her dad hated. She’d dated him just to piss the old man off. Fun times.

Looking back, the distance between her and Clark had started then, in small doses. Parallel lives drifting apart inch by inch, until by the time she left Smallville for good, it already felt like a quiet goodbye. She convinced herself that if they ever crossed paths again, they’d be nothing more than acquaintances. Two names in a dusty memory. A quick nod on some random corner of life. “Hey, how are you?” followed by “Good to see you,” and then eternal silence.

So... of course nothing was going according to plan.

Martha and Jonathan’s voices kept murmuring in the background—familiar, comforting—but Madelyne barely heard them anymore.

Because in that moment, the front door creaked open, letting in a warm breeze laced with the unmistakable scent of dry hay, old wood, and late summer afternoons.

The scent of the Kent barn.

The heavy footsteps were the only thing that managed to pull her eyes away from the photo.

And then she saw him.

Clark.

And he was… oh God.

Still Clark, of course. But also something more.

Taller, maybe. Broader shoulders. Somehow even more imposing than she remembered, but without ever being intimidating.

The same blue eyes—so familiar, so warm—that lived in her memory like constellations. That sky-blue gaze that knew exactly where her soul was and how to touch the most fragile parts of it. And yes, he was still wearing those damn flannel shirts—this one unbuttoned over a white t-shirt that clung a little too perfectly to a chest that was now, apparently, sculpted .

But Mads held her ground, eyes fixed on his face. That same face that was almost annoyingly handsome. Almost .

“Madelyne?” he said, genuine surprise flickering across his features.

Clark’s voice had that soft, low timbre that resonated in your chest, and the tone—it wasn’t the tone of a man reuniting with a lost wife. It was the tone of someone seeing a ghost. Or a mirage. Or both.

She stopped breathing for a second. Just one. Long enough to realize her heart had chosen chaos, pounding wildly, ignoring every rational effort to stay calm.

“Hey, Clark.”

He took a hesitant step forward, like approaching her required permission. Like she was some skittish wild thing he didn’t want to startle—which was almost hilarious, considering he was well over six feet tall and his gaze alone could send her spine into full-on meltdown mode.

“You’re…” he began, then furrowed his brows slightly, clearly grasping for the right thing to say—and failing. “Here.”

Points for observation, Kent, Madelyne thought, heart drumming like a marching band on espresso.

“I am.” She bit her lower lip. Big mistake. His eyes followed the motion, and for one full second, she was sure she saw it—that flicker of something unfinished between them. Something quietly dangerous.

Clark cleared his throat. His default response to any form of emotional tension. An old habit she knew as intimately as her own voice.

Silence stretched between them. But not the comfortable kind they’d once shared at eight years old, when they'd spent hours playing video games without saying a word. This was loaded silence. Dense. The kind that forms when two people have too many stories and not enough endings.

And then—blessedly—Martha, the divine intuitive being she was, broke in.

“Clark, sweetheart, take off your boots before you track dirt in,” she called from the kitchen without even looking. “And don’t just stand there like a lamppost. You can at least hug her.”

Her voice was casual, but Madelyne nearly choked on her own oxygen. Because yes. Hugs. Excellent idea, Martha. Let’s go right for full physical-emotional collapse, why not?

Clark looked at her with that “only if you want to” look. And damn it, he still had that way of waiting. He always had. Never pushed. Never forced. Which, honestly, made it very hard to be mad at him.

“Is it okay if I...?”

She hesitated. Less than a second. Then took a single step forward.

The hug was… strange. Familiar. Painful. Like slipping into an old pair of shoes that still molded perfectly to your feet after years of dust. He smelled like barn and soap and—unfairly—safety.

And his body still fit against hers like it remembered exactly where she belonged. Which was a problem. A category five problem.

She let her face rest against his chest for just a bit too long. And thought of all the times she was sure she’d never feel this again. That this belonged to a closed chapter.

Maybe she should step back. Maybe she should breathe, detach, make rational decisions.

But all she did was stand there. Not moving. Barely breathing. Just… stay . Held by arms that wrapped around her waist with a kind of quiet certainty. Not tight. Not desperate. Just right . As if his body remembered hers. As if, deep down, he didn’t want to let go either.

And maybe… maybe she didn’t want him to let go, too. But that was a whole other conversation, in a whole other category of emotional crisis that she was in no shape to deal with right now. Not after the long drive. Not after this .

“Oh, it’s so good to see you two together again.” Martha’s voice was soft and full of memories, her smile radiating from the kitchen doorway.

Reality crashed back into both of them at once.

Clark was the first to pull away—reluctantly—and Madelyne felt the chill of absence crawl across her skin like the room had suddenly dropped ten degrees.

Jonathan appeared next.

“She was only gone a few weeks, sweetheart,” he said, tossing his wife a playful look. “It’s not like it’s been years , right?”

Madelyne and Clark glanced at each other. Now side by side, bodies still just a little too close, the memory of his touch still echoing across her skin.

She forced a smile. So did he.

The laugh they both let out was soft. Almost believable. But their eyes…

Their eyes didn’t laugh.

This was all a performance. A carefully rehearsed play for Clark’s parents, who so clearly believed that she and Clark had never really left Smallville. That they had stayed here—rooted, steady, in love. That they had dated, gotten engaged, married, and planted their lives in the heart of Kansas like the real world never came calling.

Like ten years of distance hadn’t happened. Like time itself had been paused. Including everything she still felt when he touched her like that.

And the scariest part?

For one entire second—literally, you could time it—Madelyne wanted it to be true.

She wanted to belong here. To believe that this house, this kitchen that smelled like cake, these pictures on the wall, and these people smiling at her like she was the center of their small, happy universe… were hers.

But then reality—or the lack of it—gently bit down on the edge of her awareness.

“Dinner’s almost ready—just a few more minutes. You two are staying, right?” Martha asked with that warm, contagious enthusiasm. The kind that made saying no feel like kicking a puppy.

Still, Madelyne hesitated. Because of course she did. None of this made sense, no matter how… right it felt. How real. How comforting.

But Clark answered for her, like he somehow knew that even speaking might be too much for her at that moment.

“We’re staying, Mom,” he said, his voice warm and steady, the kind that sounded like home. “In the meantime, I’ll show Mads the tomato seedlings we planted last week.”

We planted.

Mads swallowed hard.

“Wonderful idea!” Martha beamed, clearly thrilled by Clark’s suggestion. “The garden looks beautiful, Mads. Clark did an amazing job.”

“It was a team effort.”

“Oh, don’t be modest. You did most of the work, sweetheart.”

Clark gave that subtle smile—barely there, almost too intimate—and turned to her.

“This way,” he said, already walking toward the back of the house.

Madelyne cast one last glance at Martha and Jonathan, who looked genuinely happy. Entirely. No shadow of doubt or distorted reality in their eyes. Then, drawing a deep breath, she followed Clark.

They stepped out through the kitchen door, and the world seemed to expand.

The backyard was absurdly… beautiful. As green as only Smallville fields could be, painted in the golden light of late afternoon. The breeze brushed her shoulders—despite the long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder top she wore, Mads shivered. Not just from the cold. The air smelled of damp soil, freshly cut grass, and the faintest hint of lavender—pulling up a nearly forgotten memory of small hands picking flowers to place in glass jars on the porch.

It was beautiful. Unbelievably so. Like stepping into a memory. Or a dream.

The door clicked shut behind them.

And before Clark could open his mouth to offer some kind of explanation that probably included the phrases “I know it sounds strange” and “but just hear me out,” she spun on her heel and stared at him.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, eyes locked on his. “Because apparently I’m your wife now. Married. With a wedding. And potatoes.”

Clark frowned, clearly thrown off.

“Three kinds?”

She threw her hands up, exasperated.

“You remember the potatoes?! Great. Great. So it’s not just me. Thank God. I thought it was some weird side effect of the ring. Or a hallucination. Or possession by some extra-dimensional entity obsessed with themed weddings and carbs.”

He took a step toward her. His expression was all seriousness now, concern mixed with that familiar dose of helplessness—Clark Kent’s trademark reaction to problems too big to punch.

“Mads, I don’t know how to explain this. Honestly. I just know… it’s not real.”

She stared at him, her heart thudding like it was trying to dance two different rhythms at once.

“Well, maybe someone should tell that to the rest of the town. Because at the diner, they brought me my usual order without me even saying anything and called me ‘Mrs. Kent.’ Some random old man told me you’ve been dumber without me. His words, not mine.”

Clark sighed, letting out a laugh that was half-held, half-drained, as he rubbed the back of his neck—the universal Clark Kent sign for “this is way above my weirdness threshold.”

“That sounds ridiculously like Smallville,” he said, shaking his head. “I got here last week to visit my parents and… well, the house was already like this. They started talking about you as if you lived here. As if we were married. Asking how you were doing. I tried to explain. I swear. Told them none of it made sense. But they…”

He stopped. Took a breath. Still clearly trying to digest the absurdity himself.

“They looked at me with those soft, knowing smiles, and… they just believed it. Like, one hundred percent. No hesitation. And then they started treating me like… this is all real. Like this is our life.”

Madelyne blinked. Twice. Then let out a sharp breath.

“Okay, just to make sure I’ve got this straight,” she said, her tone skeptical, laced with sarcasm, “we’re stuck in some kind of alternate reality fueled by a collective illusion… where everyone thinks we’re married?”

Clark winced. That face he made when he was about to deliver bad news. Or a spreadsheet.

“That’s… not all.”

“Oh, fantastic. There’s more. What a joy.”

“The rest of the town… it’s changed too. Like, a lot . Mr. West runs a peach factory now. And Mrs. Kline’s daughter? She turned the old flower shop into this hipster boutique— Kline & Bloom. A few months ago, my mom said they were closing for good. And Addison Parker? She has a daughter now. With her husband. And the Turners…”

“Wait. Hold on. The Turners ?”

He nodded—slowly. Like someone bracing for the emotional bomb he was about to drop.

“They bought the town. Literally. Cliff Turner is the new mayor of Smallville.”

Silence.

The kind of heavy, still silence that comes right before an emotional earthquake.

Then Madelyne let out a dry laugh and crossed her arms tightly, like she needed to hold onto something solid to keep from falling off the edge of her sanity.

“Only in a twisted parallel universe would that piece of trash get elected and handed the town. Seriously. What kind of distorted wish is that ?”

Clark shrugged, lips tugging into a half-smile that said I know, I’m suffering too . And then Madelyne stilled. Her gaze sharpened. Her eyes locked onto his with something new—doubt, maybe. A flicker of vulnerability.

“So… what you’re saying is, everyone here has what they always wanted. Is that it?”

Clark hesitated. Just a second. But it was enough.

“Yeah.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“And you…” —dramatic pause, expertly timed— “ you wished to be married to me?”

“I— No! I mean, yes—Not like that! I just—” He stumbled over his words, hands flailing in the air as if trying to grab invisible explanations, and his cheeks flushed a deeper red.

Madelyne stared at him a second longer, eyes glinting. Then she turned away, biting the inside of her cheek to stop the smile threatening to escape.

Because even though all of this was weird and twisted and completely out of her control… there was something deeply satisfying about watching him flustered.

Because of her .

Clark let out a long, slow breath.

"From where I’m standing… we both wished for this."

Madelyne opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again—attempt number two—and failed again. Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

If Smallville was really granting wishes—and honestly, this felt less like science fiction and more like a bizarre mix of romantic comedy and shared delusion—then this domesticated projection of a life together... hadn’t sprung just from him. It was from both of them. Or, at the very least, from quiet corners of themselves that never dared to speak certain desires out loud.

And that was unsettling. Because if this fantasy had even partially come from Clark... what else might Smallville be willing to offer her? And more importantly, what would it cost to leave?

She frowned and shook her head, like she could physically knock the thought loose.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” she said, voice taut, like she was holding on to her sanity by the fingertips. “The real question is: how is this even possible? And why are we the only ones who seem... lucid?”

Clark shook his head slowly.

“I don’t know. But everything here... it feels too real.”

“But it’s not.” The words came out sharp, almost desperate. She crossed her arms like she needed protection from something invisible, and her eyes locked onto his with more urgency than she wanted to admit. “And if we don’t figure out what’s causing this...” —her voice faltered, dropped to something softer, more unstable— “...I’m starting to think we won’t be able to leave.”

Clark looked at her for a long second. Too long. A second that said I’m scared too without needing words.

But the moment evaporated with the sudden creak of the back door swinging open. Martha stepped out, hands still damp, drying her fingers on a floral dish towel, and both of them turned toward her at once.

“All done with the garden tour? Dinner’s ready, kids.”

“We’re coming, Mom,” Clark replied, and there was something in the way he said it—effortless tenderness, a softness almost too intimate—that made something inside Mads waver. A microscopic crack in the composure she’d been fighting to maintain since all of this began.

Because for one whole second, she was transported. Back to childhood summers, bare feet on dewy grass, to the sound of Martha and Jonathan calling from the porch that lunch was ready and the lemonade was getting warm. To her and Clark running toward the house covered in dirt and laughter.

And maybe that’s what made this illusion so dangerous: it felt like home. Like she had a home again—and it wasn’t her apartment in Denver.

Martha turned and walked back inside, and they followed instinctively, their steps nearly in sync, as if even their walking had been choreographed into this twisted script.

“We’ll finish this conversation later,” Madelyne muttered, eyes fixed ahead. No glancing back, no hesitation. But her voice… well, it came out quieter than she’d intended. “We have to figure out how to fix this.”

“Mads…” His voice was softer now, and she had to ignore the way her chest tightened every time he said her name like that.

“If you say ‘we’re in this together,’ I swear I’ll throw you into the fence. Hard.”

“No, of course not.” He paused deliberately. “We’re in this as a team.”

She huffed. Almost smiled. Almost.

They climbed the wooden steps to the kitchen door, and Clark, of course, did what any imaginary farm-town gentleman would: he held the door open for her, one hand outstretched.

“Welcome to our perfect life, wife,” he said, like he was offering her a one-way ticket into a made-up reality.

She stopped. Just for a second. Gave him a look like she was trying to figure out whether he was teasing, flirting, or simply slipping deeper into the role that Smallville insisted on writing for both of them.

“If you say that again with that tractor-commercial heartthrob face,” she said, narrowing her eyes, voice dry and dead serious, “I will kick your knee.”

Clark laughed. That low, crooked laugh. Familiar. Too warm. The kind that knew exactly which part of her still remembered. Still felt. Still wanted.

And maybe that was the problem. Not being stuck in some artificial reality.

But the quiet, pulsing fear that some part of her—a stubborn, lonely, all-too-human part—didn’t want to leave.

So she stepped inside.

Leaving behind the golden sun and unknowingly crossing the invisible threshold between what was real… and what was dangerously starting to feel like it.

Chapter 3: Autopsy of a Marriage

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER THREE.

---

Dinner had gone well. Or, at least, as well as it could when two people trapped inside a carefully constructed illusion had to pretend they remembered their own shared history. Still, surprisingly, there was apple pie and more than enough affection to go around — which, all things considered, felt like a win.

Martha was still as sweet as a spring morning, radiating a kind of kindness that warmed you from the inside out, even when the world seemed on the verge of collapse. Jonathan, with his steady voice and sharp eyes, was the rock upon which that entire farm life rested. They were exactly as she remembered — perhaps a little older, perhaps a little wiser — but essentially the same. And both of them looked at Mads with so much fondness, so much familiarity, that for a brief second she almost forgot she wasn’t really their daughter-in-law.

It was comforting. Disconcerting, too.

Because every now and then, one of them would casually mention an event that had never actually happened — the night the four of them watched a Star Trek VHS marathon, or the time Mads had forced Clark into a Christmas sweater with blinking lights. She and Clark would share quick glances, choke out nervous little laughs, mumble vague confirmations, and cling tightly to the art of pretending, as if this game of “act like you remember” was part of some sacred ritual — like washing your hands before slicing the pie, or taking your shoes off before entering the house.

And yet, there was something in those moments. Something that made her stop and really listen.

The version of her that lived here — the Mads that existed for the Kents and for Smallville — had a life. A story. A timeline crafted with deliberate precision, every detail meticulously imagined.

She had graduated in astrophysics from Lawrence University — the same school that teenage Mads had once scrawled at the top of her dream list, before furiously crossing it out, knowing that anything within 500 kilometers of her father’s house meant staying within arm’s reach of his expectations. But in this version of events, she had stayed. And she had won. Married Clark six years after prom. Put down roots. Done research. Built a life split between the quiet countryside and the vastness of the stars.

It was everything she’d wanted — just without the cost of being who she was. An ideal in which her ambition didn’t have to wrestle with her self-worth.

Clark, for his part, seemed at ease within that narrative. A man with a strong frame and a steady heart, working the farm that — according to Jonathan — was now one of the largest vegetable exporters in the region. And when he said that, when Clark heard his father talk about growth and stability, Mads noticed the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly. As if he was trying to believe it hard enough for it to be true.

In real life, she knew, the farm was struggling. And Clark, as always, carried that weight on his shoulders.

The evening ended with compliments about the pie and promises of future dinners. Mads and Clark offered to do the dishes, and although Martha protested the way all mothers do — with that classic “you’re my guests” tone that fooled absolutely no one — Clark insisted. And when he used that voice, not even his mother could win.

So they stayed in the kitchen. Side by side. In the soft, warm hush of the house, washing dishes in silence. Not the awkward kind. At least not yet. It was peaceful, occasionally punctuated by the sound of running water, plates stacking, silverware clinking, and the distant bark of Hank, the family dog, outside.

From time to time, Clark cast sidelong glances at her. Curious. Worried. Maybe trying to gauge how much of his Madelyne was still here with him, and how much had already been swallowed by that polished, plastic reality.

Soapy foam slid between Mads’s fingers, the scent of lemon mingling with hot water making her wrinkle her nose slightly, discomfort flickering across her face. She scrubbed the utensils harder than necessary, as if sheer force and a sponge could erase the layers of strangeness that had been clinging to her since she stepped back into this town.

Next to her, Clark rinsed the dishes with the methodical calm of someone who needed to be in control of something — anything — even if it was just the water pressure from the faucet. He said nothing. Neither did she. But the silence was starting to shift. To grow heavier. Sharper around the edges.

“They talked about our first trip together,” she said at last. Her voice low, as if confessing a secret to the running water. “To that lake in Glen Elder. Have you ever even been there?”

Clark dried his hands on the cloth towel hanging from the drawer handle. Turned to her. Gentle, as always.

“I have,” he said. “When I was a kid. But not with you.”

Mads nodded. A bit of soap slipped down her wrist. She ignored it.

“I’ve never been,” she said. “I just thought it was strange how they knew so many details. Even the color of the picnic blanket. Red with white polka dots.”

“Classic,” Clark muttered, a half-smile curling at his lips without joy. “All that was missing was a radio playing Johnny Cash.”

She let out a small, quick laugh. The kind that tested the stretch of a moment.

“You think we’re trapped in an episode of It’s a Wonderful Life with a dash of The Twilight Zone?” Mads asked, and Clark tilted his head, thoughtful.

“Only if it’s the David Lynch version.”

They laughed together—really laughed. And for a moment, the silence around them seemed to ease. Just a little. As if making space for the two of them to sit inside it. Comfortable. Real.

Mads washed another plate, her movements slower now.

“Can I… ask you something, Mads?” Clark’s voice came, hesitant, loaded with that kind of intent that never came alone. The kind of question that dragged a thousand others behind it, like the first loose thread of a sweater unraveling.

She looked up, the sponge still in her hand. Clark was stacking clean dishes like this was just another quiet domestic moment—but she knew him too well, even after ten years. She recognized the tension in his broad shoulders, the overly careful movements. He had rehearsed this question. Now, he was only waiting for the axe to fall.

With a small nod, she gave him permission. She knew that, no matter what she said, he would ask it anyway. It could be now or later—either way, it was inevitable. So better to rip off the bandage.

“Why did you come back?”

Of course she’d been expecting that question. It was obvious. A classic. As inevitable as the sunrise—or the way her palms always got sweaty when she lied. And still, when it came, it caught her off guard. A subtle misstep inside her, like the floor had shifted half an inch beneath her feet.

She didn’t show it. She couldn’t. She took a deep breath. Controlled every muscle in her face. And looked away, as if the plate in her hand was suddenly the most important thing in the world. Because looking Clark in the eye while lying would be asking for him to see through everything. And it wasn’t time for that. Not yet.

Clark didn’t know about the ring. About the energy. About what she had become. And if everything went right, he never would.

“I just felt like… it was time to visit,” she said, keeping her voice light, as if every word hadn’t been carefully selected and pushed out of her throat like stones polished too smooth to sound natural. “Ten years is a long time, you know? I figured it was time to make peace with the past.”

Clark raised an eyebrow — a small gesture, but on someone like him, it carried the weight of a full-blown federal interrogation.

“So… you missed us. Is that it?”

Ah, great. The test phase. Of course he’d turn this into a human lie detector with eyebrows and sharp blue eyes.

“Of course I did,” she answered, forcing a smile she hoped read as nostalgic and not tense. She looked at him, briefly — just long enough to seem sincere. Then went back to staring at the plate.

Because technically, it wasn’t a lie. She had missed it. But not in the kind of way that made your chest ache or your eyes sting. It was a softer kind of missing. Safe. Comfortable. Like remembering the smell of fresh bread from childhood. Like wishing you could visit a place, but never actually live there again.

During the years she’d been away, she’d thought about coming back. Spending a few days. Seeing old faces. Maybe even eating one of Martha’s pies and pretending she was just Mads again — not everything else she had become. But there had always been the risk.

Risk of what?

Well, for example:

a) Facing her father.

b) Somehow getting stuck here forever.

And the most ridiculous part of it all? Was how absurd that last one sounded. What, exactly, could hold her here?

Her father’s expectations no longer had claws. Nothing he said could undo what she had built, what she had lived, what she had survived. And her brothers? Two idiots locked in an endless fight over the same girl — Mary Ann, the reigning queen of teenage hormonal chaos. When they called, it was only to drag her into the middle of it or ask her to pick a side. As if she still had the time or patience to play referee in their drama.

Nothing — absolutely nothing — in Smallville was tempting enough to make her stay. And yet, the fear lingered. That fear of being pulled back in, like the town was made of quicksand.

But that was just a silly fear, right? Of course it was.

Because in the end, what could Smallville offer that she hadn’t already found in the real world?

She had a good job. Freedom. A small apartment, but it was hers. A greater purpose. An entire universe — literally.

Smallville was just the past. And for someone like her, the past was a place you visited with affection… and left before it could convince you to stay.

“Yeah,” Clark murmured at last, with a small smile that never reached his eyes. “That does sound like something you’d do.”

She stopped scrubbing — just for a second. Too short to be called a pause, long enough for him to notice.

“What kind of thing?”

“Coming back after ten years with a reason noble enough that no one can argue, but vague enough that no one knows what to ask.”

She laughed. Not with humor. But that nervous kind he remembered well. Like her body was saying look how funny that is while her mind screamed help.

“I didn’t know I needed an official invitation to visit my hometown,” she said, trying to wear irony like armor — even if it felt more like a thin shirt in the middle of a storm.

“You don’t,” he said, with that calm voice that always sounded warm. “But you’ve also never been the type to show up without a reason.”

She looked at him then, and for a moment — tiny, microscopic — time folded in on itself, and they were right there again. Just like before. Two people trying to reach each other through memories, through resentment, through all the things left unsaid.

But she looked away. Always her.

He sighed, softly.

“Whatever the real reason is, Mads…” he said. “I just hope you’re not here because you’re running from something. But if you are, I also hope you still know you can trust me. Always.”

It wasn’t an accusation. He never used that tone. Not with her. Never with her. But even so… there was something there. A faint thread of disappointment. As subtle as dust in a sunbeam, and just as impossible to ignore as a pebble in your shoe.

Mads wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it.

Probably not.

Clark wasn’t the kind of man who said things lightly. Every word he spoke was measured, felt, weighed on an invisible scale before being handed over with that patient, devastatingly honest look of his. Like he was always ready to forgive, but never to lie.

She stood there, hands now empty but still damp, watching him put away the last plate. His movements were the same as always — methodical, careful, as if even the act of closing a cabinet deserved reverence. But he didn’t look at her. Not anymore.

Mads blinked. Twice, three times. As if that would somehow bring things into focus.

But everything stayed foggy. Especially Clark.

Because no matter how much he was still Clark — the boy who once helped her build a makeshift telescope from junk they found in the barn — he was also someone she no longer fully knew.

Ten years had done that. Compressed eternity into a decade. A thin, fragile line between “us” and “who?”

She tried to speak. Swallowed hard. Opened her mouth.

And nothing.

No words felt safe enough to say without blowing up whatever fragile bridge still lingered between them. All she could do was think about how much she wanted to say something — anything — to explain what had brought her footsteps back to this place. But all she had were layers of half-truths and self-preserving lies.

Clark shut the cabinet beneath the sink with a quiet, clean click. Then he stepped back and wiped his hands on his jeans with a motion that was more tired than practical. Like that small moment had drained something from him — something she didn’t know how to give back.

Like he already knew she wasn’t staying.

“Shall we?” Clark asked, voice low, as if he knew she was still somewhere else, her eyes stuck on nothing.

Mads blinked again. It was becoming a habit, that blinking. A subconscious reboot of her emotional system before it completely froze.

“Shall we…?” she echoed, turning toward him, still on autopilot. “Where are we going?”

Clark didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he just looked at her with that expression she was starting to recognize — part monk-like patience, part something infinitely softer. Tenderness, maybe? Laced with a hint of quiet resignation. Like his eyes were saying, Oh, Mads.

And to make matters worse, there was that smile. That damn lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth every time he knew something she didn’t. A reminder that even inside this carefully constructed illusion, he was the native. And she? The lost tourist — no map, no guide, no idea where the nearest bathroom was.

“Home,” he said, with a disarming simplicity that almost hurt.

As if it made perfect sense. As if she had a home here. As if this world — too polished, too bright — could offer her that. A place to belong.

Madelyne raised an eyebrow, ready to toss out a sarcastic comment, a joke, anything to deflect. But he finished:

“To our home.”

“Oh,” she said, with lukewarm enthusiasm, drying her hands on a dish towel.

She gave a hesitant smile. The kind that said “I get it” and “I don’t get it at all” in the same breath. Because up until that very moment, she had been certain she would be sleeping in the main house. Maybe in the guest room — the one with the patchwork quilt, the smell of old varnish, and that pendulum clock that ticked loud enough to wake insomnia itself.

She hadn’t expected anything else. But now that she thought about it… of course it made sense they’d have their own house. They were a couple — even in a fake universe — and living with his parents would’ve felt… intrusive.

While she worked through this in slow motion, Clark had already moved. He grabbed the keys from the hook near the back door with the ease of someone who did it every day, turned the knob, and stepped outside. No ceremony. As if she always followed him. As if she always knew where they were going. As if they were… a real couple.

Legs. Move, her brain reminded her. But her feet felt like concrete. She hesitated, stuck to the floor like she’d been built into the Kent house’s foundation. Eventually, her joints unlocked. And she followed.

Outside, the air was warm and humid — the kind that clung to skin and made hair think for itself. The grass smelled fresh, and the soil carried the rich, damp scent of serious farming. And the sky… well, the sky was stunning. Absurdly, offensively beautiful, like a desktop wallpaper you assume is Photoshopped until you realize it’s not. Filled with stars so distant they seemed suspicious, too unreal to fully believe in.

Clark walked like he knew exactly where to go. And she followed, not having the faintest idea. His steps slowed — not much, but just enough for her to keep up without looking like a lunatic running after something she couldn’t name.

“Clark… where exactly are we…?” she began, the question stumbling out, half-nervous, half-formed—and died the moment Madelyne saw the house.

It wasn’t a big house like the Kents’. But it was a beautiful house — and supposedly theirs.

Nestled at the far end of the property, between the slanted-roof barn and the endless fields that stretched toward the horizon, stood a cottage.

A cottage. Modern, but with that rustic charm that looked ripped straight out of a catalog titled Homes You’ll Never Afford, but Can Still Dream About. The dark wood contrasted with wide windows, and the wraparound porch looked like an open invitation to lazy afternoons filled with tea and books that would never be read.

Mads blinked. Again. Apparently, her brain had decided that the best way to deal with alternate realities was to visually reboot every five seconds.

“This is… our house?”

Clark nodded. And smiled. Sideways. Like he was enjoying this just a little too much.

“According to the files conveniently shared with me by this incredibly convincing illusion… yes.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“So either this reality is absurdly elaborate…” she said, as Clark opened the door with a well-rehearsed motion, like he’d been doing it for years, “...or you’re a very attentive husband.”

Mads stepped inside, still on alert, and was immediately greeted by the scent of polished wood, fresh coffee, and something faintly like cinnamon. The interior was cozy — too cozy — for the level of hallucination she believed she was in. And the worst part? There were too many details.

A watercolor painting in her favorite colors — deep blues and golds, laid together like someone had ripped a piece of her mind and hung it on the wall. A bookshelf that, honestly, looked like a clone of the one she had in Metropolis, right down to the same books (including that absurdly large volume of French poetry she bought for the pretty cover and never read past page three). A knitted throw blanket with uneven stitches she remembered from her teen years. Plants that weren’t dead. Smiling photos. A mug in the kitchen cabinet that read I’m over the moon for dark matter.

It was… a lot. Too much.

Too accurate, too intimate — like someone had peeked inside her memories and decided to build a house out of whatever made her feel safe. Or seen. Or loved. Or, worse, like it had all been designed from her most secret wishes — which made it even more terrifying.

“This is insane,” she murmured, inspecting every corner of the main floor, eyes darting from one detail to the next like she was searching for a crack in the set. A loose thread in the illusion. A glitch in the system.

Clark tossed the keys into a little dish by the door. A dish painted with cacti. Smiling cacti. The sight of them annoyed her more than it reasonably should.

“Insanely cozy, maybe?”

She pointed toward one of the shelves in the hallway bathroom.

“And that over there? Was that you too?”

He followed her gaze. Spotted the navy-blue Darth Vader boxers hanging on a makeshift drying rack. And coughed.

“Apparently, even alternate realities come with overdue laundry.”

She crossed her arms.

“If this is some dream simulation of your perfect husband life, you need to sort out your priorities. No one needs underwear with Darth Vader’s face on it.”

Clark blinked. Then raised his hands in surrender.

“Birthday gift. From Jimmy. Long story.”

Madelyne didn’t want to laugh. Not really. It was a reflex — like sneezing in sunlight or saying “I’m good with whatever” when asked where she wanted to eat. Automatic. But there she was: laughing. Softly, mostly through her nose — the kind of laugh that crinkled her eyes and loosened her shoulders, like the world around her had suddenly become a little less strange.

She hated that.

Okay — not hated hated. But she made an internal face, which was basically the emotional equivalent of holding up a sign that read SUSPICIOUS in big, red letters.

Because she wasn’t supposed to feel this comfortable. Or this… at home. Not here. Not with him. Not in this copy-paste life out of a fancy rural home magazine, with its perfect lighting and its shelves organized like someone had mapped her brain for the most intimate quirks — like her preference for magnetic bookmarks or her very questionable love for home-renovation reality shows that never end.

She let out a sigh — one of those heavy ones, more frustration than air — and shoved the thoughts aside. There wasn’t time for existential crises. Or for stewing over the fact that everyone around her seemed to be living a 24/7 butter-commercial life while she questioned whether she’d hit her head and dreamed it all.

She had a mission here. A purpose. Madelyne was the scientist. The specialist. The one sent in to study the distortion — not to get wrapped up in it like a fuzzy throw blanket on a winter day. She needed to remember that. Preferably before seriously considering stringing up fairy lights on the porch.

Clark passed by her then, brushing her elbow lightly with his hand — a brief, unhurried gesture, just enough to signal: come with me.

“Come on upstairs. I’ll show you the rooms,” he said, already making his way up the light wooden stairs that led to the second floor. “You must be tired from the trip. You’ll want to rest.”

Mads looked at the stairs. At him. At the whole house, decorated with memories she didn’t remember ever living.

And with a small nod, she followed. Not because she fully trusted him — but because sometimes, the best way to understand an illusion... was to walk through it with your eyes wide open.

The second floor smelled of roses and old wood, with a faint sweetness — maybe vanilla, maybe comfort. The windows were cracked open, letting the night breeze play with the sheer curtains, and the floorboards creaked softly under Clark’s steps. The entire space held too much memory to feel neutral. And none of those memories were hers.

“Here,” Clark said, stopping at a half-open door. He nudged it with his shoulder, revealing a bedroom that looked like it had been lifted straight from a catalog titled Happily Married: Rustic Chic Edition.

The bed was big. Very big. A navy-blue quilt folded neatly, two soft pillows resting against a light wooden headboard. On the right, a nightstand with a lamp she could’ve sworn she’d seen once at a flea market in Coast City when Hal had dragged her around town. On the left, a shelf filled with her books — worn-out, tagged with Post-its, their spines so familiar that Mads felt a subtle jolt in her stomach.

“Hm.” She pointed at a copy of Foundations of Quantum Reality, its spine torn. “This book disappeared from my shelf in 2008. I thought I’d loaned it to someone.”

Clark scratched the back of his neck, smiling like he couldn’t decide whether to look innocent or guilty.

“Technically, you did. To me. Back then, remember? You told me I needed to understand ‘overlapping layers of reality’ if I ever wanted to have a conversation with you without sounding like a clueless farm boy.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”

“It totally does. Verbatim, Mads. Ten years ago. I still remember it.” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You even gave me that look.”

“What look?”

“That one.” He nodded toward her face, and she realized she was smiling. Again.

Traitor.

She quickly turned away and pointed to the door next to them.

“And that one is...?”

“Bathroom. And the other is a study — apparently, you insisted on decorating it with four framed galaxy prints and a mini planetarium on the ceiling. Oh, and there’s a coffee maker too.”

“Well, the best ideas aren’t born from sunshine and hydration,” Mads said.

She stepped into the bedroom, her feet sinking slightly into the soft carpet. Everything there had been arranged with near-obsessive precision: a photo of the two of them — her in a t-shirt, him in a Royals hoodie, laughing together on a couch — sat atop the dresser like it was just another lazy Sunday. A pair of her pajamas folded neatly over a chair. A blue and a green toothbrush resting in the holder by the sink. A life built down to the finest detail.

It was comforting. And deeply suspicious.
And if she was being honest... comforting because it was suspicious.

She turned to face him.

“Clark... I don’t get it. Why is it just us who remember the truth? Everyone else is... trapped, immersed in this fake, domesticated reality. But we still have memories of the real world. Why?”

He went quiet. And not the heroic, contemplative kind of quiet. More like the slow kind — like he was trying to calculate whether he could escape through the window if things got too emotional.

“I don’t know.” The words came out low, almost whispered, like he was afraid the house might hear. “Maybe because... it’s us.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer, it’s a cheesy couple’s slogan.”

“But it’s true.” He took a step closer, arms loose at his sides, none of that usual puffed-chest, square-jawed posture. Just a man. Tired, confused, but still trying. “If this is an illusion, someone chose to leave us aware. Or maybe we just... resisted more. Together.”

Mads let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Or maybe we’re just too damn stubborn to forget.”

“You especially,” Clark said, with a sideways smile. “Your brain probably kicked the simulation until it gave up and let you stay conscious.”

“And you?”

He shrugged, a little sheepish.

“Maybe I’m immune to reality distortion?” he offered.

“Or maybe it’s just a matter of time before we sink with the rest of them,” Mads muttered, her brow furrowed, voice softer now — almost like she was testing the thought aloud.

Madelyne, who had been pretending to be composed with all the poise of a rocket scientist before launch, suddenly stopped moving around the room. Clark’s expression tightened.

“What do you mean?”

“Well... you said you got here a few days ago. And your parents were already like this, right? Already completely... I don’t know, convinced by this new version of reality.” Mads explained. Clark nodded slowly. “What if this all started before you arrived? What if it’s not something that hits all at once, but a gradual thing? A kind of cumulative effect. Like invisible radiation that alters perception little by little — and the longer you’re exposed, the more you adapt to this world without even realizing it?”

Clark crossed his arms, eyes narrowing, suddenly much more alert.

"Are you saying we’re still lucid because we arrived too late to get caught at the beginning?"

"Exactly," Mads nodded. "There might be a window of exposure. The longer someone spends in contact with the source of the distortion, the more likely they are to assimilate the altered reality. But there could also be other factors involved — neurological predisposition, psychic resistance, or even how often someone directly interacts with the modified 'narrative.'"

Clark blinked. Twice.

"Okay, but... how do we prove that without using ourselves as lab rats?"

"By investigating," she said, like she’d just spotted the path out of a labyrinth. "The entire town. If we can find others who still perceive the inconsistencies, we might be able to establish patterns — exposure time, location, emotional ties. Everything could be relevant."

She stepped closer, her eyes locked on his, steady and sure.

"And more importantly, we need to figure out where all of this started. Anomalies like this — if that’s what this is — don’t appear out of nowhere. They follow patterns. There’s a point of origin, a catalytic event, something that broke the rules and forced reality to restructure itself in response. It’s a chain reaction. One rupture causes another, and suddenly the whole system is compromised. Like our marriage."

"It didn’t exist before, but now it’s part of this reality," Clark noted, starting to follow her reasoning.

"Exactly. And this reality influences your parents. It spreads. One change triggers another — like dominoes falling. That’s why we have to find the first one."

He fell silent for a moment, processing.

"You called it an anomaly," he said finally. "Why?"

Mads froze. A second. Then two. She smiled — tight, controlled.

"It’s the most neutral term I can use without sounding like a YouTube conspiracy theorist," she said lightly — too lightly to be anything but defensive. "A spatiotemporal anomaly is, scientifically, any significant deviation from previously stable patterns within a physical structure — space, time, or perceived reality. It applies to black holes, gravitational distortions, simulation glitches… that sort of thing."

Clark raised an eyebrow.

"You think we’re living in a simulation glitch?"

"I think we’re living in a narrative glitch, at the very least. And if it is an anomaly… then someone — or something — is rewriting the rules of the game while we’re still trying to figure out what game we’re even playing."

Clark didn’t look fully convinced. But he also didn’t interrupt her train of thought. He simply nodded, eyes fixed on her, like he already knew — there was no point in arguing once she shifted into “scientific theory + emotionally repressed chaos” mode.

"Either way," Mads continued, "it’s just a hypothesis. We’ll only know more once we start investigating. For now, there’s nothing else we can do but wait. And rest."

He nodded in agreement. Madelyne glanced around the room one last time.

"And... is there another room? A guest room?"

"There is. I’ll sleep there tonight," he said plainly. No drama. No wounded pride. Just a gentle offer — a gesture from someone who knew the world might be artificial, but her feelings weren’t.

Something tugged at her chest. Guilt, maybe. Or just bittersweet relief.

"Clark... you don’t have to—"

"I know. But I want to." He gave her a small, soft smile — the kind that said it’s really okay. "You deserve a peaceful night. You deserve time to figure this out. Tomorrow we can talk more... about what comes next."

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Because deep down, he was right. And she hated how right he always seemed to be when he was being kind like that.

He was already at the door when he turned back, a lighter tone in his voice.

"But just for the record... if you want company, I promise I won’t steal the right side of the bed."

"You say that like it’s a victory."

"It is. And, modesty aside, I’m excellent at respecting other people's side of the bed."

She laughed, shaking her head. And for the first time since they’d arrived at the dream-chalet, her shoulders loosened a little.

The bedroom door closed behind him with a soft click, and Madelyne exhaled slowly — like she was letting go of a part of herself. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Not uncomfortable. But it filled the space with something strange, like the absence of a thought just out of reach.

She stood still, waiting for Clark’s footsteps to fade down the hallway, the sound of the other door closing confirming she was truly alone. Then, her eyes landed slowly on the green ring glowing faintly on her finger. Her gaze shifted toward the window, where the quiet night of Smallville spread out in pale lights and deep shadows.

Taking a deep breath, she focused. The ring responded, humming with the power of pure will, emitting a green glow that rose and wrapped around her like a second skin. In a breath, the uniform formed — green and black, with the familiar symbol glowing on her chest, a soft mask settling over her eyes and leaving the rest of her face exposed to feel the wind.

Without hesitation, Mads launched herself through the window. The cool night air welcomed her as she soared, and in seconds, she was flying above Smallville. The world below seemed small, almost fragile, her red hair rippling behind her as her sharp eyes scanned every rooftop, every field.

Time for a closer look — a scan with the ring. Somewhere inside this picturesque distortion, she needed to find the real thread: the origin of it all.

The ring pulsed softly, casting green light in rhythmic waves. It began a passive scan of the town — measuring temperature, energy density, emotional signatures.

When it ended, it did so with the same quiet hum. Everything seemed calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that didn’t sit right with someone who definitely wasn’t here to bring good news. No immediate threats. The ring delivered its readings to her mind with clinical precision. A neat report.

But something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong.

Mads felt it before she saw it. A vibration — subtle but persistent — coming from the ground beneath her, as if Smallville had a secret heart beating to a rhythm that didn’t match hers. Or the ring’s, for that matter.

"Unknown energy source detected beneath the surface. Frequency incompatible with willpower spectrum. Active interference."

She narrowed her eyes. The ring was hesitating. And if there was one thing the ring didn’t usually do, it was that. The scan fluctuated, as if the origin was moving — or worse, changing shape to avoid detection.

"Analytical capacity compromised. Data corrupted by unidentified distortion field. Direct inspection recommended."

A light pressure settled in her chest — the kind of discomfort that didn’t come from any visible threat, but from the absence of answers. It was like the vibrational frequency of the field was disrupting part of her connection to the ring. Like she was being gently unplugged from herself.

Perfect, Mads thought.

"Open channel to Guy Gardner. High priority," she ordered the ring, already bracing herself for the ego she was about to deal with.

"Connection failed. Lantern network inaccessible."

"The one time I REALLY need to talk to that idiot..." Mads muttered. "Try Oa. Now."

"Connection failed. Long-range communication unavailable. Cause: interference in quantum channel."

Of course. Naturally. Just perfect.

It was as if an invisible wall had been erected around Smallville, isolating everything — and everyone — from the rest of the universe. The silence wasn’t random. The interference wasn’t a glitch. It was... intentional.

And that left her with only one certainty: this anomaly wasn’t an accident. It was something with purpose. With direction. Maybe even cruelty.

Mads looked out, past the gentle hills and the dark night sky, and hated the decision that began to take shape in her mind before she could even say it aloud: she had to get out of here. Beyond the town’s limits. Try to reach someone — anyone.

She flew — a green streak across the sky like it belonged to the constellation itself. Fast, focused, efficient. Almost optimistic. She moved too quickly to be seen by the naked eye — and even if someone did see her, they wouldn’t believe it. Just a flicker in the dark.

The road appeared ahead of her. She was close. Almost there.

And then came the impact.

