The Long Way Home
Rick Flag Sr. woke at exactly 5:00 a.m.
Not because an alarm rang.
Not because someone called his name.
But because for the first time in over a month, his body woke him the way it used to—on instinct, on discipline, on habit carved into bone long before the bone had ever been broken.
He lay still for a moment, staring up at the dark ceiling of the private room deep inside Batman's hidden base. The lights were dimmed automatically, mimicking predawn darkness. The room was silent except for the faint hum of systems buried behind the walls—power, filtration, security measures layered on top of one another like armor.
Rick breathed in slowly.
Then out.
No pain shot down his spine.
No numbness.
No dead weight in his legs.
That alone nearly broke him.
Slowly, deliberately, Rick Flag Sr. swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
For a second he waited, just in case. Just in case the world decided to pull the rug out from under him again.
It didn't.
His feet planted firmly against the cool floor.
"I'm really standing," he muttered, voice rough from sleep.
He rolled his shoulders, then began to stretch—carefully at first, then with more confidence. Arms overhead. A twist at the waist. A controlled bend forward, fingers brushing close to his boots.
The Sandevistan responded silently, micro-adjustments firing along his nervous system, stabilizing posture, correcting balance before he even realized he'd been off by a fraction.
It felt natural now.
Too natural.
After stretching, Rick headed into the washroom. He splashed cold water on his face, grounding himself, then brushed his teeth slowly, methodically, eyes locked on his reflection in the mirror.
The man staring back looked… different.
Not younger.
Harder.
Leaner.
Alive.
There were still lines on his face—grief didn't vanish because technology worked miracles—but his eyes weren't hollow anymore. They were sharp. Focused. Awake.
He turned on the shower and stepped beneath the spray, letting hot water cascade over his head, down his shoulders, along his back, and finally over his legs.
He stood there without moving for a full five minutes.
Just feeling.
Feeling water hit skin.
Feeling muscles loosen.
Feeling heat, pressure, sensation that had been taken from him and returned in ways no doctor had ever promised.
When he finally began to wash, Rick reached for a trimmer and carefully shaved down the overgrown beard he'd let grow during recovery. Dark stubble fell into the sink as he worked, revealing a familiar jawline beneath.
The soldier was coming back.
Dressed in fresh clothes—simple, practical, nothing flashy—Rick opened his military backpack and began packing.
Clothes, folded tight.
Cash.
His phone.
Two secured devices.
A private, encrypted laptop.
And finally, carefully, deliberately, the non-disclosure agreement.
He folded the document once, then again, and slid it into a sealed compartment. That paper was more than legal language—it was armor. Protection. A line drawn between his second chance and every agency that would want to tear it apart.
Ten minutes later, Rick slung the pack over his shoulder, laced up his boots, locked the door behind him, and walked toward the exit of the base.
He didn't look back.
At the hangar entrance, Robin was already waiting.
Damian Wayne stood beside the Batjet, arms crossed, costume immaculate, expression neutral—but his eyes flicked to Rick's stride, assessing without meaning to.
Robin glanced at his watch.
"On time," he said. "As usual."
Rick smirked faintly. "Some habits don't die."
They walked together toward the jet, the massive craft waiting like a silent predator ready to leap.
Inside, the Batjet lifted smoothly from the cavernous base, accelerating into the sky with controlled power. Rick watched the landscape blur beneath them, mountains giving way to clouds.
Four hours later, North America stretched below.
Louisiana came into view—green, humid, familiar.
Rick leaned forward slightly. "Drop me near the edge of town. There's a bus stop not far from my place. No cameras. No traffic this early."
Robin hesitated for half a second, then nodded. "Smart."
The Batjet descended quietly, touching down on an empty stretch of road near the bus stop. No lights. No witnesses.
Rick stepped out, boots hitting pavement, the weight of his pack settling comfortably against his shoulder.
He turned to Robin.
"Thank you," Rick said. No speeches. No dramatics. Just truth. "For giving me my life back."
Robin met his gaze. "You earned it," Damian replied. "You didn't quit. Even after losing your son. Even after the world wrote you off."
He paused, then added, more seriously, "Be careful. The moment you use the Sandevistan at full capability… people will notice. Governments. Villains. Everyone."
Rick nodded. "I know."
The Batjet's door closed.
With a roar of engines and a blur of motion, Robin vanished into the sky, heading back toward shadows and secrets.
Rick Flag Sr. stood alone.
Free.
Ten minutes later, a bus rolled up.
Rick boarded, paid cash, and took a seat by the window as the city slowly woke around him. Louisiana passed by in quiet streets and familiar corners, the smell of morning air thick with humidity.
When the bus stopped downtown, Rick stepped off and immediately made a call.
A judge answered.
A favor was owed.
Thirty minutes later, Rick sat in a private office inside the courthouse.
The judge stared at him like he was seeing a ghost.
"You were paralyzed," the man said bluntly. "Doctors said you'd never walk again."
Rick met his eyes. "I made a deal."
"With who?" the judge demanded.
Rick opened his bag and placed the non-disclosure agreement on the desk.
The judge read it aloud, disbelief growing with every line.
Batman.
Sandevistan.
No disclosure.
No government authority.
Failsafe on death.
Permanent integration.
Constitutional protection.
The judge leaned back slowly. "You want this signed."
"Yes."
The pen hovered for a moment.
Then the judge signed.
Copies were made. Filed. Logged.
Rick mailed the second copy through official channels, sealing the agreement into law.
When he stepped outside the courthouse, the sun was fully up.
For the first time since the accident, Rick Flag Sr. felt something close to peace.
He still knew A.R.G.U.S. would come knocking.
The CIA.
The FBI.
Questions would come.
But now?
Now they couldn't touch him.
Rick headed toward a car dealership.
Because a soldier who could walk again wasn't going to take the bus home.
And because his second chance had only just begun.