Four Weeks Later
Rick Flag Sr.
The first two weeks after the surgery were filled with lies Rick told himself.
Not lies spoken aloud—those were too easy to see through—but the quiet kind, the ones whispered in the dark when the machines hummed and the nurses thought he was asleep.
I'll walk again.
I've survived worse.
This isn't how it ends.
He followed every instruction to the letter.
Breathing exercises.
Upper-body strength routines.
Pain management schedules so precise they might as well have been military orders.
His arms responded. His chest grew stronger. His grip returned until he could crush stress balls like they were paper.
But from the waist down?
Nothing.
No sensation.
No warmth.
No pain.
Not even numbness—just absence.
Still, he held onto the number the doctors gave him.
Forty percent.
A soldier could work with those odds.
The third week was harder.
Rehabilitation began in earnest. Machines lifted his legs, guided his movements, simulated walking patterns while electrodes fired signals into muscles that refused to listen.
Rick gritted his teeth through every session.
Sweat soaked the sheets.
His hands bled from gripping the rails.
His voice went hoarse from shouting commands at his own body.
"Move," he growled at his legs.
"Move, damn it."
They didn't.
But he believed. He needed to believe.
Because if he didn't… then this chair wasn't temporary.
And that thought scared him more than any battlefield ever had.
The fourth week broke him.
It started with hope.
One morning—just barely—his toes twitched.
It was small. Almost nothing. But Rick felt it.
He called the doctor immediately.
They ran tests. Scans. Nerve conduction checks. Long, quiet minutes where no one spoke.
Finally, the doctor sat down.
Rick already knew.
The man explained it gently, professionally, like he'd delivered this speech a hundred times before.
The spinal cord damage was extensive. The nerve pathways disrupted beyond meaningful repair. What Rick felt wasn't recovery—it was residual signal noise.
The conclusion was clear.
That toe movement?
That was as far as it would ever go.
Rick stared at the wall.
He didn't remember throwing the glass.
He didn't remember shouting.
He only remembered the doctor leaving the room quietly, understanding written all over his face.
For the first time since waking up after surgery, Rick Flag Sr. felt truly helpless.
Not wounded.
Not beaten.
Helpless.
No one came.
Not coworkers.
Not politicians.
Not the people who'd shaken his hand when he was useful.
His wife was gone—years now.
His son was dead—two years, buried under classified files and sealed reports he never had clearance to read.
A soldier who couldn't stand wasn't a soldier.
Just a liability.
The chair became his world.
General Sam Lane visited once.
Rick didn't speak.
Lane didn't push.
He left with a quiet nod, the kind men give each other when words won't fix anything.
Days later, paperwork arrived.
Honorable discharge.
Medical disability.
Medal of Honor ceremony scheduled in two months.
Rick stared at the documents for a long time.
He didn't feel pride.
He felt anger.
What good was a medal when he couldn't even stand to receive it?
Damian Wayne
Damian watched everything.
Not from afar—not through news articles or official statements.
Through cameras.
Hospital security feeds.
Rehab room recordings.
Night-shift hallway footage where no one thought anyone important was watching.
He said nothing at first.
Raven noticed anyway.
She always did.
She saw how he paused mid-conversation, eyes unfocused. How his jaw tightened when the footage showed Rick failing another attempt to move. How Damian stayed up later than usual, scrolling silently through reports, medical analyses, and classified government forums most people didn't even know existed.
She didn't interrupt.
Not at first.
But after weeks of it—after seeing that familiar look settle into his eyes—the one that meant decision—she finally spoke.
"Damian," she said quietly one night, sitting beside him on the bed. "What are you planning?"
He didn't answer immediately.
The screen in front of him showed Rick Flag Sr. alone in his room, staring at his legs like they had betrayed him.
Damian finally exhaled.
"I'm thinking," he said slowly, "about giving him a chance."
Raven turned fully toward him. "A chance at what?"
"At getting his life back."
She studied his face.
She'd seen this look before—right before he crashed a Batjet into a demon. Right before he made choices no one else would.
"You're serious," she said.
"Yes."
"And it's dangerous."
"Yes."
"And probably illegal."
"Yes."
Raven sighed, resting her forehead briefly against his shoulder.
"I figured," she muttered.
Then she looked up at him, eyes calm but sharp.
"Tell me first," she said. "Before you do something really stupid."
Damian nodded.
Because this time… he wasn't doing it alone.
Elsewhere
In places far from Titans Tower and hospital rooms, other forces were moving.
Project OVERCLOCK was officially dead—but its data still existed. Pieces scattered. Prototypes buried. Scientists hiding in safe houses, some looking to sell, others looking to survive.
The Light was watching.
Demonic energies stirred in places unseen, older than governments, patient and hungry.
And somewhere beneath all of it, a line had been crossed.
Because Damian Wayne—Robin, son of Batman—had decided that the world didn't get to discard its soldiers so easily.
And once he made a decision like that?
The status quo never survived.