It was like crashing into reality. Or rather, the absence of it. An invisible wall — solid, cold, and very real — flung her backward like a rag doll tossed into the wind. She stabilized in midair, her body aching and her expression twisted in confusion. The kind of confusion that came when everything around you looked normal, but the universe screamed it’s not.

With more caution, Madelyne returned to the edge of the road. She extended her hand, palm forward. And she felt it: the resistance. Invisible, but present. Dense. Almost tangible. Her fingers stopped midair. Literally. They didn’t go through. They didn’t pass. They were blocked by absolutely nothing.

Or rather — by an invisible barrier.

She tried again, attempting to push through, but the dome didn’t even flinch. And then, the realization hit her: they were trapped.

Trapped inside Smallville.

And whatever — whatever — was doing this… didn’t want to be interrupted.

Not by a Green Lantern.

Not by anyone.

Chapter 4: Desired Reality

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER FOUR.

---

One of the few certainties any living being carries is death. And if there was one thing wearing a green ring did flawlessly, it was to remind Madelyne Prescott of that. Every single day. Sometimes, hour by hour.

It wasn’t as if she’d forgotten her own human fragility. The ring didn’t turn bones into steel or fear into courage. It was merely a pulsing reminder on her finger that, despite everything—despite the power, the choice, the honor—she was still just a body in motion. And all bodies, eventually, stop.

During her training on Oa—extensive, grueling, painfully thorough—she learned many things. How to channel her willpower even when fear crept along the edges of her mind. How to ignore the blood bubbles when the atmosphere collapsed around her.

But what marked Madelyne the most—more than Kilowog’s guttural shouting during drills, more than Hal’s questionable jokes between lessons—were the silent nights.

Alone in the quarters assigned to Earth recruits, she would sit on the small curved balcony, bathed in the constant emerald glow of Oa’s atmosphere, and watch the rings return home.

Without their bearers.

One after the other. A green streak cutting across the sky, landing gently at the central temple. Sometimes in pairs. Sometimes in dozens. Silent little beams that said, without saying: someone didn’t come back.

She didn’t always know the name. She didn’t always want to. Some were just mission numbers in classified reports. Others were faces she remembered from group lessons, from simulations, from coffee breaks with star-dust-flavored drinks. A quick smile here, an inside joke there.

And now... they vanished. Like stars going out without warning. No final shimmer. A ring without a bearer returned to Oa like a body to the sea—without ceremony. Without honors. Without answers.

She could count on one hand the few faces she recognized. Most of the Corps lived scattered across the 3,600 sectors of the universe. Guardians of peace and protection, distant even from their own families. Many died too far away for anyone to explain. Others, close enough for Madelyne to see the green reflection of loss shoot through Oa’s halls and lodge itself in another Lantern’s chest.

Mads was never truly afraid of death. But there were nights—and there were many—when she wondered if that would be her end too. One mission in the wrong sector. One slip. One miscalculation. One enemy faster, crueler, more willing to win. One absence no one on Earth would know how to name. Because the Guardians would never cross the universe just to knock on the door of a Kansas farm. They would never explain to Carl or Ava or anyone else that their daughter fell protecting some lost satellite in a system with four suns.

The duty of telling—of explaining, of comforting, of remembering—fell to the others. To those left behind. To Hal.

She told him that, once.

It was one night after training, the two of them covered in space dust and worn out, sitting side by side on a platform conjured from sheer will, like it was normal to stop in the middle of nowhere just to look at the stars.

“You think anyone would remember me?” she asked, voice quiet. Not sad, just... tired. “Like, if one day I just disappeared like that, with a ring flying back to Oa. You think anyone would care?”

Hal was silent longer than she expected.

Then he let out that sigh of his—the one that came right before a joke or a painful truth—and answered with the kind of honesty he only used when there were no excuses left.

“We don’t do this to be remembered, Prescott. We do it because, if we don’t, who will?”

She laughed, humorless.

“Poetic. Almost convincing.”

Hal looked at her, that lopsided smile of his returning—but without the usual smugness. It was gentler. Almost tender.

“And yeah. I’d remember. I’d care. Even if you were just a little red-headed dot flying around barking orders at me.”

Madelyne pretended to roll her eyes. But that promise—spoken there, in the middle of nowhere, between starlight and the heat of exhaustion—stayed with her.

Maybe dying as a Lantern wasn’t beautiful. Maybe it was even unfair. But it wasn’t pointless. That was the part Madelyne tried to hold on to. The piece of truth she could hide in when mortality whispered in her ear like an old friend. What really bothered her—and she only admitted this on her most exhausted days, when her body and heart were equally worn—wasn’t the idea of dying.

It was the idea of dying with her hands full of regret. Of carrying with her all the unresolved things, the words left unsaid, the promises she pretended to forget.

And there were so many of them.

She knew many of her fellow Corps members had far less time than she did. Burn bright, die young—it was practically a Green Lantern cliché. And the fact that Madelyne was still here, still alive, still whole (most days), was already a strange kind of quiet miracle.

In fact, she suspected she’d lasted longer than the universe expected. Maybe even longer than she herself thought she could.

She thought about that often. On Oa, beneath the cold, unchanging light of the towers. In Denver, while crossing the welcoming silence of libraries or the comforting noise of old coffee shops. On ships, satellites, stations, and planets whose names couldn't even be pronounced.

Because time was passing. Always. And with it, pieces of her life were being consumed. Some slowly and gradually, like candles burning to the wick. Others torn away abruptly, like pages ripped from an old journal.

The mission in Smallville... it arrived as if it meant nothing. Just a poorly worded request from a flawed system. And Madelyne wanted to hate it. Hate the timing, the context, the feeling that the universe was forcing her to return to a chapter she’d rather pretend she had closed for good. But—and it was a stubborn but—she knew that of all the missions she'd taken in recent years, this was the only one that might offer her a chance to make peace with something real. Something close. Something that hurt more than any intergalactic battle ever could.

She just wanted to rebuild a bridge or two. To say that she tried. That she was there. That before she vanished again into the vastness of stars, duties, and discoveries, she had the courage to face her own story. Her parents. Her siblings. Everything she left behind with a rushed note and a half-practiced goodbye.

Maybe that wouldn’t be enough.

But, in that moment, it was all she had to give.

That morning, upon waking, Madelyne had made a decision. After breakfast, she would finally go to the Prescott Farm. She had postponed that visit as long as she could—pushing the responsibility to tomorrow, to later, to never—but now she felt like she couldn’t run anymore.

Right after getting dressed, she stepped out of the bedroom. She had chosen one of the many perfectly aligned dresses hanging in the wardrobe. They were light, in soft pastels—white, mint green, sky blue, pale yellow. Flowing fabrics, delicate, embroidered with flowers and trimmed with subtle ruffles—clothes she’d never pick for a mission, but that fit the sweet, carefully orchestrated aesthetic of a small-town wife. There were other clothes too: collared blouses, worn-out jeans, off-the-shoulder sweaters, soft cardigans... and T-shirts far too large to be hers, suspiciously comfortable in the space on her side of the closet. Mads chose not to think too hard about that.

She picked a white dress with tiny yellow flowers embroidered on the fabric. It was light, soft, cool against her warm fingers, and she slipped it on after a relaxing shower in the en suite bathroom. She made no effort to style herself—just brushed her hair and let it fall loosely over her shoulders in gentle waves.

Finally, she grabbed one of the folded cardigans, slung it over her arm, and left the room with slow steps, feeling the warmth of old wood under her feet as soft morning light filtered through the windows, casting everything in a deceptively calm golden glow.

The wood creaked faintly beneath the soles of her sneakers, warmed by the early sun, and the smell that had teased her since waking was now almost impossible to resist: fresh-brewed coffee, melted butter, and something sweet, comforting. Pancakes. Definitely pancakes.

Mads descended the stairs slowly, one hand lightly resting on the banister, as if she didn’t fully trust the solidity of the place just yet. But with each step, the smell grew stronger. And harder to ignore. She reached the kitchen and paused at the doorway, her heart strangely calm. Clark was too focused on a small mountain of pancakes to notice her right away. He was drenching them in maple syrup like he was trying to baptize the poor things.

Until he sensed her. Because of course he did. He lifted his head, and when his eyes met hers, the world seemed to slow down with a dramatic efficiency that would put any bad movie’s slow-motion scene to shame.

He opened his mouth, clearly about to say something clever—maybe even a clumsy compliment. But no words came out.

Instead, he just stood there, completely speechless, staring at her. His gaze traveled downward—not in a lewd way, but with a kind of reverent attention that made her face warm. From her bare feet to the white dress with its delicate embroidery, up to the red hair cascading over her shoulder. And there he stayed. Lost. Literally.

Because the syrup—the same one he had been pouring so generously—was now dripping off the edge of the counter, forgotten, landing slowly on the floor. He didn’t even blink.

Mads raised an eyebrow, trying not to smile too soon.

“Clark,” she said, her voice soft but laced with the kind of exasperated patience he very much deserved in that moment. “The counter.”

He looked down, horrified.

“Oh—crap.” He dropped the bottle, grabbed a dish towel, and rushed to clean up the mess. “I… I got distracted.”

“I noticed.”

And though she tried to keep her expression neutral, Mads couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“So,” he began, adjusting his gray T-shirt, a slight blush still coloring his cheeks as he tried—unsuccessfully—to act natural, “did you sleep well?”

Mads gave a half-smile, feeling the kitchen’s warmth wrap around everything like it was the only place in the world where no strange questions were waiting to swallow her whole.

“Ridiculously well,” she replied, pulling out a chair and sitting down, still holding the cardigan in her lap. “Much better than I expected. I think Martha’s home-cooked meals might have something to do with that.”

Clark laughed, a low, genuine sound that made her chest tighten in the best way.

“She has a special gift for that. And she never lets anyone leave here hungry.”

As he reached for a skillet to place on the stove, Mads glanced out the kitchen window. The sun was already high, casting golden light over the trees in the backyard and the open plains surrounding the farm.

With pressed lips, she served herself a stack of pancakes—fluffy, golden, piled into a mountain of comforting carbohydrates—and poured strong, hot coffee into the most chipped mug on the shelf. Meanwhile, Clark handled eggs and hot oil like he was hosting a cooking show, with a level of focus that bordered on the comedic.

The morning was... quiet. Annoyingly quiet. Painfully quiet.

As if it were normal. As if every morning they found themselves in that same kitchen, with the scent of coffee and butter, sunlight filtering through the curtains, and old country music filling the spaces between the words they never quite said. As if the past had never existed, and the present was all that mattered.

It was almost like... she remembered. Like she’d lived this moment before. As if some forgotten part of her body still knew the way back here.

She took a long sip of coffee, trying to ignore the ache in her chest—nostalgia or delusion, she wasn’t sure—and, determined to break the comfortable silence before it turned permanent, she asked:

“So... what did you do after I left?”

Clark didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. The warmth in his voice already gave away the smile.

“I went to Metropolis,” he said, as casually as if he were talking about running to the corner store for bread. “Became a journalist.”

“I heard. I was surprised. I mean... a journalist? Really? Wow. I always thought you’d never leave Smallville.”

A corner of her mouth tugged upward, involuntarily, and she went on:

“I always thought you belonged here. Like your roots were buried deep in this land.”

“I stayed for a while,” he said, stirring the eggs with a spatula. “After you went to Denver, I stuck with the plans I already had. Local college, stayed close to family, helped with the farm... it felt right.”

She chewed slowly, eyes fixed on his profile, waiting.

“But?” she asked, already knowing the but was coming. It always came.

Clark turned slightly, just enough for her to catch it—the smile. Barely there. Almost sad.

“But plans change.”

Madelyne leaned her elbow on the counter and rested her chin on her hand, watching him now with more attention than her pancake.

“What made you change your mind?”

For a second, he hesitated. Small. Barely noticeable. But she saw it.

“What you said. The last time we saw each other.”

Then he turned fully, his eyes meeting hers, full of something she didn’t want to face—but couldn’t look away from either.

“That I could do more.”

And damn it, she remembered.

She remembered like it was yesterday. Like she could still feel the sun on her neck, the bitter taste of late-afternoon coffee, the soft roughness of his shirt when they hugged for the last time. She remembered Clark’s gaze in that moment—the weight of it, the hope—and how it made her hesitate for half a second. Just half.

Back then, he was still all Smallville. A boy with a heart too big and roots too deep, ready to plant his life here and harvest it slowly. Steady, safe, grounded.

And her? She had her bags packed before she even picked the date.

Mads had always thought Clark was too big to fit in one place. Like trying to shove an entire constellation into a toolbox. But he seemed willing. Wanted to stay. Maybe even for her.

But staying wouldn’t have changed the ending.

Even if Clark had remained in Smallville, even if he had stuck to the town’s rhythm and mornings like this one, they still would’ve lived separate lives. Because Madelyne, back then, already had her mind—and heart—set on Denver. And once she made a decision, there was no going back.

After that, she did herself a favor and stopped seeking updates. Her brothers could never keep quiet anyway. Every time his name came up, it came with a flood of teasing, romantic guesses, and smug grins loud enough to poke at a wound she preferred to pretend wasn’t there.

But, inevitably, the information slipped through the cracks. A brief, casual phone call with one of her brothers, and she found out: Clark had left. Left Smallville, moved to Metropolis, gone to college.

Lana Lang had left too, sometime later, after her aunt passed and the house felt too big to live in alone. Word was she was traveling the world, seeing everything she could—one day in Thailand, another in Peru. Peter Ross was the only one who stayed, with no real plans to leave, as far as she knew.

Madelyne inhaled slowly, the smell of pancakes and coffee trying to seep into the memories and soften the sharp edges of it all. She didn’t let it. Because even after all this time... it still hurt a little to remember what was. And maybe even more, what never was.

She drank another sip of coffee, now lukewarm—which felt fitting, considering the tepid state of her emotions. Not cold enough to ignore. Not warm enough to justify the mess inside her chest.

Clark didn’t say anything else. He sat across from her and ate calmly, methodically, as if their previous conversation hadn’t left something hanging between them. Something heavy, and still... unresolved. So she took a deep breath. Pressed her fork into the pancake like it was to blame for everything. And decided it was better to move on to what really mattered.

Something that wasn’t him. Something that wasn’t them.

Something she could actually fix.

"Okay, let’s assume we’re trapped inside a carefully crafted anomaly designed to feel cozy," she began, after swallowing a generous bite of pancake. "How do we get out of it?"

"Do you always start your day with impossible questions?" he murmured, a half-smile playing on his lips.

Mads rolled her eyes, humorless.

"Only when I wake up stuck in an alternate reality where I’m married to my childhood best friend and wearing floral dresses without my informed consent." She took another bite, chewed, then added with a pointed fork gesture, "And you cook, which clearly goes against every known law of physics."

Madelyne studied his face. The way the morning light hit his dark hair from the side, casting soft shadows under his eyes. He still had the same look as the boy who used to help load sacks of corn into her grandfather’s truck. But now there was something more. A new weight. A steadiness in his shoulders. As if he had learned to carry the world and sometimes forgot how to set it down.

She thought about saying something—anything—that might soften the worry on his face. But then she remembered that wasn’t her role anymore. Not here. Not after so much time.

"If we’re trapped in something constructed, then someone—or something—built it. And if someone built it, they’re controlling the environment," she said, slipping into a more technical, comfortable tone. "Or at the very least, influencing it. Which means there could be cracks. Glitches. A way in... or a way out."

Clark nodded. And, as if he were reading her mind—or just exceptionally good at reading people—he added gently:

"The town seems too peaceful. No one complains. Nothing ever goes wrong. That kind of thing bugs you too, doesn’t it?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"You know my definition of peace always involved a bit more sarcasm and a lot less brainwashing."

"I’d say you’re being dramatic, but—" he gestured broadly around the absurdly neat and cozy kitchen, "—this house basically appeared overnight."

"With an electric fireplace and vanilla-scented candles," she added, nodding toward the corner. They both laughed—almost at the same time.

But the laughter faded quickly. Because deep down, they both knew they were just postponing the fear. And that eventually, someone would have to go looking for the truth.

Mads finished her coffee in one last gulp, like someone preparing for a leap.

"I’m going to check out the town. Walk the streets. See what else has changed. You can keep smiling and pretending everything’s fine, if you want. I know you’re good at that."

Clark frowned, concern etching lines across his face. His fork hovered, forgotten, above the pancake.

"Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?" The question was soft but carried weight. Like he hated the idea of letting her go—but knew asking her to stay would be worse.

Mads let out a breath—half sigh, half comedy routine—and rose with a theatrical wave of her hand.

"No need. I can manage on my own for now." Her voice was steadier than she felt. "And I’ve got some unfinished business to handle."

She slipped her arms into the cardigan, the motion automatic, fingers too used to finding something to do when her heart got restless. Then she grabbed the car keys left conveniently close to the door—like someone always knew she’d need to escape and think eventually.

She paused for a second before turning the doorknob. Glanced back at him with the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"Don’t worry, Kent. I’ll be fine."

---

A few hours after leaving downtown Smallville—with a bag full of ingredients Martha had requested (because of course, the Spring Festival required at least four pies per category, and Martha Kent didn’t know the meaning of the word moderation)—Madelyne pulled up next to the dark green fence, perfectly painted.

A perfection, honestly, that didn’t match any of her memories.

In Mads’ childhood, that fence had been a patchwork of splintered wood, peeling paint, and broken promises. Half crooked, half rotting, completely unstable—like a “later” that never came. An architectural symbol of Carl Prescott’s parenting style: performative procrastination with a dash of emotional neglect. He’d fix the fence later. He’d get around to the attic door that had been jammed for years later. Maybe later he’d remember his daughter needed more than cereal in the morning and silence at dinner.

Later was his middle name, and never was a close cousin.

And Ava? Well… Ava showed up. Too late to be needed, too early to be welcome. But she showed up.

Her father’s relationship with Ava always struck Mads as lukewarm. Not the comforting kind of lukewarm, like forgotten tea, but the frustrating kind—like a bland soup you have to pretend to like because someone you love—or at least, someone technically family—made it. After Mads’ mother, Amalia, died—Mads had been four, wearing a purple dress, with the fading scent of her mother’s perfume still clinging to her pillow—Carl spent a long time alone. Alone and… not exactly broken. Just... functional. A version of grief that felt more like maintenance than mourning.

And honestly? That’s what irritated her most.

Because if even his grief felt swallowed, muffled, hidden—then how was she, a child with no emotional survival manual, supposed to know what to do with her own pain?

Mads was raised by an improvised committee: Aunt Georgia, temporarily moved into the farmhouse with her two hyperactive sons, and Martha Kent, her mother’s longtime best friend. Carl showed up now and then—always present, but also always miles away. Like a shooting star: you know it passed by, but blink and you’ll miss it.

Ava officially became a Prescott when Mads was ten, after two years of a relationship no one bothered to discuss—not even the people in it. Shortly after came the twins, William and Isaiah, two pampered little hurricanes with angel faces and Tasmanian devil habits.

To be fair, Ava wasn’t a villain. Mads had no tragic evil stepmother stories stashed up her sleeve. She was just… human. And busy. She’d tried to bond at first, and so had Mads—with the reluctant enthusiasm of someone who knows childhood heartbreak doesn’t take to Elmer’s glue very well. But then the twins came. And Ava, understandably, had other priorities.

She did care about Mads, sure. Just… she cared about Will and Isaiah more. A lot more. Like, my boys are the center of the universe and everything else is just planetary noise more.

Ava also loved keeping up appearances—even if she’d never admit it unless drugged or possessed. She liked looking like her life was perfect: devoted husband (spoiler: he wasn’t), model children (spoiler: also no), and a brilliant, obedient stepdaughter (spoiler: HA!).

In reality, all she had was a lukewarm existence beside an emotionally unavailable man and children with a god complex. Sometimes, Mads pitied her. Other times, she wanted to scream.

And when she looked at Ava—polished on the outside, hollow on the inside—Mads couldn’t help but wonder: Is that how I’ll end up?

A Prescott by blood, she carried her father’s temperament like inherited weight, despite years spent trying to be everything he wasn’t. But what if, deep down, she wasn’t so different? What if the world looked at her and saw just another Carl? A slightly wittier, better-dressed, better-groomed version—but with the same hesitant heart and the same chronic inability to give herself fully to anything that didn’t involve a tractor and a deadline?

"To love me is to suffer me." A joke she told herself, part laugh, part wound. Because like him, she was excellent at keeping everything and everyone at arm’s length after life’s disappointments. And perfect at convincing herself that it was enough.

Because in the end, Mads was made of everything that had made her.

And to love that part of herself…
Was to suffer it too.

Still, she stepped out of the car with her head held high, as if she hadn’t just had a full-blown existential crisis triggered by a freshly painted fence and generations of unresolved trauma. Her boots sank into the dry dirt with a satisfying, firm thud.

Madelyne walked the familiar gravel path that led to the old Prescott house, each step kicking up enough dust to stain her shoelaces a questionable beige. The green fence—once flaking in silent protest—now gleamed like it had been freshly coated in paint and optimism. The horses were in the stable, healthy and well-fed, which in itself was a minor miracle. And there were more animals now, a whole pasture alive with movement—something the farm had never known when she’d still called it home.

She spotted workers scattered near the entrance, busy with their tasks like extras in a commercial where the mornings were always sunny and everyone smiled with unnaturally perfect teeth. And of course, they smiled at her too. Smiled like she’d never left. Like she was... welcome.

And in the middle of them, Carl.

She recognized him instantly, even with grayer hair and deeper lines around the eyes. He looked up, spotted her—and Mads waited. Waited for that hardened stare he always gave her. For the cutting silence. For the scowl that said everything his words never did—you’re a disappointment.

But what came... wasn’t that.

His gaze faltered for a moment, like something inside him—a memory, maybe—stirred with discomfort. And then, he smiled. A wide, genuine smile, as if time hadn’t passed. As if she’d never left. As if... he’d missed her. As if he’d been waiting this whole time. As if the time between them had only been a pause, not a break.

And that—unexpected as it was—was what finally made Mads hesitate.

Because sometimes, rejection is easier to deal with. Contempt has edges. Boundaries. But affection? That quiet kind of affection she never quite knew how to return? That was far more terrifying.

She thought about saying something. A clever remark, maybe. A casual comment. Anything, really. But then her father... hugged her?

Hugged her.

Just like that. As if it were normal. As if this was something that happened regularly. As if the world hadn’t just tilted half an inch off its axis.

She froze. Her arms stuck awkwardly between them, forgotten like a step left out of a recipe. Meanwhile, her brain was busy trying to catch up with a script she definitely hadn’t rehearsed. She blinked. Breathed. Still there—pressed up against Carl Prescott’s chest, being hugged by a man who could barely say “good morning” without sounding like he was chewing on nails.

“Uh... Hi, Dad,” she said, once the shock and her compressed ribs finally gave her a moment’s reprieve.

Carl pulled back just enough to look at her. He still had that smile on his lips. One of those soft, careful ones—like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. His hands rested on her shoulders with a kind of weight, like she was an anchor, like he was grounding himself in the reality of her presence.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart. It’s just... I missed you.”

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if she hadn’t grown up with a father more familiar with firm handshakes than any show of affection. As if hugs were a regular Prescott tradition.

“How was the trip? Did you work a lot?”

“Yeah. I… worked a lot,” she replied, clearing her throat like it might also clear away the awkwardness. “You look good. Radiant, even.”

He took off his hat, running his fingers along the brim like it gave him time. Or courage. Maybe both.

And Mads just stood there, staring at him, trying to understand what version of reality she’d stepped into where her father was warm and “radiant,” and whether she’d hit her head—or was simply back in Smallville.

“Thanks. You too… You look great,” he said. “Glad to see life in the big city’s been good to you.”

“Oh yeah, the big city…” she said, crossing her arms and forcing a smile. “I survived, I think.”

Carl gave her that half-smile, the kind only fathers could manage—somewhere between pride and worry.

And in that moment, Mads realized that no matter how off-kilter this version of the town felt, there was still something about it clinging to normalcy.

She just had no idea how fragile that normalcy really was.

“You wanna come in?” Carl asked, tilting his head slightly toward the house.

“I do,” Madelyne answered, nodding at him. She still felt slightly off-balance, like that hug had knocked loose more than just her thoughts. Like it had shaken something deeper—her entire sense of what was real.

As they walked across the porch she knew so well—the third board still creaked in that same specific way, like even the wood had decided never to forget her—Mads tried to act casual.

She tried.

“So... Ava?” she began, reaching for the topic like someone tugging a loose thread from a sweater, hoping it wouldn’t unravel the whole thing. Even knowing things were different now, she was still afraid to break whatever spell was holding it all together. “And the boys? Are they around?”

She wasn’t exactly eager to see them. More... apprehensive. Afraid of what she might find. Afraid of what this distortion could still do to everything she remembered. But asking was better than sitting in silence—a silence that, she knew, was just another way of making everything more uncomfortable.

Carl opened the door, and for a second, his expression tightened in soft confusion—like he was trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.

“Ava? The boys?” he asked, glancing at her as she stepped past him. “What are you talking about, Mads?”

And just like that, the confusion hit her too.

But before she could even begin to connect the dots, a sweet, familiar smell of home-cooked food washed over her—one of those scents that, no matter how hard you try, always pulls you back.

Then came the sound. Humming. Someone murmuring a tune. On the radio, Elvis Presley played softly, but the voice humming along wasn’t familiar. It was new. Unrecognizable. Her brow furrowed deeper.

The melody drew her toward the kitchen, and when she stopped at the doorway, her entire body froze. Her eyes locked on the woman standing at the sink.

It wasn’t Ava’s dark hair, or the familiar sundresses she remembered. What she saw was red hair. Like hers. The woman turned around, and in that instant, a smile spread across her face—the brightest smile Mads had ever seen, lit by the morning sun pouring into the kitchen.

One word slipped from her lips in a breath, thick with disbelief, wonder, and, more than anything, a grief so deep it blurred her vision.

“Mom?”

 

Chapter 5: Echoes of the Past

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER FIVE.

---

For a long, dragging, and deeply unsettling moment, Madelyne simply… froze. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe properly. Certainly didn’t move. Because no matter how much she had prepared herself for whatever this city might throw in her face, she was not prepared for this.

She stood there, motionless at the entrance to the kitchen, staring at a woman who was dead. Dead as in coffin, funeral, wilted flowers, and all the words no one says out loud. But there she was. Flesh, bone, a gentle smile, and a gray blouse that Mads absolutely recognized from some old photograph.

And while her mind screamed this isn’t real, her heart whispered something much more childlike: she’s here. For real.
Because, for the longest time, Madelyne had dreamed of this. Of knowing what her mother’s laugh sounded like. If her hugs were tight or soft. If she smelled like jasmine, the way her old books seemed to suggest, or if it was all just a product of her imagination.

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m so glad you’re finally home,” said Amalia, as if over twenty years hadn’t passed. As if she’d never died.

Mads didn’t answer. Her throat felt tight, as if she’d swallowed a stone, and her lips trembled with a subtle warning that an emotional collapse was imminent. Her eyes had already given her away, misted over with the kind of emotion that couldn’t be contained for long — not when the whole world had just been flipped upside down with a smile and a kiss on the cheek.

Because that’s exactly what happened.

Carl — her father, the man always so composed — walked over to the red-haired woman standing at the sink, wrapped his arms around her waist with such intimacy and familiarity it hurt, and kissed her cheek like it was just another ordinary day in their lives.

Like it was routine. Like he’d done that every single day for the past several years. Like the world hadn’t shattered the day Amalia Prescott was buried.

And the most absurd part? They looked happy. Visibly, undeniably happy.

No shadow in her father’s eyes, no weight on his shoulders. Just lightness. Love.

And when they looked at her — both of them — it was with tenderness. With warmth. As if she were the beloved daughter finally coming home after a long day.
Not after a decade.
Not after a grief that had nearly swallowed her whole.

Madelyne wasn’t ready for this. Not even close.

She stared at the woman before her — shoulder-length wavy red hair, light blue eyes, a face filled with equal parts concern and affection. She wore dark jeans, a gray blouse, and a red-and-black flannel shirt, with practical ballet flats that made it painfully clear she was the type of adult Madelyne would never quite be.

Yes, the photos had always said Madelyne resembled her mother. But seeing it in person — vivid, breathing, real — was like looking into a mirror that reflected everything she could have been if things had gone differently.

There were fine lines around her eyes. A few silver strands at her temples. And still… she was beautiful. So beautiful that it made Mads want to cry even harder, just from looking at her.

“My love… are you alright?” Amalia’s voice was soft, gentle. She stepped closer to Madelyne and, with a delicate hand, wiped away a tear from her daughter’s cheek with her thumb.

Only then did Madelyne realize: their eyes — both of them — weren’t just loving now. They were worried. Of course they were. She was standing there like an emotionally short-circuited lamppost, face soaked.

Perfect. She was having a full-blown, soap-opera-worthy breakdown.

She wiped her face quickly with the back of her hand, laughing — or at least trying to. It came out sounding more like a polite sob.

“Yes. Yes!” she rushed to say, wearing a smile as forced as the calm she was desperately trying to fake. “I’m fine.”

(Spoiler alert: she wasn’t. Not even close. But she could pretend for a few more minutes. Maybe even believe it, if she said it enough times.)

"Are you sure, sweetheart?" Amalia asked softly, with that kind of gentle concern that made Madelyne want to both break down and storm off to her room like a dramatic teenager.

The woman took a few cautious steps forward — the kind of careful approach one might use with a wounded bird — and rested her hands lightly on Mads’s shoulders. A soft touch. Almost an embrace held in suspension.

Mads tried not to tremble. She really did.

But that gesture — so simple, and yet so impossible — cut through her defenses like she was made of wet paper.

“You look so pale, darling,” Amalia said, her brows furrowing as she examined her daughter’s face like she was searching for fevers, secrets, or broken hearts. “Have you been eating properly?”

Before Mads could reply with something vague and witty, her father decided to chime in — with all the subtlety of a moving tractor.

“If she’s not eating, it’s because she doesn’t want to,” Carl declared, arms crossed and expression solemn, as if he were delivering some grand, irrefutable truth. “Because we both know Martha Kent cooks like the apocalypse is always one batch of cookies away.”

Amalia turned slowly, with the practiced precision of someone well-versed in handling marital nonsense.

“Carl.” She breathed his name like an affectionate sigh and a weary reprimand all at once. A classic.

“Hey, when am I not understanding?” he asked, blinking with a very performative sense of offense and absolutely no reason.

Amalia didn’t answer right away. She just raised an eyebrow with the kind of seasoned patience that came from knowing every one of that man’s defenses — and all his fallacies, too. Instead of arguing, she turned back to Madelyne, treating her husband’s comment like little more than background noise.

“Would you like me to make you something, sweetheart?” she offered. “Some tea? Toast? Or that potato soup you used to like when you were little?”

Madelyne let out a choked sound that almost passed for a laugh. Almost. But it hurt more than she’d ever prepared herself to feel.

That potato soup was a legend in the Prescott family. Comforting, creamy, loaded with cheese and bacon and — according to stories passed down like sacred text — powerful enough to cure fevers, heartbreak, and entire seasons of chronic anxiety.

But Mads had never tasted her mother’s version. At best, she’d had the one her aunt made — and it wasn’t the same. No one else knew her mother’s tricks.
Because no one else was Amalia.

“I…” she began, but her throat closed up. There weren’t enough words in the dictionary to explain the chaos inside her. “I’d love that.”

And she meant it. She really would love that. Love to pretend this was real. That it wasn’t the collapse of reality or a reflection of everything that could have been — but simply... dinner at home, with her parents. Like the world still made sense.

“Wonderful.” Amalia smiled, and her eyes sparkled with something so pure, so kind, that Mads nearly burst into tears all over again. “Just give me a few minutes. Carl, will you help me cut the potatoes?”

“Always, my dear,” he replied, already heading to the silverware drawer with the efficiency of someone who clearly did this every week.

Mads remained where she was, frozen near the counter that separated the kitchen from the hallway, watching the two of them like they were part of the most surreal scene she'd ever witnessed. The room behind them was open, painted in that deep forest green that somehow made the space feel like it breathed along with them.

They moved in perfect sync. Laughed. Bantered. Teased each other with the kind of intimacy only years of shared life could build.

When Martha used to say that Carl loved Amalia unconditionally, Mads had her doubts. Because the Carl she knew was different: stern, sharp-edged, the type who didn’t take crap from anyone. Tough — too tough sometimes. He let Ava do whatever she wanted, but when it came to his own turf, he was a wall. No room for negotiation. His word was final, end of story.

But here, in this kitchen, he followed Amalia’s every lead with a devotion that was almost admirable. He wanted to help. To please. To yield. It was beautiful, if it weren’t so damn infuriating.

Because Ava? Ava had only ever been a substitute. A cheap band-aid slapped over the hole her mother had left behind. And for Carl, it seemed all too easy to erase Ava from the equation. Which would’ve been admirable, if it weren’t so predictable.

Yes, Ava had tried. Tried hard. And yes, all of this was the result of her own choices — choosing to love a man stuck in eternal mourning for his dead wife. But even so…

If he could, Madelyne knew Carl would cast Ava aside in a heartbeat. No hesitation. No remorse. As if she were a temporary placeholder, now ready to be returned to the shelf.
And that… that made Mads furious. Because Ava deserved more than the leftover crumbs of a dead woman’s memory. She deserved more than a temporary spot in the life of a man who only knew how to love when it was convenient.

Just like she deserved more.
More than a father who only remembered how to be kind when the world made it seem like there was still something to lose.

And it was in that exact moment — right when Mads thought she’d reached her emotional limit for the day — that the dogs arrived.

In her teenage years, they’d had a dog, Max — a German Shepherd, loyal, serious, almost absurdly smart. He had been so attached to her father that sometimes it felt like they communicated telepathically.
When Max died — and Mads could still remember how her father’s heart had withered like a flower left too long in the sun — Carl was adamant: never another dog. No replacements. No new bonds. Max was irreplaceable.

And now… now there were two.

Two enormous, golden, impossibly joyful Labradors came barreling through the hallway from the backyard like they were competing in the Olympic Games of canine affection. Tongues flopping, tails wagging in carnival rhythm, ears flapping like laundry in the wind. One of them leapt on her with such enthusiasm it nearly knocked her over; the other spun in circles with excited yaps, as if saying: “Finally! You’re back! We have to show you every corner of the house!”

“Easy, boys,” Amalia said, laughing. “They just missed you, that’s all. Will, Isaiah — settle down, please.”

Mads blinked. Then blinked again.

Will? Isaiah?

She must’ve misheard. She had to have misheard.

But no — the collars confirmed it. Neatly polished golden tags, names engraved in delicate lettering.

Will.
Isaiah.

She stared at the dogs like she expected one of them to unzip their heads and reveal they were animatronics. Because seeing them there, with those names, with their wagging tails and dangling tongues, was… too much.
It was a specific brand of madness that not even the past few days had prepared her for.

Her brothers — the insufferable half-brothers who always invaded her space, ate the last slice of pie, and pretended she didn’t exist unless they needed a ride or money — had been turned into dogs.

Dogs.

It was ridiculous. And at the same time, incredibly fitting.

She’d never been close to them, but they were always there. In the background of photos. In the occasional phone call. In the ambient noise of her late childhood.
And now... they were pets.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.
Maybe both.

What she did know was that she’d had enough. Mads was done. Done with this sugar-coated soap opera set to a happy ending. Done with being swallowed by a moment stitched together from the scraps of her own longing. Done with all the weirdness masquerading as sweet, domestic normalcy.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she announced, trying to keep her voice steady. Her parents turned to her, surprised by the interruption.
“I’ll be right back.”

She left before they could respond. A quiet, dignified retreat. Or something close to it.

Still, she heard their answer in stereo from the kitchen:

“All right!” they both called out in unison.

And then, her mother’s warm voice followed:

“The soup’ll be ready soon, sweetheart. I’ll call you to eat.”

She didn’t reply. She couldn’t.

Not out of rudeness. Not out of coldness.

But because she still didn’t know what to do with that kind of affection. She didn’t know where to place a mother who said things like “I’ll call you to eat” with such tenderness. She didn’t know how to respond to any of this. So, she said nothing.

She just climbed the stairs, her steps far too firm for someone on the verge of falling apart, and locked herself in the bathroom. Closed the door with a soft click. Turned on the faucet. Splashed some water on her face. Took a deep breath.

Then another.And a third, just to be sure.

Finally, she looked into the mirror.

Her green eyes stared back with frustrating familiarity. Her pale skin was still dusted with those discreet freckles she always claimed to hate but was slowly learning to accept. Her red hair fell in messy waves — same as always.

She looked the same. Just like she always had. She was still Madelyne Prescott. She just wasn’t sure what that meant anymore — not in this house, not in this time, not in this place where brothers were dogs and memories felt like they’d been edited for a happier ending.

She just didn’t know how to be in any of this anymore.

When she thought — perhaps with a questionable amount of optimism — that she was calm enough to handle everything like an adult, rational and possibly even professional, Mads dried her face and hands with rehearsed care. She took a deep breath. Straightened her shoulders. And walked out of the bathroom with the determination of someone ready to go downstairs, smile, and pretend it was all just a strange holiday sponsored by collective insanity.

But she didn’t go downstairs.

Because when she turned her head in the hallway, she saw the second floor just as she remembered it: suspended in time, scented with jasmine, not a trace of dust, and every door wide open — except one. Her old bedroom door.

The doorknob felt cold in her hand, like it still recognized her touch. And for a moment, Madelyne hesitated. She expected to find something changed. A makeshift office. A sewing room. Maybe a guest bed and neutral furniture, like she had never really existed there.

But no.

When she opened the door, she found everything exactly as she had left it at eighteen. An untouched shrine to her younger self.

The early afternoon light filtered through the floral curtains, casting soft shadows on the walls, as if the sun itself wanted to peek into that intact little relic. The moon-patterned rug still lay in the same spot on the floor, slightly crooked, as if pushed by a hasty foot that never returned.

And there they were: the holy sci-fi trinity of her teenage years. 2001: A Space Odyssey, Contact, Blade Runner — all taped to the wall with double-sided tape, the same kind that always peeled off during Kansas summers. The print on some had already started to fade, but not the magic.

Beside them, standing like guards to Mads’s teenage mothership, were the glossy, frozen smiles of pop idols she had once sworn never to abandon.

Christina Aguilera, with blue eyeshadow up to her eyebrows and low-rise jeans. U2, from the phase when Bono still wore those ridiculous glasses with messianic pride. And of course, Josh Groban — because Mads went through a phase of cosmic drama where he felt like the perfect soundtrack for contemplating the void of the universe — or her own broken heart.

She let out a quiet laugh, a mix of fondness and embarrassment. That wall was an unpretentious time capsule. A timeline that started with sci-fi posters and ended with slightly yellowed photos that stubbornly clung to the wall.

There she was, for example, wearing her cheerleading bow high on her head, smiling wide, surrounded by friends after a football win. And another, even older one, blowing out candles on a crooked chocolate cake with pink frosting and eyes full of hope. Birthdays. Championship nights. Lazy summers and prom photos.
Those memories, at least, Mads knew were real. Not distorted. Not fabricated.

Madelyne crossed the room slowly toward the desk, where a cracked mug sat with her name printed in faded, uneven letters. A cheap gift from some distant birthday, but one that had endured time better than most people in her life.

On the shelf were the books she once swore she’d take with her — teenage promises bound in hardcover. Most were in English, of course. But there were others in Portuguese — the language her mother spoke with her eyes and wrote with her heart, even when she was no longer around to teach it.

Amalia had left those books for her. Or maybe the universe had decided Madelyne needed them. Clarice Lispector, Carolina Maria de Jesus, Jorge Amado, Machado de Assis. Voices she read until she knew their lines by heart. Voices she used to build a bridge between the present and an absence that ached in silence.

And on the dresser — a photo. Small. Carefully framed. Her and Amalia.

Mads held the frame in both hands and studied every detail. In the image, Amalia was smiling. Crouched next to her daughter, in front of some blooming park. Madelyne looked about ten years old, maybe nine, with her hair in messy braids and a light blue dress she didn’t remember ever owning.

In fact… she didn’t remember anything about that picture. Nothing. Not the park. Not the pose. Not her mother’s gentle hand resting on her shoulder. Not the breeze of the day. Not the sound of laughter. The image looked sweet, yes. A portrait shaped by love and memory. But Madelyne didn’t remember. And that’s what killed her.

She had spent her whole life wishing she could know her. And now, when she finally had her back… it felt like she’d lived an entire life with her and still knew nothing.

Her mother was here.

But the longing was, too.

The world — or whatever was behind this absurd anomaly — had a particularly cruel sense of humor. If the goal was to hurt her, to pierce her right in the center, they were doing an excellent job.

She’d barely been in Smallville for a few days. And already, her emotional seams were unraveling.

She gently set the photo frame back on the dresser, her fingers lingering a second longer than they should. Then she walked to the bed and sat on the edge like the mattress might bite her. It didn’t. But it sank softly beneath the weight of years she didn’t remember living — and wounds she remembered all too well.

Maybe what hurt the most was the cruel paradox: this version of life seemed tailor-made to fill every void she had ever known. The mother. The loving father. The untouched bedroom. The happy photographs.

Everything just the way she would have dreamed. But the dream wasn’t hers. It never had been. It was a false gift — neatly wrapped, with a bow on top and a bomb hidden inside. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Tried to laugh. It came out sounding like a sob.

“Brilliant, Madelyne. First solo interplanetary mission as a Lantern and you’re crying in your teenage bedroom. Well done,” she muttered to herself, voice low, sarcastic, and just a little broken.

She squared her shoulders. Took a deep breath. And lied to herself with the practiced ease of someone who’d been an adult far too long to admit how much it hurt. She was fine, she told herself. It was just an illusion. Just a room. Just the image of a mother she could never truly touch.

It wasn’t the end of the world. Not yet.

Madelyne lay back on the bed with her arms outstretched, as if she could be absorbed into the memories she never lived. She stared up at the ceiling, at the stars that glowed faintly — small, phosphorescent stickers she had placed there at twelve, convinced the universe began right there, in the bedroom of the Prescott farm.

It was a silly vision. Childish. And absolutely perfect.

“Reminiscing in your old room?”

The voice came sweetly, laced with that familiar hint of irony.

Mads turned her head and saw her—Amalia—leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a soft smile dancing on her lips. And, of course, the discomfort came rushing back like an untrained dog.

Seeing her mother there—alive, whole, so real it made her want to reach out and touch—was like trying to walk a tightrope strung between longing and disbelief. And Mads, who had always been better with formulas than feelings, tried to mask it all with the finesse of a community theater actress.

She sat up on the bed with forced calm, as if the mere act of moving didn’t require a full emotional realignment of her internal skeleton.

“Something like that,” she replied, attempting a smile, even though her emotions were all upside down, dressed in childhood pajamas and singing sad songs in unison.

Amalia walked into the room without ceremony, as if she’d never stopped being its rightful owner. Her eyes swept across the walls, the desk, the carefully preserved details of a universe that clearly had its own ideas about nostalgia.

