Rick Flag Sr. woke to the steady, alien rhythm of machines.
For a long moment, he didn't know where he was. There was no battlefield smoke, no shouting soldiers, no gunfire echoing in his ears. Just the antiseptic sting of a hospital room and the dull, heavy weight pressing down on his body. His eyes fluttered open, vision swimming as the ceiling lights burned too bright.
Three days.
That was what the nurse would later tell him—three days of surgery, induced coma, and constant monitoring. Three days where his body hovered on the edge between survival and death.
For now, all Rick knew was pain. Not sharp, not immediate—something worse. A deep, hollow absence.
He tried to move.
Nothing happened.
His brow furrowed. He tried again, this time commanding his legs the way he had thousands of times before—run, kneel, brace, roll. The commands echoed uselessly through his nervous system, unanswered.
Rick Flag Sr. swallowed hard.
Before panic could fully set in, the door to the room opened.
Amanda Waller entered first, immaculate as always, her expression unreadable. Behind her came the President of the United States, flanked by two Secret Service agents who remained outside the room. The door closed softly behind them, sealing Rick inside with two of the most powerful people on the planet.
"Colonel Flag," the President said calmly. "Good to see you awake."
Rick forced himself to focus. His throat felt dry. "Sir," he rasped. "Mission… Circe?"
Waller's eyes never left him.
"That's what we're here to discuss," the President replied. "Tell us what you remember after Circe was captured."
Rick closed his eyes briefly, forcing his mind back through pain and fog.
"The palace," he said slowly. "Everything seemed secure. Too secure. Then the explosion. I responded. Found bodies—guards who'd been dead for days. The head of security… already replaced."
He opened his eyes again, jaw tightening.
"Clayface," Rick continued. "He'd taken the general's place. He freed Circe. After that—" He shook his head. "I fought Clayface. Lost track of time. Took a hit. Then… nothing. I woke up here."
The President nodded, exchanging a glance with Waller.
"You don't remember the evacuation?" the President asked.
Rick frowned. "Evacuation?"
"No," Waller said flatly. "He wouldn't."
The President sighed. "Very well. You did your duty, Colonel. You stopped Circe long enough to prevent her from escaping with the princess."
Rick frowned. "Prevented?"
Neither of them answered that directly.
"Rest," the President said instead. "You've earned it."
Rick studied him. "Sir… you said you were sorry. Sorry for what?"
The President hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.
"You'll understand soon," he said quietly.
They turned and left.
A few moments later, a doctor entered, tablet in hand, expression careful in the way medical professionals used when delivering bad news.
"Colonel Flag," the doctor said gently. "Your injuries were… severe. You survived because of rapid intervention and a great deal of luck."
Rick clenched his fists. At least—he thought he did.
"Your spinal cord suffered extensive trauma," the doctor continued. "You may regain partial mobility with years of rehabilitation. But even in the best-case scenario…"
The doctor paused.
"You will not be returning to active duty."
Rick's world narrowed.
He tried again—one last time—to move his legs.
Nothing.
For the first time in his life, Rick Flag Sr. felt truly helpless.
Across the country, in Jump City, life moved on with brutal indifference.
The Titans Tower stood quiet under the glow of the evening sky. Inside, Damian Wayne—Robin—sat on the edge of his and Raven's shared bed, towel draped around his shoulders as he dried his hair.
Raven lay beside him, already asleep, her breathing slow and even. The faint hum of her magic lingered in the air—not active, just present, like a heartbeat.
Damian reached for his phone out of habit.
One glance at the headlines, and his expression hardened.
POKOLISTAN PRINCESS DEAD IN PALACE ATTACK. CIRCE AND SONS OF THEMISCYRA RESPONSIBLE.
He scrolled.
Official statements flooded the screen. Condolences. Denials. Carefully worded declarations distancing the United States from any involvement. Damian recognized the language immediately.
A cover-up.
He tapped into channels most people didn't know existed—encrypted message boards, anonymous data brokers, favors owed by people who never appeared on any public record. Within minutes, fragmented truths began to surface.
Circe captured. Palace infiltration. A false general. A mechanized suit used by the princess as a last resort.
And one more detail that made Damian's jaw tighten.
Rick Flag Sr. critically injured. Paralyzed.
Damian stared at the words longer than he meant to.
He respected Flag. Not for politics or orders—but for the man's discipline, his loyalty to soldiers under his command. This wasn't how it was supposed to end.
A soft weight settled against his shoulder.
Raven stirred, eyes half-open as she leaned into him. "You're thinking too loudly," she murmured.
Damian exhaled. "News."
She followed his gaze to the screen, violet eyes scanning quickly. Her expression darkened—not with shock, but understanding.
"They're lying," she said.
"Yes," Damian replied simply.
She rested her head fully against him now. "You knew they would."
"Always," he said.
Raven studied him for a moment. "You have… contacts."
He nodded. "You learn things, growing up where I did."
She didn't press further. Raven understood secrets. She lived with them.
Outside their window, the city lights flickered on one by one. Heroes fought. Governments lied. Demons plotted. Projects rose and fell in the shadows.
And somewhere far away, a soldier lay in a hospital bed, staring at a future he never asked for.
Damian locked his phone and set it aside.
Whatever storms were coming—government conspiracies, demonic threats, or the remnants of Project OVERCLOCK—he would face them when they arrived.
For now, he wrapped an arm around Raven and let himself rest.
Because tomorrow, the world would start demanding things again.