Chapter Text
Deep, ominous humming vibrated around me, coming from. . . somewhere. It seemed to come from every direction, surrounding me, suffocating me. And then came the screaming. I had never heard anything like it before; there was no way to describe it other than horrible.
Other sounds surrounded me. Softer than the screams but no less terrifying. Noise with no source, their echoes ricocheted off my ribs, flaying my skin where they rebounded.
I tried to move away, tried to cover my ears, but I couldn't. The noise just got louder and louder and louder. I-I don’t know where I am. I can’t move - I can’t see anything! But I can feel - god can I feel it.
My teeth ached and my head spun, my stomach heaved and the pressure behind my eyes increased until I prayed my head would just explode. Give me some relief - let me die already! - anything was better than this liminal hell.
Nothing made sense except the pain.
A memory drifted through the fog, just the faintest hint of clarity that cut through the pain. I was moving - car, train, bus - asleep in my seat. I wasn’t alone. I don’t know where we were going or where we were coming from. The feeling then was the same as now. Weightlessness. Floating in a black void, rocking along with the movement. And then -
SLAM!
Sudden jerk of movement, a loss of control, glaring lights, the sickening sensation of falling at a high speed. Instead of the crunch of metal against bone against earth - spinning spinning spinning off the cliff over the guardrails into the ocean - came the feeling of being pulled inside out.
Of being made and unmade. Ripped apart on the smallest level and forced back together again. Slammed brutally hard against something that wasn’t there - but inside me.
I don’t know if nothing ever really moved, if anything changed around me. . . but inside of me. . . I lost all sense of where I was.
Of what I was.
Of who I was.
I don’t know if I blacked out - or if I was always unconscious - or if I had always been dead - but I know I wasn’t aware of time. I could feel it moving around me without taking me with it.
Until time stopped.
A forceful yank on my gut and the void twisted. Everything folded inward and drawn tight like a rubber band snapping against your wrist. My stomach lurched and I swear my heart stuttered, stopped, beat as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, all the span of a single breath.
The void wretched sideways. Everything I was - am - will ever be reduced to a single point, stretched and squeezed, until I couldn’t tell where I began or ended.
And then I “woke up.”
+++
There was no cushion when I slammed into carpet, only nausea and vertigo.
I couldn’t move. Couldn't breathe. It felt like a black hole vacuumed everything out of me, pulverized my spine, and left behind lightning in my veins.
I could feel the bile clawing up my throat. I had no choice but to let it stew in my throat until I could choke it down after a couple dazed minutes. Time seemed to pass if the early morning light steadily creeping across the floor got closer and the room brighter.
Unfortunately for me, that gave me time to think. To remember.
I died. Maybe? I. . . I don’t know. It felt like dying, at least.
Before there was fire. It was all around me, on me, inside me. I remember the heat, the pain, the smell of burning flesh. Mine? Someone else's?
Between was “the void.”
After was here. . . wherever the hell “here” was, anyway.
With a groan I managed to push myself up on shaky arms and crawl towards the nearest hard surface. Dresser. Wooden, brown, metal handles. Bedroom?
I grabbed at the handles and slowly pulled myself to both feet. I gripped the edges of the dresser so hard my knuckles turned white and my nails dug into the varnish. I hated how my legs shook but it was taking everything in me to keep myself standing and eyes open. I could see the darkness creeping at the edge of my vision, waiting to take me back under.
It was a few more minutes before I was able to blink away the fuzziness and the fog began to clear from my head. The first thing I saw was jewelry - gold, pearls, diamonds, and lots of it - makeup, and accessories. A silver tray of (what I’m assuming are) expensive perfumes, lotions, and creams. The next thing I saw nearly brought the bile back.
The face in the mirror wasn’t mine.
The girl was familiar to me, I knew that. Her name was on the tip of my tongue but buried beneath the lingering fog.
But I knew she wasn’t me.
She was breathing hard - panting, open-mouthed gasping, like she couldn’t figure out how to get her lungs work. Her honey blonde hair was tangled around her face in loose, chaotic strands, half-stuck to her sweat-damp cheeks. She looked like she clawed her way out of a nightmare but got stuck somewhere between waking up and drowning.
