The Long Night of Steel and Flesh
A few minutes after their last discussion, Batman, Mister Terrific, and the Atom escorted Rick Flag Sr. down a quiet, sterile corridor deep within the hidden base. The air here was colder, cleaner—filtered a hundred times over. The walls were a muted white, broken only by soft blue lighting strips that hummed faintly with concealed power. This was not a battlefield, not a laboratory, but something in between: a place where lives were rebuilt instead of taken.
Rick's wheelchair slowed as they reached a set of reinforced doors. Beyond them waited the surgical team.
The doors slid open.
Inside stood a group of professionals who did not look like mercenaries or shadow doctors, but neither did they resemble ordinary hospital staff. These were people who had seen impossible things and chosen not to look away.
Batman stepped aside and spoke first. "Rick Flag Sr., this is the surgical team."
An older woman stepped forward, her posture straight despite her age, her eyes sharp and steady. Her gray hair was tied neatly back, and the calm authority in her voice immediately commanded respect.
"Dr. Leslie Thompkins," she said, extending a hand. "Chief surgeon for this operation."
Rick shook her hand. Her grip was firm—stronger than he expected.
"I've been practicing medicine longer than you've been in the field," she continued, not unkindly. "I've treated vigilantes, soldiers, and civilians alike. I won't lie to you—this will be the most dangerous procedure you will ever undergo. But if anyone can survive it, it's someone who's already survived everything you have."
Rick nodded slowly. "I appreciate the honesty, Doctor."
Another figure stepped forward—a younger woman, sharp-eyed, her hair pulled back in a practical braid. She didn't wear a surgeon's coat but a tailored lab jacket filled with smart interfaces and embedded circuitry.
"Dr. Meena Dhawan," she said. "I'm not a surgeon. I'm an engineer and systems architect. I designed the integration framework for the Sandevistan."
She tapped a small holographic projector at her wrist. A simplified image appeared in the air—Rick's skeletal structure overlaid with glowing lines.
"I'll explain this in a way that doesn't require a PhD," she continued. "Your spinal cord will be replaced—not augmented, replaced—with a cybernetic system that mimics and enhances every biological function your spine once had. Neural signals will be rerouted through the Sandevistan's core. You won't lose sensation. You won't lose autonomy. If anything, you'll gain more than you ever had."
Rick studied the projection carefully. "And the risks?"
Dr. Dhawan didn't hesitate. "Death. Paralysis. Neural collapse. System rejection—though we've reduced that risk to near zero. There's no sugarcoating this."
Rick exhaled slowly. "Fair enough."
Three hours passed faster than he expected.
Paperwork was signed. Final scans were taken. The Sandevistan—housed in a sealed, sterile containment unit—was brought closer to the operating theater, its dark alloy surface faintly humming with restrained power.
Eventually, the surgeons wheeled Rick into the operating room.
The lights overhead were blindingly bright. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal. Rick's clothes were removed, replaced with a hospital gown, and he was carefully positioned face-down on the operating table. Cold sensors touched his skin as machines were connected to monitor every vital sign.
An anesthesiologist leaned into his field of vision. "We're going to administer Propofol. You'll feel relaxed, then you'll fall asleep. When you wake up, the hardest part will be over."
Rick gave a small, grim smile. "I've faced worse."
The mask settled over his face.
"Let's start," he said.
The medication flowed.
Within seconds, the world faded into darkness.
High above, behind reinforced glass in the observation gallery, Batman stood with his arms crossed. Mister Terrific monitored dozens of data streams simultaneously, his T-spheres floating quietly at his side. The Atom watched the surgical feed with laser focus, occasionally making quiet suggestions to the team below.
"It'll take seven hours to remove the spine without further damage," Batman said quietly. "Another seven to integrate the Sandevistan."
Damian stood beside him, jaw tight, eyes locked on the operating table below.
"You should rest," Batman said, turning to his son. "You haven't slept properly in a week. We'll watch this."
Damian hesitated, then nodded. "Don't call me if something goes wrong," he said flatly. "I'll feel it."
Batman didn't argue.
Damian left the gallery and made his way to a private room nearby. Inside, Raven sat on the bed, reading quietly. She looked up as he entered.
"You didn't go back to the Tower," Damian said.
Raven closed her book. "No."
She patted the space beside her. "Come here. Sleep."
For once, Damian didn't resist. He removed his Robin suit, changed into more comfortable clothes, and climbed into bed. Raven wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. The tension he'd been holding for days finally cracked.
"Good night," he murmured.
"Good night, Damian," she replied softly.
The surgery lasted nearly seventeen hours.
Seven hours to remove the damaged spine, millimeter by millimeter, preserving every nerve pathway.
Seven more to install the Sandevistan—locking it into place, fusing alloy and flesh, threading neural connections through its core like weaving lightning through steel.
Three additional hours were spent testing, recalibrating, and stabilizing the system.
Finally, Dr. Thompkins straightened and looked up at the observation gallery.
"It's done," she said. "The surgery was a success. He'll regain consciousness tomorrow. Move him to a private recovery room."
Batman exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Rick Flag Sr. woke slowly.
At first, there was only darkness—and then pain.
White-hot, bone-deep pain that cut through even the strongest medication. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to scream. He'd endured worse on battlefields far from home. This was different, but pain was pain.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer.
Gradually, the pain dulled into something manageable.
Rick opened his eyes.
He was in a private room. Medical equipment surrounded him—monitors beeping softly, IV lines feeding medication into his veins. Bandages covered his chest and wrapped around his back, stretching down to his waist.
"Well," he muttered hoarsely, "looks like I didn't die on the table."
He swallowed and slowly tilted his head, scanning his body.
Then his gaze settled on his legs.
For weeks, they had been nothing but dead weight.
Rick took a breath.
Slowly—carefully—he tried to move his toes.
At first, nothing happened.
Then—
A twitch.
Barely noticeable. Almost imaginary.
Rick's breath caught.
He focused again.
This time, his toes moved.
A real movement. Small, weak—but undeniable.
Rick laughed, a broken, breathless sound that quickly turned into something dangerously close to tears.
He could feel them.
The numb void that had haunted him for weeks was gone. Sensation—faint but real—had returned.
It wasn't walking.
It wasn't running.
But it was hope.
After weeks of doctors telling him he'd never walk again, that his life was effectively over, this single movement shattered every lie they'd fed him.
Rick relaxed back against the pillow, exhausted but lighter than he'd felt in years.
"This is just the beginning," he whispered to himself.
And for the first time in a long time, he believed it.
As the medication pulled him back into sleep, one thought stayed with him:
Tomorrow, the real fight would begin.