Early the next morning, Damian Wayne and Raven arrived at the house of Rick Flag Sr.
Rick had finally given up hope.
After weeks of hospitals, doctors, false optimism, and crushing truth, he had accepted what they were telling him: he would never walk again. Never run. Never fight. Never be a soldier.
So he went home.
And he drank.
Damian wore his Robin suit. Raven chose civilian clothes—simple, quiet, respectful. They knocked on the door.
No answer.
Raven frowned and reached out with her magic, gently unlocking the door. The two stepped inside.
The house was modest but functional. Three bedrooms. A kitchen and dining area. Two bathrooms. A small library. Hidden compartments built into the walls—old habits of a soldier who never stopped preparing for war.
Rick Flag Sr. was slumped over the dining table.
Empty bottles surrounded him. His head rested against his arm. He smelled of alcohol and defeat.
Damian stopped.
For the first time since entering, he felt something heavy settle in his chest.
This was a man who had given everything to his country. A man who had lost his son two years ago on a classified mission and still kept serving. A man broken not just in body, but abandoned by the very system he had bled for.
A.R.G.U.S.
The CIA.
The FBI.
The U.S. Army.
None of them were here.
The government had moved on to the next soldier—someone younger, faster, replaceable.
That was the status quo.
Damian Wayne hated the status quo.
He didn't care about speeches. He didn't care about people who stood around saying "don't lose hope" while doing nothing. When Damian decided something needed to change, it changed. Gods, heroes, villains—none of them mattered.
After a moment, he stepped forward and shook Rick's shoulder.
"General Flag," Damian said. "Wake up."
Rick groaned, barely conscious. His head throbbed. His mouth was dry. Someone was talking to him, touching him—
He snapped awake.
Two figures stood in his house.
One of them was Robin.
Rick's instincts kicked in immediately, even through the alcohol haze. His hand moved toward a weapon—
Robin spoke calmly.
"Relax," Damian said. "Your reaction time's off. You're not at a hundred percent."
Rick scowled. "Try reacting half-drunk, with a splitting headache, paralyzed from the waist down—and then lecture me, kid."
He didn't panic. He knew exactly who Robin was.
Damian Wayne.
Son of Batman.
Member of the Titans.
The real question was why he was here.
Rick rolled his wheelchair toward a cabinet, grabbed another bottle, and moved himself onto the sofa with practiced effort. He poured a drink and took a long swallow.
"If you're here to give me some inspirational garbage about hope," Rick said flatly, "save it. I don't have the patience."
Damian didn't flinch.
"What if I told you," he said, "that I can give you a second chance?"
Rick paused.
"To walk again," Damian continued. "To run. To fight. To move faster than any ordinary soldier. Strong enough to face metahumans. Fast enough to survive them."
Rick choked on his drink, coughing hard.
"When I'm done coughing," Rick said, wiping his mouth, "I'm either throwing you out—or you explain yourself in five minutes. I've got a gun under this sofa."
Damian crossed his arms. "Ten minutes. And you put the gun away."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Rick moved the gun and set it beside him instead of under his hand.
"You've got ten minutes," Rick said. "Make them count."
Raven stayed quietly in the background.
Damian placed a small holographic projector on the table and activated it.
A blue image filled the room.
Batman's new suit.
Rick's eyes widened despite himself.
"I built it," Damian said. "Not Batman. Me. That suit is a perfected model."
The image shifted.
A human spine—replaced by a sleek, advanced device.
"This," Damian continued, "is the original prototype. The Sandevistan. A cyberware operating system implanted directly into the body. It replaces the spinal column and interfaces with the brainstem."
The hologram demonstrated time dilation—everything slowing except the user.
"It allows superhuman speed, reflexes, strength. The ability to slow time itself in combat."
Rick stared.
"There were side effects," Damian admitted. "Cyberpsychosis. Instability. But this—" the image shifted again "—is the upgraded version. No cyberpsychosis. No dependency. Fully integrated. No medication required."
Rick leaned forward slowly.
"And Project Overclock?" he asked quietly.
"Failed," Damian said. "Because the government tried to copy the suit without understanding the base technology. Without the Sandevistan."
Rick exhaled sharply.
Then he looked Damian dead in the eye.
"What's the catch?"
Damian didn't hesitate.
"The surgery is dangerous. Extremely dangerous. We remove your damaged spine entirely and replace it. You could die."
Rick didn't look away.
"And this isn't Batman's decision," Damian added. "It's mine."
Rick raised an eyebrow.
"I need someone like you," Damian said. "A soldier with limits. Someone who won't become Amanda Waller's weapon. Someone who won't cross certain lines, even if ordered."
Rick was silent for a long moment.
Finally, he spoke.
"All right, Robin," he said. "What are the rules?"
Damian nodded.
And began to explain the deal.