The Dead Do Not Rest Alone
Rick Flag Sr. did not miss the watchers.
He noticed them the moment he crossed the threshold of his home.
The house was exactly as he had left it—quiet, still, preserved like a memory sealed in amber—but the feeling outside was different. A pressure at the back of his neck. The instinct that never truly faded, no matter how many injuries, funerals, or years of service tried to bury it. He didn't look directly toward the street. He didn't need to. He could feel eyes on the house, feel the weight of attention pressing in from angles that were meant to be invisible.
Amanda Waller's people.
Of course.
Rick shut the door behind him, locked it, and rested his forehead briefly against the wood. He breathed in slowly, grounding himself. Not yet, he told himself. Not today.
He dropped his backpack near the entryway and moved through the house with deliberate calm. The living room still smelled faintly of dust and old wood polish. His son's boots were still by the door, exactly where he had left them the last time he visited before everything went to hell. Rick ignored them for now.
For the next hour, he focused on the mundane.
He vacuumed the carpets. Wiped down counters. Took out trash that had no business still being there. The simple motions helped. Cleaning had always been his way of thinking without thinking—letting his mind drift while his hands stayed busy. Outside, the surveillance team watched a man who appeared to be doing nothing more than settling back into civilian life.
That was fine.
Let them underestimate him.
Eventually, hunger crept in. Real hunger, not the sterile nutrient packs and regulated meals of a hidden base. Rick ordered takeout from a small local place he remembered—nothing fancy, just fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and sweet tea. When it arrived, he ate at the kitchen table in silence, listening to the distant hum of the neighborhood.
Afterward, he leaned back in his chair, full and tired in a way that felt almost human again.
That was when his eyes drifted to the framed photograph on the shelf.
It was old. Faded at the edges. Him and his son, shoulder to shoulder, beers in hand, both of them laughing at something just out of frame. Rick was in uniform. His son wasn't yet—but he would be soon after that picture was taken.
Rick stared at it for a long time.
Then he stood up.
He grabbed his jacket, checked that his wallet was still in his pocket, and unlocked the door. Outside, the air was warm, heavy with late afternoon humidity. He stepped out without hesitation, locking the door behind him, and started walking.
The surveillance team moved with him.
Rick noticed, of course. He noticed the car that idled a little too long at the corner. The woman pretending to be on her phone who never quite matched his pace. The reflections in shop windows that didn't belong. He kept his head down and his posture loose, projecting exactly what they expected to see: a grieving father going for a walk.
On the way, he stopped at a small flower shop.
Inside, the scent of fresh blooms hit him immediately—roses, lilies, carnations. He picked a simple arrangement. White flowers. Clean. Respectful. He paid in cash and left without saying much.
The team followed.
Rick let them.
The cemetery was quiet when he arrived. Rows of white headstones stretched across green grass under a pale sky. Families were scattered throughout—some standing, some kneeling, some sitting silently. A few veterans were there too, marked by stiff postures and prosthetic limbs, their eyes distant in a way Rick recognized instantly.
He walked slowly, reading names as he passed. Some he knew. Some he didn't. All of them had stories that ended too early.
When he reached his son's grave, he stopped.
He placed the flowers carefully at the base of the headstone and sat down on the grass beside it. For a long moment, he said nothing. He just rested his hand against the cool stone, feeling the engraved letters beneath his fingers.
"I didn't think I'd ever walk again," Rick said quietly. "A month ago, they told me it was over. That I was done."
He exhaled slowly.
"I almost believed them."
He stared out across the cemetery, at the flags fluttering gently in the distance.
"But I got another chance," he continued. "And I'm not wasting it. Not following stupid orders from people who don't care about lives—only results. Power. Influence."
His jaw tightened.
"You deserved better than that. Better than all of it."
Rick smiled faintly, the expression heavy with regret and pride all at once.
"You were a good kid. I know it wasn't easy having me as your father. But I was proud of you the moment you signed up. Proud without lifting a finger to help you. You earned that uniform on your own."
He swallowed.
"I hope you're in a better place now. And I swear to you—I will find out how you died. That's a promise."
Rick stood up, brushed grass from his pants, and turned toward the exit.
That was when he heard raised voices.
Sharp. Aggressive. Out of place.
Rick slowed, his eyes narrowing as he looked toward the cemetery gate. A group of nine people stood near the entrance. They didn't belong there. Eight of them were armed—military-grade weapons held with casual familiarity. The ninth was something worse.
A metahuman.
Rick could feel the heat from where he stood. Flames danced in the man's palms, flickering and alive. At his feet lay two bodies—security, judging by their suits and posture. Secret Service.
Which meant the woman they were grabbing mattered.
She couldn't have been more than twenty-three. Terrified. Struggling as one of the men seized her arm.
That was enough.
Anger surged through Rick like a tidal wave.
Not here.
Not in a place of mourning. Not among the dead who had already given everything.
He didn't care who was watching anymore.
He didn't care about A.R.G.U.S., about cameras, about consequences.
These men had made a mistake.
Rick Flag Sr. activated the Sandevistan.
The world slowed to a crawl.
Sound stretched into a low, distorted hum. Flames froze mid-flicker. The gang members' movements became sluggish, their expressions caught between arrogance and confusion.
Rick moved.
In the blink of an eye—too fast to be perceived—he was beside the man grabbing the woman. He caught the man's wrist and snapped it effortlessly. The shotgun slipped from the man's fingers before he could even scream.
Rick took the weapon, already moving on.
The dead did not rest alone.
And today, neither would the living.