[National City, Private Restaurant — June 2017, 7:43 PM]
The message arrived through unconventional channels.
Winn had flagged it as a potential security threat—a narrow-beam transmission directed at Mon-El's DEO communicator, encrypted with protocols that the Daxamite fleet shouldn't have known. But the content was simple: coordinates for a restaurant in the financial district, a time, and three words.
We should talk. —L
"It could be a trap," Alex pointed out for the fourth time.
"It could be." Mon-El adjusted his jacket—civilian clothes, nothing that screamed 'alien prince' or 'DEO operative.' "But I don't think it is."
"Based on what? A feeling?"
"Based on the fact that if Lar Gand wanted to trap me, he'd do it more efficiently." Mon-El met her skeptical gaze. "My father isn't subtle. If this were hostile, there'd be soldiers, not dinner invitations."
"I'm going with you," Kara said. Not a question.
"I need to go alone."
"Mon-El—"
"If he sees you, he'll think I don't trust him. That kills any chance of turning him into an ally." He crossed to her, took her hands. "I need my father to believe I'm coming to him as a son, not as a representative of Earth's defenders. That means going alone."
"I don't like it."
"Neither do I." He kissed her forehead. "But it's the best chance we have of preventing this from becoming a war."
The restaurant was an upscale establishment in the financial district—white tablecloths, low lighting, the kind of place where deals worth millions were negotiated over wine and appetizers. Mon-El had reserved a private room through DEO channels, ensuring security sweeps and controlled access.
Lar Gand was already there when he arrived.
The King of Daxam looked oddly natural in the human setting. He'd exchanged his royal robes for something simpler—a dark suit that might have been off-the-rack if not for the way it fit his frame. He sat at the table studying the menu with apparent fascination.
"They have remarkable options," Lar Gand said as Mon-El took his seat. "Your mother would never approve of such... diverse cuisine. She prefers traditional Daxamite fare."
"Traditional Daxamite fare was designed for a planet that no longer exists." Mon-El picked up his own menu, scanned the options without really seeing them. "Adaptation is survival."
"Spoken like someone who's learned that lesson personally." Lar Gand set down the menu. "Thank you for coming. I wasn't certain you would."
"Neither was I." Honesty seemed appropriate. "But I need to understand what's really happening here. Mother's public demands don't match her private behavior. She retreated too quickly from negotiations."
"You noticed that."
"I notice most things. Eventually."
A server appeared—human, young, professionally oblivious to the cosmic significance of the conversation he was interrupting. They ordered. Food arrived. Mon-El barely tasted his steak.
"Your mother has plans," Lar Gand said finally. "Plans she hasn't shared with me entirely. But from what I've gathered..." He pushed food around his plate. "She doesn't intend to simply collect you and leave."
"She wants Earth."
Lar Gand's silence was confirmation enough.
"New Daxam." Mon-El felt the words like weights settling on his chest. "She wants to colonize this planet. Rebuild our civilization here."
"The survivors need a home. Earth has resources, compatible atmosphere, a population that could be... integrated." Lar Gand's voice was careful. "She believes it's the only way to preserve our people."
"'Integrated.'" Mon-El's jaw tightened. "That's a polite word for conquest."
"Yes."
"And you're helping her?"
"I'm here, aren't I?" Something flashed in Lar Gand's eyes—frustration, perhaps, or shame. "I love your mother. I've loved her for centuries. But I'm not blind to what she's become. The destruction of Daxam broke something in her. She's convinced that rebuilding—at any cost—is the only path forward."
"Help me stop her."
The request hung in the air between them. Simple. Direct. Impossible.
Lar Gand was quiet for a long moment. He picked up his fork, set it down, picked up his wine glass, set that down too.
"You're asking me to betray my wife."
"I'm asking you to save billions of lives." Mon-El leaned forward. "Earth isn't some empty world waiting to be claimed. Eight billion people live here. They have families, cultures, civilizations of their own. Whatever Mother is planning—if it means conquering this planet—"
"It would mean war." Lar Gand met his eyes. "A war we would likely win. Daxamite technology, Daxamite powers under a yellow sun—Earth's defenses wouldn't hold."
"They'd try. And people would die. On both sides."
"I know."
"Then help me find another way."
Silence again. The restaurant's ambient noise filled the space between them—clinking glasses, murmured conversations, the gentle sounds of a world that had no idea how close it was to catastrophe.
"I'll try," Lar Gand said finally. "I can't promise success. Your mother's influence with the fleet commanders is substantial, and her conviction is absolute. But I'll try to make her see reason. Find alternatives."
"That's all I'm asking."
"No, it isn't." His father's voice softened. "You're asking me to choose between the woman I've loved for half a millennium and the son I barely know. That's not a small thing, Mon-El."
"I know it isn't." Mon-El reached across the table, gripped his father's arm. "But you said you were proud of who I've become. The person I've become wouldn't let Earth burn just because preventing it was difficult."
"The person you've become." Lar Gand smiled—sad, complicated, full of things that couldn't be said. "Your mother would hate what this planet has made you. But I..." He covered Mon-El's hand with his own. "I think I rather like it."
The meal continued in easier silence. They talked about smaller things—Earth customs that confused or delighted, differences between yellow and red sun environments, the peculiarities of human media. At one point, a server brought dessert without being asked.
"Chocolate cake," Mon-El explained as Lar Gand studied the slice with evident suspicion. "Try it."
His father took a bite. His expression shifted—confusion, then surprise, then something approaching transcendent joy.
"This planet," Lar Gand said through a mouthful of cake, "has remarkable merit."
Mon-El laughed. The sound surprised him—genuine, unguarded, the kind of laugh he hadn't expected to share with his father.
"I know," he said. "That's why I'm fighting to protect it."
---
They parted on the restaurant's rooftop, under stars that looked the same from any planet in the galaxy.
"I'll contact you when I know more," Lar Gand said. "But be ready. Your mother's patience isn't infinite, and she has contingencies I haven't been able to identify."
"I'm always ready."
"No, you're not." His father's smile was gentle. "No one ever is, for something like this. But you're closer than most." He gripped Mon-El's shoulder one last time. "Be careful, son. And take care of that Kryptonian of yours. She's... impressive."
"She is."
Lar Gand lifted off, disappearing into the night sky toward the distant Daxamite ships. Mon-El watched until he was gone.
His father might help prevent war. His father might also die trying—the show had ended that way, Rhea's manipulation ultimately destroying the man who'd tried to restrain her.
But this wasn't the show. Mon-El had changed things before, bent the narrative in directions it hadn't originally gone. Maybe he could change this too.
Maybe.
He flew back toward the apartment, toward Kara, toward the life he was fighting to protect. The city spread beneath him like a jeweled tapestry, eight million lives going about their business in blessed ignorance of the sword hanging over their heads.
His mother was planning conquest. His father was trying to stop her. And somewhere in the middle, Mon-El was searching for a path that didn't end in blood.
He remembered watching Supergirl on a screen, remembered the invasion arc and its consequences. Rhea's betrayal. Lar Gand's death. The desperate measures required to stop the Daxamite fleet.
But he also remembered that he wasn't the same person anymore. Wasn't the detached viewer, safe behind a fourth wall. He was here, in this world, with powers and relationships and the ability to change things.
His father had asked him to be ready.
He would be.
Whatever came next—negotiations or war, reconciliation or tragedy—he would face it with the strength he'd earned and the people who believed in him.
One conversation at a time. One choice at a time. One day at a time.
Until the storm finally broke.
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