[National City, Downtown District — July 2017, 2:15 PM]
The city looked different in daylight.
Mon-El flew above the streets, surveying the damage with fresh eyes. Three days had passed since the lead sky—three days of recovery, of funerals, of trying to find equilibrium in a world that had nearly ended. Now he was back in the air, Kara beside him, patrol route stretching before them like a promise.
The industrial district bore the worst scars. Collapsed buildings, crater marks from drop pod impacts, streets still blocked by debris too heavy for conventional equipment. Reconstruction crews worked at the edges, but the scale of damage would take months to address.
"Over there." Kara pointed toward a crowd gathered near a construction site. "Something's happening."
They descended together, landing in the cleared space where emergency crews had established a perimeter. The crowd—workers, supervisors, a few journalists with cameras—turned to watch them arrive.
"Supergirl!" A construction foreman rushed forward, hard hat clutched in weathered hands. "Thank god. We've got a structural situation—building's unstable, but there are workers trapped inside. Maybe four, five people. We can't get to them without risking total collapse."
Mon-El studied the building. Five stories of damaged concrete and twisted steel, cracks running through the foundation like veins. His enhanced vision picked out heat signatures on the third floor—five people, huddled in a pocket of structural stability that wouldn't last forever.
"I see them," he said. "Third floor, northeast corner."
The foreman stared at him. "You're... you're the Daxamite. From the invasion."
It wasn't a friendly observation. Mon-El saw the tension in the man's shoulders, the wariness in his eyes. Three days ago, Daxamites had been killing people in these streets. The memory was fresh.
"I'm also the one who helped stop it," Mon-El said evenly. "And right now, I'm the one who can get your people out."
"He's with me." Kara stepped forward, her presence smoothing the moment. "We work together."
The foreman hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Whatever gets my guys home safe."
Mon-El approached the building, extending his TK field to probe the structure. The damage was extensive—load-bearing walls compromised, support columns cracked, a web of instability that would collapse at the slightest disturbance.
"Kara, I need you to evacuate." He pointed toward the trapped workers. "Through the east window, third floor. I'll stabilize the structure while you get them out."
"Can you hold it that long?"
"Let's find out."
He placed his hands against the building's exterior and pushed—not physically, but with his telekinetic field. The power extended through concrete and steel, finding stress points, applying counter-pressure, creating a web of invisible support that held the structure in place.
The strain was immediate. His head throbbed. His arms trembled. Holding this much weight required concentration he'd never attempted before.
Kara moved. A blur of red and blue, smashing through the window, appearing moments later with two workers clutched in her arms. She deposited them with the emergency crews, then returned for more.
Mon-El held on.
His nose started to bleed. The TK field flickered, wavered, threatened to collapse. He pushed harder, digging into reserves he didn't know he had.
Kara appeared with the third worker. The fourth. The fifth—a young woman, bleeding from a head wound, unconscious in Kara's arms.
"That's everyone!"
Mon-El released the field.
The building groaned, shifted, began its final collapse. He stumbled backward as five stories of damaged structure fell in on itself, dust and debris billowing outward in a cloud that made the crowd scatter.
When the dust cleared, only rubble remained. But all five workers were safe.
The crowd erupted.
Cheers, applause, shouts of relief and gratitude. Emergency crews surrounded the rescued workers. The foreman grabbed Mon-El's hand, shaking it with desperate gratitude.
"You saved them. You—I'm sorry about before. I shouldn't have—"
"It's fine." Mon-El managed a tired smile. "You had reason to be cautious."
"Still. Thank you." The foreman looked at him with new eyes. "Maybe not all Daxamites are bad."
"Maybe not."
---
The news cameras had captured everything.
Mon-El discovered this later, back at DEO headquarters, when Winn pulled up the footage on the main display. The rescue, the structural support, the triumphant moment when all five workers were confirmed safe. Networks were running the clip on repeat, accompanied by headlines that ranged from curious to celebratory.
"'Mystery Alien Saves Workers,'" Winn read aloud. "'Daxamite Defector Proves Worth.' Oh, this one's good: 'Supergirl's Partner: Hero in His Own Right.'"
"That's... a lot of coverage."
"You literally held a building up with your mind while Kara rescued people. Of course it's a lot of coverage." Winn grinned. "You're trending, man. #DaxamiteHero is in the top ten."