Her skin was fair and smooth, but drained of any color. The only warmth came from the heavy golden torc pressed flush against her collarbone, gleaming faintly in the dim light. It didn’t dangle or sway like a normal necklace. It clung to her. I couldn’t see a clasp, just a seamless loop of gold molded to fit the hollow of her throat.
Her eyes were wide, almost wild, filled with confusion or panic or both. Her pupils were blown making her light brown eyes seem almost black. Except the ring of golden honey around them.
Wait. . . I leaned closer, hunched over the vanity like I might fall through it. The wood creaked. The mirror fogged with each breath.
I stare. She stares back.
I blink. She blinks.
I tilt my head to the side, she mirrors me, her eyes staying focused on mine.
This is not my face.
And yet. . . it couldn’t be anyone else's.
Her lips - my lips - were parted, chapped. I touched them with shaking fingers. The girl in the mirror copied me like I feared she would. They were warm. This was real. This wasn’t a hallucination.
I’m puppeting someone else’s skin from the inside out.
A splash of color in the mirror behind the girl caught my attention. I almost shattered when I realized what it was I was looking at - a bright red pennant flag with skinny yellow block lettering: SMALLVILLE CROWS.
No. No no no no nonononononono -
The girl in the mirror started heaving, her head shaking. That - That could mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just some fan memorabilia. Someone who liked comic books and early 2000s teen dramas. Who wouldn’t? Perfectly normal. We all do it.
It doesn’t mean anything.It doesn’t mean anything.Itdoesn’tmeananything.
I kept the mantra up like a hysterical prayer as I pushed off the vanity and stumbled towards the desk underneath the flag. It was neat. Organized. Everything had its place: textbooks aligned by size, color-coded tabs poking from the edges of well-worn binders. Each subject on the spine - Calculus, Economics, Physics - told me this girl was smart.
This wasn’t mine. This wasn’t my life. That was never me (I don’t think? Why don’t I know?!) and it couldn’t be.
I tore through the desk like a tornado - yanking drawers open, flipping through folders with trembling fingers, scattering notebooks. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath, each gasp catching in my throat to strangle me.
This isn’t real.This isn’t real.Thisisn’treal.
The only thing driving me was panic and a desperate need to find something - anything - that made sense. Nothing made sense!
My fingers slowed as I opened the cover of the calculus textbook only to freeze entirely. Inside, stamped in crisp blue ink:
PROPERTY OF SMALLVILLE HIGH SCHOOL
Check Out: August 2003
Return By: May 2004
My eyes frantically darted to the corkboard above the desk. There was a pinned student schedule and surrounded by push-pinned flyers for Ivy League schools and generic postcards for cities around the world. The name printed in dull black ink at the top read:
Alicia Margaret Baker - ID: 057692 - Grade: 11
“No," I whispered. I wanted nothing more than to scream but my voice was too raw. “No, no, no. . . this isn’t right. She’s not real. She’s not real.”
But the schedule didn’t vanish. The ink didn’t bleed or smudge or fade away. It was still there. Still hers.
My gaze snapped to the leather satchel hanging over the back of the desk chair. I lunged for it like I was drowning, grabbing at a lifeline. I fumbled with the buckles and upended it, shaking out its contents until it was all dumped out on the desk in front of me.
There. A wallet, slim and black leather. Cash, various plastic cards, crumpled receipts, a few business cards. And then I found it - my own personal Sword of Damocles.
A Kansas driver’s license.
I snatched it out like it might disappear if I hesitated. My fingers clamped down around the edges as I backed away, collapsing to the floor as my knees gave out beneath me. I barely registered the pain in my knees, entirely too focused on the bit of plastic in my hands.
Alicia Margaret Baker
DOB: 07/31/1987
ISS: 08/01/2003
The photo that stared back at me was the same face from the mirror. Alicia Baker’s face.
The sword dropped. It was real. It had to be. Right?
The small red heart next to the word DONOR at the bottom of the card felt like an ironic slap in the face. The real horror wasn’t just in the name or the face that was now somehow my face.
I was sitting in Alicia Baker’s bedroom.
I was wearing Alicia Baker’s skin.
I knew I wasn’t Alicia Baker.