“Feels like time stood still in here, doesn’t it?” she said, her fingers gliding over the top of a shelf filled with mementos, where a snow globe sat—a whale suspended over a glittering sea.

Mads followed her mother’s movements with her eyes. She wanted to say yes. To say, “Time stopped, froze, and is now staring me in the face with a ghostly smile.” But all that came out was:

“It’s strange.”

“Strange?” Amalia smiled gently, sitting slowly at the edge of the bed. “Strange good or strange bad?”

Mads hesitated.

She could lie, of course. Say it was the good kind of strange—the kind that warms your heart and makes your cheeks flush with emotion.

But the truth? The truth was a tangled mess of longing, disbelief, and a flicker of unresolved anger. Because being here with her mother, alive and whole, touched parts of her she had carefully locked away for decades—and honestly, those parts had gotten pretty comfortable in the dark.

“A confusing kind of strange,” she finally answered, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them. She chose to share what felt like a half-truth. A truth small enough not to hurt too much. “I’m not sure how I feel about all these things reminding me of who I used to be.”

Amalia tilted her head, like someone hearing a familiar language spoken with a forgotten accent.

“Sometimes memories hurt,” she said softly. “Even the good ones.”

“It’s not just the memories,” Mads murmured, picking at the quilt’s fabric with her thumbnail. “It’s the idea that maybe... maybe this room stayed frozen because some part of me did too. That maybe I never really left, even after I was gone.”

Amalia didn’t answer right away. She simply moved a little closer and, with a gentleness that hurt more than it soothed, placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

“You left. You grew up, lived your life, chose who you wanted to be. You built your own family with the man you love. There’s nothing wrong with carrying this part of yourself along the way. Even our old selves deserve a little kindness.”

Mads let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard at the mention of her so-called marriage to Clark, unsure whether she wanted to hug her mother or leap out the window and run away to Mars. They weren’t exactly on the same page—or even in the same book—about the reality they were living in. Still, Amalia’s words rang true. Because even in the middle of this carefully constructed illusion, convinced that Mads had never left Smallville and was now married to a kind-hearted farmer with a garden and a dog or two, Amalia was kind. Attentive. Gentle in a way that pierced through the absurdity.

“Sometimes I wish I could be one of those people who just... accepts the good things, you know? Without questioning everything. Without waiting for it all to fall apart.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Amalia said with a smile that suggested she knew this part of Mads all too well. “You were never that kind of person. Not even when you were little. You needed to know how the oven worked before you believed the cake would rise.”

They both laughed. Not because it was particularly funny, but because it was true. And truths, when spoken with that much affection, had a strange way of becoming comforting.

Mads shook her head, sinking a little deeper into the pillows.

“That makes me insufferable, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Amalia replied with a calm smile. “It makes you a Prescott. With maybe a slight dash of Kent stubbornness. But we like to call that charm.”

Mads rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop the corner of her mouth from twitching upward.

Amalia took her daughter’s smile as a green light to keep going—with a topic that was new on the surface, but really just an old one dressed up in innocent curiosity.

"So... how are things with Clark?"

Madelyne froze for a second—like someone had hit pause right in the middle of the movie of her life.

"What?"

"The marriage, sweetheart," Amalia clarified, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You seem so... tense. You haven’t fought, have you? Is that why you’ve been so pensive?"

Mads took a deep breath, her smile already beginning to falter.

"No. I mean... not that I know of." She tried to keep her tone light, like it was just one of those casual mother-daughter chats about entirely fictional relationships. "We’re fine. I’ve just been a little overwhelmed with work."

Amalia nodded slowly, like someone pretending to understand a script written by someone else.

"Yeah, he did seem a little distracted yesterday morning," she added casually, adjusting her sleeve like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb. "When he stopped by before heading to your place. Seemed surprised to see me, actually."

Mads froze. Her mother’s words landed like a cold drop of water trickling down her spine.

"Clark... was here?"

"Yes, early in the morning. He came by to drop off some packages your father ordered from Jonathan," Amalia said with a soft smile. "I figured he’d mentioned it to you."

He hadn’t.

Mads bit her lip, the thought hammering in her head with an annoying persistence. Clark knew. He already knew. He had seen her mother alive and... said nothing.

"Maybe... he just didn’t know how to tell me," she murmured, more to herself than to her mother. The taste of disappointment was subtle but unmistakable—like burnt sugar on the tip of her tongue.

"That must be it," Amalia replied gently. "I heard the Kent farm’s been busy. And since you were away last week, he might’ve just forgotten to mention it."

Amalia didn’t seem to notice the tension hanging in the air. Or maybe she did—and, in that way only mothers can, chose to let the silence be, quietly honoring the moment.

She stood up slowly, walked over, and gently ran her hand through her daughter’s hair in a gesture filled with care and tenderness.

"Ten more minutes and the soup will be perfect. Extra cheese, just for you." She winked, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. "I’ll see you downstairs, sweetheart."

And just like that, with a soft smile, she left the room, leaving Mads behind—caught somewhere between memories and questions—while the kitchen waited downstairs, filled with the warm scent of soup and a silent invitation to keep going.

---

Later, after a surprisingly peaceful lunch with her parents, Madelyne decided she needed some fresh air. And maybe a bit of emotional distance. Nothing drastic, of course—just enough to piece back together the jigsaw puzzle of her sanity.

So when her father casually mentioned the dogs were eager for a run through the fields, Mads volunteered to take them. Carl tried to insist, but she cut him off with a smile—one of those layered ones, filled with quiet meaning—and he relented. After all, she needed the time. And there was no better place to clear your head than the open fields of the farm, where the sky felt bigger and, with any luck, the thoughts felt smaller.

Will and Isaiah—the Labradors, not the actual brothers—barely waited for their leashes to come off before shooting into the grass like golden rockets. One of their tails nearly knocked Mads over, but she only laughed softly, hands in her pockets, her heart just a little lighter. Watching them run like that—free and clumsy—drew a smile from her that almost reached her eyes.

And, of course, that’s when she thought of the real boys.

She was ten when Ava announced the pregnancy. And even though she said otherwise at the time, Mads had been excited. Maybe now she wouldn’t feel so alone in that giant house. With her aunt and cousins far away, and school friends filling only the hours between the morning and afternoon bells, the emptiness was constant. Clark helped—he always helped—but he had his own life on a farm across town. Sharing a roof, a childhood, Saturday mornings—that was different.

The twins arrived, and with them, chaos. Will loved hiding her things, like a gremlin in training. Isaiah was a prank master, usually laughing before she even realized she’d been tricked. They got scolded, of course. But disciplined? Not really. After all, “boys will be boys,” they said. A sharp contrast to how she was treated: always the daughter expected to be exemplary, composed, mature. The model Prescott. The one who wasn’t allowed to slip.

Maybe that’s why, at sixteen, she decided to stop trying altogether. She rebelled—against her father, against the pre-packaged farm life, against the idea that love had to come with straight A’s and perfect behavior.

She whistled, and the dogs came bounding back, happy like they’d just been invited to a steak banquet. Mads crouched down and ran her hands over their heads, petting them gently.

"At least you two listen when I talk," she murmured, half to herself, half to the wide Kansas sky. "Maybe being dogs made you more civilized."

Isaiah licked her hand. Will sat down beside her, as if he understood it was time to keep her company.

She kept walking across the field, her sneakers sinking slightly into the soft dirt, with Will and Isaiah trotting cheerfully around her. The sun was already dipping lower in the sky, casting everything in that soft golden hue that made even the strangest parts of life look beautiful. And for a moment—a brief, treacherous moment—Madelyne almost felt at home.

That’s when she heard a voice too familiar to ignore.

"I knew I saw a redheaded comet streak through here!"

She turned with a start and found herself face-to-face with Pete Ross in his pickup truck—same as always, just a little more tanned, his hair shorter, his energy a blend of genuine enthusiasm and that overly friendly, know-it-all charm she remembered well from high school. He grinned at her like she was some kind of living legend.

"Pete," she said, blinking rapidly, as if the name would help him click into place in her mind. "Wow. Hi!"

"Madelyne Kent, in the flesh!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "The shining star of Smallville has returned to grace our skies, huh?"

She let out a light, nervous laugh.

"Just Madelyne is fine, Peter."

He gave a low, amused whistle, hopping down from the truck with the agility of someone who still thought he was eighteen—and, honestly, almost pulled it off.

"Still so formal," Pete said, adjusting his cap and stepping away from the window. "But alright, I’ll respect it. Just Madelyne. Or Mad, if I may be bold."

Mads shook her head with a small but genuine smile.

"You’ve never needed permission to be bold, Pete."

"True." He pointed a finger at her. "But boldness aside... are you doing okay?"

"I’m great. Just been... busy. Married life, you know how it is."

Pete nodded, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.

"Oh, don’t I know it. Speaking of which... you’ve heard about the Spring Festival, right? Mayor Turner’s set on outdoing last year’s, which says a lot—considering last year included a pie contest where my mom nearly killed Mrs. Bellamy with a rolling pin."

Madelyne’s eyes widened, and a laugh slipped out.

"Sounds like a typical Tuesday in Smallville."

"Exactly. But I won’t lie—I’m excited for this year’s." Pete grinned. "The mayor wants to please everyone. And I heard you and Clark are competing in the sack race and the couple’s trivia contest. And before you say you didn’t sign up... Amalia told me registration was automatic this year."

"Of course it was," Mads muttered, glancing skyward like she was begging for divine intervention.

"It’s going to be fun," Pete chuckled, shrugging. "Watching you two make fools of yourselves together always brings me joy."

She crossed her arms, trying to hide the blush on her cheeks.

"And you? Who are you competing with?"

"My cousin. Aunt Rose talked me into being the 'emergency couple' because the nephew of her neighbor’s sister-in-law’s fiancé canceled. Or got arrested. One of those. Details."

This time Madelyne laughed for real, shaking her head.

"Nothing ever changes around here, huh?"

Pete smiled again—softer this time.

"Some things do. But you? You’re just the same, Mads. Even with that new last name of yours."

She didn’t reply right away, just let out a short whistle—and Will and Isaiah came running back to her feet, as if sensing the shift in mood.

"It was good seeing you, Pete."

"Always is. And don’t you dare skip the festival, okay? I’ll be secretly rooting for you two." He winked at her, laughing as he started up the truck again and drove off.

Mads waved, half distracted, then let out a long sigh—the kind that comes from deep in the soul.

After clipping the leashes back onto the dogs, she resumed the walk down the dirt path that led to her family’s farmhouse. The only sound breaking the comfortable silence of the afternoon was the rhythm of her own footsteps, occasionally interrupted by excited barks and the scuffle of paws chasing an unsuspecting butterfly.

But aside from that, nothing else happened—until Mads came to a stop in the middle of the road, her eyes caught instantly by a massive sign. One of those typical billboards that dotted the countryside, advertising anything and everything.

Seeing her ex’s face made Mads press her lips together in a subtle gesture of distaste—a mix of fatigue and long-faded disappointment. Cliff Turner didn’t look like he’d changed much—his caramel-brown hair was slicked neatly back, immaculate as ever. His wide, almost theatrical smile radiated a practiced confidence. Dressed in a suit and tie, he stood out against a bright blue background, posed beneath an exaggerated slogan that only served to further inflate his mayoral ego: “Smallville Grows — Together We Win.”

As her eyes scanned the photo, Pete’s words echoed sharply in her mind: “The mayor wants to please everyone.”

And there, staring at that all-too-familiar face, Mads realized something: of all the wishes granted in this twisted reality, Cliff seemed to be the one who had gained the most. He had an entire town in the palm of his hand, and it felt like everyone loved him just as much as they loved her and Clark. It was a disturbing kind of devotion—one that fit all too well into Smallville’s shiny façade.

After spending the morning observing the town more closely, Mads noticed Cliff’s presence wasn’t limited to ads: posters with his face were plastered everywhere, and a bizarre statue of him—complete with a fountain—stood proudly in front of City Hall. It was a blatant attempt at self-immortalization.

A strange, uneasy feeling crept through her. A nearly tangible sixth sense. Her analytical mind drifted back to the theory she’d shared with Clark the night before: the idea that someone had started all of this—a single, initial wish that had triggered the whole chain of events. One stone cast into the lake, sending ripples that now consumed all of Smallville.

And in that moment, Mads couldn’t shake the feeling that she might be staring right at the one who threw it.

 

Chapter 6: The New Smallville

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER SIX.

---

 

The sun was still high in the sky — ruthlessly golden, far too generous for that time of day — when Clark pushed open the shop door and let it fall shut behind him with the familiar clang of the rusted bell. The old red pickup truck, the family’s, waited across the street exactly where he’d left it, right in front of Bergman's & Sons — Hardware and Tractors Since 1952. A name far too long for such a tiny store, steeped in the scent of aged grease, polished wood, and a hint of chewed tobacco that felt like part of the building’s foundation. As if any attempt to renovate the place would be met with protest from the walls themselves.

The sign hung slightly crooked, as always, and the display window featured a toy tractor and three variations of a wrench — none of them pretty, all of them practical. Which, given the perfectly idealized reality he was currently living in, was almost funny.

He’d only needed a few parts to fix the farm’s tractor. A simple repair. A routine errand. But being there, in the sleeping heart of Smallville, made something in his chest ache — and, at the same time, glow warm.

In the big city, he woke up surrounded by concrete and noise. The sky was a patch of blue squeezed between steel and glass. Days moved fast, always carrying the promise of urgency. There, he was essential. A cog that couldn’t stop turning. A man constantly in motion.

And he’d gotten used to it — the weight, the speed, the expectations.

But that morning, Clark hadn't woken to a blaring alarm or the siren call of a city in crisis, though that happened more times than he could count. He’d woken because sunlight spilled through the window in a shy warmth. Because birds were singing outside. Because — by some rare stroke of grace — Madelyne was back. Not just in town. In his life.

And in the most chaotically unexpected way the universe could possibly deliver.

Because in none of the scenarios he had mentally rehearsed about seeing his childhood best friend again — not even the boldest versions — had he imagined they would be married.

Married.

Not for real, of course. But everyone believed they were. Everyone except the two of them. Thanks to what might have been some kind of anomaly that defied all logic — even his, and he’d seen more than his share of the illogical.

And even though he knew he should be focused on figuring out what the hell was happening, a part of him — the quietest, most starved part — could only think about the fact that she was here. That he could see her. And that maybe, just maybe, that was what he wanted most in the world. Even if he couldn’t admit it. Yet.

Clark opened the truck’s passenger door with a soft creak — the worn, comforting sound of something he’d done dozens, maybe hundreds of times since he’d returned to Smallville. The third shopping bag landed beside the other two, fresh from Bergman’s. He leaned over the seat, his shadow falling across the sun-bleached upholstery, and pulled out the lightest package. A gift.

When he opened the box, his eyes found the object — simple, delicate. It wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t flashy. But for some reason, she had come to mind the moment he’d seen it in the window. Mads. The way she scrunched her nose when trying to understand something new. The reluctant spark in her eyes when pretending not to like a kind gesture. She deserved something. Something that said “welcome” without implying a lifelong contract or the weight of a marriage she hadn’t asked for.

Clark smiled — almost imperceptibly — before closing the box and placing it back in the bag. He adjusted his glasses — a reflexive motion. A sharp breeze swept across the late afternoon, carrying with it the faint chime of a distant bell. Clark looked up. Across the street, a small storefront bore a sign he hadn’t seen in years: Smallville Gazette.

He frowned, curious.

A Black woman with curly hair stepped out of the paper’s office, smiling wide, saying goodbye warmly to the friend who still lingered inside. Clark watched her closely, the instinct he pretended didn’t exist still sharp as ever. They were too far to hear — or should have been — but he let his hearing stretch for just a second, just long enough to catch the words wrapped in affection and fond memories. No danger. No secrets.

Just ordinary life, unfolding.

An idea sparked in Clark’s mind, and the decision followed without effort. He shut the truck door, locked it with a soft click, and crossed the street toward the newspaper office. As he walked, voices called out to him. Smiles greeted him. People who, years ago, barely noticed him in the school hallways now seemed to have placed him on some invisible pedestal.

Back in high school, Clark had never been the standout kid — at least, not in the way people wanted someone to stand out. He was too big, too quiet, too kind. He’d learned early on that it was safer to be invisible than to risk being found out. His powers put him in a place where anger was never an option. He never pushed back when shoved into lockers, never responded to the whispered jokes as he walked by. Shyness became his shield. Reserve, his language. He was the kind of boy who preferred stargazing over vying for attention at a party.

Now, those same people stopped him in the middle of the street to shake his hand and reminisce about how he had “always been such a good kid.” It was strange — as if the past had been rewritten through a more favorable narrative. But maybe the strangest part was this: they were talking about Clark Kent, not Superman. And he still didn’t know how to process that.

As he pushed open the glass door of the Smallville Gazette, Clark was greeted by a warm gust of air that smelled of fresh coffee and freshly printed paper. The interior was small but meticulously tidy, as if every object had been deliberately placed by someone who truly loved the space.

The walls, lined with light wood paneling, supported shelves overflowing with old editions, bound and labeled with handwritten red dates. There were dark-framed photos: black-and-white images of the town under historic snowstorms, headlines from the '70s celebrating bumper harvests, and one slightly blurred photo of a smiling reporter shaking hands with a local politician.

A few feet from the entrance, a small but modern TV played the local news at a volume low enough to ignore, but just loud enough to create a sort of comforting background hum. The anchor was enthusiastically reporting on a new agricultural project in the county, while the ticker rolled out other mundane headlines: “Another Week of Clear Skies and Mild Temperatures.”

The floor was made of old tile that creaked faintly beneath his feet, and the front counter displayed a line of coffee mugs with employee names written in permanent marker — some cracked, some stained, all clearly well-used. In the back, the rhythmic clack of someone typing on an old keyboard mixed with the steady whir of a ceiling fan.

“Well, look who it is… Mr. Kent.”
Chloe’s voice came with a smile that felt rehearsed — polite enough to be friendly, warm enough to feel familiar.

She stepped out from behind a frosted-glass divider, her blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun, a mug in her hand, and the vaguely surprised expression of someone who’d expected an intern — not Clark Kent. She paused for a moment, as if her brain needed to reboot. Her eyes flickered over his face, and for a beat that lasted just a bit too long, something unreadable danced behind her gaze. Like a memory caught between two corrupted files.

Clark blinked. That... felt off. He’d known Chloe Sullivan forever — there was no need for that formality. There never had been. And he might’ve said so, if Chloe hadn’t let out a soft, awkward laugh right after, shaking her head as if brushing off a strange thought.

“Sorry. That was weird, wasn’t it? For a second, I was about to call you… something else.”
She squinted, wrinkling her nose, confused. “Like, really something else.”

Clark let out a laugh — one that failed to convince even his nervous system.

“What, Superman?” he offered, attempting to sound casual. But his heart had already taken off on a marathon, no warning.

Chloe stared at him.

“Superman?” she echoed, as if the word had come with the scent of burning wires. “No. Not even close.”

She ran her fingers across her temple, waving her hand like she was shooing a fly or trying to access a scrambled file in her head.

“Probably just a caffeine shortage. Or an overdose. Who knows,” she muttered, setting her mug aside to busy herself with a cardboard box.

Clark watched as she crossed the room and dropped the box onto the table with a soft but emphatic thud.

“And let’s be honest,” she added, flashing that crooked smile he remembered from high school, “we both know Superman never showed up around here.”

The tone was sharp. Teasing. Classic Chloe. Clark bit the corner of his lip, debating whether to laugh, deflect, or just change the subject altogether.

“Not that he had much to do here,” Clark replied, shrugging with feigned ease, eyes following her methodical sorting of envelopes, post-its, and loose files from the box. “This town always did just fine on its own.”

She let out a quick huff of laughter, tossing a pen into the box with more force than necessary.

“Pfft, tell that to me after covering three straight weeks of the Harvest Festival and that tragic goose escape from the Delaney farm. The town might be quiet, but the chaos here has its own rhythm.”

“Glad to see your sarcasm is still in top shape,” he murmured more to himself than to her, stepping closer to the table and eyeing the contents of the box. “This new stuff or old archive?”

“A bit of both,” she replied with a shrug. “We got a batch of old records from city hall. I’m trying to decide whether to ship it all to the basement or give it a shot at becoming a story.”

She picked up a manila envelope and waved it in the air like it proved something. Then, without ceremony, she went right back to sorting through the box in front of her, separating the useful from the disposable. Clark watched her for a moment, his eyes following her movements before drifting off, briefly, to the details around the room — the neatly lined-up computers, the framed headlines, the stacks of old archives.

Hours earlier, leaving the farm, Clark had driven the old pickup along a road so perfectly paved it bordered on unnerving. Not a single crack, no potholes, not even the faintest sign of wear from time or traffic. It was the kind of road that felt more like a memory someone had made up than an actual path — too smooth, too straight, and strangely silent beneath the tires.

Along its edges, rows of trees grew as if measured and planted by an architect obsessed with symmetry. Their trunks were straight, branches tame, leaves obedient. Even the wind seemed unwilling to disturb the order.

And then came the child.

She was there — at the same bend in the road as the day before — waving with the same hand, the same gap-toothed smile lighting up her face. Clark waved back, and for a second, he let himself pretend it was just a coincidence. Until the dog barked.

A medium-sized mutt with alert ears and caramel-colored fur. It stood beside Mrs. Whitmore’s mailbox, just like it had yesterday. And the day before that. And maybe every day since he’d arrived. The bark came out sharp — a single note — like a metronome marking the beat of something that was supposed to seem random… but wasn’t. Not here.

Clark had started noticing these subtle, unsettling déjà-vus. The newspaper folded the exact same way. The neighbor always watering the lawn with the same precise arm movement. The milk truck passing at 8:02 and 17 seconds. Every day. Without fail. Everything so perfect. So consistent. So… suspicious.

It was as if the town had been shaped by memories that were too ideal. As if time in Smallville had stopped moving forward and started looping instead. Caught in what was becoming a flawless cycle. It wasn’t fear that made his knuckles tighten on the steering wheel — it was doubt. And a growing urgency for answers.

While Mads had been busy investigating the present, Clark had chosen a different route: chasing the past. Maybe he’d find the thread that unraveled all of this.

“Chloe…” he began, his voice laced with a cautiousness that didn’t go unnoticed, “has anything… strange happened around here lately?”

She looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowing as if trying to sniff out a hidden trap in the question.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Kent. Around here, strange is kind of the default.”

“Any unusual weather? Energy fluctuations? Anything off-pattern?” he asked, slipping into his journalist tone before he could stop himself.

Her reaction was nearly instant. Chloe straightened, like the question had nudged something out of alignment.

“Clark,” she said slowly, as if testing the weight of his name on her tongue. “Why are you talking like a reporter?”

He hesitated. Took a deep breath.

“Because… I am a reporter?”

She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head with the kind of curiosity that said she was already three steps ahead of him — ready to unravel the whole mystery with a notepad in one hand and sharp sarcasm in the other.

“No. I mean, you were,” she corrected, pointing her mug at him like she was presenting evidence in court. “But you live here. You know how this town works. You work on the farm. The farthest you go is the school when they ask you to give a talk. Everybody knows that.”

A chill crawled slowly down Clark’s spine.

Chloe continued, gentler now, as if she could sense something off in the way he was looking around.

“Clark… what are you looking for?”

He tried to smile. He really did. But the smile didn’t make it far — strangled halfway by a doubt he could no longer ignore.

“I don’t know.”
And it was true. He didn’t know what he was looking for. He didn’t even know where to start.
But he was trying.

Chloe stayed quiet for a moment.

“…Is this some kind of existential crisis?” she asked at last, her brows gently furrowed, hands still wrapped tightly around her mug. “Because if it is, that’s okay. I’ve got chocolate, whiskey, and an Alanis Morissette playlist on standby. We’ll survive.”

Clark let out a muted laugh, shaking his head with less humor than usual.

“It’s not that. At least… I don’t think it is.”
He dropped his gaze for a second, then looked back up at her.
“Do you mind if I use one of the newsroom computers? Just want to run a quick search.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes, then shrugged.

“Sure. The one at reception’s free. And it’s faster than it looks, I swear. Just don’t close any of Mary’s cookie recipe tabs or I lose my Saturday snack.”

Clark made his way to the front desk — a clean, well-organized space where physical files still lived side-by-side with LED screens far too modern for a town of fewer than four thousand people. The Smallville Gazette newsroom was modest, yes, but also strangely up-to-date. Too functional for a place like this. Nothing broken. No monitors taped together. Not even a worn-out keyboard.

He powered up the computer. The system was simple, intuitive… but just a little too polished. No bugs. No lag. Even the fan made no noise at all — almost too quiet.

Clark opened the archive directory, hoping to find editions from decades past. Dates, headlines, local events. Anything to fill the gaps that were steadily widening in his mind.

But what he found was… nothing.

Some files were named things like “Edition 2011,” “Christmas 2005,” “Agricultural Fair Opening.” But when he clicked on them, they opened as blank pages. No text, no images, not even a header. Some wouldn't open at all — the system throwing out errors like “corrupted file” or “unrecognized format.”

Other documents had bizarre date stamps like “31/31/2099” or “00/00/0000,” or vague, generic titles like “New Era,” “Final Version,” or simply “Confirmed.”

Clark frowned. He tried sorting the files by creation date. The system froze for a moment. Then it refreshed — but now, every file showed the same creation date: June 7, 2025.

Only one file seemed intact.

It was an image, labeled CliffTurner_001.jpg.

He opened it.

On-screen appeared a photo of Cliff Turner, sporting the kind of campaign-trail grin that was just a little too confident — broad, rehearsed, the smile of someone who already knew he’d win — holding a silver microphone in front of a crowd that was cropped out of the frame. Behind him, a banner read: WELCOME TO NEW SMALLVILLE.
The date? June 7, 2025.

Clark felt something prickle at the base of his neck — a subtle unease, as if something was misaligned, just barely out of place.
The kind of feeling his instincts had learned to take seriously.

New Smallville.

Apparently, for this town, only the after existed.

---

Back at the farm, Clark was still processing what he had uncovered at the newspaper office. He’d tried to confront Chloe about the blank files, but all she did was laugh and say it was probably just a system glitch. Then she completely changed the subject — asked about his parents, about the farm, about Madelyne. She tried to sound casual, natural. Even suggested he try goat yoga to relieve stress.

But Clark could tell: she wasn’t lying — not exactly. The way she spoke was calm, convincing… normal — if it hadn’t felt so staged.
And that’s when it hit him: pushing her wouldn’t help. Chloe, just like his parents, was fully immersed in whatever fabricated reality this was.

He said goodbye and left the Gazette. The sky had already started to darken by the time he reached the truck and headed home. The air was cooling, as if even the weather was in transition. As he passed the statue of Cliff Turner, Clark instinctively eased off the gas. His eyes locked on the bronze figure, and an unease stirred inside him. The crease between his brows deepened — something about it bothered him.

He kept driving, lost in thought.
Smallville wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
And even though part of him still worried about Metropolis, about being gone while the city might need Superman, Clark knew there were other heroes watching over it now. What unsettled him wasn’t why Superman had stopped — it was what, exactly, had gone wrong in Smallville.

When he arrived at the family property, he parked and made his way to the cabin he now shared with Madelyne. He was just stepping out of the house with a few tools in hand when he saw her. His mood shifted instantly — something that had become almost reflex every time she appeared. He came down the steps with a faint smile already forming, hand instinctively reaching into his pocket for the small box.
He wanted to tell her what he’d discovered — but decided it could wait until after the gift.

But before he could say a word, Madelyne spoke.

“You knew.” The words came out slowly, heavily, like each one was a brick hurled into the silence between them. Mads crossed her arms, eyes locked on his, filled with a kind of disappointment that hurt more than anger ever could.
“You knew my mother was alive. And you didn’t tell me.”

Clark was completely caught off guard. Everything he had planned to say vanished, and the weight of that unspoken truth settled thick between them. The gift box slipped from his hands, and he quietly tucked it back into his pocket, the tension rising in his chest.

He had forgotten — or pretended to forget — just how much that truth carried.

“Mads, I can explain.” His voice was low, tight, as he set the tools down by his feet, leaving open space between them.
They stood face to face now, with nothing left to hide behind.

She raised an eyebrow — a sharp, silent dare that said, Impress me.

“Great,” she said. “Then explain. Because I’m officially timing your brilliance.”

Clark swallowed hard. He tried to find the right words — the ones that danced just out of reach in his mind, slippery as smoke.

“I…”
He gestured vaguely, as if shaping an excuse out of thin air.
“I only found out yesterday.”

“Really? And then you figured, hey, Mads loves last-minute emotional bombshells, so why not keep it a surprise?”

“No!”
He stepped toward her, then paused and pulled back slightly, unsure of himself.
“I just… I thought you were overwhelmed. That it’d be too much for you to process all at once. That…”

He didn’t finish.

Because the way she looked at him... it wasn’t with anger. It wasn’t that kind of fire that flares and fades. It was something far more devastating: the quiet sorrow of someone who had hoped — for anything, really — and received nothing.

She didn’t want to fight. She was far too tired for that. Tired of waiting for people to understand what she needed. Tired of being the last one considered in her own story.

Clark saw it. Felt it. Because he’d known Madelyne since she wore ponytails and science-themed t-shirts. And because he still cared — more than he liked to admit.

He drew in a breath.

“I recognized her the second I saw her,” he said slowly, each word chosen with care, heavy with the kind of honesty he couldn’t disguise. “But, Mads, when I looked into her eyes... I knew how much it would shake you. I wanted to give you time. Time to process. But... that was a mistake.”

The silence stretched between them, thick as winter fog, filling every unsaid space with words that never made it out. The weight of the moment — of everything that had been revealed, and more so of what remained hidden — hovered between them like something alive. Invisible, but undeniably present.

Clark wasn’t expecting forgiveness. He wasn’t that naive — not after everything they'd been through, not after the years spent apart. He knew that this — this difficult, overdue conversation — wasn’t the ideal way to restart anything, let alone rebuild a friendship. And if he’d once believed they were making progress, now he felt they’d slipped backward. A small step, maybe even imperceptible to anyone else, but a step back nonetheless. A subtle detour from the path he had dared to believe they were walking together.

Since she arrived, he’d been watching her in silence. Not just with his eyes, but with that focused attention he rarely directed at himself. The way Madelyne held her posture tight and composed, as if any sign of vulnerability might break her. The way the space between them was so precisely measured — not physical, but emotional. Intentional. Controlled.

She still wasn’t letting him in.

She moved with her usual grace, answered with practiced ease, her expressions restrained — but he knew. He knew with the same certainty he recognized the sound of his own name that it was all just a façade. That she still trusted herself more than anyone else. Including him. Maybe especially him.

And he couldn’t blame her.

Clark felt it in every averted glance, in every prolonged silence, in every half-truth she allowed herself to say. And he accepted it. Because pushing Madelyne to give more than she was ready for would only be another betrayal.

She lifted a hand to her neck, fingers pressing firmly against a stubborn knot of tension. She took a deep breath — an imperfect attempt to settle the storm still swirling inside her. For a moment, her gaze stayed fixed on the ground, like courage was easier to gather when she didn’t have to look at him.

But then, she lifted her eyes.

And when they met his — those always-too-sincere blue eyes, too full of good intentions for their own good — there was something calm and resolute in hers.

“Just…” she began, the word hanging in the air for a beat before she went on. “Don’t do that again.”

Her voice wasn’t harsh. It was steady. And within that steadiness was a quiet plea.

“If it’s something that involves me… I don’t want to be the last to know.”

Clark nodded. Just once. No arguments. No more excuses.

Madelyne was the first to look away, her red hair catching in the breeze that now blew colder, sharper. She wet her lips, hesitated — as if on the edge of saying something that still weighed heavy on her chest — and then decided it was enough.

She walked past him without a word.

Clark didn’t try to stop her. Not the last time. Not now.

She stepped inside with soundless steps and closed the door behind her with a quiet firmness. There was no anger in the way it shut. Only the resolute stillness of someone who had, at that moment, endured more than enough. He respected that. He knew that if he were in her place — facing the avalanche of revelations this “new life” had just dumped on her — he’d do the same: protect himself, carve out space to breathe, to absorb, to cope.

Clark gripped the toolbox with a light squeeze, feeling the weight not just of the metal but of everything else he still carried. He walked toward the barn, trying to focus on the simple, tangible task of fixing the tractor. In the distance, Hank — his parents’ old dog — barked a few times, but Clark pretended not to hear. He needed to be alone.

He had barely begun when the barn door creaked open, a soft groan betraying someone’s entrance.

Jonathan stopped a few steps behind his son, his broad frame casting a long shadow on the floor, though his gaze remained as gentle as ever. He crossed his arms slowly, as if giving silence the chance to do what men like him believed silence could do: soothe, heal, resolve.

“She mad at you?” he asked finally, without preamble. The tone was light, almost casual. Like someone wondering if it might rain before lunch.

Clark gave a half-smile that didn’t last more than a second.

“A little.”

“Hm.” Jonathan nodded, as if that answered half the questions of human existence. “And did you deserve it?”

Clark hesitated.

He could’ve said no. That the world had gone strange. That no one really knew how to navigate the new rules of this cosmic game with recycled memories and resurrected dead. He could’ve played the “I’m Superman and I’ve already got enough on my shoulders” card.

But he didn’t.

“I did,” he answered quietly, truthfully — like a grown boy who knew he’d stepped in it with muddy boots.

Jonathan nodded again, with a sound that sat somewhere between “I figured” and “serves you right.”

“So, you gonna stand there waiting for her to magically forgive you, or are you going after her with that kicked-puppy face of yours?”

Clark glanced toward the cottage, the path Mads had taken. The place seemed quiet, like it was holding its breath, waiting for a decision to be made — between father and son, past and present.

“She needs space, Pa,” Clark said, voice nearly a whisper. “She’s dealing with... a lot.”

Jonathan let out a short laugh.

“Clark, everyone’s always dealing with a lot. But when you love someone...” — he paused, thoughtful, then looked at his son with that paternal seriousness that seemed carved into his DNA — “...when you truly love someone, you don’t disappear. You don’t hide behind good intentions. You stay. Even when she wants to strangle you with her own lasso.”

He patted Clark’s shoulder — twice, firm and filled with “you know what you need to do” — and walked back toward the house without looking back, like a man who trusted his son would finally come to his senses.

Clark exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the part about love — and how those words had lodged themselves somewhere tender between his sternum and his pride.

Ten years had passed since he last saw her. Ten. A full decade of silences, of paths drifting apart in opposite directions, as if the universe had decided to separate two pieces that had once fit too well.

But no matter how hard he tried, she still affected him. By who she had been, by what she still was — even if hidden in the shadows of time.

Clark Kent had tried to forget Madelyne Prescott. He really had.

For an entire decade, he did everything he could — and the impossible too, considering who he was — to silence the echo of her name in his mind. To carefully sever every thread that still connected them.
But threads don’t break easily when they’re woven with memories.

When he left Smallville for a life in Metropolis, he thought that would be enough. That distance, the fast pace of the big city, the nonstop work — the nighttime patrols, the rushed rescues, the breaking news updates at the Daily Planet — would help erase the shadow of her that still lingered over everything.

But he was wrong.

Because Mads was everywhere.

Not just at the old Prescott farm, with its poorly kept fence and all the promises left hanging — but inside him. In the tiniest, most unexpected corners of his everyday life. At the corner coffee shop, where the lemon cookies tasted exactly like the ones she loved — and he hated, but ate anyway, just to see her smile.

In the electronics store windows, where space documentaries played and he could almost hear Madelyne’s voice in the back of his mind, rattling off facts about black holes as if she were gossiping about kids at school.
In traffic arguments. In snide remarks. In the small injustices of daily life.
And every time, he’d think: Mads would say something. Mads wouldn’t let this slide.

She lived in the details. And it wore him out. Frustrated him, sometimes. Not with her — never with her — but with the fact that the entire world seemed to be conspiring to keep her present.

And the most humiliating part?

Was that in every one of those almost-ridiculous moments, he’d catch himself wondering: Is she thinking of me too?

Of course not, he’d answer himself. Firmly. With the quiet conviction only heartbroken men know how to fake.
She’s moved on. She has a new life. That bond’s already been cut.
But the truth — the one he never said aloud — was this:

You never really escape the sound of the woman who once loved you.

Even if you didn’t realize, back then, just how deeply she did.

 

Notes:

First chapter from Clark’s point of view, and I have to admit I was a little nervous it might not be good enough. I also took a bit longer to update because life got a little hectic. I only managed to update on Wattpad recently, which means I’m now behind on translating another chapter here. I promise I’ll try to post it as soon as I can!

I know I don’t usually interact much here — I tend to just drop the chapter without writing any notes — but I’m trying to get better at that, haha. I really want to thank you all for the love you’ve been giving Elysium. It’s been making me SO happy. I absolutely love replying to your comments; they really motivate me to keep sharing my fics here as well.

Now that another chapter has wrapped up, I’d love to know: what are you thinking of the story and of Mads? Any theories yet? Let me know what’s on your mind!

Chapter 7: The Spring Festival

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER SEVEN.

---

 

The Spring Festival had always possessed this magical ability to feel larger than the town itself. Smallville might not take up much space on the map, but during that weekend, it expanded—stretching as far as the eyes (and hearts) could reach. There were colorful booths held together with duct tape, pies fought over like family legacies depended on them, too many flowers, too many people, too many memories—and all of them far too sweet to fit into a single season. At least, for Clark.

He remembered tasting too many pies and laughing until his stomach hurt as a kid, being dragged by the sleeve by Mads toward some booth decorated with teddy bears far too big to fit on any bed. Somehow, they always managed to leave with one—whether by skill, charm-infused cheating, or some absurd speech about “statistical probability” that ended with Clark giving his best sad puppy eyes. Effective. Dangerously so.

It was, without a doubt, one of Clark’s favorite times of the year. Maybe tied only with Mads’s birthday.

Seeing everyone come together, helping each other out, donning themed T-shirts or straw hats no one would be caught dead wearing outside of the event—it made his heart beat a little stronger. There was something special about all of it: the colorful flags fluttering in the breeze, the slightly crooked "Welcome Spring!" signs, the annual tractor parade that was more joke than spectacle, and the quilt exhibition Martha took much more seriously than she let on. There was too much cotton candy, too much lemonade, and too many smiles. And somehow, it always felt like there was still room for more.

On Friday night, the festival kicked off with a symbolic bonfire and music from a local band. But Saturday—that’s when the town truly came alive: the parade, the dancing, the competitions (sewing, harvesting, pie—of course), raffles, bingo, and craft stalls all mixed into one chaotic charm.

As always, Martha Kent entered the pie contest. With Mads right beside her, testing recipes and arguing over the proper amount of nutmeg. The next morning, Clark helped Jonathan load up the truck—Hank, the loyal dog, jumped into the backseat with the solemnity of someone who fully understood the importance of the mission. They left early, giving Clark and Mads time to go later. Alone. Which wasn’t quite as simple as it used to be.

Ever since their small—but uncomfortable—argument, things hadn’t felt the same. Clark tried to keep things light, as he always did, but it was hard to ignore the unspoken words lingering between them. Luckily, the festival demanded most of their attention with rehearsals, to-do lists, and a dozen responsibilities. At night, back at the cabin, they shared the space in silence, sleeping in separate rooms. Clark stared at the guest bedroom ceiling, wondering—again and again—if he should have said something different. Or if it was already too late.

On Saturday morning, they sat side by side in the front seat of her car. Luke Combs played softly on the radio, and the silence between them was thick enough to cut with a pie knife. She kept both hands firmly on the steering wheel, eyes glued to the road. He stared out the window, arms crossed, face calm—too calm to be genuine.

Madelyne let out a sigh. Short. Frustrated. Full of things she didn’t say, and that Clark pretended not to notice. But he did. Of course he did.

When they parked near the town square, the air was already saturated with the sinfully good smell of burnt sugar and melted butter. Booths in shades of strawberry and mint ice cream dotted the landscape like someone had set off a Pinterest bomb in the center of town. Ribbons hung from every surface, handmade signs beamed with excessive optimism, and flower baskets were precariously balanced wherever they’d fit.

“We’ve reached paradise,” Madelyne announced with the theatrical sigh of someone about to sacrifice herself for the greater good. She turned off the car like she was signing her own death warrant.

Clark looked ahead, the corner of his mouth twitching into a barely-contained laugh.

“You used to hate this.”

“I did. Still do, technically.” She grabbed her purse, opened the door, and shot him a sharp look. “But you see, I’ve had years of therapy since then. I now possess the incredible gift of appearing functional in public spaces. It’s a real talent.”

He stepped out of the car behind her, trying hard not to grin like an idiot. Spoiler alert: he failed.
Because there she was—red hair pulled up in a messy knot, sunlight playing in the loose strands, green eyes already scanning everything like she was about to draft a full report. She wore jeans—tight enough to outline every curve, loose enough to suggest she wasn’t trying to impress anyone—and a black spaghetti-strap top that left the freckles on her shoulders exposed. Over it, a red-and-wine plaid shirt, unbuttoned and tied around her waist once the heat of the day kicked in.

“Great,” he said casually. “So I can count on you to smile and wave?”

She arched a brow, pure sarcasm in her expression.

“Only if you promise me one of Martha’s pies. Blackberry. The ones today are ridiculously perfect,” she said, eyes gleaming with something that bordered on reverence. “I caught the smell coming out of the oven and, for a second, seriously considered dropping to my knees and praying,” she added—dramatic, dreamy, with the same enchanted look she used to have as a kid. Mads had always had a thing for sweets—and from the looks of it, that was never going to change.

“Deal.”

Her smile was small but genuine—and that was enough.

Because the moment they took their first steps toward the square—where Cliff Turner was already climbing up on stage for his opening speech—an older couple suddenly materialized in front of them, as only retired neighbors know how to do.
The Delaneys, also known as the neighborhood’s self-declared spies.

Last time Clark had seen Mr. Delaney, the man had been completely bald. Now, he sported a thick, surprisingly silky head of hair—the kind that defied not only time, but genetics too. And he looked proud of it, chin raised as if silently proclaiming to the entire town: behold the miracle I have achieved.

Beside him, Mrs. Delaney hardly resembled the woman she used to be. Her face, pulled taut with near-surgical precision, seemed incapable of expressing any emotion beyond artificial enthusiasm. There was something unsettling about her polished cheer, as though every inch of her skin screamed: this was expensive, so smile.

Clark watched them for a moment and couldn’t stop the sharp thought that crossed his mind:
For some people, it wasn’t about what you lived—it was about what you looked like. Image above all. Substance? Just an afterthought.

“There they are!” Mrs. Delaney chirped, eyes gleaming. “The town’s favorite couple!”

“Are you joining the couples competition tonight?” her husband asked, excited as if it were a nationally televised event.