Mon-El stared at the screens, processing. He'd spent months trying to stay invisible, to be "Mike Matthews the bartender" instead of "Mon-El the Daxamite prince." Now his face was on every news channel, his actions dissected by analysts and commentators.
"This is going to complicate things."
"This is going to help things." Kara appeared at his side, fresh from her own media briefing. "The public trusts Supergirl. Now they're starting to trust you. That matters."
"I'm not sure I want that kind of attention."
"Too late." She pulled up another clip—an interview someone had conducted while Mon-El was helping with secondary rescue operations. He didn't remember the questions, but his answers played across the screen.
"You're Daxamite—weren't they the invaders?"
"My people made terrible choices. I'm trying to make better ones."
The clip had been viewed two million times.
"That was... honest," Mon-El said.
"That was perfect." Kara squeezed his hand. "People respond to honesty. They're tired of politicians and spokespeople and carefully crafted messages. You gave them something real."
"I just said what I felt."
"Exactly."
Winn cleared his throat. "Speaking of real—you've got interview requests. Like, a lot of them. CatCo wants an exclusive. National City Tribune wants a profile piece. Someone from the Daily Planet called, asking about your connection to Superman."
"I don't have a connection to Superman."
"Cousins through partnership?" Winn shrugged. "Media's weird. The point is, you're on the map now. People want to know who you are."
Mon-El thought about that. For months, he'd been hiding—behind cover identities, behind Kara's shadow, behind the uncertainty of what he was becoming. Now the world had seen him clearly, and they wanted to know more.
Maybe that wasn't a bad thing.
---
That evening, Kara brought him to CatCo.
The building had survived the invasion mostly intact—some broken windows, some water damage from ruptured pipes, but the infrastructure had held. Cat Grant's corporate cathedral still stood, a monument to media power and journalistic determination.
They landed on the balcony outside what had been Cat's office. James Olsen met them inside—he'd been running the company since Cat's departure, navigating the chaos of the invasion while trying to keep a media empire functioning.
"Mon-El." James shook his hand firmly. "Good to see you on your feet. The footage from today's rescue was impressive."
"Just doing what needed to be done."
"That's exactly the kind of quote we want." James gestured toward a seating area. "I know you're probably overwhelmed, but I wanted to talk about something. An opportunity."
"What kind of opportunity?"
"The public is fascinated by you. A Daxamite who fought against his own people, who helped save the city, who nearly died stopping the invasion. That's a powerful story—and stories shape how people see the world."
"You want to use me for PR?"
"I want to help you control the narrative." James leaned forward. "Right now, you're 'Supergirl's partner' or 'the Daxamite defector.' Those labels will stick unless you give people something else to call you. A name. An identity. Something that's yours."
Mon-El considered it. The original show had given him a name eventually—Valor. But that had been chosen by writers in a room somewhere, designed to fit a narrative structure he was now living inside.
What would he choose? Who did he want to be?
"I don't know yet," he admitted. "Everything's been happening so fast—the invasion, my father, the aftermath. I haven't had time to think about... identity."
"Take the time." James stood, crossed to the window overlooking the city. "When you're ready, we'll help you tell your story. On your terms."
Kara stayed behind when James left, pulling Mon-El close on the balcony.
"He's right, you know," she said. "You need a name. Something that honors who you are now, not who you were."
"On Daxam, names were given by family. My mother chose 'Mon-El' when I was born—it means 'strength of purpose' in old Daxamite." He paused. "But I'm not Daxamite anymore. Not really. I'm something new."
"Then choose something new."
He looked at the city spread beneath them—damaged but alive, wounded but healing. People walked the streets who would have been dead without the lead device. Children played in parks that would have been craters. Life continued because he and Kara and the team had fought for it.
Valor. The word echoed in his memory. Courage. Worth. The quality of facing fear and acting anyway.
"I need to think about it," he said. "But I know it should mean something. Should represent what I'm trying to be."
"And what's that?"
Mon-El touched his father's ring, still warm against his chest. Thought about Lar Gand's final words. About the choice to be braver. About the responsibility of being the last of his house.
"Better," he said. "Someone better than what I was."
Kara kissed him—soft, sweet, full of promise.
"You already are," she said.
The sun set over National City. Somewhere below, reporters crafted stories and analysts speculated and the public formed opinions about the Daxamite who'd helped save their world.
Mon-El watched the light fade, holding Kara's hand, thinking about names and identities and the person he wanted to become.
Tomorrow, he'd choose.
Tonight, he'd just exist—grateful, grieving, alive.
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