But I knew Alicia Baker was going to die.
+++
I don’t know how long I sat crumpled on the floor, clutching Alicia’s driver’s license. The patches of sun coming through the white lace windows were getting brighter, their warmth coming closer.
A sharp trio of knocks startled me.
“Alicia?” A thin, hesitant voice called through the door. When I didn’t respond, the woman knocked again. “Alicia, are you awake?”
I cleared my voice. “Y-Yeah.” I swiped at my face, trying to wipe away the tears as I climbed to my feet. “I’m awake.”
The door creaked open with slow deliberation. The middle-aged woman who opened it didn’t even come in all the way, just enough to lean her head in. She kept one hand gripping the side of the door like it was a shield.
This must be Mrs. Baker, Alicia’s mom. Did the show even give her a name? From what I remembered of Alicia’s story, this woman wasn’t of much help to her daughter when Alicia went into her obsessive spiral. Did she let Alicia move back in after her stint in Belle Reve?
Beautiful dream my ass - that place was a government funded metahuman prison that more or less sanctioned torture and human experimentation.
“Thirty minutes,” she said, her voice clipped.
For what? Granted, she did look a bit more put together than an average early morning - red hair curled slightly at the ends, tasteful silver jewelry, lipstick was just a shade too bold for the rest of her face. Although the shade unfortunately drew attention to the way her thin mouth pressed into an even thinner line. She didn’t look at me right away. Her gaze lingering on the messy desk just over my shoulder.
“Thirty minutes?” I asked. “Uh, wh - what’s in thirty minutes?”
I waited for. . . something, some flicker of warmth, a smile, even an exasperated sigh. But Mrs. Baker just hovered in the doorway, one foot in, one foot out.
My question did catch her attention, though. Her eyes shifted away from the desk to briefly glance at me in confusion. No. . . not at me, but at the necklace I wore.
“Church, Alicia.” She spoke slowly, confused by my obvious confusion. “It’s Sunday.”
For a second, I saw it in her eyes: that flicker of discomfort. The same one I’m sure the real Alicia must have gotten used to seeing growing up. The part of Mrs. Baker that wanted to be a mom. . . and the part of her that wasn’t sure if Alicia was even her daughter anymore.
Mrs. Baker pulled back, deciding her time was up. She did what she came to do apparently.
“Don’t keep your father waiting,” she gave a parting warning like it was safer than saying goodbye.
The door clicked shut and I was alone again.
Shit. I was going to have to play Puppet Master sooner than I would have liked before I could figure out what the hell was going on.
I could do this, I breathed in. . . and out. In. . . and out. I could do this. I could do this. I could -
One look in the mirror and I was already failing the Alicia role. I only had thirty minutes to look human.
I rushed to the window and the moment I peeled back the curtains, all I saw was a blanket of soft white. Snow. Of course. The desk calendar read FEBRUARY, the page a soft pink with little hearts lining the border. Thankfully Alicia was meticulous enough to tick off the days.
Sunday. 15 February, 2004.
Across the room, I threw open her closet with more force than necessary. Sweaters, skirts, dress trousers, blazers, nice blouses. All looked like pretty good quality. The Bakers may be scared of their daughter, but it looked like they were just as scared of bad impressions. At least I’ve got that going for me. Always wondered what it was like to be rich.
My fingers landed on the ribbed deep coffee brown turtleneck. The back, calf-length skirt came next. Good enough. I tossed both onto Alicia’s bed and darted to the adjoining bathroom.
I plugged in Alicia’s straightener and turned the dial. With how old and clunky it was, hopefully it’d be ready by the time I was done getting myself together. The next couple minutes was coordinated chaos as I wet the toothbrush, squeezed paste on it - gross, bubblegum, the fuck Alicia? - and half-assed brushed my teeth as I yanked a brush through my hair with the other hand. Foamy toothpaste dribbled down my chin, but a quick rinse of my face and I was out the door again.
Back in Alicia’s room, I shimmed into a pair of black stockings before tugging on the skirt. I nearly smacked myself in the face trying to pull the turtleneck overhead. Disaster continued to strike as I barely caught myself before I face planted on my way to the vanity while I shoved my feet into a pair of black, chunky heeled boots.
