[DEO Headquarters, Operations Floor — July 2017, 9:15 AM]
Jeremiah Danvers was good at his job.
Mon-El watched from the adjacent workstation as the returned agent moved through his first official shift, reintegrating into DEO operations with the smooth competence of someone who'd never been away. He answered questions from colleagues, reviewed current case files, offered insights based on his years of experience before Cadmus.
He was helpful. Professional. Charming.
He was also accessing systems he shouldn't touch.
Mon-El had positioned himself at a terminal with a clear sightline to Jeremiah's station, running what appeared to be routine data analysis while actually monitoring the older man's activities. The DEO's internal network left traces—access logs, query histories, timestamps—and Mon-El had learned enough from Winn over the months to know how to read them.
In the past three hours, Jeremiah had accessed:
· Personnel files for fifteen alien operatives
· Defense protocol documentation for three separate facilities
· The alien registry database—twice
· Communication encryption schemas
None of which fell under his cleared access level.
"You're staring."
Mon-El turned to find Winn at his elbow, coffee cup in hand, expression curious.
"Just thinking."
"About Jeremiah?" Winn's voice dropped. "Kara mentioned you seemed quiet at dinner. Everything okay?"
"Fine." The lie came easily. "Just getting used to having another senior agent around."
Winn studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "He seems nice. A little intense, maybe, but after fourteen years with Cadmus..." He trailed off. "Anyway. Alex is throwing a welcome-back party tomorrow. You're invited. Obviously."
"I'll be there."
Across the room, Jeremiah finished whatever he was doing and stood, stretching with casual ease. His eyes met Mon-El's for a fraction of a second—just long enough to communicate awareness—before sliding away.
I know you're watching, that glance said. I don't care.
Mon-El returned to his fake data analysis and waited.
---
The training session helped.
Mon-El pushed himself through combat drills in the DEO's reinforced gym, letting physical exhaustion mask the mental strain of constant vigilance. His TK field extended and contracted as he practiced, shielding imaginary allies while striking holographic opponents. The familiar burn of exertion was almost welcome—something concrete, something he could control.
By evening, his muscles ached in satisfying ways. His mind, however, remained razor-sharp.
He ate dinner in the cafeteria, making casual conversation with agents who stopped by his table, always keeping Jeremiah in his peripheral vision. The man was everywhere and nowhere—present enough to be noticed, never staying long enough to be cornered.
At 10 PM, Mon-El claimed exhaustion and headed for the guest quarters he'd officially been using since the Daxamite crisis began. In reality, he doubled back through service corridors, positioning himself in an observation alcove with a clear view of the main terminal bank.
And waited.
---
Jeremiah arrived at 12:47 AM.
The command center was nearly empty at this hour—just a skeleton crew monitoring feeds, too focused on their own screens to notice an authorized agent accessing a terminal. Jeremiah moved with purpose, his fingers dancing across the keyboard with practiced efficiency.
Mon-El watched through the shadows, heart pounding.
The alien registry appeared on Jeremiah's screen. Names. Species. Registered addresses. Current locations. Everyone who'd trusted the DEO with their identity, laid out in searchable database form.
Jeremiah pulled a small device from his pocket—no bigger than a flash drive—and connected it to the terminal's port. Data began transferring. Thousands of records, copying in seconds.
Mon-El's phone was already out. He photographed the screen, the device, Jeremiah's profile against the glow of stolen information. Evidence. Concrete, undeniable evidence.
The transfer completed. Jeremiah pocketed the device, cleared his access logs with practiced expertise, and walked away without looking back.
Mon-El stayed in the shadows, processing what he'd seen.
Jeremiah was stealing alien identities. Locations. Vulnerabilities. Everything Cadmus would need to systematically hunt down every registered alien in National City.
And he was doing it while wearing a DEO badge. While smiling at his daughters. While pretending to be the father they'd mourned for fourteen years.
The phone felt heavy in Mon-El's hand. Proof that would shatter Alex's joy. Evidence that would break Kara's heart. Truth that would destroy a family's desperate hope.
But also proof that could save lives. That could stop whatever Cadmus was planning.
He thought about Jeremiah's words in the backyard: Protect my girls. Whatever it takes.
This was what it took.
Mon-El slipped out of the observation alcove and headed for J'onn's quarters.
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