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No words felt right—or convincing enough—to explain why they probably wouldn’t be competing. He didn’t want to pressure Mads into something like that. He knew she hated these things. That aversion didn’t come out of nowhere; it was the product of years spent being pushed into awkward public displays by her stepmother—rebelling in the only way she knew how: with sarcasm and teenage disdain. He had no desire to reignite any of that.

But before he could string together more than a stammered “W-we... maybe—”, Mads stepped in smoothly, without missing a beat.

“Of course we are!” she declared, looping her arm through his with practiced, theatrical ease. She pulled him close, smiling like she was getting paid by the tooth. “We love these kinds of things!”

Clark took a second longer than he should’ve to recover, adjusting his glasses in reflex. For a moment, he felt like the awkward nerd all over again.

“Love them,” he echoed, with the shaky commitment of an actor who’d forgotten his lines but refused to break character.

The Delaneys beamed like they’d just been invited to a royal wedding and, thoroughly satisfied, moved along.

The second they disappeared from sight, Mads let go of his arm like she was slipping free from a rope pulled too tight. The smile vanished. Her shoulders tensed.

“You should be thanking me for being a natural-born actress,” she muttered, rolling her eyes with perfect precision. “I could’ve just said we broke up over irreconcilable differences. Like you thinking ketchup belongs on pasta.”

Clark gasped—visibly and deeply offended.

“I’ve never done that.”

“Yet,” she said, with a look that clearly read: I’m watching you.

He almost responded. Almost. But something more pressing had taken over—something far beyond condiments.

They started walking down the street at a relaxed pace, both scanning the lively crowd with casual attentiveness.

“I just figured you wouldn’t want to be part of something like that,” he said eventually, maybe trying to reclaim some sort of balance.

“We don’t have much of a choice, Clark. According to your dear friend Peter Ross, we’re already signed up,” she replied, shooting him a sharp but brief glance. Then she turned to smile at a group of elderly women selling sweets at a booth, channeling the energy of Smallville’s newest ambassador. “And I heard the grand prize this year is dinner with the mayor. We need to win this.”

Clark blinked.

“Oh,” was all he managed to say—his surprise quickly giving way to a disappointment that was harder to hide.

It was silly, he knew. A trivial thing in the middle of all the chaos around them. After all, they weren’t really married. This— the cozy house, the shared meals, the familiar brush of her hand against his arm— it was all part of the illusion. A performance crafted by the anomaly. And yet, something inside him deflated at the realization that Madelyne’s priorities remained firmly unmoved: uncover the truth. Break the lie. Destroy what—false as it may be—still felt far too comfortable.

In the days leading up to the festival, they had shared information, cross-checked theories. Mads had told him about her growing suspicion of Cliff Turner, and Clark had confided what he’d found at the Smallville Gazette—the photo, the blank space in his past, the gaps waiting to be filled. The puzzle pieces had started aligning more clearly, like the world constructed around them had cracks—and Cliff was one of them. Since then, he had become the most promising thread to follow.

But even with all that—the mystery, the urgency—Clark couldn’t ignore the sting of realizing that, for Mads, none of what existed between them was worth holding onto. Not even for show. Not even as fiction.

After the mayor’s speech in the town square and the surprisingly creative tractor parade, the crowd began to disperse, officially marking the start of the festival.
Madelyne walked through the booths like she could tune out the entire world—focused, determined—and Clark, of course, trailed right behind her.
He kept pace with her steps, almost exactly, like a quiet shadow with a subtle, protective edge. Every so often, he’d make her pause with a gentle gesture, buy something to eat, and hand it to her—even when she muttered it wasn’t necessary.
He paid for everything. He always did.
Because that was how he knew to care: through small gestures, steady presence.

They moved like that, as if this casual stroll through the festival was just another of many, until she suddenly came to a stop. So abruptly that Clark, distracted by the pie in his hand, nearly bumped into her. Still chewing, he needed a second to realize her body had gone rigid—shoulders tense, eyes locked on something in the distance.

That’s when he saw it.

The Prescotts’ blue pickup truck had just pulled in. Carl stepped out first, circled the vehicle, and opened the passenger door—chivalrous as always, but this time, it didn’t feel rehearsed like it used to with Ava. He held the door open for Amalia, who smiled up at him sweetly, her eyes glowing with something warm and familiar. Tender. Painful.

A knot formed in Clark’s throat, tightening around words he couldn’t yet form. He glanced at Mads, cautious, concerned.

She was frozen, her face drawn. And for a fleeting moment, her eyes nearly met her mother’s.

But she didn’t let it happen.

“This way,” she said simply, turning left with the practiced precision of someone who knew the pain was coming—and needed to walk away before it reached her. Before it weakened her.

Clark followed. As always.

“Mads...” he said, quickening his steps to close the space between them. “I... I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Clark. This isn’t your fault,” she replied, eyes still fixed ahead. Her voice was calm, measured—but her steps quickened, as if motion might offset the effort it took to sound so composed.

Clark knew—of course he knew—that even when no one was to blame, it could still hurt.

“And before you ask,” she added, before he could say anything else, “I’m not running away. I just think it’s safer to keep some distance. I don’t want to get used to something that could disappear any second.”

“I get that,” he answered softly, not rushing to close the space between them. “You don’t know how long this is going to last. It wouldn’t be fair to get close, knowing she might just... vanish.”

“Exactly.” She stopped walking and, for the first time since turning away from her mother, faced him. “I don’t even know what she really is. I don’t know how this works—if there are rules, if there’s a time limit. Everything is so absurdly specific, and no matter how beautiful it all looks, I can’t relax. I’ve got this constant feeling like someone’s watching me... like the ground could give out at any second. So yeah, I’d rather play it safe.”

She let out a long breath—heavy, somewhere between frustration and exhaustion.

“And just so we’re clear—about that day... I wasn’t mad at you. I was mad at the situation. At how unbalanced this whole thing makes me feel.”

“I know,” Clark said, wearing the kind of smile that didn’t need explanations. Just presence. Simple. Honest. “But I still owed you that. The truth. We’ve never been the type to hide things from each other.”

Mads gave him a small, crooked smile—more compassion than joy.

“No. We haven’t,” she said, and her voice carried like an echo from far away, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

There was something distant in her tone—something deliberately sealed off. Clark noticed it not just in the subtle shift of her heartbeat—suddenly uneven—but in the way she averted her gaze. It was the same look she’d had in the kitchen days ago, when she took a deep breath and held her body still with the control of someone bracing to lie. And even though he didn’t need to, Clark tuned into the rhythm of her heart just to confirm what he already suspected:

Mads wasn’t telling the truth.

And Clark realized—uncomfortably—that she wasn’t going to let him past that wall again. Not this time.

Before he could say anything more, before he could press or ask, the loudspeaker cracked overhead, echoing through the square, announcing the start of the long-awaited couples competition. The crowd stirred. People began to drift toward the center of town, drawn by the voice, by the excitement.

And then, as if someone had flipped a switch inside her, Mads’s eyes lit up.

“Well, would you look at that? Our time to shine, Kent,” she said, grabbing his wrist in a quick, familiar motion—the exact way she used to when they were eight and ditching Sunday school to buy candy. “Let’s go, tiger. Time to win a completely ridiculous competition.”

Clark laughed. And for a moment, he almost forgot that something was broken beneath all that brightness.

---

They both knew this had all the makings of a disaster. Not just any disaster — a catastrophically, gloriously bad idea. And yet, there they stood, beneath the red-and-white striped canopy adorned with felt hearts, facing the infamous “Couples’ Wheel.” The golden banners proclaimed, with a cruel sense of optimism, Let fate decide your destiny (and your prizes too)! — as if any outcome determined by a squeaky cardboard wheel and a crooked pointer could be anything but humiliating.

Mads squinted at the spinning board, as if sheer willpower might steer it toward something less ridiculous. A quiz, maybe. Charades. Anything that didn’t involve the risk of broken bones.

But no. With a rusted groan, the pointer slowed, hovered cruelly between two options, and landed with a dull clack on: Three-Legged Race.

She exhaled like someone who had just received a court sentence.

“Great,” she muttered, staring at her fate with the kind of calm that only comes before total collapse.

Beside her, Clark made a noise that sounded somewhere between a chuckle and a choke.

“It’ll be fun,” he offered, with zero conviction.

She gave him a look. “For who? The paramedics?”

Minutes later, their legs were strapped together with a hot pink ribbon that didn’t exactly inspire confidence. A crowd had gathered around the starting line — some snapping photos, others already placing bets on which couple would eat dirt first.

“All right, on the count of three, you run!” announced the event organizer, an elderly woman with a clipboard and the energy of someone who took this very seriously.

Clark looked at Mads. She looked back at him.

“Left leg first?” he suggested.

“I don’t even know which leg is my left when I’m nervous,” she shot back, her eyes sparkling with something dangerous. “Just run.”

Three... two... one.

They took off. Or at least, they tried to.

The start was promising — on pace with the other couples, not too fast, not too slow. Their first steps were clumsy but coordinated enough to keep up. Mads, ever the competitor, was already trying to speed up, tugging Clark along with a challenging grin that said, Come on, can’t you keep up?

But as other couples began to pass them, their rhythm started to fall apart. Steps that once aligned turned into tangled stumbles; their movements grew chaotic. And, inevitably, the bickering began.

“You’re going too fast!” Clark grumbled, struggling to stay upright.

“And you’re too slow!” Mads snapped, the impatience sharp in her voice.

Their spat echoed through the crowd, while their joined legs refused to follow any reasonable rhythm. The race was no longer about winning — it was about staying on their feet and, ideally, preserving what little dignity they had left. Both goals were slipping fast.

On the third stumble — a mistimed half-step, a sudden lurch to the right, and Clark’s left foot desperately trying not to crush hers — it all fell apart.

Literally.

They toppled like two stubborn trees trying to dance in a storm: first swaying, then pitching forward, and finally collapsing into the damp grass with a thud, limbs tangled in a mess of arms, legs, and mounting frustration.

Clark froze for a second, glasses askew and an expression of pure guilt mixed with shock on his face.

“Are you okay?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow, brows creased in concern.

Mads stared at him for a long beat — grass stuck in her hair, scraped knees, pride definitely wounded — and then burst out laughing.

Not a chuckle. A full, body-shaking, tear-inducing laugh that left her gasping for air.

“Did you see your face?” she managed between fits of laughter, pointing at him. “Full-on panic. Like the world was ending because I rolled on the ground.”

Clark huffed, but one corner of his mouth lifted.

“Of course I panicked. You fell because of me. And you’re laughing?”

“Of course I’m laughing. You fell with me,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder, still giggling. “We are officially the most uncoordinated couple at this fair. Congratulations, Kent. That’s history right there.”

“Better put it on the résumé,” he said, offering her a hand to help her up.

Still smiling, she accepted his hand and let him help her up. The crowd around them — couples still trying to win, volunteers manning the Couples’ Wheel booth, onlookers simply there for the fun — erupted in sympathetic laughter. And there was something comforting about that: knowing that even in their stumbles, they were in good company.

The end of that first challenge couldn’t have been more fitting — the two of them crossing the finish line dead last, clumsy, covered in dust, and laughing like fools. Clark didn’t even try to hide his grin when Mads dropped onto the grass and declared, still breathless, that three-legged races should be illegal for people with weak knees and sensitive egos.

She didn’t get up right away. She stayed where she was, arms braced behind her, face turned up toward the sky. Her hair, once pinned in a loose bun, had half-fallen out, and a strand now tickled her chin. When Clark looked at her again, she was already watching him.

Smiling. Really smiling.

And that alone was worth more than any silly prize.

They moved on to the next activity — one that, unlike the race, required precision and teamwork: the classic Horseshoe Toss. Two pairs of horseshoes, two posts a few meters away, and a lively crowd gathered around the makeshift arena.

Mads surveyed the setup with her usual calm — the same analytical focus Clark had seen countless times during long talks about theories and scientific data. She crouched to pick up the horseshoes, weighing them in her hands, feeling the texture, while Clark tried to work out some kind of strategy.

“You do know how to play, right?” she asked, looking up at him with mild skepticism.

“Never played seriously,” Clark admitted, offering that genuine, humble smile that made him so disarmingly likable.

She gave him a small smirk — just enough to signal approval — and then took the lead when he gestured for her to go first. She explained the basics of the technique, but not without tossing in a few jokes about “not letting the other team mock us.”

The game began, and to Clark’s surprise, they clicked almost immediately. Mads stayed cool and focused, guiding her throws with surprising precision. Clark did his best to follow her lead, adjusting with each round, picking up on her rhythm. They celebrated each successful toss with shared glances and quiet laughter — building a small fortress of camaraderie in the middle of the crowd.

When they were announced as the winners, Mads gave a soft, satisfied smile while Clark looked at her with quiet pride. He never would’ve guessed he’d enjoy that kind of competition so much — as a kid, he only joined these games for fun, always holding back just enough not to stand out. His nature made him cautious, always worried he’d do something wrong, draw the wrong kind of attention. But here, with Madelyne by his side, all of that felt irrelevant. He didn’t care about standing out, not as long as he was standing with her.

Now came the final challenge of the day — the decisive round that would secure them a spot in the festival’s grand finale the next day. The prizes weren’t exactly modest: along with the local fame and bragging rights came handcrafted trophies, baskets overflowing with regional products, and the most coveted reward of all — an exclusive dinner at the mayor’s residence. A tradition, sure, but one that made Clark visibly uncomfortable.

Just thinking about spending hours in the same room as Cliff at a formal dinner had him wincing inwardly — a kind of forced social situation he’d always tried to avoid. But for Madelyne, he was willing to face even that.

This round was a staple in small-town festivals: a relay of manual tasks and quick-thinking challenges, with activity stations spread across the square. Each couple had to complete a variety of tasks, from solving handmade puzzles to mixing homemade cocktails using local ingredients — all under the watchful gaze of a curious, animated crowd.

As they walked toward the first station, Clark felt the pulse of the competition settle into his chest — that blend of adrenaline and companionship he hadn’t felt in a long time. Madelyne immediately took charge of the tasks that required planning and focus. Clark handled the ones that called for speed and strength, cracking jokes to lighten the mood and earn a few grins from her.

Halfway through, they reached the challenge of creating a flawless floral arrangement for the judges — something that looked simple, but demanded patience and attention to detail. And that’s when Clark noticed something rare: Mads, completely relaxed, fully present in the moment. She picked each flower with care, thoughtfully balancing colors and textures, her tongue peeking out slightly as she focused all her logic on this small, delicate task. Clark just watched, quietly, feeling closer to her than he had in a long time.

When they finally crossed the finish line of the last round — to applause and cheers — they knew they had won. The pressure began to lift, but the sparkle in Madelyne’s eyes said this wasn’t just about competition. For her, this was a personal win — a reminder that even amidst the chaos of their warped reality, she could still take control.

Clark smiled and gently took her hand, the gesture simple but filled with meaning.

“We did it, Mads.”

She frowned slightly, thoughtful, like she was calculating odds even in the middle of a celebration.

“Don’t jinx it. We still have one more event tomorrow. Technically, the most important one and—”

“Mads,” he cut in, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his voice calm but steady. “How about we leave the worrying for later and just enjoy this moment?”

He raised his brows, fixing his gaze on her, just enough of a challenge in it to break through her resolve. She huffed, annoyed — but she smiled anyway, unable to resist the invitation.

“All right, fine — you’re right!” she exclaimed, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Let’s celebrate today’s win.”

“We make a great team,” Clark said, raising his hand for a high-five.

“The best,” Mads replied, smiling back as she leaned in to slap her hand against his.

Clark could barely contain his grin. It was a quiet, almost sweet kind of relief — realizing that the connection between him and Mads had somehow survived the passing of time. Ever since they’d reunited, part of him had feared they’d changed too much — like strangers who shared a past, but not a present. And yet, here it was — that faint, persistent bond — still alive. Maybe dormant, maybe quieter than it once was, but still there.

As the Smallville sky turned soft with the colors of dusk, they wandered through the festival together. Booth to booth, laughing at silly things like they used to, until they made their way toward the meeting spot where Clark’s parents were waiting. The talent show stage was already set up in the distance, surrounded by a small, excited crowd. Kids ran around with painted faces, teens tuned their guitars, and adults fussed over makeshift costumes with a nervous energy that felt almost youthful.

On the way there, Mads gave in to a hot dog — “pure survival,” she said — and Clark, in a quiet attempt to relive something from childhood, won her a small stuffed bear at the ring toss booth. The bear wore a goofy hat and a bright yellow tie that fluttered in the breeze, but she didn’t hesitate to hand it off to a wide-eyed child staring at it like it was the greatest treasure in the world.

When they finally arrived at the show area, Martha and Jonathan were already there near a food stall — and with them, Carl and Amalia.

That familiar tightness settled in Mads’ chest almost instantly. Clark felt it before he even saw it. She tensed slightly beside him, letting out a long sigh that sounded like a quiet plea for patience — or maybe restraint.

Without thinking, Clark reached over and laced his fingers through hers. A simple gesture, but deliberate.

Mads didn’t pull away. On the contrary — she looked up at him, surprised at first, then with something softer in her eyes. Recognition. Gratitude. Shared courage.

He answered with a subtle smile, a slight nod, as if to say: You’re not alone.

And for now, that was exactly what she needed.

“Well, look who decided to show up,” Jonathan called out in that warm, proud tone only parents seem to master — the kind that couldn’t quite hide how happy he was to see them. The group turned toward Mads and Clark, their smiles not just welcoming but full of genuine joy, as if waiting for them had been part of the evening’s magic.

“You two are the talk of the festival,” Martha chimed in, her eyes gleaming with maternal pride. “Everyone’s been buzzing.”

“Small-town sweethearts,” Carl added, his calm smile echoing the quiet stretch of twilight behind him. “Heard you stole the show at the couples’ competition.”

“Well... if you ignore the part where we face-planted,” Clark said, his shoulders relaxing as laughter bubbled up around them in response to his attempt at humor.

“Oh, I’m sure that was the crowd’s favorite part,” Jonathan teased, letting out a hearty laugh that was quickly joined by everyone else.

“I caught a bit of the horseshoe toss,” Amalia said, her voice touched with emotion. “You two were... beautiful. Together. In that way that makes your heart ache a little. I always remember how inseparable you were as kids. And now... look at you. Married.”

She reached out and touched Madelyne’s shoulder with a tenderness overflowing with pride.

“It’s one of those stories that was meant to happen. Like ours, sweetheart,” Carl added, wrapping an arm around Amalia’s waist in a quiet, well-worn gesture full of meaning. “And I hope you’re really making my girl happy, Clark.”

“Well, Mr. Prescott, I—”

“Oh, he doesn’t pretend I don’t exist anymore — I think that already counts as progress, right, Dad?” Madelyne cut in, her voice sweet, but laced with that elegant sharpness she wielded so well. Her smile was polished, almost practiced, and she didn’t blink as she met Carl’s eyes directly.

For a moment, the air felt thin — like everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see how old Prescott would handle the bite hidden in his daughter’s words. But Carl only let out a muffled chuckle, like someone trying to ignore the sting of a sip of coffee that’s just a bit too hot.

“Still got that sharp tongue,” he remarked, adjusting his blazer like it was a suit of armor. “But I’m glad you inherited your mother’s sense of humor.”

“Funny... I thought I got your gift for ignoring the important people in your life,” she replied, shrugging with feigned lightness. “But sure, we’re all pretending this is a heartwarming romantic comedy tonight, right?”

Clark glanced sideways at her, his expression a mix of caution and concern. That space — strung with warm lights and filled with distant laughter — suddenly felt frozen around them.

“Mads,” he said softly, her name slipping from his lips like an offering, almost a plea. A foolish but honest attempt to pour cold water on the tension rising between them like storm clouds ready to burst.

She didn’t look at him. Not even a glance. She crossed her arms slowly, pressing her elbows a little too tightly with her hands, jaw held high, lips pressed into a line that could’ve been carved from stone. Impatient. Wounded. And far too proud to bleed in front of him.

Fortunately, the universe — or maybe just the festival schedule — intervened before another word could fall.

“Five minutes until the talent show begins!” called the emcee, with the kind of forced cheer teachers and school principals reserve for small-town community events.

Activity erupted instantly. Chairs scraped. Footsteps hurried. Nervous laughter bubbled up. The scent of cotton candy and damp earth hung in the air.

“Oh, it’s time!” Martha exclaimed brightly, her eyes sparkling like she was about to take the stage herself. “Come on, come on, before all the good seats are taken!”

Jonathan and Carl followed her, Amalia just behind them, the trio disappearing into a sea of straw hats and floral dresses.

Clark and Madelyne were left behind — not by mutual decision, but because it was easier when the rest of the world moved forward without waiting.

“You okay?” he asked in a low voice, rough with quiet worry. Just for her. Always just for her.

She didn’t answer right away. Just started walking, her steps measured, almost calculated.

“I’m fine,” she murmured without looking back. “Just a slip.”

And maybe it was. Or maybe it was the tip of an iceberg — a much bigger conversation they still weren’t ready to face. Clark didn’t push. He simply followed.

When they reached the cluster of chairs set up in front of the makeshift stage, they found that all the seats were already taken. Every chair in their row was filled with neighbors and familiar faces who’d gotten there earlier. Only one seat remained — at the end of the row, near Martha, far from any hope of sitting together.

Clark scanned the area, but there were no other options. The chairs had vanished like candy at a church fair. Some parents were already settling on the grass or climbing into the backs of their pickup trucks.

So Clark took a step back. A small gesture, but one full of meaning.

“You take the seat, Mads,” he said, voice calm but laced with something deeper — a quiet request for redemption. “I’ll stand.”

“Sweetheart, you’re far too tall to stand,” Martha chimed in, her tone honeyed — the kind that disguised instructions as gentle suggestions. “You’ll block everyone’s view.”

“It’s an open space, Ma. I’ll move further back,” Clark replied, trying to offer a diplomatic solution that, hopefully, didn’t involve sitting on anything but his own dignity.

“Nonsense,” Amalia cut in with the authority of someone who’s rearranged chairs at crowded parties her entire life — firm, efficient, and not open to debate. “You sit. Mads will sit on your lap. Simple.”

Simple. Like that was the sort of thing couples did all the time — in a crowd full of familiar faces, under the keen watch of family and a community that had opinions about everything from wedding colors to birthday wrapping paper.

Madelyne and Clark exchanged a quick look — the kind packed with coded messages and quiet panic.

Madelyne blinked. Then blinked again. And again. On stage, the countdown timer blinked back: 03:00.

“Mom, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, using the polite tone she reserved for moments when she wanted to be firm without starting a war. “Someone might… feel uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable? Because you’re sitting on your husband’s lap?” Amalia arched a brow, her tone as sharp as a crystal wineglass. “Oh, honey. No one cares. Last year, the Johnson girl practically copulated with her boyfriend during Mrs. Whitmore’s performance. Now that was inappropriate.”

“They were grinding like two raccoons in heat,” Carl added with a loud laugh, as if recalling a scene from a slapstick comedy instead of a moment of public embarrassment.

“See?” Amalia raised her hands as if she’d just won a court case. “That’s what you call outrageous. Your husband’s lap is the picture of propriety compared to that.”

Jonathan and Martha nodded in agreement, judges delivering their verdict.

Madelyne slowly turned toward Clark. Their discomfort was so palpable it seemed to have filled the entire square. They had options, of course. They could fake a headache, an emergency, even a sudden craving for ice cream — anything to avoid this. But she did want to see the talent show. She’d said it out loud. And Clark, as always, seemed determined to protect both her space and their collective dignity.

You okay? he asked, silently, just with his eyes. Because maybe… maybe this crossed a line. A fine one — the kind that separates wholesome family comedy from full-blown chaos. This wasn’t just about shared dinners or shy morning hellos. This was her in his lap. In public. And they’d never done that before.

And if he had to, Clark would make something up — a sudden fever, an allergic reaction, even an alien attack. Of course his parents wouldn’t believe it — he never got sick and, frankly, an alien attack would probably seem less disruptive than this. But he’d find a way.

Madelyne nodded. Just once. Small, almost imperceptible. And turned back toward the crowd, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like her parents weren’t watching, beaming with pride at the smallest sign of public affection.

“It’s fine,” she said calmly, with a smile that looked a lot like someone bracing for a dive into icy water.

Clark simply adjusted his stance and waited.

Madelyne stepped back, hesitating with the silent awareness of someone who knew just how complicated — and necessary — this moment was. Clark sat first, his movements controlled, far too careful for someone with so much strength beneath his skin. The wooden chair creaked under his weight, and he shifted slowly, almost ceremonially, before facing forward, jaw lifted, posture stiff like a statue.

She hesitated. Just for a second.

Then, like crossing a narrow bridge between pride and apology, Madelyne stepped into him, slipping between his open arms and settling gently onto his thigh. Her legs folded, knees tucking between his. The warmth of his body radiated into her skin — undeniable.

She leaned closer, her lips nearly — but not quite — brushing his ear, because Clark was far too tall for that.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words barely escaping her throat. He was so tall, so still, so solid, her voice felt like it got lost somewhere inside the vastness of him. “Really sorry.”

Clark didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened — a subtle shift, but noticeable. His eyes remained fixed on the stage, where a little girl had started singing a playful children’s song, full of bright notes and innocent cheer. On any other day, Clark might have smiled, maybe even tilted his head fondly. But right now… he just looked like a man trying hard not to drown in the scent of Madelyne, the soft pressure of her thighs against his, the way she seemed to fit so perfectly in that space — like she was always meant to be there.

Then, slowly, he turned his head toward her.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, like he was testing the words before handing them over.

But it wasn’t. Not really. His whole body was wound tight, like a string pulled too far, one wrong touch away from snapping. And yet he kept his eyes forward, like all that mattered was making her feel safe right there.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was going to suggest that and… I just couldn’t think of a way to—”

“Shhh.”

He interrupted gently, his arm slipping around her waist with a kind of ease that felt both familiar and entirely new. His hand settled at her hip — warm, steady.

It was the kind of touch that could’ve felt invasive from anyone else. But from him… it was a harbor.

“It’s okay,” he repeated, and this time, there was something more behind it. A truce. A whisper of acceptance.

Even if there was still so much left unsaid.

“Seriously, Clark. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. You weigh nothing. It doesn’t bother me,” he said, voice low and rough, laced with the kind of calm he always tried to lend her. “And you have nothing to apologize for. This isn’t your fault.”

She didn’t reply. Just kept her eyes on the stage, arms crossed over her chest, expression stubborn. The soft light glinted off her hair, which brushed lightly against the skin of his neck. Clark let his gaze linger on her longer than he should have. One second longer than comfortable. Two. Three.

By the middle of the second act — something involving colorful ribbons and barely-rehearsed choreography — Clark noticed that Madelyne was sliding. Or rather, sinking into him. As if her body was deciding for her, giving in to exhaustion and the weight of the long night. Before she could slip any further, he caught her, steadying her with a swift, sure tug.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t even turn her head. But he felt it — clearly — the way her heart picked up pace. The subtle vibration against his chest, like every beat was in all caps. He could’ve pulled back, of course. Let go of her waist. Created a polite distance.

But he didn’t.

He kept his arm around her, holding Madelyne like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this scene was something familiar — something well-worn and comfortable.

And she… well, she didn’t move away either. Quite the opposite.

The talent show had passed the thirty-five-minute mark, and honestly, it was starting to feel like a slow-burning form of torture disguised as a community fundraiser. No one could blame her for wanting to lean in a little closer, to let her weight rest against his.

And that was fine.

More than fine.

It was… perfect.

“You’re not falling asleep,” he murmured, lips brushing the top of her head. A gentle warning — though it sounded more like a shared secret than anything else.

She didn’t move. Not an inch. Just stayed there, resting against him with the quiet stubbornness of someone who had already decided she wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m not falling asleep,” she replied, voice drowsy, irony barely there. “Even though you’re very comfortable. Like a Pottery Barn couch.”

Clark felt the laughter start deep in his chest and dissolve before it reached his throat. His fingers tightened just slightly around her waist — maybe as a warning, maybe as an invitation. Or maybe… just because he wanted her to stay a little longer.

“Looks like you’re about to nap,” he murmured, trying to sound firm, but failing miserably — because it was her. “Weren’t you the one excited for this show?”

“I thought it’d be more entertaining,” Mads whispered, impatient. “I wanted to laugh a little. Maybe see someone fall off the stage, or an old lady go off-key singing Whitney Houston… but everyone’s doing too well. It’s boring me.”

He turned his head slightly to look at her — calm expression, lashes casting shadows over her skin, the faint curve of a smile on her lips.

“Wishing for disaster… that’s awful of you.”

“I’m not wishing for disaster, I’m wishing for entertainment,” she shot back. “Very different things. Can you blame me for that?”

Clark shook his head, amused. It was ridiculous how she made even cruelty — in theory — sound adorable.

He adjusted his posture a bit, just enough to let her settle into him more easily.

“I’m judging. Silently. But I’m judging.”

Mads let out a soft laugh, muffled against his shoulder. And the sound of that laugh stayed caught in Clark’s shirt — and maybe in his chest too, for the rest of the night.

She smelled like something sweet and fresh — maybe that white tea shampoo he’d noticed in her bathroom, or the mint she’d popped into her mouth before the show started. Didn’t matter. It was there now, hanging between them, mixed with the warmth of having her this close.

It was strange how right this felt. And wrong. And impossible to ignore.

For a moment, he wanted to close his eyes. Pretend the world around them — the stage lights, the overly talented singers, the polite applause — didn’t exist. That all that mattered was her weight against him, her warmth seeping through the layers of fabric, the familiarity of it all.

But Madelyne wasn’t his. She never had been.

And no matter how perfectly her body fit against his, no matter how her scent clung to his memory, no matter how she laughed or whispered things that made him smile so easily… none of it changed the fact that this wouldn’t last.

It was all temporary.

Still, when she let out a small yawn and curled in again, he pulled his jacket over the two of them, wrapping them in thick fabric.

He didn’t say anything else. Neither did she.

And they stayed like that until the end of the show — and long after, in Clark’s mind.

 

Notes:

I'm not sure if anyone caught the reference, but yes — that last scene between Mads and Clark was inspired by a scene from The Love Hypothesis by Ali Hazelwood. I absolutely love that book, and I think that moment fits them perfectly. I'm a sucker for awkward romantic scenes with a layer of sexual tension :)

Chapter 8: Trouble in Paradise

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER EIGHT.

---

"Can you explain to me one more time why, exactly, we're doing this?" Clark asked, his brows furrowed so deeply that a vertical crease had formed between them.

Madelyne looked at him as if he’d just posed a riddle, not a simple question. And to be fair, part of her wanted to laugh—not at the question itself, but at the way he looked so baffled, like they were trying to crack some esoteric code instead of just playing a dumb couples game. His forehead, she noticed with irritating clarity, was surprisingly expressive. Almost comical. Almost… cute.

She hated admitting that. Even to herself.

"Because," she began in a didactic tone, channeling the reluctant patience of a saint, "we need to look like a functional couple so we don't embarrass ourselves tomorrow. And for that, dear Kent, we need practice. Just like any competitive couple would."

She spun the cards in her hands, feeling the paper slide between her fingers like tarot cards on the verge of revealing an uncomfortable future. The questions were all there, scribbled in a handwriting that definitely wasn’t hers—probably Violet Desmond’s, who still used purple pens and dotted her i’s with hearts, even past her mid-twenties. Violet, a familiar face from high school and one of the festival organizers, had smiled with thinly veiled condescension as she handed over last year’s questions, clearly thinking it was all terribly romantic. Mads had nearly handed the cards right back out of pure spite.

According to Violet, the game was simple: answer questions about your partner. Each person would write their answer on a whiteboard. If they matched? A point for the couple. If not? Public humiliation.

Simple. Cruel. Potentially disastrous.

Clark sighed, still sprawled on the couch like the embodiment of relaxation. Legs crossed, one arm stretched lazily along the backrest, as if that were his throne. And there she was, sitting in the armchair across from him, trying not to stare at the damned vein that popped on his forearm every time he moved. It was a heroic effort.

"And you really think this is necessary?" he asked, looking for all the world like he’d rather stay right where he was—smiling prettily and coasting on charm.

She looked away, placing the cards back in her lap.

"I do. Absolutely."

"But we've known each other forever," he said, shrugging like that settled it. Like a whole decade of not speaking could be brushed aside just because they’d grown up together.

Mads arched a brow. Gracefully. With just the right dose of sarcasm.

"And you conveniently forgot the part where we didn’t talk for the last ten years. That’s a long time, Clark. The world basically ended and rebooted three times in that span."

He smiled with that infuriatingly warm confidence that always managed to get under her skin. Like he truly believed their shared past, filled with messy memories, was some kind of sturdy foundation instead of a minefield.

"Still, I bet I know everything about you."

She laughed. It wasn’t a kind sound.

"You’re far too confident."

"I just think you haven’t changed that much."

The audacity.

Madelyne tightened her grip on the cards, the paper crinkling faintly under her fingers. It wasn’t quite anger. No. It was more like the spark of a match struck in a closed room—immediate heat, unexpected, and bound to fizzle out too fast.

"Was that supposed to be a compliment?" she asked, lips curling into a small, crooked smile, like someone savoring bitter wine just to prove they could.

Clark frowned, confused for a second, as if unsure whether she was genuinely annoyed or just teasing him. Which, to be fair, was a valid question. Mads had turned ambiguity into an art form. And he—with his clear blue eyes and earnest intentions—had always been especially susceptible to sarcasm wrapped in a pretty bow.

She twirled a loose strand of hair around her finger, the gesture casual on the surface, but only just.

"I meant you’re still you. Not in a bad way. In a good way. I think." He shifted, clearly trying to find solid ground in a conversation that, like everything with Mads, was full of hidden traps.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because to him, she was still the same stubborn girl, always scheming something too elaborate and constantly needing to prove a point. But she knew—down to every cell in her body—that she wasn’t that girl anymore. Not after everything.

But if Clark wanted to play, then play they would.

Madelyne picked up the first card.

"That’s… cute. And dangerously wrong." She looked at him over the top of the cards, eyes narrowed. "Care to test that theory?"

Clark let out a theatrical sigh and stretched his legs, arms now crossed. His expression was the kind that came from accepting a challenge purely out of stubbornness—or pride. With him, probably both.

"Hit me with the first question."

Madelyne cleared her throat and straightened her back, leaning against the armchair like it was a stage and she was hosting some impromptu talk show.

"Alright then, Mr. Kent..."

"Mrs. Kent," he interrupted, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, voice low and smooth like the turning of pages in a library. And his eyes—God. His eyes looked like they were made to pull indecent thoughts from even the most virtuous minds.

Any attempt at a comeback died right there. Mads opened her mouth, then closed it again. For a moment, she tried to remember why "Mrs. Kent" was supposed to sound wrong. But her brain had already been hijacked by the way Clark was looking at her. Like she was both the answer and the question. Like there was something in her he didn’t fully understand—but wanted to spend the rest of his life trying to.

She looked away with a speed that bordered on desperate and focused back on the cards in her lap, clinging to the performance of professionalism that, truth be told, had never stood a chance. Across from her, Clark made a heroic effort—of course he did—not to smile. And, like everything he did, it felt easy and genuine and warm, like he wasn’t teasing her, just enjoying her presence.

"What does your partner like to do in their free time?" she finally asked, once she felt like she could look at him again without unraveling.

Clark tilted his head, thoughtful, eyes drifting to the ceiling for a moment. As if this were more than a game and he was mentally sifting through every hidden image of her he'd stored away.

"Reading’s the obvious one," he said, in that infuriatingly gentle tone Mads was beginning to recognize as part of the package. "But you probably do so much reading for work that, in your free time, you’d want something that has absolutely nothing to do with it."

There was no mockery in his voice. No smugness. Just a quiet observation, so carefully reasoned it was almost annoying.

Mads raised an eyebrow, more out of habit than anything else. Because as much as she wanted to scoff—to throw in his face that he barely knew her well enough to make that kind of assumption—the idiot was right.

She loved reading. Really loved it. But lately her eyes stung just from reading a menu, let alone a five-hundred-page novel. Reading for pleasure took a kind of peace she hadn’t possessed in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe… ever.

And he knew. Or rather, he guessed. With irritating accuracy.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t confirm or deny. Just kept her face unreadable and her voice locked away, as if she could shut the rest of the world out by simply refusing to react.

But inside, a part of her—a part that still didn’t fully trust—twisted.

"So what’s your actual answer?" Mads asked, her voice steadier than she felt. But her eyes remained sharp, searching.

Clark furrowed his brow slightly, as if he were taking even this silly question seriously—like knowing her was a full-time job, a quiet, devoted endeavor.

"I’d say watching movies. Especially musicals." A small smile curved his lips. "You used to love them when you were younger. I’m guessing Hamilton’s your favorite."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I do like Hamilton, yes. But it’s not my favorite." She let the silence stretch for a beat, savoring the anticipation in his eyes. "It’s Hadestown."

The flicker of surprise in Clark’s eyes was brief, but genuine, followed by a slow-spreading smile—like he was enjoying the mistake as much as he would’ve enjoyed being right.

"And, just for the record, you got that answer wrong. You were close, but not close enough. These days, what I do to unwind is binge watch cooking reality shows. Mostly The Great British Bake Off, which I’ve been obsessed with lately."

She said it with that half-mocking, half-triumphant tone, her eyes gleaming more than she intended.

Clark rolled his eyes, but he did it with so much affection it felt more like a caress than a complaint.

"But I got it partly right. You like watching something," he insisted, as if a half-right answer earned him at least a sliver of victory. "I think that’s worth half a point."

"That’s not how this game works, Clark," she replied, already lowering her gaze to the next question on the card. "Next question: What does your partner hate the most?"

Clark rubbed his chin, thoughtful, then shot her a look that landed dangerously close to too curious. Not the fleeting kind of curiosity—one that faded after a quick answer. No. This was the kind that wanted to dig, to uncover, to dive deep. The kind of look that made her skin prickle like her feelings were under a spotlight.

"Hate?" he repeated, slowly, like he was tasting the word before offering a response. "I think... you hate being underestimated."

Mads blinked.

It wasn’t exactly the answer she had expected — and precisely because of that, it hit her square in the gut. It wasn’t like he’d said “crowds” or “raisins in rice” or any of those generic answers people who barely know you throw out just to fill the silence. No. He’d nailed it.

She didn’t respond right away. Maybe because his answer echoed uncomfortably inside her. Because it was true. Because it was precise. Because she had spent her whole life listening to people telling her what she could or couldn’t do. And worse — believing them, for far too long.

But she didn’t want him to know that. Not yet.

“Okay,” she said, her voice a bit lower. “You got that one right. But don’t get used to it.”

Clark smiled, visibly more pleased with the acknowledgment than he probably deserved. She caught the light in his eyes — that calm, self-assured glint of someone who didn’t need to win to feel victorious. And that was, perhaps, the most annoying part of all.

“I’m an excellent observer,” he said with a shrug. “When I want to be.”

She let out a short laugh through her nose, crossing her legs.

“Only when you want to, huh? How convenient.”

He looked at her, his relaxed smile softening into something quieter, less teasing. The silence between them lingered a second too long — long enough to feel intimate. Long enough to make Mads uneasy in a way she couldn’t quite name.

So she shook her head, brushing the moment off with the motion.

“Don’t look at me with that small-town therapist gaze, Kent,” she said, a hint of mischief lighting up her voice. “You haven’t even made it past the appetizers to start analyzing me.”

“Good thing I’m hungry,” he murmured, smiling again — slower this time.

And there was something about the way he said it — light, almost playful — that made her stomach twist in that small, irritating way. It wasn’t just what he said. It was the way he looked. As if he saw everything. As if he wasn’t in any kind of hurry.

Mads looked away first, focusing on the papers in her hands. The room around them seemed to breathe slower now. And for a moment, the outside world felt much farther away than it should.

“You’re going to be very disappointed,” she said at last, her voice softer than she expected.

Clark took a second, then replied:

“Or completely fascinated.”

Madelyne blinked. Once. Twice. As if her lashes could sweep away the weight of the moment, as if the hesitation in her chest could be dispersed by a simple mechanical gesture. But it wasn’t. Nothing faded.

When had this stopped being just a casual back-and-forth between two friends and turned into something heavier, more uncertain? Those occasional flirty remarks — always light, always with an escape route through humor — now felt like books stacked on a shaky table: too many, too precariously close to toppling over.

She wasn’t a stranger to relationships. She’d been in a few. Survived others. Cliff Turner had been one of them — an old scar, healed on the outside but still itching on rainy days. After him, there had been other stories. Some light, others a bit more serious. Nothing fleeting, because Madelyne didn’t know how to love halfway. Nothing shallow, because she didn’t know how to be anything but whole.

And yet, here she was, with Clark’s words still echoing in her ears — as if he’d placed an invisible hand on her chest and pressed gently, just to see if she’d step back or let herself fall.

She didn’t fall. But she didn’t quite hold her ground either.

"How about we get back on track, huh?" she said at last, in a tone that sounded almost like a plea. Her voice still carried a trace of the earlier tension, as if the words came out with just a bit more caution than usual. "Let’s go to the next question."

"Sure," he said, settling back into the couch, his hands resting on his knees. "Next question."

The exchange continued for a few more minutes — questions drifting back and forth in a lazy rhythm, almost intimate, like the two of them were learning how to touch each other without using their hands. It was just a game. A silly game, made up for an equally silly event. But like so many other things between them, it unfolded into something more — a bridge. A thin but tangible thread of connection between the woman Madelyne had become and the man Clark had always been, whom she was only now starting to see with different eyes.

That was how Clark found out about the secret group she had with her lab colleagues, Cece and Navia — the “Science Witches,” as they liked to call themselves, complete with cheap wine nights, disaster experiment videos, and discussions about quantum physics as if they were dissecting episodes of reality TV. And yes, she admitted — with a slightly embarrassed shrug — she had gone on a few dates with Oliver Queen. Clark didn’t say anything about it, but he did raise one eyebrow with such subtly mocking amusement that Madelyne had to fight the urge to throw a pillow at his face.

In turn, he shared stories from the Daily Planet with a kind of genuine excitement that made her forget, for a moment, that this was just a game. He spoke fondly of his coworkers — especially Lois Lane, whose name came with a chuckle and a story about how she once shoved him against a filing cabinet during a heated argument, only to later pass him a post-it note that read “you were right” scribbled in the corner. He also told her about the time he was hit by a flying microphone during a press conference — thrown by an angry politician — which, according to Clark, still earned him a headline and a lump on the forehead.

It was the first time, since Madelyne had returned to Smallville, that they’d had such a light conversation. So… human. And for a few moments, it felt like the distance built over the years — made of silences, absences, and incompatible realities — had finally given way. Not completely. But enough.

Clark spoke about his life in Metropolis with a quiet fondness, a sense of belonging that Madelyne couldn’t ignore. He genuinely seemed to enjoy being a journalist. And though some part of her knew he wasn’t telling her everything — not yet — there was still honesty in his words. A grounded life, full of purpose and structure, that made something inside her ache with envy — especially considering the chaos her own life had become.

