Doom Patrol #3 - The Song of Love (Part 3)

Cliff and Larry traipse inside from the back door, slightly damp from the morning drizzle. As Larry shuts the door, the sound of heavy footsteps and mechanical whirring fills the air, and from the corridor ahead trudges a robot donning a moth-eaten jacket and tie, in some

attempt to make it look like a waiter. It hasn’t worked.

 

R.A-2: Good morning, Larry. Good morning, Clifton.

 

Cliff: How many times to I have to tell you, that’s not my name you hunk o’ junk.

 

R.A-2 blissfully ignores Cliff and continues to talk in its jaunty, slightly broken English accent.

 

R.A-2: You are awake, quite early. Would you like, breakfast?

 

Larry: We can get it ourselves, thanks.

 

R.A-2: That is not, a problem.

 

They continue down the hallway and enter the manor’s kitchen/dining room. Around a large table sits Rita Farr, huddled in a dressing gown; nursing a steaming cup of coffee. At the head of the table in his usual spot, is Niles Caulder, a mess of age lines and wiry red hair gazing endlessly into a bowl of cereal, unfazed by Larry and Cliff dripping all over the floor. Their arrival fails to rouse him from his deep thought, and he addresses them without looking up.

 

Niles: Ah, Larry. Cliff. Good morning. Fruit Loops?

 

Larry: Where did you get Fruit Loops?

 

Niles: I snuck a word to Ricardo, from town; had them added to my last delivery. Remarkable, aren’t they?

 

He lifts a full spoon out of the bowl, dripping tie died and lukewarm milk onto the table.

 

Rita: Honestly Niles, one of the only other people on this planet who knows the location of this house and you get him to deliver breakfast cereal. And not even a healthy one.

 

Niles: Nonsense. One of man’s finest creations. And I would know, I’m one of man’s finest.

 

His smile fails in its attempt to soften Rita.

 

Rita: I just don’t think it’s very responsible-

 

Niles: Poppycock. Ricardo is one of the few people on this earth to whom I entrust my life. Or at the very least, my meal plans. That will be all R.A, thank you. See to it that the lab is in working order.

 

R.A-2, unnoticed in the doorway, shuffles out of the room and down the corridor.

 

Rita: Whatever. But don’t come crying to me when he brings something other than high cholesterol to our doorstep.

 

Cliff moans as he pulls out a seat and slumps in it, the frail wooden frame creaking under his weight.

 

Rita: And what’s got your buns in a twist?

 

Cliff: Would you back off for a while? I’ve haven’t even been in here a minute and I’m already exhausted. Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk.

 

Rita: Meaning?

 

Cliff: Well, I’ve seen the amount you shovel down. You’re not exactly little-miss-diet-plan yourself.

 

Rita: You know I don’t have a choice!

 

Larry: Ignore him, Rita. He’s feeling a little blue today. He doesn’t mean it.

 

Niles looks up from his bowl, a look of sudden realisation on his face.

 

Niles: Ah.

 

Cliff: A little blue? Seriously?

 

Rita: Be that as it may, Larry, it’s no reason for him to act like a brute at breakfast time.

 

Cliff: Just shut up and eat your Fruit Loops. What are you on now, servin’ seven?

 

Rita slams her mug down in a fluster.

 

Rita: And would you care for me to describe them to you, Clifford? Or shall I just…just… put them on a memory stick?

 

Cliff: That doesn’t even make sense.

 

Larry: Well I think the Fruit Loops are a great idea, Chief.

 

Niles toasts Larry with his spoon.

 

Cliff: You can’t be fuckin’ serious…

 

Rita: Language!

 

Cliff: Seriously?

 

Rita: Only those with a distinct lack of imagination resort to such ghastly language.

 

Cliff: You’re just sayin’ that cause you know I’m right.

 

He grabs a spoon and mimics someone shovelling copious amounts of food into their mouth.

 

Rita: It’s my condition! My condition!

