[DEO Headquarters, Secure Conference Room — June 2017, 12:15 PM]
The shuttle descended with military precision.
Mon-El watched from the conference room window as the sleek Daxamite vessel touched down on the DEO's rooftop landing pad. The design was familiar—graceful curves and flowing lines that prioritized aesthetics over function, the preferred style of Daxam's royal engineers. It was a transport meant for dignitaries, not soldiers.
Which didn't mean there wouldn't be soldiers on board.
"Four life signs," Winn reported through the comm link. "Two match the biosignatures we pulled from the broadcast. The other two are probably guards."
"Acknowledged." J'onn stood beside Mon-El, his posture carefully neutral. "Remember the protocols. This is a diplomatic meeting, not an interrogation. We want information, not confrontation."
"Understood."
"And Mon-El—" J'onn's voice softened slightly. "Whatever happens in there, you're not alone. Remember that."
The shuttle's ramp descended. Four figures emerged into the harsh midday sun.
Queen Rhea led the procession. She moved with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent centuries commanding attention, her purple robes catching the light like a living flame. Her silver hair was pulled back in an elaborate style that Mon-El vaguely recognized from court functions he'd never actually attended.
Behind her came King Lar Gand.
Mon-El's first thought was that his father looked tired. The show hadn't conveyed that—or maybe the transmigrator's memories had filtered out the nuances. But in person, Lar Gand moved with the careful deliberation of someone carrying more weight than his shoulders were meant to bear. His robes were simpler than Rhea's, his bearing less theatrical.
He looked almost... ordinary.
Two guards flanked them—tall, stone-faced Daxamites in ceremonial armor that was more decorative than functional. They positioned themselves at the room's entrance as J'onn opened the doors.
"Queen Rhea. King Lar Gand." J'onn's voice was professionally neutral. "Welcome to Earth."
Rhea swept into the room, her gaze finding Mon-El immediately. Something flickered across her face—satisfaction, perhaps, or relief, or some combination that Mon-El couldn't quite parse.
"My son." She crossed the distance between them, reached out as if to embrace him.
Mon-El stepped back.
"Mother." His voice came out steadier than he expected. "You've come a long way."
A flash of something in her eyes. Hurt? Anger? Both? "I've crossed galaxies to find you. When Daxam fell, when we thought you lost—" She paused, composed herself. "Every day, I searched. Every resource I possessed was devoted to bringing you home."
"This is my home now."
"Earth?" Rhea's laugh was musical and dismissive. "A primitive backwater, populated by species that can barely achieve orbit. You are the Crown Prince of Daxam. Your place is among your people."
"My people died when Daxam exploded." Mon-El kept his voice level. "The survivors—whoever you've gathered—they don't need a prince. They need resources, leadership, direction. I can't give them that."
"You underestimate yourself."
"I know exactly what I am." He met her eyes. "And it's not what you wanted me to be."
Silence stretched between them. Behind Rhea, Lar Gand watched the exchange with an expression that Mon-El couldn't read.
"Perhaps." Rhea's voice softened. "Perhaps I pushed too hard. Expected too much. But you've changed, my son. I can see it. Whatever this planet has given you—" Her gaze flickered to Kara, standing rigid by the door. "Whoever has influenced your growth—perhaps that change is not entirely unwelcome."
"Then accept my choice. Let me stay here."
"I wish I could." The regret in her voice almost sounded genuine. "But our people need their symbol. Their prince. Without you, there is no future for Daxam. The survivors will scatter, lose hope, fade into the darkness of space." She stepped closer. "Would you condemn an entire civilization to oblivion for the sake of one planet?"
"I'm not condemning anyone. I'm offering a different path." Mon-El glanced at J'onn. "Earth has welcomed alien refugees before. The DEO has protocols for integration. Your survivors could build new lives here—real lives, not just memories of a dead world."
"Live among these primitives?" Rhea's composure cracked slightly. "Accept charity from creatures barely more evolved than—"
"Rhea." Lar Gand's voice cut through her building anger. Quiet. Firm. "Perhaps we should take a break. Confer."
The Queen's jaw tightened. For a moment, Mon-El thought she might argue. Then she inclined her head in acknowledgment.
"A brief recess. My husband and I will consult with our advisors."
She swept toward the guards, leaving Mon-El alone with his father for the first time since... ever, really. The memories of Daxam didn't include many father-son conversations.
Lar Gand approached slowly. Up close, the exhaustion was even more apparent—lines around his eyes, a heaviness in his movements.
"You've changed, son." Not accusation. Observation. "For the better, I think."
"I hope so."
"Your mother—" He paused, seemed to weigh his words. "She loves you. In her way. But she's spent ten months convincing herself that bringing you home would solve everything. The loss of Daxam, the scattered survivors, the collapse of everything we built—she believed recovering you would restore what was lost."
"It won't."
"I know." Lar Gand's smile was sad. "I've known for some time. But telling her that..." He shrugged. "You remember how she is."
"I remember."
They stood together in silence for a moment. Through the window, the Daxamite shuttle gleamed in the afternoon light.
"The woman," Lar Gand said finally. "The Kryptonian. Kara Zor-El."
Mon-El tensed. "What about her?"
"She matters to you."
"She's the reason I'm worth talking to." Mon-El didn't hesitate. "Before her—before this life—I was exactly what you and Mother raised me to be. Selfish. Hedonistic. Content to let others handle anything difficult." He met his father's eyes. "She helped me understand what I could become. What I wanted to become."
Lar Gand nodded slowly. "Good. That's... good." He gripped Mon-El's shoulder, the gesture achingly familiar despite belonging to memories that weren't quite real. "I'll do what I can with your mother. But her patience has limits. Be ready, son."
"I will."
"And Mon-El—" His father's voice dropped. "Whatever happens next... I'm proud of who you've become."
The words hit harder than Mon-El expected. He hadn't realized how much he wanted to hear them until they were spoken.
"Thank you."
Lar Gand released his shoulder and walked toward Rhea. The guards fell in beside them. The shuttle ramp descended.
As the Daxamite delegation departed, Kara crossed to Mon-El's side.
"That went... better than expected?"
"Maybe." He watched his parents' shuttle lift off, banking toward the orbiting fleet. "Or maybe it was exactly what she wanted."
"What do you mean?"
"My mother never does anything without a purpose. She came here knowing I'd refuse. The question is—what's her actual plan?"
Kara's hand found his. "We'll figure it out. Together."
"Together," he agreed.
But even as he said it, his mind was racing through possibilities. Rhea had retreated too easily. Lar Gand's sympathy felt genuine, but that didn't mean it would matter.
The storm wasn't over. It was just beginning.
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