But Mads chose not to dive into the abyss of problems surrounding STAR Labs, her responsibilities as a Green Lantern, or whatever it was that waited for her out in the stars. Instead, she talked only about the small pleasures she still clung to: how the coffee in Smallville was infinitely better than anything in Oa, how she missed wearing a lab coat, and how Navia had truly terrible taste in music and was still her favorite person on bad days.

The conversation stretched on longer than either of them had planned. When it finally came to an end, it was already past midnight, and they had both collapsed on the couch — bodies close, breathing slow, heads heavy with words and sleep. The living room light still on, the glasses forgotten on the table.

And then, as if by magic — or maybe just quiet kindness — Clark carried her upstairs without her ever noticing.

The next morning, Madelyne woke up in her own bed, wrapped in the blanket she was sure she had left folded on the armchair downstairs. And for a second, just one, she let herself imagine that maybe there was a place for her here. A real one.

---

On that second day of the Festival, beneath the clear and mercilessly blue sky of Smallville, with the scent of freshly baked pies still hanging in the air and a gentle breeze playing with the ribbons on the booths, Madelyne wandered alone through the town square. As expected — and with the kind of unanimous agreement only sweet grandmothers could inspire — Martha Kent had once again won the pie competition. The crowd had applauded warmly, and Clark, visibly proud, quickly hugged his mother and celebrated with her. He was then pulled into a lively conversation with Pete Ross, laughing at something Madelyne couldn’t quite catch.

She, on the other hand, needed space. Not much — just enough to breathe without being watched, to savor solitude the way one might savor a glass of cold water on a sweltering day. The kind of moment when no one expected a smile, a polite answer, or any trace of the polished version of herself she was so used to presenting.

With a handful of sweet popcorn between her fingers — still warm and sticking slightly to her fingertips from the pink syrup — Madelyne watched from a distance as children shoved and laughed around the makeshift carousel. One boy wore a towel tied around his shoulders like a cape and ran with his arms raised, a glorious and clumsy imitation of Superman. His chest puffed out, his expression solemn, his steps determined. She smiled without realizing it. It was ridiculously adorable to watch.

She passed booths selling crafts and preserves, ignoring the hum of conversation and the curious glances. She was nearly convinced she could make it through the rest of the morning unnoticed when, turning a corner near the wildflower tent, a familiar voice — sweet, melodic, unmistakably enthusiastic — rang out in the air.

“Mads! What luck running into you! I really need your help.”

Gale Evans emerged from between the sunflowers and daisies with the same vibrant energy she’d had in high school, as if time had done little more than soften the edges of that tireless girl who used to lead the cheer squad like the fate of the world depended on it. Her blonde hair was now cut into a sleek bob that brushed her jawline, swaying slightly in the breeze. Her blue eyes sparkled with recognition, and her smile was genuinely happy to see her again.

Madelyne took half a second longer than she would’ve liked to return the smile, tossing away the now-empty bag of popcorn.

Gale was a little shorter, but still carried herself with the upright posture of someone who’d spent years hoisting pom-poms and balancing other people’s expectations. Committed to the bone. Until she got pregnant with Trant — her longtime boyfriend and one of the few friends of Cliff’s that Madelyne still tolerated. Life seemed to have reshaped Gale’s edges, but not her essence.

“Of course I’ll help,” Madelyne said, warming her voice, trying to shake off the thin veil of nostalgia that clung to her. “What are the options?”

“All of them. That’s exactly the problem,” Gale replied with a theatrical sigh, gesturing toward the explosion of color in front of them. “I want something pretty, that’ll last a few days… and that says ‘look how great I’m doing, even though I haven’t slept properly in three.’”

She waved vaguely at the stall before them — a riot of color and fragrance that looked like it had bloomed straight out of a spring afternoon: vibrant sunflowers, simple daisies, sweet and heady lilies, and a few deep red dahlias that looked as if they’d been soaked in wine. Madelyne stepped closer with her, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder, staring into the stall.

“I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for,” Gale admitted, biting her lower lip as she eyed the stems arranged in metal buckets. “Something beautiful, obviously. But not too much. I want the house to feel brighter when Trant gets back from his fishing trip.”

“Well… I love gardenias,” Mads began, dragging out the last word with a smile that grew slowly, as if savoring the memory of the flower’s sweet scent, “but that might not be what you’re after. They’re gorgeous, but delicate — and you want color. Maybe dahlias? They’ve got this vibrant, almost dramatic flair, but they don’t feel showy. Or zinnias. They’re sturdier, come in a lot of colors, and there’s something quietly cheerful about them. I could put together an arrangement with both, if you’d like. A few light greens for structure… and maybe a touch of alstroemerias. They last well and have that cheerful look, like they’re smiling even on cloudy days.”

“Oh, that sounds perfect,” Gale replied, her eyes lighting up with that kind of enthusiasm only flowers — and sincere kindness — could bring out. “I knew I could count on you, Maddy. You’re the best.”

Madelyne let out a soft chuckle, slipping her hands into the back pockets of her worn jeans, her shoulders lifting in a shy little shrug — as if compliments made her shrink rather than stand taller.

“That was nothing, really,” she said, with a crooked smile she couldn’t quite suppress. “I just think these flowers are beautiful, that’s all. And I picked up a thing or two from my aunt... But honestly? I’m not a plant mom. I always start off enthusiastic, swear I’ll take care of them properly, then I forget to water them once, then again, and suddenly I’m holding a makeshift funeral for a cactus.”

Gale burst out laughing — the kind of laugh that rises light from the chest and escapes without apology.

“Some plants really do require more patience than kids,” she said, shaking her head. “But even so... I like what they do to a house. They don’t say anything, but they fill the place with beauty. It’s like they remind you that life’s still happening, even when everything feels too quiet.”

Mads nodded, her gaze drifting toward the display of flowers, where sunlight filtered lazily across the petals.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “That’s exactly it.”

Helping Gale put together the bouquet was easier than Mads had expected. Picking the flowers, matching the colors, arranging everything into something vaguely presentable — surprisingly smooth, considering her almost nonexistent skill with anything plant-related. They shared a few laughs, commented on how especially pretty the roses looked that day, and for a moment, everything felt simple. Familiar.

Mads hadn’t realized how much she missed this — people. Old connections that didn’t involve hazy memories of cheap alcohol, half-finished conversations, or the performative rebellion that had defined her so much in high school. Clark was a constant absence in her chest, but he wasn’t the only missing piece in the puzzle of who Mads used to be. There were others. Like Gale.

Gale had been one of the few who stayed. Even when Madelyne did everything she could to be someone no one wanted to stick around. When she spent more time slipping out windows than sitting in class. When she clung to Cliff’s arm like a social — or maybe emotional — anchor and chased after anything that made her feel alive. Drunk, loud, reckless. And Gale had been there. Cleaning up the messes, covering for her on nights when she told Carl that Mads had crashed at her place, tucking her into the living room couch when she couldn’t even finish a full sentence.

There had been many nights like that. Too many to count, hidden beneath flimsy excuses. But even so, there were good days, too. Warm afternoons on the roof of Gale’s parents’ house, sharing sodas and secrets. Laughing to terrible songs on Cliff’s old car radio. Gale was in so many of those memories. Mads had just... forgotten. Or maybe she’d chosen to forget, because it was easier to stack only the bad memories when thinking of Smallville. Easier to believe there was nothing there worth missing.

“This arrangement turned out beautiful,” Gale said, lifting the bouquet and breathing in the scent, her smile soft and genuinely pleased. “Thank you again, Maddy.”

“No problem, Gale. I hope Trant and Teddy like the flowers,” she replied, offering a brief, almost wistful smile as they walked side by side through the fair.

Gale turned slightly toward her, brow furrowed, as if trying to solve a riddle — but she didn’t slow her pace.

“Teddy? Who’s Teddy?”

Mads blinked, surprised. She didn’t laugh — not yet.

“Your son. Teddy,” she answered lightly, as if confirming something self-evident. “Isn’t that his name?”

Gale stopped.

Literally stopped.

As if each word had been a gentle shove, and the last — Teddy — had made her stumble inside.

“Maddy... I don’t have a child,” she said, her voice calm, but her eyes alert, trying to figure out if this was a joke — or something worse.

Madelyne let out a nervous laugh, small and tight.

“What do you mean?” she asked, attempting to keep her tone casual, though a growing pressure was tightening in her throat. “You got pregnant at the end of high school. You had a baby with Trant. Teddy.”

The silence fell like a shadow. Gale stared at her with an expression that was hard to name — part confusion, part concern, and something else Mads couldn’t place.

The confusion didn’t lift from Gale’s face, and Madelyne suddenly felt like she was narrating a story that didn’t belong to anyone. A tale spun from air, unreal. Like she was describing the details of a vivid dream — even though she knew, with the same certainty she knew her full name or the order of the planets, that it wasn’t fiction. It couldn’t be.

She remembered. She remembered clearly. The frozen look on Gale’s face as she held the pregnancy test. The muffled sound of sobs as they sat together on the cold bathroom floor, leaning against each other like physical closeness might make them invincible. She remembered the growing belly, the ultrasound hidden in the bottom of a school backpack, the whispered talks about a future with a baby. She remembered holding Gale’s hand, promising to be there when she told her parents. And even though Mads had left Smallville before the baby was born — she knew. She knew he had come into the world. She knew his name was Teddy. And if her math was right — and Mads always got her math right — he’d be close to turning eleven now.

He couldn’t just... not exist.

It couldn’t be real. Sweet, determined Gale couldn’t have wished it had never happened. Could she?

“I think you’re confused, Mads,” Gale laughed, as if they were debating the color of a dress neither of them quite remembered. “Trant and I don’t have kids. Not yet. We’re just starting to try now that things are finally... stable. And, God, if I had gotten pregnant back then... it would’ve been a nightmare. Not that having kids is bad, of course. But it would’ve ruined all my plans. I would’ve made a huge mistake.”

Mads swallowed hard, the metallic taste of disbelief rising in her throat.

Something under her skin twisted. A strange discomfort, like an invisible thread had been yanked too hard, close to snapping. She understood. She deeply understood what it meant to have a child: the risks, the irreversible detours, the permanent weight. That was exactly why she had always known she didn’t want any. It wasn’t a recent thought—it was a decision built carefully over time, grounded in logic, the cold numbers of an analytical mind, and a childhood that taught her far too early what it meant to give yourself up for someone else.

She liked kids, yes. But she didn’t see herself as a mother. She didn’t feel the instinct that seemed to come so naturally to other women. Sure, maybe someday she’d change her mind—human beings were complicated like that—but until now, that certainty had never wavered.

And still, hearing Gale say that... that retroactive wish of never having had Teddy... it caught her off guard.

Not because Mads thought Gale was ungrateful or cruel. But because she remembered. She knew Gale had wanted that baby. Maybe her parents pressured the decision. Maybe the circumstances had been brutal. But she saw the way Gale cried when she looked at the black-and-white ultrasound images. She saw the quiet affection in her gestures, the timid hope blooming despite the fear.

And now... none of that existed.

As if Teddy had never been more than a mistake narrowly avoided.

As if he’d been erased.

“Maybe you’re confusing me with someone else... Carly, maybe?” Gale suggested, her tone light—almost cruel in its nonchalance.

Mads felt her chest tighten, like her ribs were folding in on themselves.
Carly had never been pregnant. Carly hated kids.

“No,” she said—and hated the sound of her own voice. Weak. Uncertain. As if she were doubting herself.

Maybe she was.

Because even though the memory was still there—raw, intact—something inside her seemed to crumble every time she tried to fit it into the present. Like a puzzle piece that used to belong, but now simply... didn’t fit. And that wasn’t the only hole in the timeline she thought she knew.

Ava.

Where was Ava?

Her stepmother, who had been part of her life for nearly twenty years. Thousands of dinners. A few heated political debates. A shared love of ‘90s movies.
No one seemed to remember her. No one even mentioned her.

“Forget it,” she murmured. “Must’ve been a dream.”

Gale offered a kind smile and leaned forward, gently squeezing Mads’ arm—a gesture that carried the suffocating weight of condescension.

“You probably heard the name somewhere and made a connection without realizing it. The mind does that, you know? Especially when we’re burned out,” she said, with the tone of someone patiently explaining how a broken coffee machine works. “But, for what it’s worth... Teddy is a lovely name. Theodore was my grandfather’s, actually. Trant and I had even talked about it. Who knows, right? If we have a boy... thank you, Maddy.”

She smiled. Or at least moved the right muscles to mimic one. Gale was already walking away, blissfully unaware of the silent earthquake she had triggered.
Because to her, it was just a conversation. A passing moment. A silly memory lapse.

But to Madelyne, it was something else.

A warning. A tremor in the ground that meant something was broken.

She wanted — with the most logical part of herself — to be happy for Gale. Truly. She wanted not to feel this gnawing uncertainty at the thought that her friend had finally achieved what she’d always longed for: freedom. Power. The autonomy to choose her own future, her body, motherhood. Everything.

But the unease remained. A buzzing under her skin that wouldn’t go away. And more than anything, the question that kept knocking at the back of her mind: if she dug deeper... if she really unearthed the layers of reality... how many other people had been erased from history like Ava and Teddy?

How many memories could be trimmed, rewritten, denied?

She didn’t know. But she knew, with a cold kind of certainty, that all the answers would be bad.

The collision happened so abruptly it cut off Madelyne’s train of thought, and she barely had time to adjust her step. A quick impact — not aggressive, just sudden — and suddenly there was a body where, just two seconds ago, there had been empty, safe space. A body smaller than hers, wrapped in a lingering sweet scent — something between synthetic lavender and fabric softener.

She stumbled half a step back, blinking, before her eyes focused on the woman: pale blonde hair, almost white, smoothed down and clipped neatly with a decorative pin.

“Oh, Mads, dear, I’m so sorry,” said the woman, her voice high-pitched but strangely firm for her age. There was something artificial about her expression — as if her face had been carved in porcelain and then stretched tight with clear tape. “I was distracted. I didn’t see you.”

Madelyne opened her mouth, ready to reassure Mrs. Delaney that it was fine — because technically, it was — but her sentence vanished halfway through. One detail shoved itself into focus, insistent and uninvited, and took over the moment.

“Your nose is bleeding.”

Mrs. Delaney froze. Literally. Her face locked into an almost comical expression of surprise, as if the concept of a nosebleed was some newly discovered scientific anomaly.

Then, slowly — almost hesitantly — she brought two manicured fingers, polished with flawless nude lacquer, up to her nose. When she pulled them away, a thin, glossy line of blood gleamed on her index finger. Bright red. Warm. Jarringly out of place with her otherwise pristine appearance.

She stared at the blood like it was a piece of modern art she couldn’t quite interpret.

“This… doesn’t happen often,” she murmured, frowning as though her own body had betrayed her.

And then she laughed.

It was a real laugh — the kind that wrinkled the eyes and made the whole body move — not one of those short, awkward laughs that slipped out of a corner of the throat where discomfort usually lived.

No, this laugh was full of life. As if Mrs. Delaney genuinely found the situation funny.

“Look at me. How odd,” she said softly, gazing at her fingers as though she’d never seen blood before. As though that simple crimson line were just an inconvenient surprise, not an alarming symptom.

Madelyne took a beat too long to react, her eyes still fixed on the slow, scarlet trail winding down the woman’s nose.

This wasn’t normal. Not even close.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice steady, even as her heart began to pound harder, with that prickling edge of latent anxiety.

“Oh, I’m fine. Must be the heat,” the woman replied with another laugh. She opened her purse with fingers that were quick, though slightly unsteady, pulling out a tissue and gently dabbing it against her nose.

Mads leaned in just slightly, as if trying to see more clearly, to measure with her eyes the exact amount of blood. It wasn’t a lot. But it was blood.

“Would you like me to call someone? A doctor? I can take you to the clinic on the corner.”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear,” Mrs. Delaney said, brushing off the suggestion with a hand gesture as light as her voice. “I just need to find Eddie. Excuse me, will you?”

And then she turned. No hesitation. No pause for approval.

Before Mads could even form a reply, the woman was already walking away—short, determined steps tapping against the asphalt. The instinct to call after her died the moment it was born, caught in her throat like something inappropriate to say. She took a deep breath, her eyes scanning automatically for Edward Delaney across the street, where he stood gesturing animatedly in the middle of some conversation.

Mads hesitated. Just a fraction of a second.
And then she did what her instincts screamed: she followed her.

She weaved past a group of excited teenagers, narrowly dodged a hot dog cart, and crossed the street without even noticing if the light was green. She turned the corner just in time to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Delaney’s pink coat disappearing beyond a doorway.

The restaurant. Of course. The restaurant.

Though closed because of the festival—like most of the businesses on that street, which had shifted their sales to booths in plazas and fairgrounds—Mrs. Delaney hadn’t hesitated to go inside. After all, she had the key. Naturally. She entered without rush and didn’t bother to lock the door behind her.

Mads arrived a minute later. Maybe less. Just enough time to feel the cooler air greet her at the entrance, the silence stretching through every inch of the empty dining room, and a strange tension settling quietly in the back of her mind. The air inside was crisp, scented with basil and homey spices. And silent. Too silent.

“Mrs. Delaney?” Mads called, her voice calm—the kind used when stepping onto emotionally unstable ground.

The inside of the restaurant had the aged, slightly dusty charm of an old western film set. The dark wooden walls seemed to absorb every footstep, and the framed photos of horses, sepia portraits of Edward’s ancestors, and the general atmosphere all gave the impression that time here had chosen to stop.

Behind the heavy oak counter, Felicity Delaney stood with her back turned, slightly hunched, hands pressed to the top of her head as if trying to hold in a particularly cruel thought.

The pale, slanted light from the display window outlined her form, catching a faint tremble in her shoulders. Mads paused—a hesitation that lasted a second in reality but dragged out like an entire paragraph in her mind. Then, with careful steps, she moved between the tables, like someone who knew something was off without knowing exactly what.

She rounded the counter.

“Felicity, are you okay?” she asked, her hand lifting slowly, hesitantly, as if touching her would be the emotional equivalent of pulling a trigger.

What happened next wasn’t a response. It was a collapse.

Felicity turned abruptly—or rather, it was as if something inside her turned the body from the inside out.
And what Mads saw… wasn’t entirely Felicity.

Blood streamed from her nose in thin, steady lines, painting her lips and trailing crimson streaks down her chin like fresh paint on a cracked statue. But it was her eyes that were the worst. The whites—normally clear—were now threaded with red, a web of throbbing vessels pulsing like they were about to burst.

Mads took a step back, but not out of fear. Out of a strange, grounded awareness—the kind that knew danger was real, yet refused to retreat.

And then the knife appeared.

“Get out of my head!” Felicity screamed, her shrill voice shattering the silence like glass.

The blade passed within inches of Mads’s face, the air hissing around the motion. She stumbled back, heart exploding in her chest like a frantic drumbeat. Reflex. Instinct.
Not logic. Not time to think.

The steel flashed in a crooked arc, and Madelyne barely managed to dodge, retreating toward the center of the dining room. The blade sliced so close to her stomach that she felt the rush of air raise the hairs on the back of her neck.

She’s out of her mind.

A quick thought. The rational voice inside Madelyne, scrambling to find logic, while Felicity Delaney lunged at her again—eyes wide, unfocused, as if she didn’t recognize her.

“Felicity,” she tried again, now weaving between chairs and overturned tables, caught in the whirlwind of the woman’s rage, “you don’t want to do this. You’re sick. Something’s wrong, but you don’t want to hurt me.”

The answer came as a piercing, primal scream that made the glass cabinet at the back of the room rattle. Felicity launched herself forward, and Madelyne, trying to restrain her without violence, grabbed the woman’s wrists, attempting to hold her down with the weight of her own body.

It didn’t work.

Felicity’s nails raked across her face, ripping a gasp of pain from Mads, and her elbow landed precisely between Mads’s ribs, surgical in its accuracy. The blow knocked the air from her lungs and shattered her focus—just enough for the knife to catch her arm and leave a searing gash along the side. Blood poured out instantly, hot and thick, soaking her sleeve and dripping onto the restaurant floor.

She hesitated. Felt the ring on her finger, the familiar metal pressing into her skin.

But this was Felicity. A regular woman. Not an alien threat. Not an interdimensional entity. A middle-aged woman with trembling hands, overtaken by something Madelyne didn’t yet understand. Something unnatural. Something wrong.

“Felicity, please,” she said, voice breaking, trying to push her back with her bloodied forearm. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Felicity screamed again—this time shriller, more unhinged—and raised the knife for another strike.
Madelyne didn’t think.

The ring flared.

Green energy surged between them in a silent, glowing pulse, like a breath made of light. The force sent her stumbling back—and Felicity flying across the room. She slammed into the counter and crumpled behind it, disappearing with the dull crash of shattered bottles.

Silence fell. Heavy. Immense.

Madelyne remained on the floor, her body curled inward like her bones had forgotten how to hold her upright. Her breaths came short and ragged, each one making the cut on her arm throb with hot protest. There was blood—not a lot, but enough to drip steadily onto the floor, a macabre metronome marking the rhythm of chaos.

The side of her face burned from where it had struck the cold tile, and the world sounded muffled, distant, like she was underwater. Her fingers were still clenched, the glow of the ring fading slowly.

“Madelyne!”
Clark’s voice shattered the haze like a thunderclap splitting through a storm. He crossed the restaurant in seconds, footsteps echoing among the overturned tables.

“What happened?!”

He dropped to his knees beside her, his warmth grounding her like an anchor in a world spiraling out of control. One of his hands gripped her forearm. The other hovered near her face, hesitant—ready to comfort, but afraid to hurt. His eyes were filled with panic, fear, urgency.

She tried to speak. Wanted to explain. To say something.
But then movement caught her eye—sharp, sudden.

Madelyne looked up—and saw her. Or what was left of her.

The torn dress hanging at crooked angles. Skin smeared with blood. Hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. And for a moment—long enough to fill Madelyne’s chest with burning dread—she thought the woman would come at her again.

But what happened was worse. So much worse.

With a jerking, animalistic motion, Mrs. Delaney began slamming her head against the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. Each thud more sickening than the last, accompanied by her incoherent muttering. The wood echoed with the dull thump of flesh against a solid surface, and every muscle in Mads’s body tensed in helpless horror. Clark was on his feet in a flash, sprinting toward her. His arms reached out to stop her, to hold her, to keep her from doing more harm.

Two more people appeared—faces blurred by adrenaline and chaos—drawn by the noise or perhaps by compassion.

Felicity screamed. Thrashed. Her arms beat against Clark’s chest as he tried to restrain her. It looked like a nightmare in slow motion—too vivid, too loud, too unreal.

Mads tried to rise. She couldn’t.

The world around her became a shimmering blur of muffled voices and flashing lights. Someone knelt beside her. Someone said something. A name—maybe hers. But the words didn’t reach her. The pain in her arm and the metallic taste in her mouth swallowed every ounce of awareness.

And then the memory came.

The image of Felicity behind the counter—bloodshot eyes, ragged breath—all of it slammed into her, making the weight of hesitation feel unbearable. Mads had waited too long. Had underestimated whatever this was. And now, the gash on her arm and the ache in her chest made that brutally clear.

She looked down at her trembling hand. Tasted blood in her mouth. Her stomach twisted. She shut her eyes tight. But even in the dark, the memory still burned.

 

Chapter 9: Questions and Answers

Notes:

I'm back and with a long chapter ;)

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER NINE.

---

A deep breath, then a hiss slipped out against her will, between clenched teeth, as if she could fool her own body into lessening the pain. Madelyne forced herself to hold back any other sound. Not out of pride—though there was some of that too—but because she didn’t want to add more weight to Clark’s gaze. He already carried too much on his shoulders. He didn’t need the burden of guilt over something so small.

He had been careful. Gentle, even. The damp cloth wrapped around the ice, pressed with patience against the side of her face, where the skin had started to bloom with a vivid red. Still, the touch burned, as if every nerve insisted on recording the memory of the impact.

Clark, of course, noticed. When it came to her, he always noticed. They were far too close for him not to—sitting across from each other on the stone benches of the square, their knees nearly brushing, the silence between them filled only by the soft rustle of leaves in the wind and the unshakable weight of his attention. That look of his that never wavered, never backed away, as though he studied her every smallest movement and refused to miss a single detail.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice low, almost hoarse, as he pulled the ice away with hesitation, as if afraid of hurting her again.

“It’s fine,” Mads replied, keeping her tone calm, almost light, as if she wanted to convince him along with herself. “It’s just the scrapes. It stings a little… but it’s not that bad, is it?”

She turned her head slowly, letting her profile show. The motion wasn’t only practical—it was an offering. A chance to let him see up close, to trust him enough to reveal her vulnerability. And when his eyes traced the marks along her skin, Mads’s breath caught in her chest, as if she were waiting for a verdict far greater than the mere state of an injury.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Great,” she said, her voice caught in the middle of a hastily swallowed sigh, as if she were trying to give the moment a practicality that simply didn’t belong to it. “That way I won’t need makeup to cover it for the rest of the Festival.”

Relief glittered in every word, but it was a fragile, ill-fitted relief. And the way Madelyne tried to shrink what had happened into something trivial, as if nothing else mattered beyond keeping up appearances, only made Clark retreat further into his unease. His brow furrowed, a shadow of worry etched into his open, gentle face.

“I think we’d better call it a day, Mads,” he suggested, his voice low, carrying a disguised firmness. “After what happened… it’d be good for you to get some rest.”

She lifted her chin, holding his gaze.

“Clark, I’m fine. Just a few scratches.”

“And a cut on your arm that needed eight stitches,” he countered, almost without thinking, his eyes fixed on the white bandage wrapped around her right arm. Instinctively, Madelyne tugged the flannel sleeve down, as if she could hide not just the dressing, but also the worry it stirred in him.

After the townsfolk managed to restrain Felicity, they rushed her to Smallville’s hospital. They had insisted Madelyne should go as well, but she had refused, holding on to that stubborn streak Clark knew all too well. She stayed, received her stitches at the local clinic, and a bag of ice for her face. And through it all—from the quick questions of her statement to the nurse adjusting the final bandage—Clark remained by her side, solid, unmovable, as if his very presence alone could shield her from everything.

She knew, of course she knew. She knew that man well enough to recognize the unrest that throbbed beneath his skin, even when he tried to bury it under calm words. He was anxious. Not just because of the cut, the stitches, the bruised face. But because of what the attack might mean.

And Madelyne, though she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t shaken, carried her thoughts in another direction. She wanted answers. Needed to understand. While Clark, on the other hand, wanted to make sure she was safe before allowing himself to think about anything else.

And being under his protective gaze—steady, constant, almost suffocating—always left her torn between gratitude, irritation, and an unexpected warmth burning just beneath the surface.

“I understand your concern, but I’m fine, really,” Mads said, forcing herself to project as much confidence as she could gather, even with her heart still racing. “If I start feeling worse, you can be sure I’ll let you know if I need to leave, alright?”

Clark watched her for a moment, his expression firm, his brow slightly furrowed. He didn’t look entirely convinced, but there was a quiet surrender in the way he nodded.

“Alright,” he said, stepping closer again with the ice. This time, the delicacy of his movements contrasted with the restrained strength that always emanated from him. His fingers held her chin gently, while his other hand pressed the ice against Mads’s swollen cheek. “But I hope you truly don’t push yourself. I understand your motivations, and our purpose here, but there will always be another day. You don’t need to drive yourself to the limit today.”

Mads let out a soft huff, tinged with humor and just a hint of defiance.

“I don’t think that’s quite how it works,” she countered, the corner of her mouth curling into a smile that never reached her eyes, because there was seriousness beneath the levity. “If Felicity’s attack taught me anything, it’s that we’re running out of time.”

Clark’s brow furrowed deeper, his hand still firm beneath her chin.

“You think this has to do with the Anomaly?”

“Are there really any doubts left?” she shot back, firm, certain, her eyes briefly shifting toward the horizon. “To me, it seems perfectly clear.”

“And how could that be possible?” Clark asked, his voice steady, laced with concern, though still controlled. “You said she’d lost control, that it looked like an outburst.”

“It also seemed like something was inside her mind,” Mads replied, her words slow, carefully chosen. “I didn’t mention this to the police, but… at one point she said, ‘get out of my head’ before attacking me. That makes me think maybe this is how things work around here.”

Clark’s brow furrowed slightly, his eyes fixed on her, trying to process the information, while his hands still held the ice against Mads’s swollen cheek, with the same meticulous gentleness he always carried—even in moments of tension.

“Through the mind?” he murmured, almost to himself, though the weight of doubt was evident in the way he tilted his head, studying her every reaction.

“If the Anomaly can access people’s consciousness, that explains how desires can be replicated,” Mads said, each word laced with a mixture of fascination and unease. “It must also feed on it. People’s happiness nourishes it, and at the same time, it grows stronger by consuming the minds of those who live in this town.”

Clark fell silent for a moment, absorbing every word. His eyes never left Mads’s face, nor the careful, almost protective way he pressed the ice against her bruised skin. There was tension there, yes, but also a quiet certainty—that he would do anything to protect her, even as he struggled to grasp the gravity of what she had just revealed.

“So… you think everyone here will eventually have these outbursts?” Clark asked, his voice low, thick with restrained concern. Madelyne understood what was hidden behind his words, the true fear veiled between the lines: what if this could happen to my parents too?

She wished she could say no, but she knew that would be a lie. Nor did she have any absolute certainty; all she carried were theories, hypotheses still waiting for proof. She couldn’t promise Clark that Martha and Jonathan were immune, and the thought of disappointing him with that lack of control weighed heavily on her.

“It’s a… possibility,” she said carefully, as though her tone alone might soften the impact. “I can’t… say for sure. Maybe I’m wrong.”

Clark tilted his head slightly, a sad smile curving his lips, carrying the tension of someone who refused to lose hope.

“You’re rarely wrong, Mads.”

He drew back a little, his touch beneath her chin slipping away. For an instant, she almost missed the closeness, the unspoken safety in that gesture. But then he broke the silence again, with the steady resolve he always carried:

“How much time do you think we have?”

“I can’t say,” Mads replied, letting her gaze wander across the square’s ground, as though trying to decipher something hidden in the shadows of the concrete. “It’s been almost two weeks since we arrived, and if this is the first time it’s happened… maybe it depends a lot on each person, on how much they can resist.”

Clark closed his eyes for a moment, taking in her words, the tension in his shoulders betraying the weight of responsibility he always bore.

“Then we don’t have any choice but to put an end to this. As quickly as possible.”

“Yes… the sooner, the better,” Mads agreed, her voice quiet, outwardly steady, yet carrying a trace of uncertainty from a place inside her she didn’t want to face.

The wind swept through the stone tables, stirring the leaves, and for a fleeting moment the world seemed as fragile as the silent trust hovering between them.

That brief calm—the fragile suspension of reality that takes hold when two people decide, for just an instant, to ignore all the unanswered questions—didn’t last. The loudspeaker in the square crackled, metallic and merciless, announcing the final round of the day’s games and calling the registered couples to the last trial. The spell between them shattered as easily as thin glass.

Clark was the first to rise, and when he extended his hand to Mads, the gesture felt more natural than breathing. She accepted without hesitation, feeling the steady strength of his grip, a quiet balance that, in itself, carried reassurance. A sharp pang cut through her hip as she stood, an unwelcome reminder of how exhausted her body truly was. But this time, she managed to hide it. No grimace, no sound of pain. And so Clark’s ever-watchful eyes found nothing to worry about.

They began to walk side by side toward the space marked out for the trial, the sound of footsteps and voices mingling with the growing murmur of the crowd gathering to watch. The lights strung across the square flickered on, bathing everything in warm golden hues, as though the Festival had decided to make up for the day’s weight with an exaggerated dose of wonder.

Madelyne wasn’t fooled. The laughter around her seemed too loud, as if it were masking something everyone still refused to see. And maybe that was why she noticed, suddenly, how her hand was still wrapped in Clark’s—warmth, steadiness, the sense that he would never let her fall. Literally or otherwise. They didn’t let go, keeping their fingers entwined until they reached the spot in the square where the couples’ question-and-answer game was about to take place.

Rows of chairs spread out in front of an improvised stage, with a long table at the center decorated with colorful ribbons and small flower vases, meant to seat the three couples competing in the final event. The local host—a man with a wide smile and rehearsed enthusiasm—was already standing behind the microphone, shuffling through papers that no doubt contained the afternoon’s questions.

The host clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention, the microphone screeching before it steadied.

“Ladies and gentlemen, get ready! The most anticipated moment of the night has arrived: How Well Do You Know Your Love? ” he announced, with a level of excitement far too big for the makeshift stage. Laughter burst among the townsfolk, eager to watch the spectacle of someone else’s embarrassment.

Mads sank into the chair beside Clark, exhaling in a half-amused sigh.

“‘How well do you know your love?’...” she repeated under her breath, one eyebrow arched in his direction. “Sounds like a Sunday afternoon TV show.”

Clark, with the calm ease of someone who never seemed rattled, shifted in his seat and crossed his arms, the corner of his mouth tugging into a near-smile.

“Well, at least it doesn’t involve any more sack races.”

The memory pulled a short laugh out of Mads, though her bruised face protested. She touched her cheek carefully, still smiling.

“True. But don’t underestimate this kind of game, Kent.” She shot him a sidelong glance, her eyes glinting with that competitive humor Clark was beginning to recognize. “These questions can be more dangerous than they look.”

“Dangerous?” He tilted his head, genuinely intrigued.

“Of course. Imagine… if you get my favorite color wrong, I’ll never let you forget it.”

The host’s voice rose again, calling the first couple on the list to the stage. The crowd responded with applause and a few playful boos, and the competition truly began. While the others answered, Mads leaned slightly toward Clark, as if sharing a conspiratorial secret.

“I bet you’ll paint me as a saint,” she murmured, her tone dripping with irony. “Just because you’ve got this habit of seeing me as better than I really am.”

Clark glanced at her, his expression as serene as ever, as though nothing could shake his calm. But there was, deep down, a spark of something almost amused.

“No,” he said quietly, confident. “I’ll paint you as you truly are. And we’ll see if the audience can handle it.”

The second couple finished after missing two of the four questions, and Mads realized they were next in line. A chill ran through her stomach, somewhere between nerves and pure anticipation. She stood, and Clark immediately offered his hand—a natural, almost automatic gesture, yet one that still made Mads swallow hard before taking it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Madelyne and Clark!” the host announced, with a booming enthusiasm that belonged more to a packed stadium than to a small-town square. “Let’s find out if they really know each other… or if they’ll be leaving here rethinking their entire relationship!”

Laughter spread across the audience, and Mads shook her head, laughing along. They were led to chairs on opposite sides of the stage, each receiving a small whiteboard and a marker.

“First question,” the host announced, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. “What’s your partner’s favorite food?”

Mads was already writing before Clark had even finished thinking. She scribbled the letters quickly, not giving him a chance to peek, then lifted her gaze with a challenging look. Clark took a little longer, but his hand moved steadily, as if he were jotting down an answer he was absolutely sure was correct.

“Three, two, one… show them!”

The boards went up at the same time.

Mads: “His mom’s farm apple pie.”
Clark: “My mom’s apple pie.”

The audience cheered, and the host clapped his hands.

“Starting off in perfect sync! Now that’s what I call chemistry, folks!”

Mads feigned a dramatic sigh, resting her forehead against her hand.

“That one was easy. Next.”

The host chuckled, pleased with the crowd’s reaction, and made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

“All right, let’s turn up the heat! Next question: what’s Clark’s habit that annoys Mads the most?”

Clark arched a brow but didn’t protest. He simply tilted his head toward the board and wrote without hesitation, the broad, firm strokes betraying his absolute confidence in the answer. On the other side, Mads narrowed her eyes, the tip of her tongue pressed against the corner of her mouth as she wrote furiously—almost puncturing the board with the force of her marker.

“Ready?” The host raised his hand, dragging out the suspense. “Three… two… one… show them!”

They flipped their boards.

Mads: “Leaving the wet towel on the bed.”
Clark: “Wet towel.”

The room erupted with laughter, whistles, and applause, and even the host had to compose himself.

“Now that’s what I call complete agreement!” he said theatrically before turning to Clark with an amused look. “But tell me, Clark—truth, or are you just taking the scolding?”

Clark rested the board on his lap and let out a low chuckle, lifting a hand in mock surrender.

“It’s true.”

Then he turned his face toward Madelyne, his eyes shining with something between mischief and tenderness.

“But I’m getting better.”

“ Getting better , right…” Mads echoed, her voice dripping with irony—enough to draw more laughter from the crowd.

The host waited for the reaction to settle before adjusting the papers in front of him.

“Now let’s flip the logic. A question about Mads: what’s the movie she can watch a thousand times without ever getting tired of it?”

Clark didn’t need much time to think. His hand moved steadily, without hesitation. On the other side of the stage, Mads wrote quickly, biting her lip to keep from laughing in advance.

“And the answer is…”

Mads lifted her board: “Pride and Prejudice (the 2005 version, obviously).”

Clark raised his right after: “Pride and Prejudice. 2005 version. She won’t accept any other.”

The audience cheered again, some clapping in rhythm. The host spread his arms wide, almost triumphant.

“Now that is what I call a soulmate answer!”

Mads shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. Clark, on the other hand, simply held her gaze across the stage, as if nothing else around them mattered more than being right about this.

It was strange—almost uncomfortable—to admit, but Mads was having fun. Not the polite, restrained kind of amusement one forces in social situations out of sheer courtesy. This was genuine. A light, unexpected feeling that seeped in like warm water through the cracks of everything she insisted on keeping closed. For a few moments, it was almost possible to forget the events of that morning, almost possible to breathe without the bitter weight of memory, and allow herself to feel a new—and dangerous—affinity with this Festival that, for so many years, had meant nothing but obligation.

Madelyne Prescott knew those traditions better than she cared to. Before vanishing from town like someone sneaking out of a dull class never to return, she had attended nearly every edition. And always competing. Sack races. Public reading contests. Some absurd activity involving a spoon in the mouth and toy carrots. It didn’t matter what, it didn’t matter how—one way or another, her name always ended up on the list. Because Ava, with her impeccably lacquered determination, made sure of it. As if the entire fragile prestige of the Prescott family rested on the shoulders of a girl who had never asked for any of it.

And when Ava was at the peak of her insufferableness—which was often, almost like a natural talent—Mads responded the only way she knew how: by poking. A cutting remark at the right moment. A sabotage so subtle it was almost imperceptible, yet just enough to make Ava lose the perfect color in her cheeks and flush in public. The fun wasn’t in the damage, but in the contrast: watching the woman keep her flawless smile, her impeccable poise, while seething inside.

Cruel? Probably. But to Mads, it was an emotional survival sport. And, surprising as it was, in those rare moments when she and her half-siblings joined forces to provoke their stepmother… they almost felt like a real family.

The host cleared his throat, regaining his lively tone as if to sweep away any lingering shadow of melancholy in the air.

“Let’s move on to the next question about Mads!” he said, shaking the card in his hand as though it were a playing card about to decide the fate of the game. “What’s her hidden talent—the one few people know about, but Clark should?”

The crowd buzzed with anticipation, whispers and stifled giggles spreading. Mads arched a brow, chewing on the cap of her marker.

“Oh, great,” she muttered to herself, unable to stop a nervous laugh.

She began writing quickly, her letters slanted and hurried. On the other side, Clark didn’t hesitate for even a second. He simply tilted his head, rested the board on his knee, and wrote with the calmness of someone describing a fact rather than making a guess.

“Ready?” the host announced, stretching his arm toward the audience, who clapped in unison. “Three… two… one… show them!”

Mads lifted her board, revealing: “Singing. But only when she thinks no one’s listening.”

Clark held his up right after: “She sings when she’s alone. And much better than she admits.”

A brief silence hung in the air before the square erupted in cheers and whistles. The crowd reacted as though they had just witnessed an intimate confession, and the host’s eyes went wide as he tapped his microphone like he had stumbled onto a forbidden secret.

“Well, well, looks like we have a hidden artist among us!”

“No!” Mads protested instantly, waving her board in front of her like a shield. “It’s not like that. I just… sometimes sing in the shower, that’s it.”

Clark laughed softly, the sound warm and unhurried.

“You sing when you drive. And when you’re distracted, tidying something up.” He tilted his chin, meeting her eyes from across the stage with that calm, steady look. “And it’s wonderful.”

Heat rushed to Mads’s cheeks under the renewed applause, as though the entire audience had become complicit in something that should have remained private. Even a few romantic sighs could be heard.

“Great,” she muttered, lowering the board onto her lap and avoiding his direct gaze. “Now everyone’s going to expect a show.”

The host, meanwhile, was clearly enjoying himself at her expense.

“If I were you, I’d already be preparing a setlist for the next Festival! But for now…” He lifted the card solemnly. “This means another point for Team Clark and Mads! And… guess what? We’ve got a tie for first place!”

The crowd erupted as if they were in a stadium, some people even standing to clap. Both of their parents, seated in the audience, cheered as well. Madelyne drew a deep breath, trying to mask the swirl of nerves and the strange, unexpected thrill running through her. Clark, with the board resting on his lap, looked like the complete opposite—calm, steady, as though nothing could surprise him. But then there was that half-smile of his… small, restrained, and still powerful enough to make her feel as if the entire town had vanished around them.

They were dismissed again, told to return to their seats for a short break before the two tied couples would come back onstage to answer the final question of the afternoon. Taking advantage of the moment, Mads stepped off the stage and walked to the water fountain set up behind the curtain, craving nothing more than the simple distraction of cool water running down her throat.

She leaned down, pressing the metal button, when a light laugh echoed beside her.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” said one of the contestants—Candace, if Mads remembered correctly—who had lost in the previous round. The woman, still smiling despite her elimination, seemed determined to strike up a conversation. “I never imagined the competition would be this lively.”

Mads glanced up, offering a polite smile. “Yes, everyone here seems to have a good time easily.”

“And you and Clark were divine!” Candace went on. “Your chemistry is amazing. Now I get why you two are Smallville’s favorite couple. I’m really rooting for you.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you, Candace.” Mads smiled back, acknowledging the woman’s cheerful warmth—though it almost seemed Candace was more excited about Clark and Mads winning than she was herself.

Candace tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, leaning in as if sharing a secret.

“But you know what I’m most excited to see?”

Mads furrowed her brow slightly. “What?”

Candace grinned wide, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “The winners’ kiss. It’s tradition, you know? The crowd always chants, and the champion couple ends up giving in. I don’t think a single Festival has gone by without it. It’s always so romantic.”

The paper cup wavered in Mads’s hand, and she had to grip it tightly to keep from spilling. The winners’ kiss. How had she not heard about that before? Maybe because everyone—absolutely everyone there—already assumed it was a given. After all, to them, she and Clark weren’t just competition partners—they were husband and wife.

“Oh… really?” she managed, keeping her voice steady even though inside, every part of her was screaming in panic.