I didn’t think I had time for real makeup but I could guess what Alicia usually wore based on her products. There wasn’t a lot but it did seem like her cosmetic vice was anything lip related - there was a whole basket for lip glosses, lipstick, lip liners, tinted lip balms, the works. Mainly pinks.
Wonderful.
A rough layer of moisturizer first, a dab of tinted balm, a sweep of blush with my fingers, a thin line of eyeliner on the top, and mascara to top it all off. Enough to look like I wasn’t having an existential crisis in the body of a mentally ill fictional teenager.
I’m great. Just. . . swell.
I grabbed a black headband from Alicia’s drawer of hair accessories and headed back into the bathroom. It wasn’t the best straightened look, but the headband would at least keep it out of my face.
Alicia wore headbands, right? I mean, she had the whole “upper class preppy smart girl” look. That just screamed straight hair, headbands, and pleated skirts.
(I may be nowhere close to coming to terms with body snatching this girl, but I refuse to willingly wear a patterned, pleated mini-skirt. The Paris Gellar life is not the one for me.)
Final check in the mirror: not bad. I looked. . . normal. Maybe not Alicia normal, but. . . safe enough.
"Alicia Margaret!" A stern voice - Mr. Baker - called up the main floor.
And now I was late.
I spared a couple seconds to shove Alicia’s stuff back into her wallet and bolted out the door.
When I got to the bottom of the stairs I was assaulted by the amount of yellow and fruit patterns this house seemed to contain. The walls were a pale, sticky kind of yellow. Maybe the color was meant to be calming and peaceful, but it just felt like the Bakers were forcing happiness into a place that clearly didn’t want it.
Everywhere I looked, there was fruit. No faces, no family photos. Just. Fruit.
Strawberries embroidered on the lace curtains, lemons and oranges bloomed across throw pillows and dish towels, green and red grapes clustered together in decorative bowls and etched into the stained glass panels of the window beside the front door.
The closer I got to the front door, the more I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched by citrus. I half-expected a pear to blink at me.
As if the body snatching wasn’t enough to feel that bone-deep wrongness of being in a place you’re not supposed to be, what I’ve seen of the Baker’s home was enough to seal the deal. The whole place had the vibe of a model home. The Bakers that lived here before the meteor shower were ghosts now, floating around pretending to be a family while slowly being suffocated by the yellow closing in around them.
Mr. Baker stood in front of the front door, arms crossed, back straight, face set in stone. The first thing I noticed were his muddy eyes. Just like his wife, they lacked any warmth for his daughter. He just looked at me, sharp and still behind gold wire rimmed glasses. He didn’t smile either when he saw me - Alicia - but he didn’t frown either. Just looked.
Movement caught my eye and I glanced down briefly to see his fingers tighten around his keys. Maybe he didn’t like being late?
Maybe he just needed something to hold so he wouldn’t clench his fists.
“We’re late,” he said flatly, voice low and clipped like he was trying not to say something else instead.
I nodded, unsure if I was supposed to say something back. Would Alicia have? Every part of me felt like it was walking on glass longer he stared at me without blinking. Even though I knew I was supposed to pretend to know this man, maybe even love him, every instinct in me screamed: CAUTION! Danger, Will Robinson!
Mr. Baker took a step closer and his hand shot out, his rough fingers closing around the edge of my turtleneck. I froze, unable to breathe, caught halfway between wanting to recoil and unable to believe what was actually happening. With a firm tug, he yanked it down just far enough to expose my throat.
The fuck?!
But it wasn’t my skin he was looking at. His eyes were fixated on something else.
The necklace.
I hadn’t thought much of it given literally everything else that happened this morning. It was just another piece of jewelry. A bit clunky for a girl like Alicia, but who was I to judge. Maybe it was just one of those early 2000s statement piece trends like those owls in the 2010s. But now, I’m not so sure. Mr. Baker was looking at it like it meant something to him.
He let go just as quickly, turned, and stalked toward the front door. No apology. No explanation. With how fast it all happened it felt a little too practiced.
First the missus, now the TSA check. What the hell was it about this necklace that had the Bakers on edge? Something was off. About him. About this house. About this whole fucking situation.