 

She shrieks at him as she hits the table and gasps as she feels her face beginning to melt. She abandons her coffee and runs out of the room, hands over her face. Cliff doesn’t move.

 

Niles: Marvellous. That took precisely four and a half minutes. A new record, perhaps?

 

Everyone is silent. Larry drums the table with his fingers as he eyes the box of cereal.

 

Niles: Larry, would you give Cliff and I a minute?

 

Larry: Sure. I’ll be in my room, pretending this didn’t happen.

 

He takes a bowl, fills it and leaves.

 

Cliff: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset her.

 

Niles: She’ll be fine. She’s survived worse than the likes of you.

 

He chuckles and wheels himself to the side of Cliff.

 

Niles: I would advise against doing that again, however.

 

Cliff pokes at a spoon, watching the distorted reflection of his red eyes staring back at him, upside-down.

 

Niles: That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, however. I understand today is perhaps… difficult for you.

 

Larry tries discreetly to walk in, managing to be about as discreet as glowing washing machine. He chuckles nervously as he whispers.

 

Larry: Sorry. Spoon!

 

He plucks a spoon off the table and as quickly as he enters, he’s gone. Cliff goes back to his reflection.

 

Cliff: I don’t wanna talk about it.

 

Niles: I do. Don’t worry, I shan’t babble. One year today since you came into being. I’m truly, truly proud of the progress you’ve made.

 

Cliff: Great.

 

Niles: Now don’t get shirty with me, Cliff. You’ll find me to be far less tolerant than Rita. You’ve still got a way to go.

 

Cliff puts the spoon down and looks over to Niles.

 

Niles: Forgive me, I didn’t mean to snap.

 

Cliff: You alright? You don’t look well.

 

Niles: I’m fine. Honestly.

 

He sighs and runs a hand across his beard.

 

Cliff: Uh… okay.

 

Niles picks up on his uncertainty and continues.

 

Niles: It’s… nothing that can’t be said another day. Today is important to you, don’t go worrying about me. I’ll be fine. As I said, I’m proud of the progress you’ve made. I sincerely hope we continue on this path of recovery.

 

Cliff doesn’t believe him. He looks at the table, thinking.

 

Cliff: Uh, Chief?

 

Niles: Yes?

 

Cliff: Could you do somethin’ for me?

 

Niles: I can try.

 

Cliff: Could you describe them for me? The Fruit Loops, I mean?

 

Niles shoots him a consoling smile and pats his arm.

 

Niles: Honesty Cliff?

 

Cliff looks at him.

 

Niles: They’re not even that good.

 

He winks and moves towards the door.

 

Niles: Oh, and Cliff?

 

Cliff: Yeah?

 

Niles: See to it that you do apologise to Rita. She may not admit it, but it would mean a lot to her. And to me.

 

And with that he exits the room, leaving Cliff alone with his distorted reflection and soggy cereal.

 

 

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

 

 

A great gorilla sits, cross legged, watching a battered red pick-up truck tearing down the road. Cigarette in his mouth and gun on his lap, he makes quite the bizarre sight to passers-by. Fortunately, this is a place where passers-by are of little to no concern. The truck pulls up to the compound, throwing dust into the air, and the gorilla grunts.

 

Mallah: You’re late.

 

The driver door opens, but before anyone can emerge Eric Morden leaps so quickly and clumsily out the back it’s a miracle he isn’t injured. The gorilla blows a cloud of smoke and frowns.

 

Mallah: Why were you in the back?

 

Morden: It’s a funny story.

 

Mallah: I’m listening.

 

He stands and stomps out his cigarette, slinging the gun around his chest and folding his thick arms.

 

Morden: No, no… we have more pressing matters to attend to, right?

 

Mallah: Hmph. ‘umans…

 

A severe man emerges from the front and approaches, bag in hand.

 

Mallah: You are the Beard ‘unter?

 

Beard Hunter looks at him with a sour expression and slowly nods.

 

Mallah: Follow me.