Candace let out a conspiratorial giggle. “It’s going to be beautiful. You two have that soap-opera kind of chemistry, you know? And I swear, when you kiss on stage, everyone’s going to lose their minds.”

Mads forced her lips into a smile, even as her heart pounded at a near-desperate rhythm. “We’ll see…” she murmured, drinking the rest of her water far too quickly—anything to excuse herself from the conversation.

Satisfied, Candace gave her a light tap on the arm and drifted away, humming to herself.

Alone again, Mads placed her hand on the edge of the water fountain, trying to catch her breath, which seemed to have vanished along with the ground beneath her feet. A kiss on stage. In front of everyone. In front of the whole town.

It wasn’t that the idea of kissing Clark was bad. Far from it. In fact, if she were brutally honest with herself, the idea made her more electrified than any award could. But the first time couldn’t be like this. Not under the spotlight, not with hungry eyes watching every detail.

She closed her eyes for a moment, pressing her lips together. No. If she were to kiss Clark ── when she kissed him ── she wanted it to be real, intimate, just theirs. Not a spectacle applauded by nosy neighbors.

And somehow, she would have to make sure this tradition didn’t apply to them.

Madelyne returned to the stage with her palms sweaty and a disturbingly familiar feeling of about to face a test she hadn’t studied for. It was almost ridiculous ── that sudden, almost childish nervousness that took over her body as if she were twelve again, about to be called up in front of the class to read a poem aloud. And yet, it was there, sticking to her, growing worse with every step she took toward the bright center of the stage.

The stage had transformed. Now it displayed two enormous tanks of crystal-clear water that reflected the lights like shimmering traps, and above them, metal platforms with chairs for the husbands ── because, of course, Smallville would never miss the chance to turn a harmless competition into something that bordered on public torture. At another time, she would have laughed. Would have made a witty comment about the town's organizational sadism. But all she could think about was Candace’s voice, sweet and well-meaning, echoing in her head: the winners’ kiss.

She nearly stumbled on her own breath.

The presenter, as if there wasn’t enough tension already, took the microphone with the energy of a circus master of ceremonies.

"Now, in this final round, we’ll have only one question!" he announced, his voice vibrant as he held two envelopes with the answers to the questions. "The husbands will be sitting up there, right above the tanks. The wives, in turn, will have to compete for that red button right in the center of the stage. Whoever hits it first gets to answer the question."

The audience laughed eagerly, and Madelyne felt her pulse quicken in protest.

"If the answer is correct, the couple wins, and the husband from the opposing team goes straight into the water!" the presenter continued, gesturing with almost malicious satisfaction. "But if the answer is wrong... well, ladies, get ready to watch your own husbands take a cold bath."

A wave of excited chatter ran through the crowd. The presenter raised his eyebrows in a final, theatrical gesture.

"So, are we ready, ladies?"

Madelyne swallowed hard. Ready? Absolutely not. But, as always, pretending would be her best defense.

Clark and the other competitor climbed the side stairs to the platforms. The sound of metal creaking beneath their steps blended with the excited giggles of the audience, who buzzed with the anticipation of seeing one of the men plummet into the cold water ── and Clark, somehow, seemed completely oblivious to it. There was no hesitation, not an ounce of discomfort. Maybe it was confidence. Or maybe it was the certainty that Mads wouldn’t get the answer wrong. After all, they had practiced, laughed, and prepared, and up to that point, everything had gone well.

The opponent’s husband appeared shortly after, climbing the stairs with more caution. Every movement seemed laden with nervousness: he tugged at the hem of his shirt, adjusted his collar, took a deep breath, trying to tame the anxiety surrounding him. When he finally settled on the opposite side of Clark, the contrast between the two was evident ── one completely self-assured, the other still balancing between excitement and apprehension.

She and the other competitor were positioned facing the red button in the center of the stage, like two gladiators about to engage in a ridiculous and disproportionate duel. The audience was ecstatic, cheering, anticipating not just the fall of one of the men into the tank, but the inevitable outcome they all seemed to long for ── the kiss.

The red button gleamed between her and the other competitor, almost mocking her hesitation. It’s just a game, she repeated mentally. Just a ridiculous game, invented to make the whole town laugh. But her body didn’t seem to believe that. Her body was on high alert, as if the question about to come was capable of deciding the course of her entire life.

"Ready?" The presenter raised his voice, and the crowd responded in unison. "The final question is: What was the first book your husband read from beginning to end?"

Mads’ stomach dropped. She knew the answer. Of course, she knew. They had talked about it years ago, a memory lost in some random afternoon when life seemed simpler.

The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. He was ten. His mother read the first two chapters with him, and then Clark insisted on finishing it on his own. The childish pride on his face when he told her.

The button gleamed, taunting her. They counted to three, and then Mads hit it first, the palm of her hand slamming hard against the plastic. The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, and the presenter smiled, excited:

"Mads, your answer?"

For a moment, the whole world seemed to pause. She could tell the truth. She could win. She could hear the sound of the water swallowing her opponent’s husband, feel the euphoric buzz of the crowd, win alongside Clark.

Mads clenched her fists by her sides. Inside, she was a storm. The kiss itself wasn’t the problem. Kissing Clark would never be the problem. The problem was the exact opposite. She wanted ── wanted so much. She wanted it in a way that scared her, in a way she couldn’t even admit to herself. But not like this. Not as a prize in some silly game. Not turned into something public and performative, without the intimacy he deserved. Without the vulnerability she feared to let slip in front of everyone.

She wanted. She wanted so much that the mere thought of it made her heart race embarrassingly fast. But she wanted it on her own terms. She wanted it in silence, away from the eyes that turned everything into a spectacle. She wanted it when she could admit to herself what that desire truly meant.

So, she took a deep breath, fixed her gaze on the presenter, and said the first thing that came to her mind:

"Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone," she replied firmly, the lie flowing smoothly between her teeth.

There was a second of silence, followed by the crash of Clark’s chair tumbling down. The audience erupted into laughter, whistles, and applause as he emerged soaking wet, shaking his head and running his hand through his hair.

Mads forced a smile, her heart pounding in her chest. On the outside, she seemed just like another unlucky competitor. On the inside, she felt like someone who had just shoved her own secret to the bottom of the tank along with him.

"Not this time, Mads and Clark!" the presenter announced with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Ethan and Marianne, you are the big winners of the Couples' Competition!"

Euphoric applause filled the air, and Madelyne, obediently, joined in, stepping back a few paces so the spotlight could find the real stars of the moment. Ethan rushed out of the tank almost desperately, grabbing Marianne firmly and spinning her around as if she were as light as a feather. The audience, predictable as always, began shouting in unison for the kiss ── and, predictably as always, they obeyed in seconds, locking into a kiss so passionate it seemed choreographed for a Valentine’s Day commercial.

Madelyne watched from afar, a discomfort pulsing beneath her skin like an itch that couldn’t be ignored. Because it was impossible not to wonder… what if it were her there? What if it were her and Clark, in the place of those two, surrounded by applause and encouraging shouts?

That thought would sound trivial ── almost foolishly romantic ── if not for the inconvenient truth it carried with it. In the middle of that collective spectacle, Mads found herself facing, head-on and with no escape, the very thing she had been avoiding for years: she was still in love with Clark.

Oh, great. Congratulations, Madelyne Prescott. What a wonderful discovery to have while you're soaked with nerves, in public, in a ridiculous competition.

She had spent her entire adolescence trying to suppress this feeling, burying it under her father’s rigidity, the weight of expectations, and then, the shallow comfort of Cliff. She thought that leaving town would be enough to erase it all. But no. It was still there, as uncomfortable as it had always been, pulsing strongly enough to make her lose a competition on purpose, just to avoid the possibility of kissing Clark in front of all of Smallville.

If she could, she would be banging her head against the wall right then. But, since she couldn’t, she took a deep breath and tried to appear at least somewhat functional.

Clark, for his part, emerged from the tank soaking wet, carefully holding his glasses between his large fingers. Madelyne hurried off the stage, grabbing a fluffy towel ── blue, soft, the most respectable one she could find ── and returned to him. She extended the towel, a small, practical gesture, but one that felt more intimate than it should.

He accepted it, drying his glasses before putting them back on, his blue eyes now even brighter, as if the water had intensified everything in them.

"What happened back there?" he asked, his voice low enough not to escape beyond them.

Mads blinked, maybe a little too quickly. "What do you mean?"

"The answer." He draped the towel around his neck, his relaxed posture contrasting with the almost surgical sharpness of his gaze. "You knew. We talked about it yesterday. We practiced for this. So... what happened?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again, like a fish out of water.

"Ah, I... well, I guess I got nervous." The words tumbled out, as convincing as a lame excuse.

Which, of course, was exactly what it was.

The worst part was that she couldn’t look Clark in the eye. Not while those blue eyes ── far bluer than they had any right to be ── were fixed on her, weighing on every nerve, every lie, every quick beat of her heart.

"Mads, did something happen?" His voice had that concerned, low, persistent tone, as if he were about to offer shelter under a non-existent umbrella in the middle of a storm.

She opened her mouth. "No, I──"

"Because, if something happened, you can tell me." He interrupted her unknowingly, his words tripping over hers, so full of goodwill that it nearly drowned her. "You know I’m always willing to help––"

"Clark, it wasn’t anything." Her hurry made the sentence short, sharp, an improvised shield.

"I know winning was important to you, so––"

"Clark, I didn’t want to kiss you!" The confession exploded from her lips before she could stop it, as though it had been forcefully pulled from deep inside her. She only realized what she’d said after the words hung between them, heavy, impossible to undo.

He froze. First, his eyes widened in surprise. Then, as if something inside him had broken, his expression softened into a sadness so painfully visible that Mads almost groaned. He looked like... a dog someone had kicked to the sidewalk.

"I mean, I..." She reached her hand into the air, as though she could grab the wrong words back, as if it were possible to collect them and stuff them back into her mouth. But it was too late, and they both knew it.

"You didn’t want..." Clark began, his voice lower now, almost a whisper. He blinked a few times, as though her sentence was still trying to find space in his head.

Mads felt her stomach churn. Great. Congratulations, Madelyne. Another moment worthy of a trophy in the "things that should never have been said out loud" category.

"It’s not that I didn’t want to," she tried, gesturing frantically as if her hands could redraw the sentence in the air, rearranging it until it was less devastating. "It’s just... all of this made me really uncomfortable, and it wouldn’t even have been a big deal––" She gestured vaguely to the stage behind them, still lit up, still full of echoes of laughter and applause. "In front of all of Smallville, with everyone shouting... I didn’t want it to be a... spectacle."

Clark watched her in silence, his blue eyes fixed on her, the towel forgotten in his hands, as if he had frozen in time.

And that, for some reason, only made it worse.

"It’s not that I..." She swallowed hard, feeling her face burn. "It’s not like I’ve thought about... you know. But... if I had, it wouldn’t be like this. And, well, we’re not really married! It doesn’t make sense for us to do something like that, it would be ridiculous."

Oh, great. Now she sounded like someone who thought about it. Which was even worse than if she’d just stuck to "I didn’t want to kiss you."

Clark took a deep breath, briefly looking away as if he were trying to reorganize the entire world inside himself. Then he nodded slowly, still not quite meeting her gaze.

"I understand." He ran the towel through his damp hair, his movements slower than usual. "You didn’t want it to be... like this."

The way he said it ── so simple, so generous, without questioning ── almost made her want to throw herself into the cold water tank just to escape from her own body.

"Exactly," she replied, too quickly, like someone clinging to a lifebuoy after nearly drowning. "That’s it."

But of course, it wasn’t "just that." And they both knew it.

"Well, alright." Clark gave a half-smile, the kind that tries to be comforting but, in practice, only made Mads more aware of every flaw in herself.

"At least it was fun," he said, his voice light, but Mads couldn’t relax. The smile seemed to float in the air between them, beautiful and unattainable, as if saying everything was fine, but at the same time, making it clear that nothing about it had been simple.

"Yeah, it was." She nodded, trying to mimic his lightness, but the effort failed. The smile that formed on her lips was uncertain, almost crooked. Every word seemed to slip through her fingers, and Mads couldn’t tell if he was really upset or just confused by her choice not to kiss him. It was the kind of moment that left you vulnerable without warning.

"I’m going to... see if I can find some dry clothes." Clark said, his voice hesitating, as if each word carried more weight than it should. He started to walk away, his steps measured, almost cautious, as if he feared breaking something invisible between them.

"Alright... I’ll... walk around. We... we’ll meet up later?" The question came out louder than Mads intended, filled with a cautious hope she barely dared to admit.

"Yeah, maybe." Clark nodded briefly, as though each word was a misstep. And then, softly, he turned his back and began to walk, the space between them growing with each step.

Mads stood still, staring at his broad back as he walked away. On the outside, she appeared firm, controlled, almost indifferent. But inside... inside, she felt like a complete disaster.

---

  

Time at the Festival slipped through Madelyne’s fingers without her even noticing, and by the time she realized, the sky was already tinged with a deep blue, dotted with small sparks of light. Still, her mind remained elsewhere, trapped in its own orbit. While the crowd scattered with laughter, voices, and hurried steps to make the most of the last hours of the Spring Festival, Mads stepped away. She found refuge in one of the swings in the playground––a ridiculously small space for her adult body, but far enough to keep her from being disturbed.

There, alone, she let herself be rocked by almost imperceptible movements, as if the swing could match the slow rhythm of her thoughts. The colorful lamps, strung in rows, flickered in golden and pink reflections in her green eyes, but they couldn’t light up the confusion inside her. What should have been a trivial task had turned into weeks of strange events, like a plot slipping out of control and leaving her drifting.

And, in the midst of that drift, the longing for her friends weighed heavily. Talking to Cece or Navia always helped clear her emotions––they would dissect them, rearrange them, and return them to her in forms that made sense. But here, inside the invisible and oppressive bubble created by the anomaly, even that resource had been denied to her. The phone didn’t work, messages didn’t get through. She was left with just herself, and, if she were honest, she wasn’t sure how far she could go on her own.

Calculations? They were simple. Complex variables? Almost a comfort. The cosmos and its exact math were safe ground. But feelings... feelings were like distant stars: beautiful to look at, impossible to touch, treacherous in their distance. It wasn’t her comfort zone and never would be. So it was always easier to run from them, just as Mads always did.

"You’re not too big for the swing, are you?" A small, firm voice intruded on her silence, cutting through it with the casualness of someone who knew no boundaries.

Mads blinked, startled, and turned her face. On the other side, a little girl was staring at her, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Her brown curls were tied into two puffs that fluttered slightly with the wind, and her dark skin reflected the light from the lamps like a warm, living gloss. She didn’t seem older than eight. Still, there was something in her gaze that made Mads feel examined, weighed, and measured.

Madelyne blinked again, as if that would be enough to reorganize the reality in front of her. It wasn’t. The girl was still there, steady, with the expression of someone expecting an immediate answer.

"Technically, yes," Mads murmured, her voice raspy from the prolonged silence. "But in my defense, no one seems to have put up a 'no adults allowed' sign around here."

The little girl raised an eyebrow, skeptical, as if she had years of practice questioning flimsy excuses. The movement made her seem even smaller, but also surprisingly imposing.

"You seem sad," she concluded, without hesitation.

Madelyne swallowed hard. She wasn't used to such direct analysis, especially not from someone who was probably still losing baby teeth.

"I'm not sad. Just... thinking." The explanation came out hesitant, as if it were a half-lie, which it might have been.

The girl narrowed her eyes, and the swing creaked as she settled into the seat beside her. Now there were two of them, side by side, feet almost touching the dark sand of the brightly lit playground.

"My mom says that when you think too much, you end up confusing things." The little girl shrugged, as if the comment was simple logic, as obvious as saying the sun rises every morning.

Mads let out a brief, quiet laugh, surprised by how this strange, childish dialogue seemed more logical than many of the equations she spent nights solving.

"Your mom must be very wise."

"She knows everything." The girl turned to face her, with unshakable seriousness. "Everything. Everything, everything."

Mads watched the small feet dragging against the wet sand, trying to gain momentum, and for a moment, the scene felt out of place––almost absurd. Here she was, an astrophysicist used to thinking about binary systems, stellar masses, and space-time variables, sharing the playground with a little girl who wholeheartedly believed her mom knew absolutely everything.

"Everything, really?" Mads asked, tilting her head slightly, unable to hide her curiosity.

"Everything." The answer came with the absolute conviction of someone who had not yet learned to doubt the world. "She even knows when I’m hiding candy under the bed."

Madelyne bit her lip, trying to suppress the laugh that bubbled up inside her. It had been so long since she had laughed at something so simple that it felt almost strange, out of place, within the weight she was carrying.

"So I guess it's impossible to fool your mom." Mads commented, returning her gaze to the front, where the Festival was still unfolding.

"It’s impossible," the girl confirmed, the swing going back and forth with an uneven rhythm. "But it’s okay, because when I mess up, she already knows what I really meant."

Mads let out a low sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. The cold night wind made her loose hair brush her face, reminding her that she was here, caught in a moment that felt detached from the rest of the Festival.

"It would be nice if it were always like this," she murmured.

The little girl looked at her sideways, her eyes too sharp for the eight years she claimed to be.

"Did you mess up?"

The question was so direct that Mads almost choked. She laughed nervously, bringing a hand to her face, covering part of her eyes. It wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation she expected to have with a stranger sporting braids tied in bouncing pom-poms, but perhaps that was exactly why the words became possible.

"Maybe..." she confessed, the word escaping in a whisper. "I said something I shouldn’t have. To someone... important. And I think that person misunderstood."

The girl tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrowing with focus, as if she were a little scientist ready to analyze the problem.

"Then you just apologize. Mom always says everything gets better with an apology," the girl said, as if it were that simple.

"It’s not that easy," Mads whispered.

"Of course it is," the girl retorted without hesitation. "You say: 'sorry, I didn’t mean to.' Done. Adults complicate everything."

Mads let out a muffled laugh, feeling a knot tighten in her throat.

"You have no idea."

"I do," the little girl replied, swinging harder now, her tiny feet almost leaving the ground. "I told Davi from my class that I liked him. Then he laughed in my face. But after, he apologized and brought a rare dinosaur sticker. Now everything’s fine."

Madelyne covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hold back the laughter threatening to escape, but she couldn’t. The laugh came out, free and light, vibrating in the cool night air. And for a moment, the pain in her chest seemed to lighten.

"A dinosaur sticker fixes a lot of things, doesn’t it?"

"Uh-huh," the girl smiled, satisfied with the memory.

"The only problem is that sometimes, even when we explain, the other person doesn’t want to listen," Mads replied, her voice soft, laden with an honesty she rarely allowed herself. "Or doesn’t believe us."

The girl pressed her lips together, thoughtful, as if the answer required effort. Her small feet scraped the sand, pushing the swing in an uneven rhythm.

"But if you really like her... then you have to try again."

Madelyne’s heart squeezed in her chest. She turned her gaze to the ground, watching the tracks the two swings made in the damp sand. Attempts, failures, repetitions—like unresolved equations that came back to haunt her.

"What if I mess it up even more?" the question slipped out before she could contain it.

The girl shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

"Then you apologize again. Until she believes you."

Simple. Cruelly simple. And for a moment, Mads wanted to believe the world could work that way—that an apology could be enough to fix something that already seemed too fragile.

She lifted her eyes, meeting the girl beside her.

"You’re really smart for eight years old," she said, almost in a whisper.

The girl smiled, a proud, toothless grin, before returning to her swinging, her feet kicking the sand in small arcs.

"Everyone says that," the girl replied, with a serene conviction that contrasted with her toothless smile.

Mads curved her lips into a brief, almost imperceptible smile and watched her with a look that softened without her realizing it. It was surprising—and a little unsettling—how children could throw truths into the air as if they were casual comments, unaware of the weight they carried. Always at the exact moment, always hitting where it hurt.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. They stayed there, sharing the creak of the swings and the shy glow of the lights reflecting on the wet sand, until a woman’s voice called the girl’s name. Emily— that’s what she learned her name was —jumped up quickly, shaking the sand from her feet.

"Bye, swing lady!" she said cheerfully, running toward her mother.

"Bye, little girl," Mads replied, raising her hand in a small wave. Before she realized it, she was alone again.

But she didn’t feel as lonely as before. Something about that brief, awkward, and unexpected conversation had sorted her thoughts. Emily was right—or at least part of her was. Running away wouldn’t help. Clark deserved an explanation. He deserved to hear from her, calmly, what she had really meant. A conversation, just the two of them, away from prying eyes and distractions, would be enough. She didn’t need to turn every misplaced word into a catastrophe.

She stood up from the swing, adjusted the hem of her coat, and walked out of the playground, heading toward the lit square. Clark shouldn’t be far. He had helped his parents return home earlier, but he would stay behind to accompany her. It was just a matter of finding him—and, hopefully, finding some courage too.

And she found him. Faster than she expected. Across the street, standing in front of the bar, there he was. Clark was watching the couples dancing beneath the golden rain of hanging lights, his body relaxed, as if he were a natural part of the scene. The street had been closed for the party, and soft music spread through the air, carrying laughter and footsteps.

Mads paused for a moment, her heart racing. She took a deep breath, as if she could store courage in her chest, and took half a step forward. Maybe this was the right moment. Maybe this was her chance to say something that didn’t sound like a miscalculation.

But she didn’t even try.

"Madelyne, what a stroke of luck to finally run into you," the male voice, filled with overly polished enthusiasm, interrupted her movement.

She turned and found Cliff, with that flawless smile that seemed to have been rehearsed for campaign ads and official photographs. It had been days since they were in the same town without exchanging more than distant glances, always busy—he, with the duties of mayor; she, with her own missions.

"Oh, hey, Cliff." Mads forced a smile that felt too stiff on her face. "Good to see you."

But her gaze didn’t stop on him. It passed over Cliff’s shoulder, found Clark across the street, and got stuck there, between two worlds that shouldn’t overlap. Clark was now looking back—directly at her, directly at them.

Mads’ chest tightened. Cliff’s smile seemed to widen with every passing second. And all she managed to say was:

"I... I really have to go now, because..."

"Wait, Mads." Cliff’s voice reached her before she could take another step, and his hand closed around her arm, tight enough to stop her.

Madelyne froze, her body tense, her heart racing too fast. Slowly, she turned to face him.

"We didn’t have time to talk," he continued, his eyes laden with a practiced solemnity, a studied weight. "I’d like a moment to know how you’re doing. After what happened earlier today..." His gaze darkened, assuming a shadow carefully molded into sadness. "I’m really sorry for what Mrs. Delaney did to you. It was truly... regrettable."

Mads nodded once, briefly, as if agreeing was the quickest way to end the conversation.

"Yes. It was horrible." The word came out dry, almost mechanical. "But it’s over. I’m fine now. You don’t have to worry."

He stared at her with an intensity that had always felt suffocating, but now left her even more uncomfortable.

"It’s impossible not to worry, Madelyne." His voice dropped to a tone filled with false tenderness. "I know we’re not together anymore, but I still care about you. A lot."

The hand that had held her arm slid—too slowly—until it found her fingers, intertwining as though he still had the right to do so. Mads felt her stomach churn. The urgency to pull away, to tear his hand off, was almost physical, like an alarm going off inside her.

"If it’s not too much trouble..." Cliff flashed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "I’d like to dance with you. For old times’ sake, of course."

Mads swallowed hard, her eyes instinctively drifting to Clark across the street. He was there, watching, but not moving, just standing between the golden lights and the couples dancing. His gaze followed her, silently, and for a moment, she felt the weight of the choice hanging in the air.

She wanted to refuse. She wanted to say no and walk away, break the uncomfortable closeness Cliff was insisting on maintaining. But she knew she couldn’t simply flee. Not yet. This was the chance she’d been waiting for, the moment when Cliff approached her on his own— and if she let it slip by, she might never get another opportunity. Not to mention, she and Clark didn’t have much time.

Her heart raced, but she breathed deeply again, feeling the urgency of making a decision. She could back off, but she knew she should do this. And if Cliff was there, extending his hand, it was an opportunity to face it head-on— in some way, a necessary step. She pulled her eyes away from Clark before he could undo her resolve with a single glance.

With a small nod, almost imperceptible, she accepted. His hand gently squeezed hers, and she allowed the touch to linger, trying to control the anxiety that bubbled up in her veins.

"Alright," she murmured, letting him guide her to the center of the street transformed into a dance floor. "Let’s dance."

Notes:

I know it's been a while, and I confess I was eager to update, but college has not been giving me much time. I finally managed to find some time today to dedicate to this chapter, and I hope you all liked it! The next chapters might take a little longer to come out, but I hope I won't be away for too long without updating.

Thank you to everyone who left a kind comment during these days, you are all so sweet, and I love seeing how this fic has been received.

P.S.: If you have any songs you think fit Clark and Mads, share them with me. I would love to know your take on these two!

Chapter 10: Orbital Collision

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER TEN.

---

 

The discomfort Madelyne carried didn’t ease; on the contrary, it seemed to intensify with every step, with every touch Cliff Turner dared to impose without even noticing. There was something in his presence that unsettled her, as if every choice that had led her there was suddenly being questioned. And Mads realized, with a sharp pang of distaste, that this wasn’t new at all: whenever they were together, Cliff had that unique ability to dig up old regrets and plant new ones, deeper than the last.

More regrets than Mads could ever count on her fingers—and probably with a few fingers left over for the ones still to come.

The soft music filling the square floated around them, carrying a rhythm that should have been light and graceful, but for Mads felt heavy in every movement. They waltzed—or at least Cliff liked to think they did. Madelyne kept her face turned to the opposite side, a deliberate effort to stay neutral, as if the gesture itself was an act of self-preservation. Her hands rested mechanically on his shoulders, stiff and uneasy. Cliff, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious to the tension radiating from her. That crooked smile of his was what he likely believed to be charming, but to Mads, it was only a reminder of how wrong she had been to think this dance might be worth it.

“The city has never looked so beautiful. Maybe you’re the reason for that,” he said, trying to fill the silence with words meant to sound light, but that only tightened the knot in her chest. “It brings back such good memories, you know?”

Mads swallowed hard, the bitter taste of regret mixing with the sweet music of the square. And deep inside, she couldn’t help but think: Good for whom, Cliff? Certainly not for me.

“The spring dance we went to together,” Cliff’s voice carried a note of satisfaction, as if the memory were some private trophy he polished whenever he needed to feel victorious. When Madelyne’s silence stretched too long, he pressed on with even more enthusiasm: “You and I as prom king and queen… We really were the best couple in that school.”

She arched a brow, disbelief etched clearly across her face.

“You think so?” she asked, her tone laced more with irony than curiosity. “Some people in town would say otherwise.”

“Oh, well.” He shrugged carelessly, as though the opinion of the entire town were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “You and Clark became the favorites, that’s true. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t have good times.”

Mads narrowed her eyes, studying him. His confident smile didn’t falter, not even for an instant.

“Cliff, what exactly do you remember about our breakup?” The question slipped out before she could rationalize it, and for the first time, he looked at her with genuine puzzlement, as though the thought itself was too peculiar to fit into the neat little script he kept in his memory.

“I remember we ended on good terms.” The reply came quickly, almost rehearsed. Madelyne had to summon all her self-control not to wrinkle her nose, not to let the disbelief rising in her throat spill out.

“It was an amicable breakup,” he continued, as if to reinforce the story. “And you were the one who asked to end things. You said you thought it wasn’t working between us. I never really understood why, never saw it that way.”

Each word seemed to settle between them like a painting brushed with colors far too artificial—pretty from a distance, but false at the slightest touch. Mads watched him intently, searching in every expression, every inflection of his voice, for the faintest sign of dishonesty or hesitation. Part of her needed to believe that Cliff, like her and Clark, might also be awake in that distorted reality and only pretending otherwise.

But there was nothing there. Just the calm conviction of someone who truly believed in his own version of events. No cracks, no flicker of awareness.

Just like everything else in that city, polished to perfection, even their ending seemed to have been rewritten in soft hues, a sanitized version of a much harsher story. Not that there had been shouting or dramatic scenes at the time—the breakup itself had been nearly silent. What tore her apart came later, in the poisoned whispers Cliff spread, rumors so persistent they seeped into every corner of Smallville. He hadn’t just hurt her; he had helped dig an even deeper trench between her and her father, each spiteful comment like a shovelful of dirt thrown over what remained of their relationship.

The relationship itself had been nothing but a string of stumbles and frustrations, like a timeline scattered with inevitable little disasters. And those last months were the worst, as though every wrong decision had piled up until it all collapsed. So realizing that all of it had simply vanished from that reality—as if it had never happened—left Mads with a nagging sense of dislocation. Because she remembered. Vividly. And the city, it seemed, had chosen to forget.

“But even without fully understanding your reasons, I’m happy for you.” Cliff’s voice cut through her thoughts. He was still guiding her through the square, his hand at her waist as firm as it was intrusive. “If that’s what you wanted... Clark, and all the rest.”

The name was spoken with rehearsed care, wrapped in cordiality. But Madelyne knew too well the subtle tones of resentment. They were there, hidden beneath the smooth surface of his words, like thorns covered in silk.

And to her discomfort, she couldn’t quite decide what intrigued her more: the memory of everything Cliff had truly done, or the way he still seemed incapable of leaving the past behind.

Madelyne let a small, controlled smile slip—one of those that could mean many things. The music shifted into a slower, almost lazy rhythm, but inside her everything was beating fast. If Cliff wanted to play at remembering, she could play too—but by her own rules.

“Funny how well you seem to recall my reasons,” she said, her tone soft, almost casual. “Especially since you just admitted you never understood them.”

For a single moment—no more than that—his smile faltered. And that fraction of a second was enough for Mads to know she had touched on something sore. But then Cliff recovered, steady once again in his role as the nostalgic gentleman.

“Well, maybe I didn’t understand back then. But I accepted it. After all, you seemed certain.”

“Conviction.” She repeated the word as if savoring its weight. “It’s a complicated thing, isn’t it? Sometimes we’re so sure of something... until we realize that certainty was never really ours.”

Cliff chuckled softly, as though trying to lighten the air.

“You’ve always been dramatic, Mads. Still seeing depth where there isn’t any.”

She smiled too, though the gesture never reached her eyes.

“Maybe. But I’ve also learned that sometimes the shallowest things are nothing more than a disguise for something deeper.” Her fingers pressed lightly against his shoulder, a gesture that could be mistaken for closeness, but in truth was just a silent reminder that she held more control over the conversation than she let on.

Cliff’s gaze drifted for a moment, tracing the outline of the square’s lights, and his pause was almost imperceptible.

“You’ve always had this habit of complicating the simple.”

“Or maybe I just see what people would rather not admit.” Her voice was low, wrapped in a calculated sweetness. “For example... this town. Don’t you feel like everything here is... different?”

He blinked, caught off guard by the question, but recovered quickly.

“Different how?”

“As if it’s been polished too much.” She let out a light laugh, as if it were nothing more than an idle remark. “No town is this perfect, Cliff. Not even Smallville.”

Cliff tilted his head, eyes narrowing in something that hovered between curiosity and amusement.

“Funny... Clark mentioned something similar the other day.”

Mads’s heart picked up pace, but her expression stayed calm, almost bored.

“Did he?” she asked, as if commenting on the weather.

He nodded, as though he’d just dropped a piece of universal wisdom.

“Maybe the two of you just need to learn how to relax and enjoy yourselves.”

And then he laughed. That laugh. The quintessential Cliff Turner laugh—brimming with self-confidence, laced with a trace of superiority, polished to perfection so it sounded spontaneous when, in reality, it was as rehearsed as a politician’s speech.

The music ended, and with it, her chance to slice through that false lightness with something sharp enough to cut it in half. Applause echoed through the square, couples drifted off in smiling clusters, and she too stepped away from Cliff—though not far enough. They were still face-to-face. Still close enough for her to feel the suffocating weight of that smile he wielded as both weapon and shield. The mayor’s smile. The one that said, I know what’s best for everyone, including you.

Mads, on the other hand, felt every muscle in her body wound tight, as if simply standing near him required physical and mental endurance.

“And speaking of that...” Cliff went on, with the ease of someone who believed he could just keep a conversation alive long past the moment it should have died with the last notes of the waltz. “I’d like to invite the two of you to dinner at my place this Friday. It’s my birthday, and I want the distinguished presence of a few friends.”

Of course, he paused—dramatically—before finishing, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

“Given recent events, I think you and Clark could use a distraction. What do you say, Maddy? Can I count on you both to be there?”

The invitation hung in the air, sweet and poisonous, like honey laced with venom.

And all Mads could think, while Cliff waited for her answer with that damned unshakable smile, was that relax and enjoy had never sounded so much like a trap.

“A birthday dinner.” She let the words slip out slowly, as though tasting them. “Sounds... delightful.”

“It will be.” He said it with the same conviction as someone declaring the sky was blue. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

Mads forced a small, harmless smile, but inside, a gear was turning.

“Clark will be thrilled to hear about it,” she added, her tone just a little too sweet not to be a provocation. “He always loves... social gatherings.”

“Then it’s settled,” he said, already claiming her answer as final. “Friday, seven o’clock. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a dinner to attend.”

She only nodded, feigning a docility that was light-years away from any real surrender, while her mind kept working like a power station on the verge of overload.

“It was great dancing with you, Madelyne.” Cliff lightly gripped her arm, as though he wanted to leave behind the mark of a possession disguised as courtesy, then leaned in to kiss her cheek. A quick gesture, almost rehearsed. A gesture that carried the audacity of someone who still believed he had that right. “Good to know there are no hard feelings between us.”

Mads froze on the spot, her posture flawlessly neutral, as if becoming a statue of herself was the only defense she had left. Inside, though, every muscle wanted to react, to scream that the resentment not only existed, but burned—an active, incandescent fire. His touch faded, but the sensation lingered, a stubborn stain that refused to leave.

When his eyes locked on hers, that perfectly placed roguish smile in place, devoid of even the faintest trace of remorse, Mads felt disgust rise in her throat. She swallowed hard, but the bitterness clung there, lodged like a thorn. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. For one fleeting moment, she was absolutely certain she’d come dangerously close to punching him.

She took a deep breath, a silent reminder that it wasn’t worth it. Cliff Turner was a certified idiot, and apparently that was a universal constant. Alternate reality or not, there was no version of him worth anything.

Only when she realized she was alone—the air lighter without him beside her—did Mads lift her gaze to search for Clark in the square. But the spot he had occupied was empty, and her brow furrowed as unease prickled at her chest.

She followed the trail to the bar where Peter worked, drawn by the mix of beer, fried food, and loud country music spilling out the open door. She didn’t have to search long. Clark was in the back, alone, focused on a solitary game of darts. Each throw was precise, sharp, as if every dart carried a carefully measured dose of restrained anger.

“Clark.” Her voice cut through the noise, forcing its way past the blaring music and the chatter of conversations. She weaved around a few tables until she reached him.

He looked at her, and what Mads found in his expression was impossible to pin down. Something between complete indifference and a resentful scowl. An uncomfortable blend that, frankly, looked a lot like Clark Kent’s specialty—pretending not to care.

Clark picked up another dart, rolling it between his fingers with a calm so deliberate it only made the opposite more obvious.

“Did you have fun?” he asked, aiming at the target without looking at her. His voice was steady, deep, almost indifferent... but Mads caught the tight line of his jaw, the near-invisible tension only someone who knew him well would notice.

He twirled another dart slowly between his fingers, in no hurry to throw it. His eyes returned to the target, but the rigidity in his jaw betrayed the truth: his attention was fixed elsewhere—on her, and on what he had just witnessed.

Mads frowned.

“With Cliff?”

The third dart flew, striking dead center on the board—too precise for someone pretending indifference. Clark drew a deep breath before answering.
“That’s what it looked like. You two seemed... very comfortable together.”

She blinked, taken aback.

“You’re upset because you saw me dance with him?”

“No.” He answered too quickly. So quickly it sounded exactly like the opposite. His hand went to the back of his neck, scratching at a nonexistent spot as his gaze slid away from her. “It’s just... I don’t trust him. Never have.”

“It was just a dance, Clark. Nothing more.”

“Yeah.” He threw the dart. It landed square in the bullseye, but he didn’t look satisfied. His shoulders were stiff, like he’d used more strength than necessary. “Just a dance.” He repeated it quietly, his voice carrying something she couldn’t quite name right away.

Mads studied him for a moment, trying to piece it together—the way he avoided her eyes, the tight edge in his voice, the stubborn precision of every dart as if it were his way of controlling what he refused to admit. Until it clicked. Simple. Obvious. Almost funny.

“Wait a second.” She stepped closer, crossing her arms, one eyebrow arched. “You’re... jealous?”

Clark finally looked at her, his blue eyes wide, caught somewhere between shock and denial.

“What? Me?” He let out a nervous laugh, scratching his neck again as if his own skin had turned too tight. “No, Mads, of course not. That’s... that’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, ridiculous, huh?” She took another step forward, savoring every flicker of his discomfort. “Because it sure looks like it.”

“It’s not.” He shook his head far too quickly, the tips of his ears turning red. “I just... I don’t like the way he looks at you. That’s all. But jealous? No. Definitely not.”

He set the next dart down on the table, as if he didn’t trust his own hand to hold it, and made a move to step away.

“Clark...” Her voice carried a hint of amusement, but also something softer—something she didn’t care to admit.

He raised his hands, like he could cut the conversation off right there.

“Don’t start.” The shy, awkward smile flickered for a second. “I... I’m getting a drink. You want anything?”

And before she could answer, Clark was already turning, striding across the bar in long steps, clearly fleeing—as if his embarrassment were a fire and the only option was escape.

Madelyne stood there, watching him disappear between the tables. Part of her wanted to laugh, part of her wanted to chase after him and poke at the wound just to see how long he could keep denying it. But in the end, she only sighed, biting her lip to hide the smile that insisted on breaking free.

Clark Kent, jealous. Who would’ve thought?

---

The cold night wind hit Madelyne as soon as she pushed the wooden door of the cabin shut behind her with a dry click. Instinctively, she hunched in on herself, arms wrapping tighter as she pulled the purple cardigan closer around her body, as if she could build a barrier against the chill—and against something else, something invisible that gnawed at her restlessness. Still, no matter how much the cold tried to claim her attention, Mads’s eyes stayed fixed on him.

Clark was sitting on the bed of the pickup, his back to the cabin’s entrance, staring at the night sky with a silence that felt both contemplative and defensive. Since they’d returned from the Festival, barely a handful of words had passed between them, and Mads—never one for conversations that didn’t revolve around equations or constellations—had naturally withdrawn, retreating into the safe space of a room that, in that moment, felt more like her refuge than ever.

And yet, something pulled her. An invisible thread, fragile but insistent, guided her steps toward him. Slowly, without hesitation, Mads closed the distance, each step weighted with that same blend of familiarity and apprehension she had always felt at Clark’s side. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting her eyes for the briefest moment before looking away again, back into his quiet world.

She settled beside him on the truck bed, a silent gesture of closeness, and soon the two of them were simply there, side by side, gazing at the stars. No words were needed; there was no rush. The memory of all those summers spent the same way, with nothing but the universe as company, stirred a quiet nostalgia that softened—if only slightly—the night’s cold and the weight of everything left unsaid.

Clark reached for the small cooler tucked into the corner of the truck bed, pulling out two chilled glass bottles of soda. The faint clink of glass sounded as he handed one to Madelyne, the gesture natural, careful. She accepted it, her fingers brushing briefly against his, and felt the sharp, insistent spark of familiarity. Nothing shifted in her expression—or at least she hoped it didn’t—but her heart was racing at a pace that betrayed any façade of neutrality.

Silence settled over them once more, filled only by the distant song of crickets and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. The stars scattered across the black sky seemed almost excessive, far too generous, as if trying to make up for everything suffocating about Smallville with a beauty too overwhelming to ignore.

“You’re way too quiet, Kent,” Madelyne said, her voice breaking the silence with a mix of teasing and curiosity.

Clark tilted his head, taking a few seconds before answering.

“Just thinking.” His pause was heavy, too thoughtful to be casual. “Since we lost the competition, do you have another plan?”

“Cliff invited us to dinner on Friday. At his house.” Mads rolled her eyes, as if the idea carried more weight than it should. “Birthday. According to him, it’d be good for us to go and ‘unwind.’” She made air quotes, her tone laced with irony. “We didn’t get the Festival Award dinner, but in a way, we got this one. Mission accomplished—even if through the back door.”

Clark gave a quiet nod, eyes drifting skyward for a moment.

"Do you think it’s just an excuse for him to get closer to you?" he asked, his voice calm but firm enough not to sound like simple curiosity.

"Probably." Mads scrunched her nose, letting out a nearly grumpy sigh. "But he’s an idiot if he thinks there’s any chance. I’m dealing with him because I have to, not because I want to. If it were up to me, we’d be miles away from him."

Clark looked at her again, his brows slightly raised.

"You never told me why you two broke up all those years ago."

"Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the rumors about me, Kent." Mads gave a short, humorless laugh.

"I have," he admitted without hesitation. "But I never believed a word of it."

She held his gaze for a few seconds, weighing the seriousness that always seemed etched into those blue eyes.

"Some of them were convincing. Some were even true. I wouldn’t blame you if you had believed every single one."

Mads lifted the soda bottle to her lips, took a slow sip, and wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand—as if keeping busy could shield her from the weight of the conversation.

Clark didn’t look away.

"Your word matters more to me than anything they said." His words were simple, but carried a conviction so physical it felt impossible to doubt.

There was something in the way he looked at her that made her turn away first. The weight of that gaze was too much, even for her. She took a deep breath, breaking the contact, as if trying to regain the air that suddenly seemed gone.

"I broke up with Cliff because of something that happened at Whitney Fordman’s house... about three months before graduation." Madelyne’s voice came out low, almost hesitant, as though each word had to break through an invisible barrier before escaping.

Clark didn’t say anything. He only leaned slightly closer, attentive, as though his very presence was a net ready to catch her before she fell.

"We had never gone that far before," she said, turning the bottle in her hands, her eyes fixed on the foam that had long since disappeared. "It had always just been kissing, making out, nothing beyond that. The truth is, I never felt like there was... a real connection. And I didn’t want to sleep with someone I didn’t trust." She paused, inhaling deeply. "If I’m honest, I only got involved with him to spite my father. There was nothing real there. There never was."

The silence stretched between them. Clark still didn’t look away, which forced her to breathe deeply again, like she was bracing herself before diving under.

"That night, at the party, I drank too much." The words spilled quickly, as if they needed to be expelled before she could regret them. "And Cliff tried to... push things. In his car. I was drunk, but still sober enough to say I didn’t want to. I told him no—more than once. He didn’t stop." Her throat tightened. "When I tried to get out, he fought me."

Clark pressed his lips together, his jaw tightening. "Did he...?"

"No." Mads answered immediately, almost urgently. "No, nothing happened. But only because Lana showed up. If it hadn’t been for her..." The sentence broke off, and the silence that followed said more than words could. "Well, let’s just say that after that night I decided I would never touch alcohol again."

