Doom Patrol #2 - The Song of Love (Part 2)

Cliff Steele, the Robotman, sits out the back of Caulder manor. A cold, silent sentinel gazing out into the dawn, he’s perhaps closer to his past self than he’d like to believe. His thick legs pillars; his heavy metal boots hugged by dew from the unkempt grass. His dull eyes glow with a crimson luminescence, staring at nothing and rousing no feeling in the space where his heart should be. He doesn’t turn around as the bandaged man edges carefully out the back door and gently closes it behind him.

 

Cliff: You’re up early.

 

Larry: Bad dreams.

 

Larry eases himself down and sits next to Cliff, giving him a wry smile underneath his bandages. He knows Cliff won’t see, but he reasons it’s force of habit. Cliff’s red eyes, impassive and cold, stay fixed ahead as he makes no effort to move. Of course Cliff doesn’t see, but Larry’s smile fades.

 

Larry: Couldn’t sleep?

 

Cliff: I dunno. I don’t sleep much anymore. I kinda miss it.

 

Larry: I was the same once. You start to think differently once the nightmares come.

 

Cliff is silent.

 

Larry: Christ it’s cold.

 

Under the bandages, Larry Trainor cringes, realising what he’s said.

 

Larry: Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry.

 

He looks down and picks at a lichen blooming on the stone beneath him.

 

Larry: You okay, big guy? I’ve been out here almost thirty seconds and you haven’t even made so much as a reference to the Mummy.

 

Cliff grunts, but remains silent – eyes fixated on the tangled bushes ahead.

 

Larry: You been out here long?

 

Cliff: Hour or so, probably. Sorta lost track.

 

Larry: How’d you manage to get past Ray?

 

Cliff: Chief turns him off overnight. You didn’t know that? And don’t call it Ray.

 

Larry: Why not?

 

Cliff: Its name is R.A It ain’t a person, it’s just a…a...

 

Larry: Robot?

 

Cliff is silent. He pulls his gaze away from the bushes.

 

Cliff: Yeah.

 

There’s an awkward tension in the air. For the slightest moment, the thought of laying a consoling hand on Cliff’s shoulder flashes across Larry’s mind. But it’s just that – a thought – and as quick as it arrives it’s gone again. He keeps his hand to himself.

 

Cliff: It’s one year today, y’know?

 

Larry: What is?

 

He catches himself.

 

Larry: Oh. I’m sorry man, I didn’t-

 

Cliff: S’fine.

 

Cliff shrugs.

 

Cliff: I try not to keep track, but, uh, I can just sorta tell. I dunno, I don’t do it deliberately. You don’t forget somethin’ like that in a hurry, I guess.

 

Larry: I feel ya. Every night it’s the same. The sky, the plane, the…

 

He looks at the spot on his chest that earlier had been pulsating.

 

Larry: Him. I still see it all, like it’s actually happening again over and over.

 

Cliff: You ever get used to it?

 

Larry: No.

 

Cliff: Yeah, I figured as much.

 

Larry sighs and frantically looks around the garden for something else to talk about.

 

Larry: You know, someone really ought to do something with this place. This garden is a mess. Could put some planters over there. Plant a tree, perhaps. A big thing, like an oak, or something. Get some colour out here too, some hydrangeas. Yeah. That’d be nice. Some hydrangeas.

 

Cliff: I’m a fuckin’ brain in a can, man. I don’t care about the garden.

 

Larry: Oh.

 

Cliff: Y’know, sometimes – just for a second – I think I catch a whiff o’ somethin’, or feel the wind on my face. And then I remember, and there’s nothin’ there. Phantom fuckin’ body syndrome.

 

Larry: I admit, it would be nice to feel the wind on my skin again.

 

Cliff: I think sometimes I just fill in stuff that’s meant to be there. It’s like my head still ain’t used to feelin’… well, nothin’.

 

Larry is silent.

 

Cliff: Hell I can’t even piss. Do you know what that’s like, to miss pissin’? Fuck.

 

He kicks his heel into the ground.

 

Cliff: What kinda life is this?

 

Larry: It’s the one you’ve got. It’s the one we’ve all got. Plus, you try taking a piss in these bandages. Talk about the curse of the mummy.

 

Cliff comes incredibly close to a laugh, but the idea leaves his mind as Larry groans and clutches his chest, something stirring deep inside him.

 

Cliff: Uh…you okay?

 

Larry: Fine, yeah.

 

The being inside his body subsides, and a shiver spreads through him that has nothing to do with the chilled morning air.

 

Larry: It’s been doing that more recently. Probably nothing. Nothing Chief can’t fix, anyway.

 

They share a moment of silence together, staring out into the garden. Larry now wishing more than ever there were some hydrangeas out here. He’s pulled from his thoughts by the first droplets of a morning storm as they begin to pitter-patter neatly off Cliff’s head.

 

Cliff: I used to hate the rain. Guess there’s nothin’ to hate about it now, huh?

