Doom Patrol

This is recording 297.

Observations of the Doom Patrol

by Dr. Harrison, day 93.

The Codpiece mission.

I continue to be astounded

by the garden of psychological plights presented by this group.

It's been three months and my decision to stay

continues to pay dividends.

This bargain basement sideshow has been working as a superhero team

aptly named the Doom Patrol.

Rita has carved out a starring role for herself

as team leader, because no one wanted the job.

Ready? Positions.

And action!

But this failed starlet, failed high school drama teacher

and failed community theater extra

seems to have found her niche, by default.

Believe it or not, she's led this busted Justice League

to seven successful missions.

Dear Rita tackles the job with endless enthusiasm

despite the lack of cooperation or respect of her teammates.

Any questions?

Yeah, not going after Codpiece

and not doing codenames.

A question begins with "who," "what," "where," "when" or "why," Clifford.

Why do you get to pick the codenames?

Because they suck.

When you spend days researching and plotting missions

while getting paper cuts and inky fingers

You can choose the codenames, okay?

Until then, you're Robotman.

Dr. Harrison is Crazy Jane.

Larry is Negative Man

Vic is Cyborg, and Rouge...

You're Dogshit McGivens.

Rita's ire for Madam Rouge is as hot and fiery as ever.

And Rouge eats healthy doses of her shit

because she desperately wants to make amends

for Malcolm and the Sisterhood.

Even though it runs counter to her true nature.

Yeah. Good choice...

Elasta-Woman. Thank you.

In between hating Rouge and being disrespected

Rita had the good idea

to attach The Brain's robot head to the time machine.

Now, we no longer have to hurdle through space, time

duct taped to Shipley.

She also solved the time-travel memory-loss problem.

Strangely enough, with jellyfish.

I couldn't tell you why it works.

But it does.

Oh, no, thanks.

Codpiece just robbed the bank.

Can we speed this up, please?

Not everyone can handle a full-load from this big gun.

- So juvenile. - Overcompensating much?

- Gross. - Everyone back to order.

That is disgusting.

Robotman, flank him on the left.

Robotman.

Robotman!

Clifasaurous.

Left flank. Got it.

Fuck...

Fuck...

Dogshit McGivens, draw his fire while the others get to safety.

Draw his fire? Seriously?

Just do it!

Fuckin' hell.

Not behind the bush.

His ammo will cut right through.

Just like my multi-man batter.

Could you try not to be disgusting for two seconds?

Rita tries to control the team's every move

because she can't bear to lose another loved one.

Diagnosis?

A textbook perfectionist

slash narcissist with survivor's guilt and PTSD.

Vic and his father repaired most of the Robotman's smooshed body.

However, the testicle creature incident

led to global shipping delays

and they're still waiting on parts for his other arm.

Okay. I'm gonna go rip his dick off.

Get... Son of a... No...

Still grateful for my crappy petite body.

Everyday outside that giant robot is a blessing.

I suspect Cliff has a low IQ

due to poor breeding, a Florida public school education

and race car fumes.

Diagnosis...

A grade A simpleton.

The hero formally known as Useful

has settled into place as the team's one-man IT squad.

Without his tech

Rita prefers he stay out of harm's way.

But Vic is unsatisfied by his new role

and yearns to do more.

Elasta-Woman, you got a bogey flyin' in.

Elasta-Woman.

Hey! Yo, that's far enough.

No...

Don't... Don't do anything.

I'm not really part of Codpiece's crew.

I'm...

I'm just the IT guy.

What do you mean, "Just the IT guy?"

You're an integral part of his villainy.

You're the foundation he builds his nefarious successes on.

Yeah. Yeah, I... I am vital.

I guess I am important, huh?

Are you good?

Yeah. Yeah, just... just hang on.

I can't do it if people are talking.

Shit.

Shit.

What was your part of the plan?

Was it to engage with an ass-bazooka-wielding twit?

- But he was literal... - I don't want to hear it.

You stick to the plan, or you stay home.

Plain old Vic takes the red-headed miss' admonishments

as a lack of faith in his abilities.

He doesn't realize

she, too, was working through her own issues.

Together they form the perfect storm of psychological inadequacies.

Though Vic fearlessly jumped into the fray against a nimrod

with a rump cannon

he's far less courageous when it comes to following through

on the promise he made himself to find his happiness.

Diagnosis, personality dysmorphia and social cowardice.

Larry and Keeg have been getting on like a house on fire.

It may be the first reported case

of a host developing Stockholm syndrome

towards its parasite.

Larry's managed to let go of himself enough

to share his life and body with Keeg

in a way he never could with the Negative Spirit

or his human family.

And though Larry tells himself the new life he's forged

with the neon leech is fulfilling enough.

The truth is, he yearns for more.

I'm fine, buddy. Just you and me.

Diagnosis...

Good old-fashion self-loathing

with a healthy dash of co-dependency.

Madame Rouge refuses the jellyfish on every mission

because it gives her the briefest respite

from remembering her betrayal of Malcolm and the Sisterhood.

Oh, excuse me!

What am I meant to be doing again? I...

What? You don't remember?

Transform into something to psych him out.

Right.

Holy shit! Nice one, Rouge.

Are you body-shaming me?

That's some next-level evil.

I won't even go there.

I'll kill your face! So hard!

But Rouge's memories always return with a vengeance.

And she's created a nasty ritual

that's a form of psychological self-harm.

The results are always the same

and she's forced to face the fact that she's relegated

hundreds of people to obsolescence.

Though all-encompassing, her pain is a quiet one.

The kind that's always there

just under the surface, smoldering

looking for something to catch, but never finding anything.

Diagnosis...

Self-loathing doormat with sociopathic tendencies.

As for me, I've managed to find my own place

amongst this bunch of walking tragedies.

One that makes use of my specific talents.

Come now, Mr. Codpiece.

Who are you really mad at?

Because it can't possibly be me.

You don't even know me.

I know I only get one phone call, Dr. H...

but I think you're right.

It should be to my mom.

This doomed patrol is the El Dorado of psychological dysfunctions.

I could publish volumes based on my observations.

Thank you.

Unfortunately, my attention

has been divided

between my work and my obligations.

That's too much.

Abuelita only uses two shakes.

Really?

Why are you here, H?

To ask you the same question.

The others are all searching for Kay. Why aren't you?

Because I can think of better ways

of wasting my time, like trying to eat my own face.

So you're not concerned about the girl?

Of course I'm fucking concerned.

But Kay constructed this place.

And if she doesn't want to be found

we're not going to find her.

So you're here in her memories, enjoying warm beverages.

I'm doing something actually useful.