"Lana never told me," his voice was low, but the weight in it was impossible to miss. Frustration laced every word.

"I asked her not to." Madelyne rested her elbows on her knees, leaning forward a little. "I just wanted to break up with Cliff and move on. That was the final straw. We’d been together for two years, barely holding on. But after that night... there was nothing left."

Clark frowned, understanding before she even said it. "And he spread the rumors."

She nodded.

“He made up stories. Told the entire school I’d sleep with anyone. And his friends helped decorate the lies.” Her voice hardened, but there was no longer anger in it, only the echo of something old. “My father believed every word. Because it made sense to him. Because I ran, rebelled, challenged him... It was easier to assume I was the villain in the story than to admit he was an absent father.”

The memory cut through her again: the last fight, the shouting, the metallic taste of humiliation. It hadn’t just been the rumors; it had been her father’s eyes, heavy with disappointment that crushed her more than any lie ever could.

“That’s when I knew I couldn’t stay.” She lifted her eyes to Clark, and there was a strange serenity in them now. “I didn’t belong in that house anymore. Or in that town. Leaving was easy. Maybe the easiest part of it all. I just let Smallville paint me however it wanted. I settled for being the ‘worst kind of woman.’”

The sarcasm was sharp in her voice, especially as she lifted the soda bottle to her lips again.

Clark took a few seconds before speaking, and when he did, there was an unmistakable warmth in his voice. “I’m sorry, Mads. If I had known…”

“Hey.” She laid her hand on his arm, firm, almost in reprimand. “Don’t do that to yourself. It’s been ten years. I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty.” Her gaze softened, and for a moment, she let sincerity break through her walls. “I’m telling you because you deserve to know the truth. That’s all.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes still locked on hers, as if silently swearing he believed every word.

“You didn’t deserve any of that, Mads.” Clark’s words came quiet but steady, as if there wasn’t even room for debate. “Not what Cliff did, not what they said, not the way your father reacted.”

Mads almost laughed—a short, humorless sound. “Nobody deserves that. But I survived, didn’t I?”

Clark studied her closely, as if trying to decipher something she didn’t dare put into words. The way his eyes softened only reinforced what she had always known but never admitted aloud: Kent had that infuriating gift of looking at you as though he could see past the façade, past the carefully built armor.

“You did survive.” He nodded. “But even so... you should never have had to go through it alone.”

Her chest tightened, a nearly physical ache, as if his words had struck a place she preferred to keep hidden. That “alone” carried a cruel weight, because that was exactly how it had been, despite all appearances.

Back then, she had been surrounded by people—friends, classmates, easy smiles, constant praise. She was the center of so much attention, always lit by eyes that followed her as if she were larger than life. And yet, when everything collapsed, when the rumors spread like poison, none of those faces stayed. No one held her hand. No one chose to remain.

That was the painfully real part. It didn’t matter how many people seemed to stand by her; in the end, she faced it all in the suffocating silence of her own room, propped up only by pride and the fear of showing weakness.

Clark watched her quietly, and there was something in his eyes—not pity, not judgment, but a quiet, almost devastating understanding—that made her look away first.

For a few moments, neither of them said a word. Only the distant chirping of crickets and the soft clink of glass when Mads idly twisted the bottle between her fingers filled the air. The metal of the truck bed pressed uncomfortably against her legs, but the sky above made up for it: an ocean of stars, so vast and so familiar, it almost felt like it stretched out just for the two of them.

Clark was slowly turning his own bottle as if it were the most fascinating thing in the universe—though Mads knew it wasn’t.

“Ever wonder…” he began, resting the bottle against his knee and fixing his gaze on some lost star above, “what would’ve happened if you’d stayed?”

Madelyne drew in a deep breath, the sound loud in her own ears. Of course she had wondered. Many times. Probably too many. Especially in Denver, when life seemed to spin too fast and she stumbled trying to keep up. In those moments, her mind drifted back to Smallville—to everything she had left behind, including the wounds she pretended not to see.

Yes, she had imagined it. What it would have been like if she’d stayed. If she’d faced, once and for all, the chaotic mess of that last year in Kansas instead of running from it. If she’d surrendered to her father’s authoritarian whims, if she’d accepted a life that never fit her—as if she could shrink her own bones just to squeeze into a small, suffocating box.

In the end, she knew she didn’t regret leaving. Not entirely. Because her escape had also been a beginning. The price was steep, yes, but it was the same price so many women paid just to occupy a space that should have belonged to them by right. Madelyne knew that. She had felt it in every classroom where she had to raise her voice one notch higher to be heard. In every meeting where an idea of hers only gained credibility once repeated by a male colleague. In every email she signed with her full name so her work wouldn’t be mistaken for some student’s draft.

Being a woman in science was like running a marathon with weights tied to your ankles, all while pretending the race was fair. And being a woman in astrophysics seemed to carry an extra burden: the judgment of being “too brilliant” for an ordinary life, yet never brilliant enough to be respected without caveats. In the scientific field, the universe itself seemed less infinite than the barriers erected by colleagues who smiled politely before quietly shutting her out of important collaborations.

And then there were other battles: research grants threatened by budget cuts, projects canceled because the nation’s priorities lay elsewhere, invitations to international conferences limited not by her ability but by restrictions placed on those who hadn’t been born in “strategic” places. Science—supposed to be universal, neutral, shared—had borders. Painfully human borders.

She had carved out a place in Denver at the cost of sleepless nights in front of telescopes, of the solitude that came hand in hand with relentless dedication. Of choosing, always, to put her work before any other life she might have built. And still, deep down, one question kept gnawing at her in moments like this: what if she had stayed?

Madelyne took a sip of her cold Coke, the sweet fizz bursting in her mouth before sliding down her throat with a cutting chill, as if it could freeze the doubt along with it. She knew there was no answer. There never would be.

Clark didn’t say anything, but she could feel the weight of his gaze on her profile, as if he were trying to see past her skin, past her bones—straight into the place where she kept all the possible versions of herself.

“Maybe I’d be teaching physics at the high school. Maybe I’d still be fighting with my dad every Sunday. Maybe…” she met his eyes, lit by the pale reflection of the moon, “maybe we’d never have drifted apart the way we did.”

“Or maybe,” he said, his voice low, as though afraid of scaring off the memory of what they were sharing, “you would’ve spent your whole life wondering what might’ve happened if you had left.”

The silence between them stretched. He looked back up at the sky, but the muscle ticking in his jaw betrayed the calm he tried to project.

“I never thought you were wrong to leave, Mads. And now, after everything you’ve told me, if I ever had any doubts, I don’t anymore.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, nor was it resigned—it was just honest, almost awkward in the way he struggled to fit thoughts that were far too big into short sentences. “You always knew what you wanted. And you went after it.”

“It doesn’t always feel like it was the right choice,” Madelyne said, swallowing hard.

Clark turned his face back to her. There was no judgment in his blue eyes—only that calm, almost irritating steadiness he always carried.

“I don’t think the ‘right choice’ really exists. There are only the choices we can live with. And you...” he paused, the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips, “you’ve always carried more weight than anyone I know.”

Mads tilted her head, raising an eyebrow with that light, ironic tone she used so often.

“I don’t know about that. You kind of beat me in that department.” She raised the bottle and pressed the cold glass lazily to her lips. “Being Superman must be way more exhausting than being an astrophysicist.”

The reaction was instant. Clark choked—literally choked on his drink, like the universe had decided to make him vulnerable for three whole seconds. He thumped his own chest, coughed a few times, eyes wide with pure shock.

“How did you... How did you find out?” he managed, disbelief clear in his voice, those blue eyes fixed on her.

Mads couldn’t hide the smile. It spread slowly, sly and satisfied—the kind of smile she knew disarmed him more than it should’ve.

“I wasn’t sure. It was just a theory.” She took a small sip of her soda, clearly pleased with the reaction she’d gotten. “But thank you, Clark. You just confirmed it.”

For a second, he just stared at her, as if still trying to reassemble the pieces of the puzzle she had so unceremoniously scattered. His disbelief was written on every inch of his face, so genuine it was almost funny.

“You...” he began, hesitant, his voice lower than usual, laced with surprise. “You were testing me.”

Mads shrugged innocently, though the glint in her eyes gave her away.

“Theories need proof.” Her smile widened—lazy, deliberate. “Besides, I’ve known you since we were kids, Clark. I always knew you could be... peculiar.”

A short laugh escaped him—unintentional, before his expression shifted just slightly. His blue eyes gleamed with a rare mischief, subtle but unmistakable.

“Is that so?” he said, tilting his head just a bit. “Well, what about you? How long have you been a Green Lantern?”

“What?” she blurted out, stunned.

Clark remained composed—or at least he tried to. The hint of amusement in his smile gave him away.

“No point denying it. I heard you the other night. And then...” he paused, but only for a second, “I saw you. Leaving through the window. Flying.”

Mads blinked, stunned, her stomach dropping like she’d lost all gravity.

“Wait... you knew? This whole time?” Her voice came out higher than she’d have liked, a mix of shock and indignation.

Clark raised his hands in a slightly defensive gesture, though his gaze stayed steady, honest—as if asking her to trust him.

“You didn’t tell me either.” His tone wasn’t accusatory—just calm, matter-of-fact, as always. “And in my defense, I never really found the right moment to bring it up.”

Mads raised an eyebrow, still twirling her cup absentmindedly between her fingers.

“Well, in my defense, I didn’t exactly plan on telling you about it anytime soon.”

His blue eyes narrowed just a little, curious.

“And why not?”

She let out a sigh, almost offended, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Because it’s a secret identity, Clark. You don’t just go handing out that kind of information like it’s a grocery store flyer,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Unlike Guy, I actually value my personal life.”

Clark pulled a face—a small gesture that somehow looked exaggeratedly human on him, like he was trying to downplay the weight of what he was about to say. He shook his head slightly, thinking silently before responding.

“Depends,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “If you really trust people, it shouldn’t be a problem to share.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, a hesitant motion.

“Anyway... I just didn’t know how to tell you I was Superman.”
A faint smile curved his lips, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was saying it out loud. “Honestly, I’m surprised Guy didn’t spill it first.”

Mads let out a dry laugh—too short to be amused.

“Let’s just say Guy and I aren’t exactly fans of each other.” She twisted the bottle between her hands, avoiding his eyes for a moment. “So no, he never would’ve told me.”

Clark seemed to weigh her words for a second, then nodded.

“That makes sense,” he said at last, his voice low and calm, like he was confirming a solved equation in his head. “Still, I wish you had told me.”

Mads huffed, uncrossing and recrossing her legs like she needed to do something with her body before her brain exploded.

“And I wish you had told me,” she shot back, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow like she was delivering the final verdict. “Look at that—stalemate.”

The laugh that escaped him was soft, almost restrained, but so genuine it caught her off guard. It was a warm sound, unguarded, and Mads realized—with irritating clarity—that she was already smiling back before she even noticed. A second later, they were both laughing, like the mutual confession had cracked something open in the weight they'd been carrying.

Clark ran a hand through his hair, still laughing, his expression lit up in a way that rarely appeared on Superman’s face—but felt perfectly natural on Clark Kent.

“This is so us, you know?” he said, his blue eyes locked on hers, sparkling with humor and a quiet tenderness. “Finding out each other’s secret identity like this.”

Mads lifted her bottle, pointing it at him like it was a pointer in a scientific debate.

“It couldn’t have happened in a more... obvious way.” A crooked smile tugged at her lips. “Which makes sense, considering we’re both great at ignoring the obvious.”

Clark tilted his head, the smile still playing on his lips—softer now, almost thoughtful.

“Maybe that’s what keeps us in orbit,” he said, spinning the bottle in his hands and gazing at the moon’s reflection on the surface like it was some complicated equation. “We just keep circling each other, never quite admitting how much we already knew.”

She raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“How romantic, Kent. Comparing us to celestial bodies that never actually meet.” Madelyne said, dryly.

Clark lowered his head, a quiet laugh vibrating in his chest—so subtle it felt like it existed just for her. When he looked up again, his expression was so calm, so steady, that Madelyne had the distinct feeling those words weren’t improvised. He’d kept them ready, stored away with care, as if he’d always known she’d tease him like this eventually.

“I like to think differently,” he said, voice low and full of conviction. “They do meet. They just need the right moment.”

And in that instant, Clark’s eyes weren’t just blue—they were the entire sky reflected back at her, deep and clear like the promise of a future he truly seemed to believe in. The impact hit Madelyne squarely. The world around them dissolved into silence, irrelevant, as if it had lost all weight and color. All that remained was her heart stumbling in her chest—and his, seemingly dictating its own rhythm just by looking at her.

It was impossible to ignore. It was all there: in the way he looked at her, in the constant pull between them, that unspoken dance neither of them ever fully admitted to. But now, sitting this close, Madelyne couldn’t pretend not to understand what it meant. Not when her whole body responded to the intensity of that gaze.

Her eyes drifted without thinking—from his eyes to his mouth. So close. Close enough that their breaths mingled, warm in the cool night air. What if she just leaned in? What if that invisible line between friendship and something more was finally crossed? Clark Kent—her childhood best friend, the point she always gravitated toward, even when she tried to resist. Could they really do this?

Every last shred of logic inside her evaporated. All that remained was the restlessness, the unanswered question, and the way Clark was looking at her—as if he wanted the exact same thing. His hand lifted, hesitant but certain, reaching toward her face.

“Clark, I...” Her voice faltered. The word died in her throat before it could be born.

He suddenly looked away, the abrupt movement snapping her out of the moment. His brow furrowed, attention pulled by something beyond her.

“What is that?” he asked, his tone grave.

“What?” Her confusion shifted to alertness as she followed his gaze.

And then she saw it.

Cutting across the darkness of the sky, a glowing streak sliced through the distance—too fast to be just a falling star. The bed of the pickup truck had become an unintentional watchtower, the two of them side by side, eyes locked on the fiery path in the sky.

“Is it a meteor?” Clark murmured, eyes still fixed on it.

“No,” Madelyne whispered, holding her breath. “It’s falling way too fast to be a meteor.”

The ground trembled beneath them as the impact rippled across the fields, the sound echoing far in the distance. Madelyne and Clark looked at each other—a quick glance, but one full of understanding. They didn’t need words to know what came next.

Seconds later, she was already hovering in the air, the ring on her finger glowing green as it lifted her, while Clark shot across the field in a blur too fast for the human eye to follow. The wind tugged at Madelyne’s coat as she flew through the sky; below, his silhouette cut swiftly across the terrain. They arrived almost at the same time, stopping at the edge of the still-smoldering crater.

The smell of scorched earth and burning metal filled the air, thick enough to sting the nose. Smoke rose in heavy spirals, obscuring whatever was inside the jagged wound in the ground. Madelyne touched down lightly, and Clark was already there, shoulder to shoulder with her, his breathing steady despite the sprint. Neither of them spoke—they just moved forward slowly, alert.

Then, without warning, something leapt out of the smoke and tackled Clark.

Madelyne reacted on instinct, her ring flaring as she summoned a glowing construct weapon. But the figure wasn’t hostile—not in the way she’d expected. It was a dog—large, with a white coat so bright it practically shimmered under the moonlight, and a red cape fluttering behind it.

“Wait… Krypto!” Clark gasped, winded as the dog knocked him onto his back and began licking his face with over-the-top enthusiasm, jumping on him repeatedly. “Stop! Hey—cut it out! Krypto!”

Mads froze for a second, energy still pulsing in her hand, unsure whether to laugh, back away, or ask out loud what the hell was going on. The dog didn’t look threatening at all—on the contrary, he looked absolutely ecstatic to be reunited with Clark, even if he was close to cracking a rib with all his excited bouncing. And Clark, for all his attempts to compose himself, couldn’t hide his flustered joy, eyes lit up between slobbery kisses, even as he tried to sound stern.

Meanwhile, something stirred at the bottom of the crater. A low sound—a dragging groan—drew Madelyne’s attention. The smoke was beginning to lift, revealing the outline of a figure collapsed on the scorched ground. She straightened, forgetting the dog entirely, and stepped forward cautiously, heart pounding in her chest.

Behind her, Clark finally managed to free himself from Krypto’s overzealous paws, standing up and brushing the dirt off his shirt. He was still trying—unsuccessfully—to keep the dog from nibbling at the hem of his pants when Madelyne’s voice called out to him, steady and sharp:

“Clark... You need to see this.”

There was something in her tone—alert, but also tinged with disbelief—that made Clark straighten immediately. After one last firm command to Krypto (“Behave, boy”), he walked over to her.

A young woman with blonde hair lay at the center of the crater, her body partially wrapped in a singed, tattered brown trench coat. Beneath it, the blue and red uniform stood out unmistakably, even stained with dirt and ash. She was propped on her elbows, one hand to her head, as if trying to get her bearings.

Krypto trotted up beside Clark, tilting his head with a curious whine, his tail wagging slowly. Madelyne took a deep breath, unable to take her eyes off the scene.

“Is that...” Mads whispered, unable to finish the sentence.

“Yeah, that’s my cousin.” Clark replied softly. “Kara.”

 

Chapter 11: Sweeter Than Fiction

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

---

That was not, by any means, how Clark had imagined seeing his cousin again.

To be fair, he hadn’t expected to see her so soon at all. Kara had a habit of vanishing for long stretches of time, so far from Earth that sometimes she felt more like a memory than a real presence. And yet, here she was: alive, awake, and devouring his entire pantry as if she hadn’t eaten in centuries.

Mads, seated beside him at the table, didn’t look particularly impressed. Her sharp green eyes tracked every movement of the blonde now buzzing around the kitchen with enough energy to light up the whole city. Mads’ coffee cup rose and fell in a steady rhythm, her lips brushing the porcelain as if each sip were either a way to stay calm—or to disguise her irritation.

The night before had been a different story. After finding Kara unconscious in the field, Clark had carried her back to the farm. She had slept deeply, Krypto sprawled at the foot of the bed like a loyal, furry bodyguard. Clark himself had been relegated to the couch. He and Mads had postponed any discussion until morning—a morning that, unsurprisingly, had already descended into chaos.

At dawn, instead of the promised peace, what greeted them was the sight of Kara taking over the kitchen. And, of course, Krypto, who at some point had turned the living room into an improvised battlefield before being exiled to the yard. Not by Clark, but by Madelyne. The most surprising part hadn’t been her order—it had been the fact that Krypto obeyed without hesitation. Clark still wasn’t sure whether to be impressed… or slightly offended.

“I know there’s a doormat that says ‘make yourself at home,’” Mads murmured, her voice dripping with acid, “but I don’t think that was meant as a literal instruction.”

Kara, halfway through her third bowl of cereal swimming in milk, lifted her blue eyes to meet hers. She didn’t say a word. She just kept the spoon between her lips and chewed slowly, as if each bite of sugary flakes was far more urgent than any attempt at civility.

Clark sighed. This was going to be… interesting.

“I had a long night,” Kara finally said, her voice dragging as if she wanted to remind everyone she had survived things far worse than judgmental stares. “So I think I deserve a little food. Especially after everything you two just told me.”

She shifted her attention back to the brimming bowl, gripped it with both hands, and leaned against the counter as if it were her throne. The pajamas she wore were a plain set Mads had left at the bedside the night before. A near-gentle gesture, if one ignored the fact that all they had done was strip off her boots and scorched overcoat before letting her sleep like a rock.

“This whole ‘dimensional anomaly,’ a city that grants people’s most bizarre wishes, and—of course—the two of you being married…” Kara raised an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Look, I’ve seen a lot of weird things before. But that one easily makes my top five.”

Clark exhaled, his broad shoulders tensing in a way that betrayed more exhaustion than he probably intended.

“Yeah, we were pretty shocked ourselves when we got here. But the whole city sincerely believes we’re married.”

“Oh, I noticed. Saw the pictures on the wall.” Kara tilted her head, her blue eyes sparking with amusement. “Pretty disappointed I wasn’t invited to the wedding, by the way. And here I thought I was your favorite cousin.”

“You’re my only cousin,” Clark replied, his patient tone making it clear he already knew it was useless to fight that kind of teasing.

“Which makes it even more obvious I should’ve gotten an invitation.” She lifted her spoon in triumph before shoving another mouthful of cereal into her mouth, chewing with the satisfaction of someone who thrived on their own insolence.

Madelyne set her coffee cup down on the table with a sharp click of porcelain against wood.

"Right. Now that you've heard the entire chaotic narrative of Smallville," he said, each word calculated, as if finally imposing order on a battlefield, "can you tell us what exactly happened that made you fall from the sky?"

"Oh, that." Kara swirled the spoon in her bowl, as though she were choosing her words with the same care she'd use to select colorful marshmallows. "Well... I was coming to Earth because I wanted Clark to take care of Krypto for a while. But then something kind of weird happened. I got into a fight, my ship was stolen, I was attacked with kryptonite, and before I knew it, I was plummeting from the sky. Not exactly in that order."

She said it all in such an absurdly casual tone that it could’ve been a grocery list: milk, bread, granola, kryptonite.

Clark froze, blinking.

"Sorry, what do you mean your ship was stolen?"

Kara shrugged, taking another spoonful into her mouth.

"Minor detail. I’ll deal with it as soon as I’m out of here." She swallowed, glancing at the two of them as if it were nothing. "So, can you watch Krypto for a while?"

Clark and Madelyne exchanged a look. The kind of silent exchange that said everything without a single word: this was not going to be simple.

Kara frowned.

"What?"

"Well... about you leaving here..." Clark rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "That’s kind of not possible."

Kara’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth.

"Not possible? What do you mean, not possible?"

"There’s a dome around the city." Madelyne crossed her arms, her tone carrying the weariness of someone already used to explaining the impossible. "No one in, no one out. We’re trapped here."

Kara blinked. Once. Twice.

"Impossible," she said. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

"We’re not," Madelyne answered for them both.

And in less than a second, the cereal bowl was abandoned on the table, and Kara had vanished in a blonde blur through the front door.

"Kara!" Clark shot to his feet, racing to the porch before taking off after her. The gust of wind they created was so strong it made the living room curtains slam against the windows.

He chased her across the fields, watching her hurl herself toward the horizon with the urgency of someone desperate to prove everyone else wrong. The sky seemed to tremble with her speed—until, with a sharp, cracking boom, Kara slammed headlong into the invisible barrier.

The impact hurled her backward, her body sent tumbling through open air. Clark pushed harder, muscles taut, and caught her before the ground could receive her with the same violence. He held her against his chest midair, her weight pressing into him, his heart pounding.

"I told you," he murmured, breathless.

Kara squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing uneven, her fingers still curled tight with frustration.

"I hate it when you’re right."

She pulled away the moment Clark set them both down, their feet sinking into the vibrant green grass of the endless field. Everything around them seemed to overflow with life. Everything—except Kara Danvers, who stood out like a fixed point of defiance in the midst of so much color.

"This doesn’t make sense." Her voice came out lower, rougher. "Nothing holds Kryptonians. Nothing."

"This dome does," Clark replied. The calm in his voice wasn’t truly calm—just the resignation of someone who had slammed against the wall enough times to learn. "I tried too."

She turned her head to look at him, eyes sparking as if waiting for him to admit he was exaggerating—or joking. But Clark wasn’t.

The memory cut through his mind in silence: Mads, a few days earlier, confessing she had tried to leave and failed. The way he pretended it didn’t shake him, only to sneak out later that night to test it himself. The barrier had been there. Invisible. Impassable. An unseen line that, until recently, had started just behind the “Welcome to Smallville” sign.

But now…

Clark frowned, his gaze sweeping the landscape. They were past the sign. Far past it. Near the road.

"The dome’s bigger." The realization slipped out before he could soften the weight of it.

"What?" Kara’s confusion was sharp, impatient, as if he’d just spoken in riddles.

"Before, the barrier was only around the town." He pointed toward the horizon, his expression grim. "It started right at the Smallville sign. But look around… now we’re nearly in the middle of the road."

Kara followed his gesture, her eyes narrowing, jaw tight.

"So you’re saying this thing is… expanding?"

"That’s what it looks like." Clark held her gaze, steady, because softening the truth wouldn’t help. "And if it keeps going… it’ll cover the entire planet."

The silence between them grew heavy. Kara crossed her arms, taking a deep breath as if trying to swallow the idea—and, for the first time since she’d woken up, she didn’t just look angry. She looked scared.

They were back at the cabin in seconds, the front door slamming behind them with a crack that echoed through the room. As soon as they crossed the threshold, they found Madelyne on the floor, gathering up the mess Krypto had left behind. Her sharp, slightly exasperated gaze swept over every shredded pillow before she stuffed it into an already overflowing trash bag.

"Oh, you’re back," Madelyne said without looking up, her voice heavy with a mix of weariness and contained reproach. "Crisis mode over?"

"We’ve got a problem." Clark stepped forward, planting his feet firmly in front of her. Kara stood beside him, arms crossed, a glint of defiance in her eyes.

"Another one?" Madelyne finally looked up, raising a brow.

"A bigger one." Clark drew a deep breath, trying to rein in the urgency climbing his throat. "The dome’s expanding. It’s grown, and from what we can tell, it’ll keep spreading until it covers the rest of the world."

Madelyne froze mid-motion, the half-open bag of pillow stuffing still in her hands. Her gaze flicked between the two of them, her expression shifting: concern mixing with that cool, analytical logic that had always defined her.

"If that happens… everyone else will be affected. And if it reaches Metropolis, Gotham, Central City… no one will be immune."

"Perfect lives handed out to everyone—sweeter than fiction, I’d say," Kara remarked, her voice dripping with mockery, blue eyes sparking with irony.

"And along with that come the side effects," Clark added, his calm a sharp contrast to the chaos Kara exuded. "Masses of people having the same breakdown Mrs. Delaney had yesterday."

"She’s getting stronger." Madelyne’s voice was steady, but carried that clinical clarity that always unsettled Clark—because it meant she’d already run the numbers, tested the hypotheses in her head, and reached an inevitable conclusion. "It’s not just a barrier. It’s an organism replicating itself. Think of it like an infection: every new mind it captures becomes fuel, and the system only grows stronger. At the same time, the host—the person—starts to suffer a gradual collapse of their sanity. The process only ends when there’s nothing left intact to consume."

Clark closed his eyes for a moment, shoulders tight, as if he could bear the weight of that truth through posture alone. He knew what Madelyne was saying, even if she never spelled it out. If no one found a way to stop the spread, it wouldn’t end until there wasn’t a single intact mind left on Earth. Everyone would die.

"What do we do?" The question came out firm, but underneath it Clark already tasted the metallic bite of helplessness.

Kara didn’t hesitate.

"Do?" She laughed without humor, her mouth twisting into something close to disdain. "It’s a prison. One that swallows entire cities, one that not even a Green Lantern’s ring can breach. If Kryptonians can’t break through, do you really think there’s a way out?" Her blue eyes blazed—not with cruelty, but with the acidic lucidity of someone who had stared the absurdity of the universe in the face far too often.

Clark clenched his jaw, then drew a long breath before answering.

"The difference between accepting a prison and fighting it lies in what we choose to do while we still have room to act." He turned to his cousin, his voice steady but not harsh. "The dome hasn’t swallowed another city yet. It’s still confined to Smallville. That means we still have time."

It was Mads who stepped forward, her ring flaring with a green glow that turned the air in the room into a three-dimensional map of the region. The hologram floated before them, every street, every field, every edge of the dome outlined with geometric precision.

"On my first night here, I ran a scan." Her tone was methodical, precise, like an academic delivering a paper before a hostile committee. "What I found was an unregistered energy source, a frequency that doesn’t match any known Emotional Spectrum. Not will, not fear, not hate, compassion, or love. Nothing." She adjusted the hologram, and small pulses of light appeared in scattered points beneath the ground. "The anomaly emits signals below the surface, but not in a stable way. It’s as if something is deliberately distorting my readings, scrambling the signatures."

Kara crossed her arms, impatient.

"Translation: even the galaxy’s most advanced toy can’t find the source of this thing."

"Not yet," Mads corrected, her voice edged with sharp determination. "But if I isolate the regions where the distortion was strongest, I can rebuild a pattern. Not necessarily the origin point, but zones of higher activity now that it’s stronger and less subtle. If there’s a physical source sustaining this field, tracking those signatures may be the only way to reach it."

The hologram pulsed again, now highlighting scattered but interconnected points. Clark studied it, brow furrowed, heart caught between hope and unease. Kara only tilted her head, assessing the map.

"Okay, then why didn’t you do this earlier?" Kara pressed, arms crossed, impatience written all over her.

"Because those points shift every night." Mads didn’t blink. "They’re as unstable as everything else in this town. Before, the anomaly was diluted, nearly impossible to separate from background noise. Now, after the expansion, the intensity has increased. The energy spectrum is saturated—enough for me to mark zones of distortion rather than just detect vague interference. But that doesn’t mean they’re reliable points. They’re traces. Residual marks."

She touched the hologram, and Smallville’s contours folded like paper. Three distinct lights emerged: two within the town grid, flickering with intermittent tones; and a third, more solitary, near the mill a few miles away, radiating with a steadier, almost rhythmic frequency.

"Here." The projection rotated slowly, displaying the three points in sync. "Two in the city center, in densely populated areas. And one outside, near the mill. The urban ones seem more chaotic—maybe because proximity to people intensifies the instability. The mill, however, is different. More rhythmic. That could mean an anchor, some kind of base."

Clark leaned in, studying the points.

"Then we need to check them all."

"Exactly." Mads nodded, her green eyes lit by the reflection of the ring. "And fast, before they change again."

Kara uncrossed her arms, raising her brows.

"Let me guess. Group project."

"We don’t have a choice." Mads adjusted the hologram again, tracing green lines to mark the routes. "Clark and you will head into town. I’ll take the mill."

Clark turned his head toward her, concern etched on his face.

"Alone?"

"I’ve got a power ring, Clark." Her voice was firm but not arrogant—just a simple reminder. "If something happens, I’m the only one here who can protect myself without relying on brute force. Besides…" She tapped the isolated mill point, the green light pulsing beneath her finger. "This one looks more important. I need focus to analyze it. I can’t do that with you two smashing through walls or drawing half the city’s attention."

Clark drew a slow breath, weighing it before replying:

"Fine. But you’re taking Krypto with you."

As if he’d been waiting for his name, the dog appeared out of nowhere, planting himself at Clark’s side. His white fur seemed to glow under the green reflection of the hologram, tail wagging with childlike excitement as he stared directly at Mads.

"What?" Her brows shot up, incredulous. Mads closed her fist, the hologram vanishing like a puff of air. "No. I’m not taking the dog."

"Yes, you are." Clark held her gaze, calm but unyielding. "You don’t know what you’ll find out there. Going alone is too risky. Whatever happens, Krypto can help. And besides…" He allowed a half-smile, almost conspiratorial. "He already likes you better than me. And you’ve only known each other for a few hours."

Mads opened her mouth to protest, but Clark’s look was as solid as steel—and now the dog was sitting right in front of her, tongue lolling, as if waiting for her answer too. She shut her mouth, let out a quiet huff, and ran a hand through her hair in surrender.

"Fine," she sighed, resigned. "I’ll take the dog."

Krypto barked once, happily, as if he’d just received his official assignment.

Kara let out a short laugh, dripping with sarcasm.

"Great. The Green Lantern’s a dog-sitter now."

“It’s temporary,” Mads shot back immediately, her voice dry, though the faint flush on her cheeks betrayed her. “As soon as this is over, he goes back to you.”

Clark didn’t answer; he only ran a hand over the dog’s fur, stroking his head as if silently thanking him for taking on a responsibility no one else could. His gaze, however, stayed fixed on Mads, heavy with a quiet concern that said more than words ever could.

They walked together to her car, parked near the entrance. Madelyne slid behind the wheel, fingers steady on the steering wheel, while Krypto hopped onto the passenger seat, restless, as if sensing the weight of what was to come. Clark stopped by the window, watching her in silence. Behind him, Kara—now dressed in civilian clothes hastily pulled from Mads’s wardrobe—waited patiently, observing without interfering.

“Be careful,” Clark finally said, resting his hand on the frame of the window. “Any sign of danger, call me. Don’t think twice.”

“Clark, I can handle myself,” Madelyne replied, holding his gaze.

“I know you can,” his voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “But that doesn’t mean I can stop worrying. You might run into something out there you can’t even imagine.”

“That’s exactly why I’m going,” she said firmly, though her voice carried the faintest shadow of doubt. “If there’s something I can’t imagine, then I need to see it with my own eyes.”

The silence that followed felt endless. Krypto let out a low whine, impatient, pulling her attention for just a second. When she looked back at Clark, she found not only worry in his expression, but a genuine fear—one he rarely allowed to surface.

“Trust me,” she added softly now, almost like a plea.

Clark stepped back, each inch seeming like a battle lost against the instinct to stop her. At last, he nodded, his jaw tight.

“I’ve always trusted you,” he murmured.

Madelyne gave him only a faint smile, starting the engine slowly.

“Take care, both of you,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”

Clark and Kara raised a hand in silent farewell, watching until the car turned the corner and vanished from sight. Still, his eyes lingered on the empty street, as if he could keep following her even after she was gone. A trace of light glinted on the distant windshield, and Clark held on to it like a man refusing to accept the suddenness of absence.

“Wow…” Kara’s voice cut through the air, laced with that effortless irony that always suited her so well. “You’re really smitten with her. Don’t even bother trying to hide it.”

Clark rolled his eyes, a gesture meant to look indifferent, but it failed spectacularly as the warmth crept up his neck, betraying him in the form of a stubborn blush.

“It’s not—” he began, the words stumbling somewhere between denial and confession.

“Uh-huh.” Kara crossed her arms, one eyebrow arched, her gaze sharp as if she could read every thought he tried to bury. “Keep pretending, cousin. Just not with me.”

Clark rolled his eyes again, but the faint curve tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him—almost a smile. He hated to admit it, but Kara was right. And the fact that she was right only made it worse.

•  

Even though Kara kept insisting that flying to the city would be faster—far more practical, even—Clark remained unmoved. With that quiet stubbornness that defined him, he led her to the old pickup truck, as if the rusted metal were an inevitable extension of the human façade he insisted on preserving. For him, it was simple: don’t draw attention. Act like anyone else in a town far too perfect to be real. For Kara, however, the idea was absurd. Pathetic, even.

Still, she slid into the passenger seat without further argument, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the horizon. Not out of resignation, of course, but to calmly plan the most efficient way to retaliate. And, as always, her revenge came in the form of calculated discomfort.

“I still can’t believe you wished to be married to your childhood best friend.” The words slipped out the moment they parked.

Clark turned the key in the ignition, letting out a long sigh.

“I didn’t wish for that.”

“Oh, sure.” Kara tilted her head, her grin wicked. “Who would’ve guessed the great Superman’s deepest dream was to marry the girl who friendzoned him for twenty years? God, that is so you.”

He shot her a look, jaw tight.

“Can you drop it?”

“What?” Kara shrugged, clearly entertained by his irritation. “You’re always complaining we don’t talk enough, that I spend too much time off Earth, drinking on planets with weird gravity and picking fights with people who have three lungs. And now that I actually want to talk, you’re running away?”

Clark closed his eyes for a moment, like a man silently counting to ten.

“Can we talk about literally anything that doesn’t involve my love life? How about that?”

“Like what?” She arched a brow, challenging. “The weather?”

“I don’t know. Maybe about how you lost your ship.” The jab came dry, tossed out as they climbed out of the truck.

Kara’s expression soured immediately, like he’d pressed a bruise that hadn’t healed.

“Seriously, Clark? You’re gonna throw that in my face?”

They walked side by side, their steps in sync even if their moods were not.

“I didn’t lose it,” Kara corrected sharply, irritation lacing her tone. “It was stolen. I’ve said that already.”

“Right.” Clark adjusted his pace to match hers, his face far too serious to be mistaken for skepticism. “Stolen. Do you at least know who took it?”

“Of course I know.” She nodded, eyes fixed ahead, as if the cityscape was suddenly the most fascinating sight in the world.

“And? Are you gonna tell me who it was?”

She huffed, finally turning her face toward her cousin. Her blue eyes sparked with impatience.

“You’re really persistent, you know that? You don’t need to worry. It’s just some petty thief. Barely even worth mentioning.”

Clark raised a brow, unconvinced.

“Petty thief?”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them until Kara, with visible reluctance, folded her arms tighter across her chest.

“Her name’s Deva. Goes by Northstar.” The word came out like it tasted bitter. “An intergalactic scavenger. Specializes in showing up where she doesn’t belong and disappearing before you can even throw a punch.”

Clark stopped for a moment, studying her with that maddening calm that only ever made her mood worse.

“Wait. A woman stole your ship?”

“A woman?” Kara laughed, but there was no humor in it—just a sharp, dry sound laced with restrained anger. “She’s not a woman. She’s more like a parasite.” Her jaw tightened, as if admitting that the figure even existed was already granting the enemy a victory. “All she does is piss me off. It’s like her whole purpose in the universe is to torment me.”

Clark had to fight the urge to smile. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he masked it by rubbing the back of his neck.

“Unfortunately, that sounds like someone you’ve known for a long time.”

“I have,” Kara confirmed, bitterness clouding her eyes.

“You and this Deva seem to have… a lot of history.” He spoke slowly, choosing each word as though testing the ground.

Her head snapped toward him, blue eyes blazing with outrage.

“What are you implying?”

“Me? Nothing!” Clark lifted his hands in mock innocence. “Just seems like I’m not the only one here with a complicated relationship.”

“Relationship?!” Kara nearly stumbled on the word, spitting it out like poison. “We don’t have a relationship! I hate that lunatic. She once shot me with a kryptonite bullet, did you know that?!”

Clark arched a brow, unbothered, as if they were discussing the weather.

“She must’ve had her reasons.”

“Whose side are you on, exactly?” Kara stepped forward, finger pointed at him, frustration burning through every syllable.

“Yours. Always yours.” His answer was calm, almost gentle. “But sometimes I wonder if you confuse hate with something else.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Kara’s eyes widened, stunned that he had dared to say that. For a moment, it looked like she might punch him right there, but instead she let out a harsh sigh, as if her energy was too valuable to waste on him.

“You are unbearable, you know that?” she muttered, turning her face forward again.

Clark just smiled, satisfied with his quiet victory.

They walked a few more steps in silence until Kara’s voice, lower now, broke the tension.

“I know exactly where she is. But I can’t just take Krypto with me. That sector is… hostile. Animals aren’t welcome.”

“Half the galaxy isn’t.” Clark’s tone was soft, but carried a faint edge of criticism. “That’s never stopped you before.”

“This place is different.” Her reply was curt.

For a moment, silence fell again, broken only by the rhythm of their footsteps. Then, as if eager to steer the conversation away from her own vulnerability, Kara lifted her chin, a crooked smile tugging at her lips.

“But with luck I’ll wrap this up fast. Maybe I’ll even have time to swing by Trombus-3 or Vorrin for a drink. You know how it is—planets that actually understand the meaning of the word ‘bar.’”

Clark sighed, shaking his head.

“Kara…”

“What?” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sticking around here watching you play house with your childhood friend. The sooner you two fix this awful fairy tale, the sooner I can get wasted and get my ship back.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, resigned, though unable to resist one last jab. “I just hope you don’t do those in that order.”

Kara only laughed, low and bitter, as if the idea of holding herself back was a private joke.

On their way, Clark was stopped at least three times. People emerged from every corner of the street—a woman with grocery bags, a boy in his school uniform, even the local barber—all wanting to greet him, to touch him, as though his presence was some quiet blessing. Clark smiled, nodded respectfully, returned hugs.

And then, inevitably, came the introductions.

“This is my cousin, Kara. She’s visiting town.”

Every time he said it, the same thing happened: people’s eyes lit up, as if it wasn’t her first visit, but the return of someone dearly missed. Some even called her by name before she introduced herself, others hugged her warmly, saying how glad they were to see her again.

Kara froze under their touches, discomfort radiating from every muscle. Her gaze always ended on Clark, as if silently asking whether this was some kind of cosmic joke. When an elderly woman, eyes brimming with tears, said she had missed her, Kara only blinked in disbelief, as though the entire planet had conspired to confuse her.

Before the situation could drag on, they reached the mayor’s statue, a bronze monument standing in the very center of the square. The intersection point. According to Madelyne’s map, two routes branched from there: City Hall, towering just a few meters away, and the public library, an old red-brick building with tall windows and a brand-new sign fixed neatly to the front.

Clark narrowed his eyes, his expression sharpening as he activated his x-ray vision. The solid world seemed to dissolve before him, layers of concrete and soil giving way to a tangled network of green, pulsing lines running beneath both buildings. They looked like roots—thick, almost alive—vibrating with their own frequency, as if they were breathing. The current was stronger than before, continuous, insistent, like a vital artery pumping energy toward some hidden heart.

“I’ll take City Hall. You take the library,” Clark said at last, breaking the silence after a long inspection. “The main entrances are too risky—they’re crowded. You’ll need to find a way underground. Pipes, trapdoors, anything that gets you below without drawing attention.”

“And you?” she asked.

“City Hall’s got an electrical maintenance grid in the basement. If these lines are feeding something, that’s where I’ll find the convergence point.”

“So what do we do? Analyze it, take pictures, send a report to your wife?”

“No.” His gaze hardened again. “We figure out what these roots are keeping alive. Then we decide whether to cut them.”

Kara rolled her eyes, her expression skeptical, but in the end only shook her head.

“Great. Nothing like playing gardener on a municipal scale.”

They split without another word, each taking their route. Clark lingered for a moment, watching her stride across the square toward the library, before turning to face the imposing City Hall. Even as he tried to focus on what he was about to confront, the thought of Madelyne cut through his mind like an intrusive whisper. He wondered if she had already reached her destination, if she was safe—and he hated how much not being at her side unsettled him.

The façade of City Hall was monumental, an excess of columns and high windows built more to intimidate than to welcome. The main entrance was out of the question: municipal guards loitered on the steps, clipboards in hand, their eyes far too alert for him to slip by unnoticed.

Clark circled the block, his posture relaxed, just another man strolling without urgency—the kind of disguise he wore so well. Around back, he found a small loading area: trucks parked, crates being unloaded, uniformed workers moving in and out in a steady rhythm.

He waited a few seconds, observing the flow, until he spotted a metal door marked Maintenance Access. A worker dropped a box beside it and slipped inside, not bothering to close it properly behind him.

Clark seized the moment.

With steady steps, he crossed the lot as though he belonged there. He didn’t hurry, didn’t glance around—just pushed the door open and slid inside before anyone had time to question it.

The corridor beyond was narrow, lit by buzzing fluorescent lights overhead. The air reeked of dust and overheated cables.

He descended the iron steps carefully, each footfall echoing low against the walls. The silence in City Hall’s basement was absolute, as if the city outside had been smothered. And then, at the end of the corridor, Clark froze, taking a deep breath as his eyes adjusted their focus. Concrete ceased to be concrete; layers of cement and steel dissolved until they revealed what pulsed beneath the ground: the green lines. Thick, tangled, alive.