My collar was stretched awkwardly out of shape and I tugged it back up, fingers trembling. If I wasn’t confused before, I certainly am now.
+++
Thankfully, the Bakers had a Sunday routine: drive in silence to church, silently attend mass, make idle conversation with everyone but Alicia, leave in silence. Thank whatever put me here that the Bakers were Catholic; my muscle memory kicked in and I was able to mentally check out for the two hours since walking out the front door. Certainly gave me the time to think about. . . things.
Mainly about Alicia.
I don’t know how I got here or what even happened Before here. Everything is just one giant hole in my memory. Convenient enough, the only clear things I remember have to do with Smallville. It’s like whatever cosmic accident dragged me here scooped out everything that made me me and left only the bits and pieces I needed to understand my new life situation.
And why Alicia? Why bring me back (if I did die. . . and I think maybe I did) only to put me inside a girl that’s just going to be murdered anyway? What was the point of all that?
How long did I have anyway before the events of the show catch up with me? No one except the Bakers really paid me any attention and I clearly wasn’t locked away in a padded cell, so it must be before Alicia tried to murder her father to be with Clark.
But does that mean I’ve - Alicia - has already met Clark? Has the LuthorCorp field trip from hell already happened? How long before it does happen?!
All these questions and I’m still going around in circles, landing at the same point I started at: why Alicia Baker?
She may have started off as your typical meteor-freak-of-the-week and another trophy on Chloe Sullivan’s Wall of Weird, but even then I’m reluctant to call her a villain. Everything about her story just screamed ‘victim’ to me.
I mean, yeah, there’s no justifying the awful things she did - attempted murder of at least two people and drugging Clark with Red-K at the top of the list. But you can’t tell me her instability didn’t come from her trauma and not some corny comic book explanation.
She grew up being feared by her parents, emotionally abandoned at a time she needed them most. Their fear led them to punish for her abilities that she couldn’t control and they couldn’t accept. And instead of trying to understand their daughter, the Bakers built a lead-lined prison and kept her locked away for over a decade and called it love. Protection, they called it - not for her, but from her.
No shit that’s going to create some lasting damage!
And if all you’ve ever known - all you’ve ever been told growing up - is to be a monster, was it really any surprise that she acted out like one? Her destructive behavior was the result of parental failure, not because she was inherently evil.
Alicia Baker’s life was a cautionary tale about the cost of having powers without support. Instead of addressing that issue, she was vilified and killed. Alicia had started to grow when they had killed her off - she’d completed rehabilitation, she showed remorse for her actions, and all she wanted was a chance to live a better life. Her relapse in drugging Clark wasn’t her trying to be a villain, it was the reality of trauma healing slowly. Because that shit is never clean.
The tragedy was that Alicia was never seen as anything other than her worst mistakes. She deserved more than judgment. She was narratively convenient and disposable and she didn’t deserve the fate she was dealt.
Maybe. . . maybe it didn’t have to be that way. Maybe things could be different this time. If I knew what was coming, then maybe -
SLAM!
I jumped, catching myself on the seatbelt. We couldn’t be back at the house already. Outside the window was a diner just off a quiet two-lane highway that cut through the heart of Smallville. The sign above the entrance was white, classic Americana that just said DINER in big block letters. As I got out of the car and followed the Bakers, I could see smaller lettering etched on the glass door: Al’s – Since 1953.
A gentle bell chime over the door greeted us as we walked in. I can’t remember the last time I ate but the thick aroma of fresh coffee and bacon grease had me drooling.
The Bakers are slightly ahead of me, holding hands like they’re doing promotional work - the image of a polished and perfectly All-American family. With the well-behaved daughter just a step behind.
The middle-aged hostess - Gloria, her name tag read - greeted them with a kind smile. “Well, look who the angels dragged in. The usual today?” She didn’t bother to grab menus.
Mr. Baker chuckled smoothly, sliding into charm like second nature. “Only if it comes with your Blue Ribbon sass on the side.”
It must be the same shitty joke he tells every Sunday given the playful eye roll Gloria gives him. “Your booth’s open. Joanne’ll bring out your drinks in a second.”