 

Mallah pulls open a heavy metal door and leads Beard Hunter inside. Eric pauses a moment, wiping his brow with his handkerchief and quickly follows them inside before the door shuts him out. Mallah leads the way down a dark hallway, its cracked walls covered in a thin layer of damp and stubborn vegetation sprouting from cracks in the floor. He pushes on a heavy door, and the trio walk into a large, open room, scattered with industrial machinery and complicated looking mechanical parts. Straight ahead of them stands a colossal, cylindrical machine, its symmetrical and uniform design disturbed by one small door and a peep-hole. Tubes and wires burst forth from its roof and cross over each other like great industrial cobwebs, disappearing upwards into the darkness of the ceiling.

 

And stood in front of it, illuminated by a fantastical bright light, stands a devious criminal mastermind. Tall and proud, his notoriety immediately fills the heart of Eric Morden with an excited dread, despite having been in his company now for far longer than he could ever have dreamed. His black metal casing reflects the light across the room like a forbidding disco ball; the liquid in his glass bowl iridescent against his surroundings. When he speaks, everyone listens. His authority, like the lights, radiates from him.

 

Brain: Monsieur Franklin, an ‘onour it is to meet you at last!

 

Morden: Oh master, he prefers-

 

Brain: Silence, Morden!

 

Eric nods weakly and slinks back into the darkness at the edge of the room. Beard Hunter steps forwards.

 

Beard Hunter: Dispense with the formalities. I’m here for the job, nothing more.

 

The Brain makes a noise akin to a wry laugh.

 

Brain: Your temper, like your skill, is infamous. For that I will let it slide. But you are quite right, time is of the essence. Mallah?

 

Mallah shuffles over to them and presents Beard Hunter with a clear zip-lock bag, seemingly empty except for the one wiry red hair resting gracefully at the bottom. He snatches it from Mallah greedily.

 

Brain: Inside this bag is a single beard ‘air from one of the most dangerous men alive. Many years ago, I vowed I wouldn’t ‘unt ‘im to the ends of the earth for the wrongs ‘e ‘as done to me and those I love.

 

Mallah shoots him a glance and sniffs, adjusting the gun slung across his chest.

 

Brain: For years I ‘ave plotted my revenge. But like the rat ‘e is, ‘e scurried off into ‘iding – fearful of my furious wrath. But a rat can be exterminated, non?

 

Beard Hunter carefully removes the hair from the bag and holds it to the light. Something in his eyes lights up and he sniffs the air, momentarily salivating.

 

Brain: I trust you can use your skill to find ‘im?

 

Beard Hunter: I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.

 

Brain: That is what I ‘ad ‘oped to ‘ear. For many long years ‘ave you evaded me, Niles Caulder. You shall ‘ide away no longer. It is with great care I ‘ave preserved that ‘air all these years. See to it that it is not wasted.

 

Not needing to be asked twice, Beard Hunter opens his mouth and throws the hair in. He chews it for a moment, mulling it over as if it were nothing more than a fine wine, and swallows it. His eyes widen, his nostrils flare and a sudden sense of purpose galvanises his body like a bolt of lightning.

 

Beard Hunter: …New England. Vermont. Barely hidden at all.

 

Brain: Magnifique. Time is of the essence my friend. You will set off at once. Find ‘im, bring ‘im back ‘ere to me – un’armed – and you shall be greatly rewarded.

 

Beard Hunter: Wait… you expect me to drive to Vermont? From Colombia?

 

Brain: Well, um… yes. ‘Ow else would you get there?

 

Bread Hunter: I don’t know, fly maybe?

 

Mallah frowns and shoots the Brain a look. He may not have a face, but Mallah knows he’s looking right back at him. He knows these things.

 

Brain: Well, we umm… ‘aven’t got anything to fly in.

 

Beard Hunter: Unbelievable.

 

Mallah shrugs inconspicuously – he knows Brain would do the same back. Beard Hunter grinds his teeth and after a few moments of silent rage says:

 

Beard Hunter: Fine. But I get more for this.

 

Brain: That… can be arranged.

 

Beard Hunter: And I still keep the beard.

