[National City, Warehouse District — July 2017, 8:47 PM]
The warehouse district had always felt like a different world.
Industrial buildings stretched toward the dark sky, their windows broken or boarded, their walls covered in decades of graffiti and weathering. Most humans avoided this area after dark—too many shadows, too many unknowns. Which made it perfect for the alien population that couldn't afford to live anywhere else.
Mon-El moved through the narrow streets at superhuman speed, stopping at addresses from the registry, knocking on doors that opened to reveal faces full of fear.
"DEO," he said each time. "There may be a threat. We're recommending evacuation to secure locations."
Some believed him immediately. A Saturnian family with three children packed their essentials in minutes, following his directions to the extraction point without question. A pair of Thorian sisters argued for ten minutes before finally accepting that the danger was real.
Others refused to move.
"We've survived worse," an elderly Roltikkon man said, his voice carrying centuries of weariness. "This is our home. We stay."
"The people coming—they have your address. Your name. They know where to find you."
"Then they'll find me ready." He closed the door.
Mon-El moved on. There wasn't time to argue. Wasn't time to save everyone who didn't want to be saved.
He reached the seventh address on his list—an old factory converted into multi-family housing—and stopped.
He knew this building.
The sewer rescue. Months ago, before Medusa, before Mxyzptlk, before any of it. He'd helped evacuate a Vrang family from flooding tunnels, carried their children to safety while their home collapsed around them.
They'd ended up here.
He knocked on the door. It opened to reveal a familiar face—the Vrang mother, her chitin plates reflecting the harsh hallway light.
"You." Her translator buzzed slightly. "The Daxamite who carried my daughter."
"I remember." He managed a small smile. "I'm here to warn you. There's a threat—people targeting aliens. You should evacuate."
She studied him for a moment. Then she stepped aside.
"Come in. Tell us everything."
---
The Vrang family—mother, father, three children—listened without interrupting as Mon-El explained the situation. The father's expression grew darker with each detail. The children huddled together, understanding enough to be frightened.
"We'll go," the mother said when he finished. "The extraction point—you can show us?"
"I can guide you there. It's not far."
"Thank you." She gripped his arm—a gesture of trust among her people. "You saved us before. We remember."
They packed quickly. Essential items, documents, a few precious keepsakes that couldn't be replaced. The children carried small bags, their eyes wide with the particular fear of young ones forced to flee their homes.
As they prepared to leave, the father pulled Mon-El aside.
"There's something you should know." His voice was low, urgent. "We've seen things, these past weeks. Humans in tactical gear, moving through the district at night. Military trucks near the old port. Equipment being loaded onto a ship."
Mon-El's attention sharpened. "The old port? Where exactly?"
"Pier 47. We avoid it now—too much activity. Bad feeling."
"Did you see what kind of equipment?"
"Containers. Large ones, with symbols." The father's mandibles clicked nervously. "Biohazard warnings. Like the ones on your human medical facilities."
Biohazard containers. Military trucks. A staging operation at a port.
This was it. Cadmus's operational base.
Mon-El touched his earpiece. "J'onn, I have a possible location. Pier 47, old port district. Reports of tactical personnel, biohazard containers, significant logistical activity."
Static. Then J'onn's voice: "Can you confirm?"
"I'm heading there now. Get the family to safety first."
"Negative. Wait for backup. We can't risk—"
"I'll do recon only. No engagement until the team arrives."
A long pause. "Recon only. Report everything you see."
"Understood."
He turned to the Vrang family. "I need to go. Head for the extraction point—follow the main roads, stay in the light. You'll be met by DEO agents."
"What about you?" the mother asked.
"I have to check something. People who need help."
The youngest child—the one he'd carried from the sewers—reached out and touched his hand. "Be careful, brave one."
Mon-El knelt to her level. "I'll try."
He watched them go, moving down the street toward safety. The children looked back once, waving. He waved in return.
Every life saved mattered.
Then he turned toward the port.
---
Pier 47 was exactly what the Vrang father had described.
Mon-El approached from the rooftops, using his enhanced vision to survey the scene from a distance. The old shipping facility had been abandoned for years—rusted cranes, decaying warehouses, a concrete pier extending into dark water. But tonight, it was alive with activity.
Military trucks lined the access road, their canvas covers concealing cargo. Soldiers in tactical gear moved with purpose, carrying equipment between buildings and a large cargo ship moored at the pier. Floodlights illuminated work areas, creating islands of harsh brightness in the surrounding darkness.
And there—directing operations near the ship's gangway—was Jeremiah Danvers.
He moved with authority, gesturing to subordinates, checking manifests on a tablet. His cybernetic arm gleamed in the floodlights, no longer concealed beneath civilian clothing. Whatever pretense he'd maintained at the DEO was gone.
Mon-El counted guards. Twenty visible. Probably more inside the buildings. Heavy weapons, professional movements—this wasn't a militia operation. This was a trained military force.
He photographed everything. The trucks. The guards. The containers being loaded onto the ship—biohazard symbols visible now, confirming the father's report. Whatever was in those containers, it wasn't meant for peaceful purposes.
"J'onn." He kept his voice barely above a whisper. "Confirmed Cadmus presence at Pier 47. Twenty-plus hostiles, military equipment, biohazard containers being loaded onto a cargo vessel. Jeremiah is on site, appears to be in command."
"Copy that. Teams are en route. ETA five minutes."
"They're loading fast. Might not have five minutes."
"Hold position. Recon only."
Mon-El gritted his teeth but held his ground. He'd promised not to engage. Promised to wait for backup.
But watching Jeremiah—watching the man who'd asked him to protect his daughters orchestrate whatever nightmare Cadmus was planning—tested every ounce of his restraint.
Three minutes passed. The loading continued.
Four minutes. A group of soldiers moved toward the truck nearest his position.
"Two minutes out," Kara's voice crackled through his earpiece. "I can see the port. What's the tactical situation?"
"Concentrated near the ship. Most guards focused on loading operations. Western approach has minimal coverage—might be our best entry point."
"Copy. Alex is coming from the north. J'onn from the east. You take the west when we go."
"Understood."
Five minutes. Exactly.
A blur of red and blue descended from the sky, landing in the center of the compound with enough force to crack concrete. Kara Danvers stood in the floodlights, her cape settling around her shoulders, her expression carved from stone.
"Cadmus personnel," she announced, her voice carrying across the entire facility. "Stand down. You are surrounded."
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then everything happened at once.
Gunfire erupted. Soldiers scrambled for cover. Alarms blared from the cargo ship. And Jeremiah Danvers turned toward his daughter with an expression that mixed love and regret and terrible purpose.
Mon-El launched from his rooftop position, racing toward the western flank.
The battle had begun.
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