Mrs. Baker took the lead over the narrow, honey-brown tiles to a booth in the back by the windows. The booths were upholstered in caramel-colored vinyl, cracked slightly at the seams. Matching leather bar stools lined the curve of the long white counter, their chrome legs scuffed from decades of use.
Mr. & Mrs. Baker took one side facing the diner and I got the other side facing the back wall. On it, beneath an old wall clock that I don’t think has kept accurate time in years, was a "Regulars Wall" filled with Polaroids.
The after-church crowd was in full swing around them, the chatter cheerful and low. Definitely an upgrade from the crippling silence Alicia seemed to live in. A waitress in a pale pink uniform came by a moment later to drop off their drips before hustling off to her other tables.
As the minutes ticked by on the broken clock, I slouched a little deeper into the booth. My only entertainment was dragging slow circles against the edge of my water glass. The Bakers were deep in conversation about a town council meeting. . . or maybe the neighbor’s new lawn care? It didn’t matter. They haven’t looked at their daughter once since they sat down.
I stabbed the straw into the melting ice and watched it swirl. Stab, swirl. Stab, swirl. Eventually, even that felt like too much effort.
My gaze drifted back to the dozens of faded Polaroids pinned on the “Regulars Wall.” Some curled at the corners, some were newer with signatures scrawled across the white border. People immortalized laughing, in awkward group hugs, smiling with birthday pancakes, holding up coffee mugs or forkfuls of food to their mouths the exact moment someone called their name and snapped the shot.
I scanned the wall lazily until one photo made me pause. The Bakers were on the wall - smiling, laughing, younger by a few years. Mr. Baker’s arm was around his wife’s shoulders, and she was caught mid-laugh, a milkshake in one hand. There was a sparkle in their eyes that I couldn’t recognize in the pair that sat across from me. They looked happy.
And alone.
No Alicia. Not in that photo. Not in any of the others on the wall. Not once.
I leaned back against the vinyl, jaw tightening. I don’t know what I was expecting, but. . . something about her not being up on that wall, smiling and happy with everyone else. . . it lands heavy.
I was proof of something I’d always suspected but the show never seemed to spell out. In Smallville, in this diner, on that wall Alicia Baker didn’t really exist. At least, not in the way everyone else did. Not in the way it actually mattered.
Their laughter across the table faded to the background. I just stare at the photo until the food comes out.
I had to bite back a scoff when I saw Mr. Baker’s plate. Nothing said All American like a heart attack on a plate - fried eggs, three types of meat, and hash browns smothered and covered. Alicia’s usual was more disappointing - spinach & mushroom omelet and fruit.
Because nothing says 'balanced teen girl' like spinach, mushrooms, and the crushing weight of body image expectations. Early 2000s wellness tip #47 brought to you by Seventeen Magazine: thin is the only personality trait girls are allowed to have.
The diner's warm chatter hums around me like comforting static. I can almost pretend I’m back in the Before, like this wasn’t really happening to me. It also helped that Alicia’s parents were fully absorbed in their own world talking to each other or any church friends who stop by the table.
I offered the occasional Hi, good to see you and I’m well, thank you. And you? when someone came up to the table, but they turned right back to the Bakers after the customary politeness.
I was happy enough to fade into the booth like part of the upholstery. These weren’t my parents, why be offended if they didn’t act like it. But the niggling in the back of my head reminded me that they were Alicia’s parents. . . and I was now Alicia, or at least temporarily possessing Alicia’s meatsuit.
Great, now I’m offended on her behalf.
I poked at the half-eaten omelet, shifting it around more than eating it. Her fork scrapes softly against the ceramic plate. I’m drifting somewhere between bored and numb when Mrs. Baker’s voice snapped me out of the fog.
“Sweetheart, are you feeling okay?”
My head jerked up, genuinely startled. It was the first time she’d talked to Alicia all meal.
Mrs. Baker was watching me with something that almost looked like concern. Was it performative, all showy care since we’re in public? Or was it just a flicker of actual motherly instinct?
I opened her mouth, unsure what to say. Yes? No? What kind of mother are you? I’m not really your daughter, just wearing her face? Oh, don’t worry about Belle Reve, I’ll just call them myself.
“She’s fine,” Mr. Baker cut in, already halfway through his next bite. “She just needs to stop fussing. We don’t waste food in this family, Alicia Margaret.”
