The tests never truly stopped.
For Rick Flag Sr., time lost its usual meaning inside Batman's hidden base. Days blurred together, measured not by sunrises or sunsets but by diagnostics, simulations, and the quiet hum of machines monitoring the Sandevistan integrated into his body. What began as recovery had evolved into something far more demanding: total synchronization.
The next ten days were dedicated to one singular goal—making the Sandevistan feel less like an implant and more like a natural extension of Rick Flag Sr. himself.
It wasn't just about the technology.
Dr. Leslie Thompkins and Dr. Meena Dhawan had both reached the same conclusion early on: the success of the procedure had as much to do with Rick as it did with the cyberware replacing his spine. The Sandevistan responded to intent, discipline, and adaptability. Rick Flag Sr. had all three in abundance.
Every morning began the same way.
Vitals. Neural scans. Muscle response tests.
Rick would stand in the center of a reinforced training chamber while holographic grids traced the flow of signals traveling from his brain down into the cybernetic spinal replacement. Dr. Dhawan watched the data streams with fascination.
"The integration curve is stabilizing faster than projected," she said one morning, eyes locked on a floating screen. "The neural feedback loop is behaving as if it's always been there."
"That's not the Sandevistan," Dr. Thompkins replied calmly. "That's him."
Rick didn't comment. He was focused—always focused. Sweat rolled down his face as he moved through balance drills designed to overload his proprioception. Uneven platforms shifted beneath his feet. Weighted resistance bands pulled at his limbs. His body adapted anyway.
Each failure taught him something.
Each stumble sharpened his awareness.
Within days, he was no longer compensating for the implant. He was trusting it.
Combat retraining followed quickly.
Batman oversaw those sessions personally, standing with Damian, Mr. Terrific, and the Atom behind reinforced observation glass. Rick trained bare-handed first—striking reinforced dummies, grappling automated opponents, relearning muscle memory with a body that now responded faster than before.
The Sandevistan didn't activate yet. Not fully.
That was intentional.
They needed Rick to master his body before giving him access to time itself.
He trained with blades next, then firearms. Live-fire drills tested his accuracy while moving, rolling, firing from unstable positions. His aim improved daily—not because the implant corrected him, but because it processed his decisions faster. Rick began to understand something fundamental.
The Sandevistan didn't control movement.
It obeyed intention.
That realization changed everything.
By the end of the ten-day integration period, Rick Flag Sr. was no longer "recovering." He was surpassing his former physical limits. His strength had increased. His reflexes sharpened. His endurance exceeded pre-injury baselines.
And still, the Sandevistan remained restrained.
Until Day Twenty-Six.
The room was different that morning.
The training chamber had been expanded—walls reinforced with layered alloys, kinetic dampeners humming softly beneath the floor. Automated turrets lined the perimeter, calibrated to fire non-lethal but painfully real rounds. Explosive charges were embedded along the course, designed to disorient, not kill.
Batman stood at the edge of the chamber.
"This is the final phase," he said evenly. "No simulations. No safeties beyond what keeps you alive."
Rick met his gaze without hesitation.
"I understand."
Dr. Dhawan stepped forward, fingers dancing across a tablet. "We're unlocking the full operational parameters. Time dilation. Reflex amplification. Neural acceleration."
Dr. Thompkins added quietly, "The moment you activate it, your perception of reality will change. Don't fight it."
Rick nodded.
Damian watched silently from beside Batman, arms crossed. This was his creation. His responsibility.
"Begin when ready," Batman said.
Rick stepped forward.
He took one breath.
Then he activated the Sandevistan.
The world broke apart.
Sound dropped into a distant echo. The hum of machinery stretched into a low, distorted vibration. Rick felt it instantly—not pain, not fear, but clarity. Absolute, terrifying clarity.
The world slowed.
No—everything else slowed.
Rick moved.
To an outside observer, he vanished.
Turrets fired. Muzzle flashes bloomed like frozen flowers of light. Bullets crawled through the air, their trajectories visible, avoidable. Rick weaved between them, feet striking the ground with precision that bordered on unreal.
He disarmed the first turret before it could finish its firing cycle.
Explosions detonated ahead of him, shockwaves rippling like liquid. He adjusted mid-stride, leaping through debris that hadn't yet begun to fall. His reflexes weren't just faster—they were predictive.
Rick wasn't reacting anymore.
He was deciding.
The course ended in under four seconds of real time.
When the Sandevistan disengaged, Rick stumbled once—only once—catching himself as the world snapped back into place. His heart pounded, breath heavy, muscles screaming in protest.
Then he laughed.
A raw, disbelieving sound.
He was alive.
He was fast.
He was whole.
The room remained silent for a moment.
Then Mr. Terrific exhaled slowly. "That… exceeded projections."
The Atom shook his head. "By a lot."
Dr. Dhawan's hands trembled as she reviewed the data. "Neural load stayed within safe thresholds. No signs of cyber psychosis. No cognitive drift."
Batman looked at Rick, unreadable as ever. "Again."
The remaining five days followed that pattern.
New obstacle courses. New variables. Ambush scenarios. Live-fire combat against automated drones and adaptive AI opponents. Each time, Rick refined his control—learning when to activate the Sandevistan, how long to sustain it, how to disengage before strain set in.
He learned restraint.
That was the most important lesson of all.
By the end of the training period, Rick Flag Sr. stood at the center of the chamber, no harness, no support, no hesitation. The Sandevistan was no longer something he used.
It was part of him.
Batman finally spoke what everyone else already knew.
"You're ready."
Rick looked down at his hands, then back up.
For the first time since the injury—since the wheelchair, the drinking, the hopelessness—he felt something solid take root in his chest.
Purpose.
And somewhere far away, in offices filled with secrets and suspicion, A.R.G.U.S. was still watching an empty house—unaware that the man they thought was broken had been reborn faster than time itself.