[National City Airspace — July 2017, 6:32 AM]
The first Daxamite ship broke atmosphere like a blade cutting through silk.
Mon-El watched it descend—a sleek dagger of polished metal, plasma engines burning blue-white against the dawn sky. Then another appeared. And another. And a dozen more, spreading across the horizon in perfect formation, each one carrying enough firepower to level a city block.
Beside him, Kara's breath caught. "There are so many."
"Scout vessels. The main fleet is still behind the moon." He scanned the approaching ships, identifying class designations from memories that felt increasingly distant. "Those are Katar-class transports. Troop carriers. They're not here to bombard—they're here to occupy."
"Then we stop them from landing."
She was already accelerating, a red-and-blue streak against the burning sky. Mon-El followed, pushing his flight to match her speed. Below them, National City stirred into panicked awareness—evacuation sirens wailing, emergency vehicles threading through gridlocked streets, civilians staring upward with expressions of horror and disbelief.
The first drop pods released.
They fell like metal rain, dozens of armored capsules plummeting toward populated areas. Each one contained a squad of Daxamite soldiers—enhanced warriors raised from birth to conquer.
Mon-El dove toward the nearest cluster.
His TK field extended, wrapping around three pods simultaneously. The metal groaned under the pressure. He twisted, redirecting their trajectory, sending them spinning toward the harbor instead of the residential district they'd been targeting. They hit water with tremendous splashes, harmless now.
But there were too many to catch them all.
"Kara—downtown!"
She split off, heat vision lancing through the air to intercept another wave. Red beams carved through drop pod hulls, triggering emergency parachute systems that slowed their descent enough for civilians to evacuate the landing zones.
Mon-El climbed higher, meeting a Katar transport head-on. The ship's forward cannons tracked him—plasma charges building to lethal intensity. He waited, timing the shot, then rolled left as energy scorched past close enough to singe his suit.
His fist punched through the cannon housing. Sparks erupted. He tore the weapon free, used his TK to redirect its arc, and hurled it at the ship's engine cluster.
The explosion shook the sky.
The Katar listed, trailing smoke, its automated systems fighting to maintain altitude. Escape pods ejected from its hull—Daxamite crew abandoning ship before the crash. Mon-El let them go. There would be time to deal with survivors later.
Right now, five more transports were descending.
"J'onn!" He touched his communicator. "Status on ground defenses?"
Static. Then: "Engaged on multiple fronts. Daxamite ground forces have established three beachheads—industrial district, harbor, and downtown commercial zone. Military assets are responding, but their weapons are barely slowing the advance."
Of course they weren't. Human firearms against Daxamite power suits—it wasn't even a fair contest.
"What about Superman?"
"En route from Metropolis. The Daxamites hit multiple cities simultaneously—he's fighting his own battles."
They were stretched thin. Overwhelmed by numbers and firepower. This was exactly what Rhea had planned—a coordinated assault on multiple fronts, forcing defenders to spread out, preventing any concentrated response.
Mon-El dove toward the industrial district beachhead.
The scene below was chaos. Daxamite soldiers in combat armor advanced through factory yards, their energy weapons cutting through everything in their path. DEO agents had formed a defensive line behind concrete barriers, returning fire that bounced harmlessly off Daxamite shields.
He hit them like a missile.
The first soldier went down to a TK-enhanced strike that shattered his chest plate. The second caught a flying kick that sent him tumbling through a warehouse wall. The third tried to raise his weapon—Mon-El caught it, crushed the barrel, and used the ruined rifle to club its owner unconscious.
"Fall back!" he shouted to the DEO agents. "Get the civilians clear—I'll hold them here!"
More Daxamites were emerging from a crashed drop pod, weapons charging. Mon-El extended his TK field, creating a barrier between the soldiers and the retreating humans. Energy bolts splashed against the invisible wall, dissipating harmlessly.
Come on. Come and face me.
They came.
Three at once, military precision, flanking maneuvers he recognized from his own training. He met them in a blur of motion—ducking, striking, using their momentum against them. One went down clutching a shattered knee. Another flew backward from an uppercut that cracked his helmet. The third managed to land a solid hit to Mon-El's ribs before a headbutt dropped him.
Pain flared. His cells adapted. The next hit hurt less.
"Prince Mon-El." One of the soldiers—an officer, judging by his insignia—had risen to his feet, visor retracted to show a face Mon-El vaguely recognized. "You fight your own people."
"I fight invaders." Mon-El squared up. "Surrender now, and this ends without more bloodshed."
"The Queen's orders are clear. Earth will become New Daxam. Those who resist—"
Mon-El's fist ended the speech.
He turned, surveying the beachhead. A dozen soldiers down, more retreating to regroup. The civilians were clear. But this was just one location—across the city, across the world, the same battle was playing out.
They needed to end this at the source.
---
Kara found him hovering over the harbor twenty minutes later, watching another Katar transport burn its way into the water.
"Downtown is secured. Temporarily." She was breathing hard, blood on her knuckles—not her own. "Alex has coordinated a defensive perimeter. The military is evacuating civilians from the combat zones."
"How many casualties?"
"I don't know. Too many."
Below them, National City burned. Smoke rose from a dozen locations where drop pods had crashed or battles had erupted. Emergency vehicles threaded through debris-strewn streets. Somewhere in the distance, an explosion shook the morning air.
"Still alive?" Kara asked, floating closer.
"Still alive," he confirmed.
Their hands found each other—a brief touch, warm and grounding amidst the chaos. Then they pulled apart, ready for the next wave.
"This isn't working." Mon-El gestured at the sky, where more Katar transports were descending. "We can win individual battles, but we're outnumbered. Every soldier we take down, three more deploy. Every ship we destroy, another exits hyperspace."
"Then we need to change the equation."
"The flagship." He looked up, past the combat zone, to where Rhea's command ship hovered over downtown—a massive vessel bristling with weapons, projecting authority over the invasion. "Daxamite military doctrine relies on centralized command. Take out the flagship, take out Rhea, and the fleet loses coordination."
"Can we reach it?"
"If we move fast and hit hard." He met her eyes. "It won't be easy. That ship has the best defenses in the fleet."
"When has anything been easy?"
Despite everything, Mon-El almost smiled. "Fair point."
A new broadcast crackled across every frequency—Rhea's voice, cold and commanding, echoing from speakers throughout the city.
"People of Earth. This world will become New Daxam. Submit and survive. Resist and perish. Your heroes cannot save you. Your weapons cannot stop us. Accept the inevitable, and find your place in the new order."
Mon-El stared at the command ship. His mother was up there, orchestrating genocide from a throne of metal and power. The woman who'd taught him courtly manners and political strategy had become something monstrous.
"We need to end this at the source," he said.
Kara nodded. "Together."
They launched toward the sky.
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