Integration
The first three days were hell.
There was no poetic way to describe it—no heroic montage, no triumphant music swelling in the background. Just pain, exhaustion, and relentless repetition.
Rick Flag Sr. spent those first seventy-two hours suspended in a reinforced rehabilitation harness, cables and supports wrapped around his torso like a mechanical cocoon. The harness was the only thing keeping him upright as his nervous system relearned how to speak to a spine that was no longer flesh and bone, but something far more advanced—and far more unforgiving.
The Sandevistan was awake.
Not fully active, not yet unleashed, but awake enough to make itself known.
Every movement sent a cascade of data through his body. Signals misfired. Muscles locked. His legs trembled violently as his brain struggled to interpret feedback from a cybernetic spinal replacement that operated at speeds no human nervous system was ever meant to handle.
"Again," Dr. Leslie Thompkins said calmly from the observation platform, her voice steady, grounding.
Rick took a breath, sweat dripping from his temples.
He lifted his right foot.
His leg buckled.
The harness snapped tight instantly, catching him before he could hit the floor.
Pain flared—not sharp, but deep, burning, like every nerve in his lower body was being rewritten line by line.
Three days of that.
Three days of falling, being caught, reset, and trying again.
Dr. Meena Dhawan watched streams of data scroll across multiple holographic displays, her sharp eyes tracking neural latency, signal compression, and motor-response timing.
"The integration is accelerating," she noted. "Faster than predicted."
"Or he's forcing it," Leslie replied, glancing down at Rick. "You don't heal like a machine, Rick."
Rick laughed weakly. "Guess that's the problem. I'm not just one anymore."
By the end of the third day, he could barely stay conscious. Painkillers dulled the edges but didn't erase the sensation—the constant awareness that something inside him was different. Watching. Waiting.
Then came the fourth day.
Something clicked.
It wasn't dramatic. No sudden surge of power, no miraculous recovery.
The pain simply… eased.
Rick stood in the harness again, gripping the parallel handlebars with white-knuckled intensity. His breathing steadied. His legs trembled—but they didn't collapse.
He took a step.
This time, he didn't fall.
The room went silent.
Another step.
Still standing.
Leslie's hand tightened around the railing. "He's compensating."
"No," Meena said quietly, eyes widening as she analyzed the data. "He's synchronizing."
Rick moved slowly, carefully, sweat pouring down his back—but he was walking. Not well. Not smoothly. But walking.
By the fifth day, the harness was reduced to a safety measure instead of a necessity.
Rick released the handlebars.
The room collectively held its breath.
He took three steps unaided before his knees shook and he grabbed the rail again—but he was upright. On his own.
On the sixth day, he walked across the rehabilitation floor without assistance.
No harness. No bars.
Just his legs.
Just him.
For the first time in weeks, Rick Flag Sr. stood like a normal man.
Doctors, scientists, and heroes alike stared in stunned silence. The Sandevistan wasn't just replacing his spine—it was harmonizing with his body, adapting to his instincts, reinforcing his intent.
"This shouldn't be possible," one of the technicians whispered.
Dr. Dhawan allowed herself a small smile. "It shouldn't be," she agreed. "But it is."
The technology was working.
And it was giving Rick Flag Sr. something he thought he'd lost forever—a second chance.
A week passed.
Rick grew stronger every day.
He climbed stairs. Slowly at first, then faster. He practiced controlled squats, balance drills, endurance exercises. His muscles screamed in protest, but the Sandevistan supported micro-adjustments, correcting posture and stabilizing motion before he could even consciously react.
By the end of the second week, combat training began.
A heavy punching bag hung from the ceiling of a reinforced training room. Rick stared at it for a long moment, then stepped forward and threw a punch.
The impact sent a jolt up his arm.
He smiled.
Kicks followed. Then combinations. Slow, deliberate movements at first, his body relearning muscle memory forged through decades of warfare.
Fifteen days into continuous training, Dr. Thompkins and Dr. Dhawan finally gave their approval.
"You're cleared for light running and advanced combat retraining," Leslie said. "But neural stabilization is still ongoing. You push too hard, you risk backlash."
Rick didn't hesitate. "I understand."
He stepped into a massive open chamber within the base—wide, reinforced, designed for metahuman-level activity.
"Run," Meena said.
Rick did.
At first, it was normal. Human speed. Controlled.
Then he felt it—the Sandevistan responding to intent, compressing perception, sharpening awareness.
He didn't activate time dilation.
Not yet.
But he understood how it worked.
Later, they handed him a rifle.
"Moving targets," a trainer instructed.
Rick advanced, firing in controlled bursts. Some shots missed. Most hit. Each movement felt smoother than the last, the Sandevistan subtly adjusting timing and coordination.
It wasn't about speed.
It was about intent.
And Rick Flag Sr. was beginning to understand that better than anyone.
Meanwhile — United States, A.R.G.U.S. Headquarters
The briefing room buzzed with low conversation as holographic displays showed alien sightings, meta-human activity spikes, and anomalous energy readings across the globe.
Amanda Waller sat at the head of the table, expression unreadable.
Steve Trevor leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. Lyla Michaels scrolled through reports. Sam Lane—newly appointed to Rick Flag Sr.'s former position—listened intently.
The meeting wrapped up smoothly.
Or so everyone thought.
Amanda Waller stood.
"We have a problem," she said.
The room quieted instantly.
"Rick Flag Sr. vanished."
Eyes turned toward her.
"He signed his resignation from A.R.G.U.S. without argument. Refused a supervisory role. Then disappeared."
Steve frowned. "He was injured. Maybe he needed time."
"Rick Flag doesn't 'take time,'" Waller snapped. "And he doesn't disappear."
Two days later, she dispatched a team.
Emilia Harcourt—codename Hardcore.
Leota Adebayo.
John Economos.
Sasha Bordeaux.
Their mission: check Rick Flag Sr.'s residence. Find answers.
Flashback
Harcourt knocked.
No response.
She knocked again.
Nothing.
"He's probably passed out drunk," she muttered, forcing the door open.
The house was empty.
Too empty.
Economos found a phone on the table. Tried to hack it.
"Nope. Locked down. Calls only."
He accessed the last call.
Rick Flag Sr.'s voice filled the room.
"I'll be gone for about a month. Rent's already paid. If anyone asks, tell them I'm on vacation."
Silence followed.
Everyone exchanged looks.
"That call," Sasha said quietly, "was made before he resigned."
They knew then.
Rick Flag Sr. had planned this.
Back in the present, Amanda Waller listened to the report, her jaw tightening.
Steve Trevor leaned forward, interest sharp in his eyes. "If Rick had a plan… and didn't tell anyone…"
"…then it was something big," Lyla finished.
Sam Lane frowned. "And something he didn't trust A.R.G.U.S. with."
Amanda Waller said nothing.
But inside, her mind was already moving.
Rick Flag Sr. had disappeared.
And whatever he was doing—it was already in motion.
End of Chapter