 

Larry: Well, you sit there too long and you are gonna start rusting.

 

Cliff stoops as he turns to look at Larry.

 

Cliff: Haven’t you got a pyramid to go hide in or somethin’?

 

Larry: That’s better.

 

For the second time, Cliff comes close to a laugh. But like Larry’s consoling hand, the thought dies before it can even be born.

 

Larry: Come on big guy, let’s get you inside.

 

Cliff: Yeah. Alright.

 

But they don’t move. Instead, they watch through the haze as the first beams of the dawn sun ignite the morning clouds, with nothing but the sound of the neat pitter-patter for company.

 

 

====================-Colombia-====================

 

 

Through the ebbing flow of the airport crowd stands a man. He’s nothing special, and certainly nothing interesting – but, when thinking about it, not all that dull either. He just exists, like bricks. Or grass. To look at him is like looking at someone from the corner of your eye. He’s there, but no one’s ever really cared enough to pay him a second glance; he holds about as much prowess as a wet dishcloth. A weak smirk implants itself on his dry lips and he gazes at the crowd, holding aloft in his hands a piece of cardboard, scrawled across it in a hurried scribble the name:

 

B. HUNTER

 

He props the sign on a shaky knee as he reaches into his pocket for a grimy handkerchief and dabs it across his forehead and upper lip. He shoves it back in his pocket, runs his fingers over his moustache and spots a face in the crowd, heading his way. He grins and gives a feeble little wave, still wrestling with the sign.

 

Morden: Mr. Hunter? My name is Eric Morden. Welcome to Colombia! I trust all your belongings got back to you safely?

 

He gestures towards a large bag in the man’s hand, barely containing its contents.

 

Beard Hunter: Yes.

 

Morden: Groovy! You’ll find the authorities here susceptible to a, how shall we say… cheeky backhander! If you know what I mean!

 

His chuckles die out as the man stares him down. Eric takes in his appearance: sleek, slicked back hair, severe cheekbones and smooth jaw. He shifts a little as the man continues to stare at him.

 

Morden: Anyway, best not hang around. The Brotherhood eagerly await your arrival!

 

Beard Hunter: The what?

 

Morden: The Brotherhood! Oh, of course you wouldn’t know. It’s just an idea I’ve been spitballing. For our team name, you know? I’ve got loads of ideas for team names, I’ll tell you some of them later if you like? I seem to be the only one who likes ‘The Brotherhood’, but I’m sure they’ll come round. You know what? Don’t worry about it…

 

Eric trails off as the man sniffs the air and something in his eyes lights up. Eric once again mops his forehead as the man leans in towards him, inches away from his face, and flares his nostrils.

 

Beard Hunter: You’re lucky your bosses are paying me so much. Any less and I’d rip that slug right off your damn lips.

 

Eric squirms and steps back. He mutters slyly under his breath.

 

Morden: You’re getting more for one job than I earn in a year. Not that it matters, or course, Mister Hunter sir.

 

Beard Hunter: You’re right. It doesn’t. And don’t call me ‘Mister.’ While we do business you and your bosses will refer to me only as ‘Beard Hunter.’ Understand?

 

Morden: Uh, yes of course sir!

 

Beard Hunter: See to it they do, too. And I’d put to bed any idea of me joining your sad little club. I’m here for the job and then I’m done. Speaking of which, where are those idiots?

 

Morden: Back at HQ Mist-Beard Hunter.

 

Beard Hunter: Hmm.

 

His eyes drift across the crowd to a large man with a thick, black beard. He licks his lips and grunts, then with a snap of his neck turns his attention back to Eric.

 

Beard Hunter: Well? Are we going to stand here all day?

 

Morden: No, of course! This way please.

 

He leads the way to the airport parking lot, depositing the cardboard sign in a trash can. He walks over to a rusting old pick up, which he notices bears a worrying resemblance to the trash can.

 

Morden: Sorry about the wheels. Unlike customs officials, the rentals out here leave a lot to be desired!

 

Morden winces at his own incessant giggling as Beard Hunter gives the truck a once over. He grunts and turns back to Morden.

 

Beard Hunter: This is… adequate. Where will you go?

 

Morden: Oh, well I’ll be driving, and it’s quite a squeeze up front so… you’ll have to go in the back. It’s quite a short drive…

 

Beard Hunter: No, that won’t do. I’m driving. You’re in the back. If you want to come get in.

 

He dumps his bag in the back and climbs into the driver’s seat, starting the engine.

 

Beard Hunter: Look after that bag. It’s probably worth more than your life.

 

Morden: Uhh okay, only I don’t think you know where to – oh okay it doesn’t matter I’ll direct. Sure I’ll go back. Are you – oh okay we’re going.

 

He barely manages to haul himself into the back of the truck as Beard Hunter pulls out of the parking lot and into the sticky mid-morning heat.

 

 

Done