[J'onn's Apartment, DEO Residential Wing — July 2017, 3:23 AM]
The knock was quiet but urgent.
J'onn answered in the casual clothes he wore off-duty, his expression shifting from annoyance to concern as he took in Mon-El's face.
"What happened?"
"We need to talk. Inside."
The apartment was sparse—functional furniture, few decorations, the living space of someone who'd spent centuries learning not to accumulate attachments. J'onn led him to a small kitchen area and started making coffee without asking.
"Show me."
Mon-El pulled out his phone, placed it on the counter, and let the photos speak for themselves.
J'onn studied each image in silence. His face was stone—the practiced neutrality of someone who'd seen too much to let emotion govern his reactions. But Mon-El could read the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.
"When was this?"
"Tonight. Twelve-forty-seven AM." Mon-El walked him through everything—the unauthorized access patterns, the inconsistencies in Jeremiah's story, the backyard conversation that had first confirmed his suspicions. "He's been copying the alien registry. Names, locations, everything. And the defense protocols, the communication schemas..."
"Building a comprehensive target package." J'onn's voice was flat. "Everything Cadmus would need to neutralize our operations and systematically eliminate registered aliens."
"Yes."
Silence filled the kitchen. The coffee maker gurgled, oblivious to the weight of what was being discussed.
"I've known Jeremiah for almost two decades," J'onn said finally. "Worked alongside him. Trusted him. When he disappeared, I felt that loss as keenly as his family did." He paused. "And now you're telling me he's been turned."
"I'm telling you what I saw. What the evidence shows." Mon-El met his eyes. "I wanted to be wrong. I wanted to believe the backyard conversation was just... paranoia. Fear of good things being taken away."
"But it wasn't."
"No."
J'onn poured two cups of coffee—some recipe that smelled stronger than anything Mon-El had encountered on Earth. He handed one to Mon-El and took a long drink from his own.
"My wife used to make this blend," he said quietly. "On Mars, before everything ended. She believed that difficult conversations deserved strong coffee." A ghost of a smile. "She was wise about many things."
Mon-El drank. The coffee was bitter, complex, unexpectedly comforting.
"What do we do?" he asked.
"We confront him." J'onn set down his cup. "Privately. Give him a chance to explain—or to turn. Cadmus programming can be broken with sufficient motivation. If there's any part of Jeremiah that still exists beneath what they've done to him..."
"You think that's possible?"
"I think we owe him the attempt." J'onn's jaw tightened. "And if we're wrong—if the programming is too deep—we use him. Feed him false information. Let him think his cover is intact while we track his movements and learn what Cadmus is planning."
"The girls can't know." Mon-El's voice was firm. "Not yet. Not until we're certain."
"Agreed." J'onn's expression carried something that might have been gratitude. "You did right, bringing this to me. Some lies protect people."
"I know." Mon-El thought about his own lies—the transmigrator secret, the meta-knowledge, all the things he kept hidden because revealing them would cause more harm than good. "I know how that feels."
They spent the next hour planning. Logistics, contingencies, worst-case scenarios. By the time dawn began lightening the windows, they had something approaching a strategy.
J'onn would request a private meeting with Jeremiah—routine debrief, standard reintegration procedure. He would present the evidence without accusation, give Jeremiah the opportunity to explain or confess. Depending on the response, they would escalate or adapt.
"I should be there," Mon-El said. "In case things go wrong."
"You should be nearby. Watching through the security feed." J'onn's tone left no room for argument. "If Jeremiah sees you in the room, he'll know exactly who gathered this evidence. That knowledge could be dangerous for you and for Kara."
"And if he runs?"
"Then we pursue. Quietly, if possible. Loudly, if necessary." J'onn gripped Mon-El's shoulder—the gesture Jeremiah had used, fathers passing weight to the next generation. "You did right, telling me. Whatever happens next, remember that."
"I will."
The sun broke over the horizon as Mon-El left J'onn's quarters. A new day beginning. The last day, maybe, before everything changed.
He wished doing right didn't feel so wrong.
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