[Rhea's Command Ship Valor's Pride — July 2017, 7:15 AM]
The command ship's hull was three meters of reinforced alloy, designed to withstand direct hits from capital-class weapons. It wasn't designed to withstand a Kryptonian and a Daxamite punching through it simultaneously.
Mon-El's TK field extended the moment the breach opened, creating an invisible seal that prevented atmosphere from venting into space. Kara melted the edges of the hole with heat vision, fusing metal into a crude but functional airlock.
They dropped inside.
Alarms screamed immediately. Red lights painted the corridor in hellish hues. Armored boots thundered from multiple directions—guards responding to the intrusion.
"This way." Mon-El led them deeper into the ship, navigating by memory of schematics he'd studied as a child. The command deck was three levels up and half a kilometer forward. A straight approach would take them through the most heavily defended sections of the vessel.
Perfect.
The first guard squad appeared around a corner—six soldiers in elite combat armor, weapons trained on the intruders. Mon-El recognized the unit designation: Crimson Guard, the queen's personal protectors.
"Stand down!" the squad leader commanded. "You are under arrest by order of—"
Kara moved first. Heat vision carved through three weapons before they could fire. Mon-El's TK disassembled the other three, components flying apart as if by invisible hands.
Then they closed the distance.
The squad leader was good—he got one solid hit on Mon-El's shoulder before a palm strike to his chest sent him crashing into the bulkhead. The others fell in rapid succession, combat training no match for combined Kryptonian and Daxamite strength.
"They know we're here now," Kara said, stepping over unconscious bodies.
"They knew the moment we breached." Mon-El sealed the corridor behind them with a bulkhead override. "But they expected a longer approach. We're moving faster than their response protocols."
More guards ahead. More combat. Mon-El fought his own people, recognizing faces beneath visors—men and women he might have commanded in another life. Each one went down to non-lethal strikes. Each one was a reminder of what Daxam had become.
A young guard hesitated when Mon-El approached, weapon trembling in his grip. "My prince?" His voice cracked—barely past training, probably on his first deployment.
Mon-El knocked him unconscious with a precise tap to the temple. "Sleep well, soldier."
"You didn't have to do that gently," Kara observed.
"They're following orders. Bad orders, but orders nonetheless." He sealed another corridor behind them. "My mother is the one who deserves the hard treatment."
"Can you fight her? Really fight her?"
The question cut deeper than any Daxamite blade. Mon-El had been asking himself the same thing since the invasion began. Rhea was his mother. The woman who'd raised him, taught him, shaped him into the prince he'd been. Could he raise his hand against her?
"If it means protecting Earth," he said finally. "If it means protecting you. Yes."
Kara's hand found his briefly. "I'll be right beside you."
They reached the final defensive line—heavy blast doors sealed by three different security protocols, guarded by a full platoon of Crimson Guard. The corridor beyond led directly to the command deck.
"Nowhere to run, Prince Mon-El." The platoon commander stepped forward, weapon raised. "Queen Rhea expected you to come. She's been waiting."
"Then let's not keep her waiting."
The battle was intense. Thirty elite guards against two—odds that would have been impossible just months ago. But Mon-El had trained with Kara, learned to fight alongside her, developed combat instincts that meshed perfectly with her style.
She went left. He went right. Heat vision and TK strikes coordinated in a dance of destruction that left guards sprawled across the corridor floor. The platoon commander lasted longest, trading blows with Mon-El for nearly a full minute before a final uppercut ended the contest.
Mon-El stood among the fallen, breathing hard, cuts from energy weapons healing even as he felt them. Kara looked similarly worn—hair disheveled, knuckles bruised, but eyes burning with determination.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Ready."
The blast doors opened.
---
The command center was a monument to Daxamite power.
Curved walls displayed holographic maps of the invasion—troop positions, ship deployments, casualty reports scrolling in cold efficiency. Officers worked at stations around the room's perimeter, coordinating the assault on Earth with mechanical precision.
And at the center, on a throne-like command chair, sat Rhea.
She was dressed for war—ceremonial armor over practical combat gear, a crown resting on silver hair, her bearing regal despite the chaos she commanded. When the doors opened, she didn't flinch. Didn't reach for a weapon. Just smiled, as if welcoming expected guests to a formal dinner.
"My son and his Kryptonian." Her voice carried effortlessly across the space. "How predictable."
Guards surrounded them instantly—more Crimson Guard, weapons trained, awaiting orders. Mon-El counted twelve, plus the officers at their stations. Manageable odds, but fighting here would risk critical ship systems.
"Mother." He stepped forward, hands visible, non-threatening. "This ends now. Call off the invasion."
"Or what?" Rhea rose from her throne, moving with the predatory grace that Mon-El remembered from his childhood. "You'll fight your way through my guards, defeat me personally, and somehow convince an entire fleet to abandon their mission?" She laughed—cold, contemptuous. "You always did have an inflated sense of your own importance."
"You're killing innocent people."
"I'm building a future for our race." Her eyes hardened. "Daxam is gone, Mon-El. Our world is ash. Our people are scattered, dying, clinging to whatever scraps of existence they can find. Earth offers everything we need—resources, atmosphere, room to rebuild."
"Earth is someone else's home."
"Not anymore." Rhea gestured at the holographic displays. "Look at them. Scattered, panicked, helpless against even our initial forces. They're not worthy of this world. We are."
"They're people. Families. Children."
"They're cattle." The word dripped with disdain. "Useful for labor, perhaps, but ultimately expendable. In a generation, no one will remember they existed."
Mon-El's hands clenched. Every instinct screamed at him to attack—to end this conversation with violence and settle the matter once and for all. But something held him back. Not doubt about his ability to win, but something older. Deeper.
Be better than what Daxam made you.
"There's another way," he said. "Surrender now. Order your fleet to withdraw. We can find somewhere else—uninhabited worlds, resources enough for everyone. Earth doesn't have to burn."
Rhea studied him for a long moment. Something flickered in her expression—pride? regret?—before hardening back into cold authority.
"You've changed," she said quietly. "This world... this Kryptonian... they've made you weak."
"They've made me better."
"Then let's test that claim." Her smile returned, sharp and dangerous. "Dak'am Ur—trial by combat. The old way, before our laws were softened by compromise. You and me, champion against champion. If you win, I'll consider your terms."
"And if you win?"
"You come home. Willingly. And your Kryptonian watches Earth burn."
Kara stepped forward. "I could fight for—"
"No." Mon-El's voice was firm. "This is between me and her. It always has been."
He looked at Rhea—his mother, his enemy, the woman who'd shaped everything he'd once been. The trial she offered was ancient, sacred. Even Rhea, with all her ambition, wouldn't violate its outcome.
"I accept."
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