He followed them to where the pattern converged most intensely. Clark glanced around, making sure he was alone. Then, without hesitation, he dug his fingers into the concrete and tore it open. The floor groaned and split like paper in his hands, until he’d made a gap wide enough to kneel and peer through.

That was when he heard it. Indistinct sounds, like echoes of voices both familiar and unfamiliar at once. Old laughter, broken fragments of conversation, memories he didn’t remember living. And among them, a melody in a language he didn’t understand. It wasn’t threatening, but it wasn’t explainable either. Just… irresistible.

Clark let himself be carried away. The whole world vanished, drowned out by the urgency of that sound. Without realizing, his hand rose until his fingers brushed the vine’s surface. The moment he touched the current of energy, it coiled around his wrist, as though it had been waiting for him all along. Green veins slithered up his arm, contracting beneath his skin. The light flared, spasms rippling through him, clutching his chest with invisible claws. Clark gasped, unable to pull away.

Blink.

And the basement was gone.

Suddenly, he was home. The cottage. Warm air wrapped him in the sweet, welcoming scent of freshly baked pie, so real he could almost feel his stomach clench in response. He found himself standing in the kitchen doorway, like someone who had come back from far too long away, not knowing he needed to return until he was already there.

The scene was almost ordinary—and precisely because of that, it was perfect. Madelyne stood with her back to him, humming absentmindedly, an apron tied over simple clothes: worn jeans, a blue blouse. The initial shock dissolved, leaving room for something deeper, something that bound him tighter than any root.

When she noticed him, just as she pulled the pie from the oven, the smile appeared. It wasn’t just a smile. It was home.

“You’re back already?” she said, her tone light, but warming every fiber of him. “This was supposed to be a surprise.”

She set the pie on the counter and, unhurried, came closer. The kiss she placed on his cheek was quick, but enough to dissolve every trace of pain or weight he’d been carrying. Her hands rested firmly against his chest, and Clark instinctively covered them with his own, drawing her closer, as if his entire body wanted to memorize the shape of her waist.

In that moment, there was no city, no basement, no green roots. There was only this. A dream far too sweet to be real, yet perfect enough for Clark to want to believe it was.

Madelyne chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against his chest. A small, everyday laugh, but to him it was music.

“You could’ve waited at least five more minutes,” she teased, lifting her chin to look into his eyes. “I was going to add whipped cream on top.”

Clark smiled—that half-shy, half-awed smile of his, as if he still hadn’t learned how to receive moments like this without feeling they were a miracle.

“I think it’s already perfect.”

“I have my doubts,” Mads replied, stepping back just enough for him to see the playful glint in her eyes. “I hate cooking, you know that. But today I wanted to make an effort. I wanted to try on my own, without your help, Martha’s pie recipe.”

Clark raised a brow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just because I like to steal the strawberries while you’re baking?”

The words came out light, effortless, as if the silence between them had been made to hold exactly this kind of teasing.

Madelyne laughed, that clear laugh that seemed to fill the entire kitchen, and leaned against the table, tilting toward him. “That too. But…” She left the sentence hanging for a moment, as if she needed to summon the courage to finish it. “Also because I wanted to make something that was mine, and yours at the same time. Something you could look at and think: she did this for me.”

Clark’s heart tightened in an unexpected way. He didn’t answer right away, because he knew any word he tried would fall short. So he simply watched her, memorizing every detail—the curve of her smile, the easy sway of her body, the nearly automatic gesture of tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Now, how about you sit down and help yourself before the smell reaches upstairs?” she said, her tone a mixture of teasing and tenderness.

Clark let out a soft laugh, still overwhelmed by the intensity of what he felt, but obeyed. Madelyne circled the table, picking up the knife to slice the pie, and for a second everything froze into a perfect tableau—ordinary and extraordinary all at once. Until he heard it.

Footsteps. Upstairs.

He frowned, not understanding.

“Spoke too soon,” Mads muttered, her brief grimace shifting into a smile full of anticipation.

Clark had barely pulled out a chair when the footsteps echoed down the stairs, and two figures appeared in the doorway. A girl with fiery red hair, as vibrant as Madelyne’s, came first, her feet thumping down the steps with the urgency of someone who couldn’t wait. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Close behind her came a boy of about eight, smaller, but with the same restless energy of someone racing back to their favorite place in the world.

And then, it happened.

“Daddy!” they shouted in unison.

The impact hit him full force, harder than any physical blow. Clark blinked, stunned, before feeling two small bodies collide against him in a fierce hug. A nervous laugh escaped before he could stop it, because his chest was too tight to allow any other reaction.

He looked up at Madelyne, who simply watched, the knife forgotten in her hand, her gentle smile saying everything words never could.

It blindsided him, and it felt so real. So true.

“Hey, you two,” his voice came out rough, surprised, but already steeped in immediate affection, as if it had been waiting inside him all along. “When did you grow up so much?”

The girl laughed, as if it were obvious.

“While you were too busy,” she said with a shrug, carrying the same sweet insolence he recognized in Madelyne.

The boy, on the other hand, clung tighter.

“I missed you,” he murmured, and Clark nearly lost his breath. Blue eyes, faint freckles, and dark hair revealed a clear blend of him and Madelyne.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself sink into the sensation. The light weight of their bodies, the warmth of their small frames, the way those hugs seemed to mend every invisible crack he carried inside.

When he finally looked up again, Madelyne was still there, leaning against the table, watching the scene with a smile both tender and knowing. As if she were giving him something no one else ever could.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice low but steady.

Clark took a deep breath, holding the two children as if afraid that letting go would prove it was all just an illusion. Then a slow, genuine smile spread across his face.

“I think… I think I’ve never been better.”

Madelyne’s smile widened, radiant and simple, joy in its purest form. She clapped her hands once, instantly slipping into the warm but authoritative expression of a mother.

“Did you two wash your hands?” she asked, one brow arched in a tone that brooked no excuses.

The children answered in chorus, swearing they had, and wriggled out of Clark’s arms. He felt their warmth leave, but stayed still, watching, as if witnessing it was enough. They scrambled onto their chairs with the impatience of kids about to be rewarded. Madelyne moved easily among them, cutting slices of pie, serving with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a hundred times. She laughed at their quick answers, their funny comments. They laughed with her.

It was so… ordinary.

Clark stood still at the edge, a silent observer of a life that felt too real to be just a dream. There was no weight on his shoulders, no threats lurking in the shadows. Only the sweet sound of laughter and the scent of baked apples filling the air.

Without realizing it, a timid smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. He could live off this. He could stay there forever, even from the outside.

But the moment didn’t last.

Suddenly, the three of them turned their faces toward him. Three smiles aimed in his direction—inviting, almost conspiring to include him. It was such a perfect image that Clark wanted to frame it, to freeze that second in time.

They called him to join them at the table. But before he could take a single step, their voices dissolved into a deep, deafening noise that exploded in his mind, as if it had originated from within.

Clark clutched his ears, eyes shut tight, his whole body reacting to the impact. The sound echoed, intense, until it made the world around him tremble.

“Clark!” Madelyne’s voice broke through the noise, faint but urgent.

He opened his eyes with effort—and everything happened at once.

The cabin vanished. The warmth of the kitchen was ripped away. Clark was back in the basement, his body trapped in green vines. And Madelyne—not the one from his dream, but the real one—stood before him. The Green Lantern ring glowed on her hand, materializing an axe made of pure energy. With a firm swing, she severed the roots still wrapped around his body.

Clark collapsed to the floor, gasping, his breath short as if he’d run himself to exhaustion. The pain pounding in his head was unlike anything he’d ever felt—sharp, deep. The vines trembled in response, a silent cry of pain echoing through the space, before they writhed and vanished, consumed into nothingness.

Madelyne, breathing hard, was still standing. The axe disappeared as she dismissed it, and without wasting a second, she dropped to her knees in front of him. Her hand found his face, her warm palm pressing gently against his cheek. She made him lift his gaze, forcing him to focus on her eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice low but steady, like she was trying to pull him back to the present.

Clark blinked a few times, his blurred vision slowly adjusting. His gaze moved across her face, taking in every detail like he couldn’t quite believe it. The faint freckles scattered across her skin. The reddish hue of her hair, so familiar. Her eyes—the same eyes he’d just seen reflected in a little girl who’d called him Dad.

And it was in that painful contrast between dream and reality that he realized just how deeply it had affected him.

“Yeah...” he murmured, his tongue heavy in his mouth, his eyes locked on hers like they were the only anchor he had in the world. “How did you... What are you doing here? And the mill?”

“As soon as I checked out the mill, I tried calling you—to warn you about the vines—but I didn’t get any answer,” Mads said, pulling her hand away from his face. The warmth lingered, as if it had branded his skin. “I got worried and came as fast as I could.”

Only then did Clark look away, his eyes falling on the hole in the floor. Now empty. Dead.

“It’s gone.”

"Yes, but that doesn't mean it's over," her voice was firm, practical, even with the exhaustion clear in her eyes. "It's spread across the city. People are still trapped. What we did caused pain—intense pain—but not enough to break the bond."

He lifted his gaze to meet hers again. "You felt it too?"

"A little. It was like a mental tug," she replied, the brief discomfort on her face softened by a trace of dry humor. "Not pleasant, but manageable. Unlike you..." — she narrowed her eyes, studying him carefully — "Are you really okay? You look dazed."

"Yeah, don’t worry," Clark said, drawing a deep breath, forcing strength into his voice. "What did you find at the mill?"

A half-smile formed on her lips—a mix of excitement and disbelief, like she’d just uncovered a hidden door no one else had dared to open.

"You’re not going to believe it."

He raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering through the throbbing pain.

"First, we need to find Kara. Where is she?"

Mads stood up and, without hesitation, held her hand out to him.

Clark only hesitated for a second before taking it. Her palm was firm and warm against his, small, but enough to pull him back into reality. He stood, still feeling the echo of the pain—but also the unexpected comfort of not being alone.

"She’s at the second site. The library," he said, voice steadier now, though still quiet.

"Then let’s go get her," Madelyne said, determined, her eyes alight. "Then I’ll tell you everything I found."

Clark nodded silently.

They headed toward the exit of the basement, Mads a few steps ahead, urgency setting the pace. He followed, wordless, until the curve of the hallway almost swallowed him. But just before turning the corner, he stopped.

His gaze drifted back to the empty space where there had once been vines, and pain—and, in the midst of it all, the sweetest dream he’d ever had. The kitchen, the pie, the laughter, the children. The feeling still lingered in him, so vivid it was as if he’d left a piece of himself behind. And only then, in the silence that remained, did he realize the weight of that absence. The emptiness wasn’t in his exhausted body, but in the memory that might never return.

Clark took a deep breath— Then followed Mads down the corridor.

 

Notes:

The character Deva, mentioned in this chapter, is my own creation; she doesn’t exist in the official DC comics. In Fallen Heroes (my DC fanfiction series), she’s Kara’s partner in her storyline, which will be released in the future. I have to admit, I’m really excited—Starkiller’s plot has become one of my favorites, and I can’t wait to share more about Deva with you all.

I ran into a few small challenges while writing this chapter, but in the end, it became one of my favorites. The interaction between Clark and Kara was, without a doubt, the highlight for me—and the part I had the most fun writing. I hope you enjoyed it!

Chapter 12: Revisiting Memories

ACT ONE: SPRING

CHAPTER TWELVE.

---

When she was a child, Madelyne genuinely believed she had superpowers—though, ironically, not the same kind Clark had. In her mind, winning their bike races to the mill was undeniable proof that she’d been born to be the best at something. She always got there first, knees scraped, heart pounding from the effort, yet still wearing a triumphant smile that almost hurt her face. Back then, it felt like enough. Beating Clark Kent was as good as having her own private trophy.

In truth, it meant getting to choose what they did next. Whether they’d eat her mother’s apple pie or climb up to the barn loft to watch the sunset. Little victories that, for Mads, felt as big as the world.

Only years later did she realize the truth: Clark always let her win. Every single time. He slowed down at the right moments, pretended to run out of breath, even arched his eyebrows in mock surprise when Mads crossed their imaginary finish line before him. The memory now made her laugh at herself. Because of course, she never suspected a thing. Back then, it hadn’t even crossed her mind that Clark might be more than just an awkward boy. As far as she could tell, he was simply bad at racing. Incredibly bad.

And as she got closer to the mill, a vivid flash of that afternoon lit up her memory:

“You’re cheating!” Clark shouted, still ten meters behind, his breath scandalously loud for someone who only moments ago had seemed to be winning.

“Not my fault you ride like a turtle!” Mads shot back, her voice breaking into laughter between bursts of effort.

By the time she bumped her bike against the mill gate and raised her arms like she’d just won the Tour de France, Clark rolled in right after her, hunched over the handlebars, pretending to suffocate.

“I… only… let you win,” he panted.

“Uh-huh, sure,” Mads rolled her eyes, triumphant. “And tomorrow you’ll say you lost because you were hungry.”

Back then, she believed every word she said. Today, she didn’t. Today, she knew the bittersweet truth: Clark Kent wouldn’t lose to the wind itself, unless he wanted to.

And now, years later, she pulled her car up in front of the same mill, the vehicle rattling as it reached the end of the dirt road. She hadn’t even turned the engine fully off before Krypto decided to make his dramatic entrance. The dog shot out through the open window like a white rocket with a red cape, bounding across the lawn, tail wagging as if he’d just been set loose in a park.

Mads opened her mouth, ready to scold him—“Krypto, get back here”—but gave up before the words even left her lips. What was the point? The place looked like a forgotten photograph in a dusty frame, so still and silent it almost felt like even the wind had chosen to stay away. And if anyone was really there… well, no one would care about a red-caped dog tearing across the grass like he owned the place.

She unbuckled her seat belt, turned off the car, and, out of sheer habit, locked the doors before stepping out. The air outside was different—crisper, carrying the scent of damp earth that clung to her nostrils. Madelyne shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and started walking, her sneakers sinking into the tall grass, each step muffled by the vegetation giving way.

The mill stood exactly where it had always been. Only, it wasn’t the same. The structure rose spotless, free of cracks or signs of wear. The wood looked freshly polished, the blades too clean for an abandoned field. It gleamed with an unsettling strangeness: as if it had been rebuilt to look exactly as it once had, but stripped of the history carved into every splinter.

Krypto, who until then had been nothing but pure energy and canine joy, stopped abruptly in front of the mill door. His body stiffened in a way that made her chest tighten. First came the sniffing—flared nostrils, sharp, frantic movements. Then the sound. A low, guttural growl. Not the kind reserved for squirrels or swaying branches. It was a warning.

Madelyne felt her muscles tense, her heart racing as if she’d just plunged into icy water.

“What is it, boy?” she asked, her voice lower than she intended, as she moved closer.

The dog never took his eyes off the door, as if something—someone—was on the other side. Something that suddenly seemed to be watching them back.

Mads slowly raised her hand toward the wooden handle, every inch charged with an electricity that made the hairs on her arm stand on end. A faint glow stirred in the Lantern ring on her finger, almost shy, glinting against the grain of the wood and casting dancing shadows along the walls. For a moment, she only stared at the door, as if weighing the courage inside her, breathing deep, silently counting to three. Then, with the resolve of someone who had no choice, she wrapped her hand firmly around the handle.

She pushed the door open slowly, and a blinding white light burst through from the other side, flooding the space and washing over Madelyne’s exposed skin with a delicate, almost comforting warmth. The brightness swelled until everything around her dissolved—the mill, the grass, even Krypto’s warning growl—and she blinked, startled by how quickly she was swallowed up. The real world gave way to something that felt as though it existed outside of time.

And then, just as suddenly, the light faded, revealing the familiar outline of the Prescott farmhouse hallway.

The corridor was steeped in shadow, though faint streaks of light still slipped through the window cracks, staining the floor in gold and orange. Madelyne’s body reacted instantly—a shiver running down her spine, goosebumps rising beneath the memory that refused to leave her. But this time, something was different. The silence of the house didn’t feel hostile, didn’t echo back at her like a hollow threat. It was simply… silence. And for some reason, the soft sound of her own heartbeat felt welcome. Proof, at least, that she was still there. Still present.

Her feet carried her down the narrow hallway, each step weighted with a sweet heaviness, a deep recognition. The staircase appeared—familiar, far less threatening than it used to be. She descended slowly, her hand gliding along the banister as if she could anchor herself in the smooth texture of the wood. Deep down, she expected—no, she almost knew—that the inevitable was coming. She just didn’t know in what form.

And then, as she crossed the kitchen threshold, the shout erupted:

“Happy birthday, Madelyne!”

She flinched, her heart leaping so high it felt like it might burst through her ribs. For a moment she stood frozen, her eyes darting across the space before her. They were all there. But not in the way the original memory had been carved into her. There was no shadow of bitterness, no one shrinking the moment into something too small, too ridiculous, too painful.

The scene seemed painted with care. Her father stood beside her mother, his smile lighting up the room in a way she could barely remember ever seeing. There was no absence, no distance. Just him—present and whole, for the first time in so long. And her mother, eyes glowing with that warm, unshakable light, as if the entire world would unravel if her daughter wasn’t happy.

And there was more. Children her age—all of them thirteen, as though time itself had folded just to gift her this moment. She blinked rapidly, feeling the delicious strangeness of no longer being twenty-nine, but that girl who had only just stepped into adolescence. The family’s scruffy mutt claimed the center of the room, wagging his tail as if he had been in on the secret all along. And, almost impossibly, there was no trace of the stepmother, nor of the brothers who used to strip away every chance of joy on this day, smashing the cake and popping the balloons on purpose. This space was hers alone.

And then she saw them. Clark, standing beside his parents, smiling in a way that felt genuinely proud to be there. Proud to see her. When Carl and Amalia came closer, they wrapped her in a tight embrace—one of those hugs that warmed the soul itself.

“Happy birthday, princess,” her father said, his voice a balm, as if nothing in the world mattered more than her.

“Did you like the surprise, darling?” her mother asked, beaming. “We did everything with you in mind.”

The knot she had expected in her throat never came. There were no tears of frustration or hurt, only a warmth spilling through her chest, so intense it felt impossible to contain. For the first time, that memory wasn’t a wound. It was a gift.

And for the first time, Madelyne believed it was the real one. That this was how it had always happened.

“I loved it,” she said, and both of them smiled even wider.

“The cake is your favorite, come see.” Amalia took her hand gently, as if knowing that any abrupt gesture might make Mads fall apart, and led her to the table.

The shock came when she sat down. The cake was there, proud in the center, thickly frosted in white, its edges decorated with perfectly symmetrical pink flowers. Exactly as she had imagined when she was a child, when she would spend hours doodling in notebooks the idealized version of something she had never actually received. Her green eyes went wide, as if they couldn’t quite comprehend that this was real—or at least real enough.

The kitchen felt smaller with so many people gathered inside. They stood around her in a half circle, the weight of their expectation almost tangible. Balloons filled every corner, popping softly whenever they brushed against one another. Party hats sat on every head, and someone had placed one on hers as well—tilted too far to sit straight, yet somehow perfect in its imperfection.

Her mother stepped closer, steady fingers striking the lighter with a metallic snap before coaxing the candles to life. The scent of burning wax mingled with the vanilla sweetness of the cake. Madelyne held her breath, as if she were trying to store oxygen for later.

“Make a wish, sweetheart.” Amalia smiled, and it was such a full, radiant smile it seemed capable of holding up the entire ceiling.

Mads leaned forward, squeezed her eyes shut, and for a moment, she believed. She believed thirteen years could be remade. She believed pain could be rewritten. She blew out the candles and the room erupted in a chorus of clapping hands.

Then the voice came. Low, unmistakable, cruel in its honesty:

This isn’t real.

Her eyes snapped open. Her heart raced as though it wanted to break through her ribs. That’s when she saw it—the green ring glowing on her finger. The ring that shouldn’t have been there, that belonged to another time, another life entirely.

The crack began to show. Discomfort seeped in, subtle at first, like a fracture in a pane of glass. The walls, no matter how warm they appeared, carried an artificial rigidity. The chairs were too still, too immovable. The golden light was too consistent, looping endlessly, carefully programmed.

It was a constructed dream. Almost tangible. But still, an illusion.

Her body moved before her mind caught up. She pushed back from the table, rising to her feet while everyone else kept applauding, their eyes fixed on the cake. None of them turned. None of them noticed her absence. They just kept smiling, frozen in the celebration of a girl who was no longer there.

Mads quickened her pace. The hallway opened up before her—narrow, familiar, suffocating as she caught the chill and half-darkness clinging to it. She searched for an exit, any sign of something that might break through the lie. And then she saw it: the white light spilling through the cracks of the back door. A clearing in the middle of the illusion.

Her heart pounded, but this time she didn’t hesitate. She strode forward, flung the door open in one decisive movement, and let the radiance swallow her once more. The brilliance was so blinding she had to shut her eyes, and for a second, she felt herself floating, suspended between two worlds.

When she opened her eyes again, she wasn’t there anymore. She was somewhere else. In another memory.

The air smelled of fresh paint and cheap coffee—the unmistakable blend of sleepless nights in university labs. The room was wide, walls painted in pastel with dark blue accents, plastered with research posters taped so haphazardly they barely held. That space, that makeshift auditorium… Mads recognized it instantly. The symposium for young researchers. The same one where, years ago, she had watched her own thesis presented by someone else—stolen, mangled, ripped from her while no one so much as blinked in her defense.

But now, something was different. Now, she was the one on stage.

A projector lit her face, and the slides behind her bore her name, bold and unmissable in large letters: Madelyne Prescott. Not his name, not anyone else’s. Hers.

Victory could have been sweet. Sweet and terrifying, if she weren’t so acutely aware of her own body, so vividly awake in the exact moment it was happening. And God, how Madelyne had fantasized about this day. Thousands of times, through countless sleepless nights, the same desire burning inside her—bigger than her body could ever contain.

The reflection in the auditorium glass barely looked like her. The navy-blue suit cut sharp against every curve, almost merciless, as though every stitch had been sewn by hand to remind her she belonged here. The straight-legged trousers brushed against polished leather shoes—elegant but practical, because Mads could never be just one thing. The satin blouse beneath caught the light in subtle flashes, while her sleek, high bun disciplined every rebellious strand.

It was the version of herself she had once dreamed of becoming outside of Smallville. Confident. Prepared. Capable of facing a packed auditorium without her insecurities dragging her back down. Only now, the stage she faced wasn’t just her small town—it was the world. And it was watching her.

“Miss Prescott, your analysis is truly brilliant.”

The words rang out, solemn, like a seal of approval long denied. Then came the applause. First hesitant, then stronger, until a steady wave rippled through the hall. People rose to their feet, heads nodding in agreement, lips murmuring brilliant, impressive. Even the professor who, years ago, had reduced her to nothing more than an overzealous student with too little talent to match her effort—he was smiling at her now. Proud, as if he’d believed in her from the very beginning.

Hypocrite.

Colleagues who had once hidden in silence, accomplices by omission, now clapped as if they had always been on her side. They applauded her triumph, even though they were the very same ones who had rooted for her to fall.

A knot rose in Mads’s chest. Her younger self—the one with hopeful eyes and fragile self-esteem—would have crumbled into tears of joy at such recognition. She would have folded herself entirely into gratitude. But her present self… no.

She scoffed, almost laughing at herself, and muttered under her breath as she turned toward the edge of the stage: “For fuck’s sake, using academic validation against me is a low blow.”

No one heard. No one ever did in this place. But the words carried just enough irony to keep the emotion from spilling over.

As she descended the steps, the clapping didn’t stop. On the contrary—it grew louder, more insistent, echoing inside her, reverberating in her bones. She passed through the rows of seats, the sound of applause and praise blurring into the rhythm of her own hurried breathing.

Here, in this constructed space, there was no need to be small, gentle, and restrained. No demand to be extraordinary while still perfectly ordinary. No impossible weight of fitting into every box at once. Here, everything she had ever wanted was within reach: recognition, victory, belonging.

And if she gave in—if she accepted this scene as final—she wouldn’t need to worry about anything else. No judgment. No failure. Just the sweet taste of finally being enough.

But Madelyne knew that giving everything was her fate. And to give in… to surrender to such an easy wish was almost an insult to the woman she had become.

Madelyne pushed through the double doors and stepped into the split of white light cutting across the auditorium. She didn’t look back. There wasn’t time. The world tilted suddenly, space folding beneath her feet.

The impact came an instant later. Cold metal flooring rattled against her ribs. Red lights burst overhead in stuttering flashes, and for a heartbeat the world became stroboscopic—ceiling, corridors, the sharp scent of burned ozone mixing with the acrid sweat in the air. Gravity wavered, dragging her at impossible angles, her body caught between mind and instinct.

“Madelyne, get up!” Navia’s voice cut through the vertigo, low and urgent. Steady hands grabbed her arm, yanking her back to balance.

Madelyne blinked. Her friend’s face swam into focus—dark skin slick with sweat, a thin line of blood trailing from her temple, vanishing into the braids pinned into a messy bun. The STAR Labs uniform clung to her frame, torn in several places, lit by the pulsing red glare of the sirens. The same uniform Madelyne wore.

She knew where she was. The memory closed around her like an iron vest.

Back on the satellite-lab. Back on the day everything collapsed. Back in the last place she wanted to be. Her first mission as leader. The study of spontaneous gravitational anomalies she had promised would rewrite entire astrophysics manuals. And that, in minutes, had turned to chaos.

An accident. A rushed evacuation. Escape pods filling one by one. Everyone leaving alive.

Except her.

This was the original version. The memory etched into her mind with the cruel clarity of disaster. The moment she stopped feeling fear and accepted that she would die alone in space. The moment her fate ceased to be human and became something else—something she still didn’t understand, but that would eventually lead her to the green ring now gleaming on her hand.

“Come on, we have to reach the pods!” Navia yanked her forward, just as she had once before.

Madelyne let herself be dragged, her boots striking the unstable metal, alarms flashing around them. Each step was a collision between past and present, between the old terror and the strange clarity that now ruled her.

And for the first time, she wondered: what if this memory, too, could be rewritten?

They ran. The corridor shook around them, metal panels tearing free from the ceiling as if the station itself were trying to rip apart. Red lights flickered in uneven intervals, every groan of the structure echoing like a warning that time had run out.

All the pods had already launched. The open bays gaped like empty mouths, still venting cold vapor and the stench of burned fuel. But this time, two escape pods remained—not one, as before, when a damaged pod had left them with no choice. She remembered the look on her best friend’s face when they had realized the inevitable.

Navia stopped in front of a pod, brown eyes wide, breath ragged. She turned, blood streaking down her forehead, voice cracked with urgency.

“Get in with me. We’ll make it work.”

Mads looked inside the module. A single seat. Harnesses designed for one body, not two. Oxygen calculated for one set of lungs, not two. The protocol was clear in her mind: one per pod.

“There’s no way,” Madelyne said, her voice calmer than she felt.

Navia lunged, gripping her arm tight. “Then we’ll go together! I’m not leaving you here.”

Mads felt the pull. The almost unbearable urge to believe. To accept that outstretched hand, to live. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Sweat slid down her neck, under her uniform collar. Part of her—the most human part—wanted to surrender.

But she drew in a breath. When she spoke, her voice was steady, even as her hands shook.

“You have to go. Now.”

Navia shook her head, tears mixing with the blood on her skin. “No. Not without you.”

The satellite groaned with a nearby explosion. The corridor rattled. Chunks of ceiling rained down, sparking as they struck the floor. Time was gone.

Madelyne shoved Navia into the pod, harder than she thought herself capable of. Her friend resisted, but Mads hit the panel at the same time, her fingers moving on instinct, executing the commands she knew by heart. The seat clamped shut around Navia, the harness locking her inside.

Navia slammed her fists against the transparent hatch, screaming her name. “MADS! DON’T DO THIS!”

Madelyne pressed her palm against the glass. On the other side, Navia mirrored her. Their hands aligned, separated by inches—and an unchangeable fate.

“What kind of best friend would I be…” her voice shook, but she still managed a smile, bitter and sweet and broken, “if I let you die because of me?”

The panel beeped. The pod vibrated. Ignition primed.

For one suspended second, time froze as they stared at each other. The chance was there. She could press a button, climb inside, share the impossible with Navia, maybe even survive.

But Madelyne pulled her hand away from the glass.

“Goodbye, Navia.”

Her finger pressed the final command.

The pod detached with a metallic roar that reverberated through the satellite. Within seconds, it was gone—swallowed by the void of space, leaving only silence behind.

Madelyne’s reflection gleamed faintly in the now-deserted glass. Her ponytail had come undone, stray red strands clinging to her sweat-slicked face, her skin streaked with ash and fire. She knew every detail. She had lived this before. She had almost died in it.

But the difference came when she looked to the side. Navia was there. At the panel of the other pod. Her trembling fingers flying across the controls, her smile fractured but alive—strangely radiant, without the terror that had once consumed her.

“We’ll make it, Mads. We’ll get out of this hellhole.” Her voice carried too much hope for the moment. “And all of this will be behind us. Just a bad dream.”

Mads held her gaze, but without that same hopeful expression. The collapse around them roared louder than promises. The ring on her finger shone once, then began to fade. Its matter dissolved like it was nothing but memory, or a passing shadow. And she understood: if she accepted this gift, everything would be rewritten. The sacrifice erased. The pull to stay was almost unbearable—her body begged to stop, to cling to the familiar, even if it was in ruins.

But her feet moved. One step, then another. She forced herself forward, dragging toward the cursed door that promised escape, that might lead her into another memory, another fragment of reality.

The narrow corridor trembled around her, the walls quaking with the deep thunder of explosions drawing ever closer. Each blast closer than the last, each metallic crack reverberating inside her skull. The satellite groaned like a carcass on the brink of implosion.

Despair surged from her stomach to her throat, metallic and acid, like bile. Time was unraveling, and she didn’t know what would happen if the impact swallowed her—death, dissolution, or simply the end of every possible version of herself.

And then, finally, the door. A rectangle of light at the end of catastrophe.

Mads’s eyes locked on it as if it were the only real thing, her anchor, her lifeboat. She ran faster. Each step a defiance against the collapse raging behind her. The air ignited, flames rising, devouring everything, consuming oxygen and sound alike.

And in the final seconds, when the satellite erupted in a blaze that might have erased her body from existence, she closed her eyes.

And hurled herself through the door.

Madelyne’s eyes were still shut when she reached safety on the other side. The adrenaline, pulsing like raw electricity under her skin, slowly began to ebb, allowing her to feel the new world around her. There was no suffocating heat of a dying satellite, no acrid smoke in the air, no weight of sweat-soaked clothes clinging to her body. Instead, a cool breeze brushed against her bare arms, and her loosened red hair fluttered gently across her face.

She opened her eyes slowly, as if afraid this, too, might collapse into another illusion.

Before her stretched an endless field beneath the night sky. A clean night, breathtakingly beautiful, freckled with stars that shone brighter than should ever have been allowed.

Madelyne knew where she was. The Kent farm. The cornfields, the scent of fresh earth—too familiar to be mistaken. She just didn’t know when she had been thrown. Not until she heard his voice.

“You could stay.”

The sound made her turn instantly.

Clark sat on the hood of the family’s pickup truck, his body at ease, one leg bent, his arm resting on his knee, denim worn and light in the moonlight. His gaze wasn’t on her, but fixed above, on the stars.

“I wish you would.”

When she finally looked at him, Madelyne saw. He was younger here. Much younger. Eighteen, maybe. The same as her. The same age as that night when she had told him she was leaving.

Her chest tightened, a knot of memory and longing.

“You’re not real,” she whispered, shutting her eyes for an instant, as if that simple act could make him vanish, could shield her from the temptation. She stumbled back a step.

“Aren’t I?” The question left his lips soft, yet laced with a trace of irony. It was almost an affront to every certainty she held. “Are you sure?”

“What?” Her eyes snapped open, wide with shock. Her body froze, locked exactly where it had been seconds before.

It was the first time a memory had spoken back to her, and Madelyne had no idea what to do with it.

Her body reacted before her mind did. Muscles tense, breath shallow, as though every cell braced for the moment this Clark Kent would reveal himself as something else—a trick, a trap, a fault in her own brain. But he didn’t. He only stayed Clark. Calm. Almost exasperatingly serene.

“You can lie to yourself all you want, Mads.” His voice wasn’t loud or taunting, yet it didn’t need to be. It carried enough weight to fill the space on its own. “But I know the truth. I know you want to stay.”

Clark climbed down from the pickup and walked toward her. Gravel crunched beneath his boots, a sound that seemed to echo inside her chest.

“And I know the only thing keeping you here…” He stopped right in front of her, close enough that the air between them grew heavy, suffocating. “…is me saying I want you here. With me. So here it is: I want you to stay.”

Madelyne shook her head, a fragile denial, but her voice came out a broken whisper.

“It’s not fair…”

“Why not?” He didn’t retreat, his gaze locked on hers with an intensity that almost hurt. “I let you go once. And there hasn’t been a single day since that I didn’t regret it.”

“You’re only saying what I wanted to hear.”

Clark stepped closer still, until she could feel the steady force of his presence.

“You always wanted to be wanted. To belong somewhere.” His words sliced through her defenses like sharp blades. “And when you thought Smallville couldn’t hold you, you tried to lose yourself in the world, searching for a home, for someone who truly needed you. The problem is, when you left, you convinced yourself I let you go because I didn’t want you. Like your father didn’t want you. Like your family didn’t want you.”

“Stop.” Her voice cracked, her hands trembling as she tried to back away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But before she could take another step, Clark cupped her face in his hands. His warmth was familiar, always welcome. And no matter how much Madelyne wanted to shut her eyes, to shield herself, she couldn’t. She was caught in his gaze—transparent, painfully honest.

“You mistook my hesitation for rejection. But things can be different now.” His voice softened, though it never lost its weight. “Because I finally have the courage to tell you how much you mean to me. How much I need you here.”

The silence between them thickened, heavy, as if the world itself had stilled around them. No wind, no crickets, only the pounding of her heart beneath her ribs. Part of her wanted to fill the emptiness with words, anything at all. But another part knew no word could ever be enough.

“You stay, I stay.” He drew in a deep breath, as if it were a confession too long delayed. “Nothing has to change between us. We can be happy. The way we should have been.”

His words struck her squarely, and for an instant, she almost let herself believe—almost gave in to the sweet, dangerous temptation of that promise. Her eyes burned.

“Clark…” His name faltered on her lips, half plea, half warning—she couldn’t even tell herself which. “There’s nothing I want more in the world.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a hopeful smile—and that was when she had to go on, no matter how much it hurt.

“But I can’t stay.” She spoke slowly, as if each word had to be forced out. “I wish the world were like this—ideal, perfect. I wish everything were as simple as it is here. I wish I didn’t have the worries waiting for me out there.”

She took his hands from her face and gently set them aside.

“I wish I’d understood what I felt for you before I left. But it wouldn’t have been fair. And deep down… I know I would have ruined it back then.”

She smiled weakly, a smile that never reached her eyes.

“It just wasn’t meant to be.” Her voice was a shadow of itself. “And I can’t stay. Because this… this isn’t real. And neither are you. I’m sorry.”

The final words landed like a period at the end of a sentence.

She stepped back, one foot, then another, until the distance between them felt safe enough to breathe again. Then she turned and began to run. She didn’t know where, only that she had to. That she had to keep going, no matter how much her throat burned, no matter how much her chest felt too small to hold it all.

And she ran. Without looking back.

In the distance, a lone door appeared out of nowhere—an impossibility, and yet an invitation. Just a door, standing upright in the void, with white light seeping through the cracks. In that moment, she knew this was her way out.

Madelyne quickened her pace. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she finally reached the door. Her trembling hand found the handle, the cold metal against her sweaty skin, and before hesitation could set in, she turned it.

The light swallowed her whole.

For an instant, everything was too white, too blinding, as it always was when opening the doors of her memory—a silent explosion, like a supernova. She shut her eyes, desperate to cling to the darkness, and only opened them again when her lungs threatened to give out.

The world snapped back all at once.

Madelyne jerked upright, gasping, as though she had just broken the surface of deep water. The ground beneath her was cold and damp; blades of grass clung to her jacket. When her vision cleared, she spotted the windmill in the distance and realized where she was—back in the real world, or at least what passed for it.

Krypto was there, lying at her feet. His watchful eyes had never left her, and now the dog tilted his head, curious, as if silently asking if she was all right.

Only then did she notice the vines. They were still moving, retreating into the earth like snakes until they vanished completely, as though they had never been there. Madelyne swallowed hard. She hadn’t even gone inside. The anomaly had stopped her at the threshold, wormed its way into her mind, shaping memories, crafting desires, trying to convince her to stay. And she had almost stayed.

The realization landed on her like a weight, crushing her chest, driving the air from her lungs. Madelyne pressed a hand to her face, fingertips brushing against her own skin, as if she needed to touch something real to remind herself that she was here. That it had only been a trick.

“Damn it…” The word slipped out, ragged, almost broken.

Her pulse still raced, loud enough to drown out the world. The scene she’d witnessed—Clark, his voice, the way he’d told her he wanted her to stay—it all still reverberated inside her, an echo. As if part of her was still back there, on the other side of that door.

Krypto edged closer, nudging her knee with his nose. Madelyne buried her hand in his white fur, fingers clutching tight, as though she could anchor herself to him.

“I almost…” she began, but her voice failed. She swallowed, forcing the words back into shape. “I almost would’ve chosen that.”

She wasn’t sure if she was speaking to the dog or to herself.

The grass rustled in a gentle breeze, but Madelyne stayed still, her body heavy. If she had given in, if she had believed in that reality… she would’ve been like the others. Trapped. Another piece in a perfect tableau, stitched together from fragile memories to create a future that would never exist.

And then, suddenly, it all made sense.

The breath tore from her lungs, her eyes going wide, burning with the realization that it was already too late.

It had been a trap. All along.

Madelyne shot to her feet so fast her heart nearly lagged behind. Krypto jumped, startled, but she didn’t stop to reassure him. Her hand flew to her pocket on instinct, and within seconds the phone was pressed to her ear.

Clark’s number.

One ring. Two. Straight to voicemail.

“Come on, pick up…” Her voice was little more than a growl.

She tried again. Once. Twice. Nothing. The silence on the other end was worse than any sound.

Panic rose, hot and suffocating in her chest. Every second was a grain of sand slipping through an hourglass she couldn’t turn back. Clark and Kara could already be in danger. Or worse. Madelyne pressed her lips together, then broke into a run toward the car, Krypto at her side. But as she reached the door, she froze. Driving to town suddenly felt… far too slow.

The ring on her finger grew warm, the energy sparking before she could even form the thought. A green aura surged around her, racing along her body.

“No time for this,” she muttered.

And then she was airborne, leaving the windmill and fields behind, flying as fast as she could toward the city, her heartbeat thundering in sync with the emerald light that propelled her forward.

She couldn’t afford a mistake. Not now.

---

"And that’s exactly what happened," Madelyne concluded, her voice still a little shaky as the two of them walked away from City Hall. The city lights seemed colder than usual, as if the place itself knew it was being watched. "I bet right now she’s trying to trap us here the same way she trapped everyone else."

She had told Clark part of what had happened at the mill. Not all of it—she didn’t go into every detail—but enough. The words spilled out too quickly for her to hold them back until they reached Kara. Everything was still so vivid in her mind that it felt urgent to share it, to hand over some of the weight of what she had seen and, more importantly, what she had discovered.

Something that made Clark furrow his brow and slow his pace.

"The vines. Are they some kind of… defense?"

"Partly." Madelyne ran a hand over her tied-up hair, feeling the damp strands sticking with sweat. "They work like an immune system, but also like a neural interface. Once they touch you, they can stimulate regions of your brain tied to autobiographical memory—hippocampus, medial prefrontal cortex—and from there they rebuild scenarios. Almost perfectly. Addictively so." She let out a breath, meeting his eyes. "That’s how she infiltrated the city."

Clark blinked.

"That’s disturbing."

"It’s fascinating." Her eyes lit up, though her voice still carried the weight of it. "Clark, I have data. The Lantern ring recorded the entire electrical activity of my brain while I was trapped inside the simulation. Theta waves firing in sequence like I was in REM sleep, but with activation in the anterior cingulate cortex and the nucleus accumbens—like I was reliving the event as if it were real."

He raised an eyebrow, almost amused.

"You sound way too excited for someone who was nearly trapped inside her own head."

Madelyne gave a short, humorless laugh.

"I know. I shouldn’t be. But you don’t understand…" She gripped his forearm, the two of them stopping at the foot of the stairs they had just come down. "Whatever this is—this organism, this entity—it’s not just a biological trap. It’s a form of intelligence capable of mapping desires and rewriting personal narratives with a precision neuroscience can only dream of."

"How do you know so much about neuroscience, anyway?" Clark crossed his arms, one eyebrow still arched, his tone edging on playful. "And as much as I trust your ability to learn just about anything in record time, I doubt you picked that up from a Wikipedia article."

Madelyne shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips, more provocative than she had meant it to be.

"I spent a week in Gotham for a neuroscience symposium," Madelyne said, the memory so vivid she could almost smell the university coffee again. "A friend of mine, Delilah, was presenting a project on deep brain stimulation for trauma rehabilitation. She practically dragged me to the lectures."

Clark shot her a sideways glance, intrigued.

"So you spent seven days immersed in neuroscience… for fun?"

"Technically, it was at her insistence." Madelyne laughed, shaking her head. "But it was fascinating. It’s not my field, but I ended up absorbing a lot about how memory and emotion intertwine in the brain."

"Of course you did." Clark shook his head, smirking, as if it was both predictable and impressive at once. "I shouldn’t be surprised, but…"

"But you are," Mads cut in, amused. "And I’m not going to lie and say I don’t enjoy that." She chuckled softly before her tone shifted back to serious. "Now we just need to find Kara, and I can show you exactly what I discovered. I sent Krypto after her while I came to find you."

"He actually went?" Clark frowned. "Because whenever I ask him to do anything, he just ignores me completely."

Madelyne shrugged, her smile returning, almost conspiratorial.

"Guess he likes me more than you."

Clark opened his mouth to respond, but the sudden creak of the library door cut him off.

They both turned at the same time.

"Look, it’s Kara," Mads said, raising a hand to wave at Clark’s cousin, waiting for her to come closer.

But Kara didn’t move. She stood frozen in the library doorway, Krypto sitting calmly at her side. The dog looked perfectly normal, tail swishing lightly as if just waiting. Kara, on the other hand, was… different. The lighthearted, playful spark in her eyes was gone, replaced with something dark. Empty. Every muscle in her body was taut, coiled, as if bracing for battle.

Mads opened her mouth to warn Clark, but she never got the chance.

In an instant, Kara lunged. A blonde-and-blue blur cut through the space, slamming into Clark with devastating force. The impact was so brutal that the two of them crashed through the neighboring building before Mads could even react. All she felt was the slicing wind, the shattering roar—and the cold, undeniable certainty that Kara was attacking her own cousin.

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of i love you, always. time is nothing (supernova collection).