 

Brain: It shall be yours to do with as you please.

 

He grunts and goes to leave, but the Brain stops him and addresses him in a low voice.

 

Brain: And I trust you won’t forget our other arrangement?

 

Beard Hunter: I won’t.

 

He nods and leaves down the damp hallway.

 

Brain: Morden?

 

Eric is pulled from his deep concentration and steps forwards from the shadows.

 

Morden: Yes sir?

 

Brain: Accompany our friend on ‘is mission. You will take the truck, and treat it well – I do not want to lose my deposit. Be sure you are an ‘elp to ‘im, not an ‘indrance. Understand?

 

Morden: Yes sir.

 

From outside comes the faint sound of an engine starting up.

 

Brain: You ‘ad better be going, non? You ‘ave a long journey ahead of you. It would be most foolish to walk.

 

Eric turns in a fluster, trips over the doorway and stumbles down the corridor after Beard Hunter. Mallah, sneering while lighting another cigarette, moves to stand alongside his master.

 

Brain: I wish you wouldn’t do that, my love. Those things will poison your lovely insides.

 

Mallah says nothing, laying a fat, leathery hand affectionately on Brain’s dome. His eyes pierce the spot where Eric had just been.

 

Mallah: ‘E stinks of fear.

 

Brain: I know, my love. But soon little Eric Morden will be the least of our concerns.

 

 

====================-Caulder Manor-====================

 

 

Niles sits alone in his study, filled to the brim with so much clutter it wouldn’t look out of place at a car boot sale. High cupboards and cabinets line the walls, and complicated drawings and diagrams cover the few remaining places where the wall can be seen. Haphazardly strew papers lie across a thick wooden desk, which he looks up from as a faint knocking comes from the door.

 

Niles: Yes?

 

Larry enters casually, gently pushing the door back behind him. Niles lifts some papers from his desk and drops them in one of its drawers.

 

Larry: Chief, can I have a word?

 

Niles: Have two: come in.

 

He gestures towards a threadbare armchair opposite his own and Larry perches himself on the edge, twiddling his bandaged fingers.

 

Larry: It’s… the Spirit.

 

Niles nods slowly.

 

Niles: What about it?

 

Larry: I think something’s up with it. I keep getting these feelings, like an impulse or something, but this time it’s painful. It happened again this morning, when I was talking to Cliff. It’s like… it’s like it’s trying to tell me something. I’ve been having these crazy dreams, too.

 

Niles: How long has this been going on?

 

Larry: I dunno. A week, two maybe. It’s hard to keep track.

 

Niles sighs and looks at the remaining papers strewn across his desk.

 

Niles: And this is the first time since your accident it has done so?

 

He nods, and Niles sighs again.

 

Niles: You should’ve come to me sooner.

 

Larry shifts slightly, still fiddling with his own hands.

 

Niles: You’ve never tried to make direct contact with it before, have you?

 

Larry: Not really. Not deliberately anyway. You know it isn’t exactly chatty.

 

Niles: Yes, of course.

 

Niles mutters to himself.

 

Niles: If only there were more time.

 

He thinks for a moment, then moves over to a large, rusting filing cabinet and produces a battered whiteboard and marker pen. He hands them over to Larry.

 

Niles: Try this. I want you to try leaving it messages; see if it replies when it emerges again. It’s tangible enough to grasp a pen. This is, of course, a short term solution.

 

Larry: Okay. You think that could work?

 

Niles: It’s somewhat crude, I’ll admit, but it’s our best bet for the time being I’m afraid. It can’t do any harm to try.

 

Larry: No, sure. Thank you.

 

He stands to go, but Niles shoots him a weak smile and he frowns beneath his bandages.

 

Larry: Are you okay, Chief?

 

Niles: Ticketyboo.

 

Larry: Oh. Okay. Thanks again.

 

Larry, satisfied, clutches the board leaves Niles alone in his study. Niles, very much not ticketyboo, clenches his fist on the arm of his wheelchair as he stares off into the distance.

 

Done