Aaaaaaand just like that it’s gone - poof! Up in smoke. I watched Mrs. Baker glance away, her (maybe) concern smoothing out into bland neutrality.
I force a smile. “Right. Wouldn’t want to let the omelet feel unappreciated.”
I take a bite even though it tastes like cardboard and condescension. Chew. Swallow. Smile. Repeat. Mr. Baker shot me a glare before going back to his meal.
I drift back to staring out the window. It isn’t long before I’m choking on a piece of squishy cantaloupe. A rusted red pickup rolled down Smallville’s only main street. Behind the wheel is none other than Clark fucking Kent.
And yeah, maybe he was behind the wheel for all of like two seconds, but it was enough. There was no mistaking that face - not in the Before and certainly not now.
The messy dark hair, the sun-kissed skin, the square jaw with just a hint of stumble, the sun hitting just right to highlight those sinful cheekbones no teenager has any business possessing. He had that easy, farm-boy slouch, one hand casually draped over the steering wheel like he didn’t realize he looked like a model. . . if models religiously wore flannel and was allergic to any color that wasn’t primary.
The truck disappeared past the grain supply store and I was left spiraling.
I just saw the Clark Kent in his full Kansas golden-boy glory. Cover of an All American cereal box, all muscles and morals and that stupidly charming farm boy half-smile - that Clark Kent.
If this is a hallucination, then I’m either severely mentally ill or riding the tail-end of an acid trip with unusually good casting.
I watched Alicia’s face stare back at me in the window. Except it wasn’t her. Not anymore.
Clark Kent wasn’t just some random hot guy in town. That’s the part that hit harder than expected. It wasn’t the sudden fangirl swoon from seeing TV’s hottest Kryptonian in real life.
It’s the weight of knowing how it was all supposed to go down. This may be Alicia’s body. . . but I don’t think I want to live her story.
There was no denying that Alicia loved Clark - more than just her initial obsession, but genuinely at the end. He was someone who saw her. Understood her. Accepted her when no one else would.
Their powers made them different from everyone around them. I had always loved how the show set them up as a foil to one another, how they mirrored each other’s isolation. Clark could finally be himself around Alicia. Not “Clark Kent: Surprising Savior of Smallville” or “The Farm Boy With a Secret.”
Just Clark.
And Alicia? She didn’t shy away or call him a freak or want him to change.
She accepted him in ways Lana Lang never could - or would. Not because Lana was cruel, but because Lana always loved a version of Clark. (Their whole will-they-won’t-they relationship had the emotional stability of a Jenga tower in a wind tunnel. No one was sad to see her leave.) With Alicia, though, there was no hiding. No shame in being different from everybody else.
And then they killed her. They gave her just enough hope to change and then made her a footnote in someone else’s story.
I could feel my stomach twisting into knots, and not just from the eggs although those did leave something to be desired. I don’t know how else to describe it other than being a deep ache in my chest, like tiny spiders crawling up my throat to suffocate me. I knew too much of what was supposed to happen, and not enough about what to do about it.
Alicia thought that if people knew the truth about metahumans, then they would have to accept them for who they are. She thought that she would find freedom in not hiding who she was. It only got her framed for another metahuman’s crimes, betrayed and vilified by the man she loved, and lynched from the rafters.
And this show - this world - turned her into a life lesson for Clark to grow from.
But if Alicia represented what Clark would have become without the love and support of the Kents, why couldn’t she deserve to be loved too?
If Kal-El got a second chance when he crash landed here, why couldn’t my crash landing give Alicia the same?
A delivery truck rumbled by. I blinked hard and looked down at my really cold omelet. Mrs. Baker glanced over again, but said nothing. Mr. Baker didn’t even notice.
Something inside me settles. The disbelief hasn’t gone away, I still half-expect to wake up in some hospital with a nurse telling me it was all just a morphine dream.
Yet Clark Kent just drove past that window. And I’m wearing Alicia Baker’s face.
And this new and not at all improved Alicia isn’t going to waste her second chance.
I don’t want to be a milestone on Superman’s way to better character development. I don’t even want to be the story.
.
.
.
I just want to live past eighteen.