Doom Patrol

Holy shit.

- They're dead. - No!

No!

Oh, my God.

No!

Dorothy. Rise and shine.

Dorothy?

Dorothy?

Chief, we got a live one.

Fresh off the knuckle.

What the hell were you thinking?

I'm thinking this perfectly good touching stick

is my ticket to being able to feel.

We agreed. No brutality.

And I agreed, but this finger

literally fell into my lap.

See I was waiting for Vic to man up and get his lady friend back,

and out of nowhere come these two bad guys.

So I'm like, "What would a good person do?"

Stop the bad guys, right?

Which I proceeded to do.

It's important that before I tell you about the car door,

you understand that I'm basically a hero.

I don't give a damn, Cliff.

Dorothy's missing.

Table the finger and help me find her.

Hang tight, little guy.

You're sure we weren't followed?

Not really.

The Bureau of Normalcy seems to be everywhere these days.

I'm sorry my son sold us out.

Why are you apologizing? You were trying to make amends.

And apparently, they'd all be better off if I were dead.

Well, that may be true,

but I would be bereft.

-You're not coming home? -I, uh, have a commitment...

in town.

-Really? -Yes.

I need to purchase street clothes...

for a rehearsal...

of Our Town...

by the Cloverton Players.

Community theater, huh?

Well, go ahead and say it.

I'm a vain, selfish person

who'd rather chase fame than support you

in your time of need.

First, I'm not in a time of need.

I'm in a time of regret and self-loathing.

Second, I doubt it's fame you're chasing

by joining the Cloverton Players.

They're very well-reviewed in the Cloverton Bugle.

Well, break a leg.

I hope you find what you're looking for.

Right.

Oh.

Oops.

Well, I was going to tell you to come back to bed, but...

looks like you beat me to it.

Mmm. Taking advantage of the disabled.

Class act.

Let's stay in today.

I'm sorry, Vic.

But I live in the real world,

and us normals without a S.T.A.R. Lab credit card

have to come up with rent, buy food,

and pay off years of medical stuff.

I get it. What kind of medical stuff?

PT from botched corrective surgeries,

pain meds, PTSD meds, anxiety meds,

which, apparently, are different from PTSD meds.

Sounds expensive.

Cost of doing business with black ops.

But don't you worry.

I'll die long before I have to pay it all off.

Hey.

Can I look inside of you?

-Ew. -To see what's broken, I mean.

A hundred times "ew."

There's gotta be a better way to ask that.

Look...

All this crap you're dealing with

is because they ripped the tech out of you, right?

-Right. -Well, I happen to know

something about the line where tech meets flesh.

If I could do a deep scan,

I could figure out how to relieve some of your pain.

I'll show you mine if you show me yours.

There's gotta be a better way to say that.

You can scan my guts if...

you tell me about your PTSD.

All the gory details you're too chicken shit

to share in group.

Maybe you should go back to work.

You're such an asshole.

Okay. Deal.

-Deal? -Yeah.

You're gonna tell my boss I got a fever?

Mmm-hmm.

You're gonna cough up a day's wages?

Are you gonna do the...

-other thing you do? -Hmm.

-You like that thing, huh? -I like that thing.

What the hell?

Yoo-hoo. Any pigtailed pains in the ass down here?

Jane?

Oh, shit!

Oh, shit. Oh, shit!

Oh, shit. Oh, shit!

Oh, shit.

Chief!

There's something wrong with Jane.

-Where was she? -The basement.

Was Dorothy with her?

No! Nobody cares about Dorothy!

Jane was in the basement, covered in this shit.

-Are you gonna help? -She's breathing.

What the fuck happened?

-She was with Dorothy. -That's not an answer!

This is Dorothy's doing. But why?

Your daughter did this, and that's all you got?

What about all this wax?

All you talk about is how your dumb girl's

gonna end the world, but you have no idea

how Jane ended up in a fucking coma?

Hey, what's going on?

- Dorothy put Jane in a coma. -Have you seen her?

Oh, no.

But there's something else you should see.

Is it Dorothy playing dress-up with Rita's skin?

No, no. There's a spaceship outside.

Tell them I'm not here.

What?

Hey. Where do you think you're going?

I need to find Dorothy.

Wait, Niles, slow down.

Do you know these guys?

In 1955, the Bureau gave me funding

for my Immortus initiative,

which included sending a research team into space.

-To do what? -Research.

I lost contact with them in the early '60s

and assumed they were dead. Apparently, they're not.

And their timing couldn't be worse.

What, so, I should just send them away?

No!

Keep them here.

Don't ask me. I don't fucking know.

Hello.

Welcome back... to Earth.

I'm Larry Trainor.

And you are...

Who are we?

- We are... - -The Pioneers of the Uncharted.

Earth's best and brightest,

assembled by benevolent genius,

Niles Caulder.

To pilot the space vessel Icarus

on a three-generations mission...

Into the deepest reaches of the unknown.

Pioneers, roll call.

The name's Zip. Hotshot pilot, nothing scares me.

- Except marriage. - The name's Specs.

I'm the brains of the op and a heartbreaker to boot.

And my name... is Moscow.

The Russian one!

And together we are...

-The Pioneers of the-- -Of the Uncharted. Got it.

Zip Callahan. Wow.

You made the back of my kid's cereal box.

I always wondered what happened to you.

Well, that is a long story.

So, where is benevolent genius Niles Caulder?

He's, uh... He's a little tied up at the moment.

Hey.

What are they doing?

There was a vote.

A funeral procession seems appropriate.

But we don't know they're dead.

You saw what that thing did to them.

Secretary, I'm gonna need you to be, like,

10% more self-aware.

This is a construct.

Are you a construct, Jane?

You should be completely ashamed of yourself.

What does death even mean here?

Personas disappear.

They go dormant for a while.

But there's no evidence we can even be killed.

Not unless you pull a Miranda

and throw yourself into the well.

No.

There was a vote.

Dorothy.

Come out.

- Come out. - Dorothy.

You little shit...

- Dorothy. - Dorothy!

Dorothy.

I didn't do it.