Chapter 25: FIRST CONVERSATION
[M'gann's Alien Bar — November 2016, 9:23 PM]
The bar was quiet tonight. A handful of regulars nursed their drinks in the corner booths, and M'gann had retreated to her office to handle inventory. The ambient music—something from an Orion colony that sounded vaguely like jazz filtered through water—filled the empty spaces.
Kara sat at the counter.
Not her usual spot by the door, where she could watch the room while maintaining exit options. The actual counter, three feet from where I was polishing glasses. Close enough that I could see the small lines of tension around her eyes, the way her fingers traced patterns on the bar's surface.
"Tell me about Daxam," she said.
I set down the glass I'd been working on. The words carried weight—not the accusatory tone I'd heard in her early interrogations, not the clinical curiosity of a Kryptonian studying a former enemy. Something different. Something that sounded almost like genuine interest.
"The real version," she added. "Not the propaganda Krypton taught me. Not the lies you told when you arrived. The actual truth about what it was like."
I reached for another glass, needed something to do with my hands. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything." She watched me work, her blue eyes tracking the circular motion of the cloth. "I've hated Daxam my entire life. Hated what it represented—decadence, exploitation, everything Krypton defined itself against. But I'm starting to realize I don't actually know anything about it. Just stories passed down through generations of people who had their own reasons to despise your world."
"Most of those stories were probably accurate."
"Maybe. But they were still just stories." She leaned forward slightly. "You lived there. You were part of it. Tell me what that was like."
I thought about how to answer. The easy path would be deflection—jokes about the parties, the wine, the general atmosphere of hedonism that had defined Daxamite high society. But Kara wasn't asking for easy answers. She was asking for truth, and after everything that had happened between us, truth was the only currency I had left.
"Daxam was beautiful," I said slowly. "The architecture, the art, the gardens that seemed to bloom in colors Earth doesn't have names for. When I was young—before I understood what paid for all of it—I thought I lived in paradise."
"What changed?"
"Nothing." The admission hurt to speak aloud. "That's the worst part. Nothing changed. I grew up. I learned that our 'servants' were actually slaves, that our 'trading partners' were conquered peoples, that our 'cultural traditions' were just elaborate justifications for exploitation. And I kept living the same way. Kept enjoying the parties and the privileges and the endless stream of pleasures."
Kara was quiet. The music played on, alien notes filling the silence between us.
"I never questioned it," I continued. "Never once stopped to ask if maybe—maybe—the way we lived was wrong. The slaves were just there, like furniture. The suffering was just background noise. I was the prince, so everything that happened was designed to make me comfortable." I set down the glass, too hard. The counter vibrated. "I was a monster, Kara. Not actively cruel, maybe, but passively complicit in systems that destroyed millions of lives. And I never even noticed."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you asked for the truth." I met her eyes. "Because I'm tired of the lies. Because you deserve to know exactly what kind of person you've been helping."
"And what kind of person is that?"
The question hung in the air. I thought about the fire—the families I'd saved, the child who'd given me a rock that still sat in my pocket. Thought about the missions, the training, the slow process of proving myself through actions rather than words.
"Someone who's trying to be better," I said finally. "I can't change what I was. Can't undo the years of comfortable ignorance. But I can choose what I do now. Choose to help instead of exploit. Choose to protect instead of consume."
"Why change now?" Kara's voice was soft, curious rather than challenging. "You could have stayed the same. Could have used your powers for your own benefit, lived another life of privilege on a different planet. What made you decide to be something else?"
Partial truth. That was all I could offer. The full truth—the transmigration, the death in another world, the meta-knowledge that had guided my decisions—was still too dangerous to share.
"When I woke up here, I had a choice," I said. "Be what I was, or be something better. The old Mon-El would have chosen comfort. Would have found the easiest path and walked it without looking back." I paused, searching for words that were honest without being complete. "Something about surviving the end of everything made me want to be different. Like getting a second chance meant I had an obligation to use it well."
Kara studied me for a long moment. The tension in her shoulders had eased slightly, the lines around her eyes softening.
"I believe you," she said quietly.
"You do?"
"I've been watching you. Not just the missions—the way you interact with the bar patrons, the way you treat M'gann, the small choices you make when you think no one's looking." She picked up her drink—something non-alcoholic, since Earth beverages didn't affect Kryptonian physiology. "The person who does those things isn't pretending. He's actually trying."
My hands were shaking. I reached for another glass to steady them, started polishing despite the fact that it was already clean. Overfilled the next customer's drink by half an inch.
Kara pretended not to notice as I cleaned up the spill.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked, standing to leave.
"Sure." The word came out slightly strangled. "If you want."
"I do." She paused at the door, looked back. "And Mon-El? Thank you. For being honest."
She left. The bar suddenly felt warmer, despite the November chill seeping through the walls. I stood behind the counter, cloth in hand, trying to process what had just happened.
Kara had asked about Daxam. Had listened without judgment. Had said she believed me.
A regular—the Thorian who always wanted extra sweetener—approached the counter with an empty glass. "Refill, Mike?"
"Coming right up."
I poured his drink, added the sweetener he preferred, set it down with a steady hand. The shaking had stopped. The conversation replayed in my mind, each word examined from different angles.
She was coming back. Voluntarily. Not for missions or obligations—just to talk.
For the first time since the prince revelation, I allowed myself to feel something like hope.
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