Doom Patrol 1969

Doom Patrol 1969

• The year is 1969, and the world has never been groovier, or more in need of heroes. Swinging onto the scene, or rather, wheeling, is none other than the cerebral sensation himself: The Chief! Niles Caulder, mastermind, mad scientist, and the brains behind the Doom Patrol. At his command is the fabulous field team: Mento, the dashing psychic; Elastigirl, the glamorous human rubber band; Celsius, the fiery ice queen; and Tempest, the explosive, unflappable wind storm. Their mission: to stop the dastardly Brotherhood of Evil from enacting their most fiendish plan yet, sabotaging the lunar lander right under NASA’s nose! Their leader, The Brain (formerly known as T.O. Morrow, infamous Nazi scientist now just a jar of pure villainy), schemes from his laboratory lair, plotting to send the spacecraft hurtling toward the sun as proof of his genius. At his side: the ever-faithful Monsieur Mallah, a gorilla with a brain to match his brawn, and the sinuous shape-shifter, Madame Rouge.

• The Chief wheeled into the grand parlor of Doom Manor, his mechanical chair humming softly as his brilliant mind whirred faster. One by one, his team assembled, Mento adjusting his stylish headgear, Elastigirl gliding in with effortless grace, Celsius cool and collected as ever, and Tempest, the quiet storm, leaning against the wall with a faint smirk. Clearing his throat with a knowing smile, the Chief leaned forward. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “it appears the dastardly Brotherhood of Evil are at it again. This time, they’ve truly outdone themselves. Their plan? To sabotage NASA’s historic moon landing by sending the rocket hurtling straight into the sun!” Gasps erupted around the room. Mento’s jaw tightened, Elastigirl’s eyes widened, and Celsius crossed her arms, fire and ice practically sparking off her fingertips. Tempest let out a low whistle, shaking his head. The Chief tapped his fingertips together, eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and determination. “This lunar disaster will be their greatest victory unless we stop them. Suit up, my marvelous misfits, it’s time to save the moon landing!”

• The Doom Patrol’s trusty, yet undeniably clunky, retrofitted van roared to life with a shuddering cough. Packed to the brim, the team squeezed in, making themselves as comfortable as one could in a vehicle like that. As the van rumbled down the winding back roads of Cape Canaveral, its muffler letting out a staccato rhythm, the team settled into their usual brand of chaotic harmony. Mento sat up front, hands gripping the dashboard as though steadying the whole contraption by sheer willpower. He adjusted his helmet, his voice stern as he addressed the group. “We mustn’t underestimate The Brain! He’s calculating, ruthless…” From the back seat, Elastigirl laughed elegantly, “And currently a glass jar filled with pickle juice!” Tempest shot her a wide, cheesy grin, “I dunno, I’d say that makes him way more dangerous. One slip, and he’s salad dressing.” Celsius rolled her eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh, “Focus, boys. We’re about to crash their little moon party.” The van hit a bump, and Mento shot the backseat crew a glare as Tempest laughed even harder. Despite the tension, the Doom Patrol couldn’t help but carry their own brand of quirky optimism, barreling toward danger as only they could, loud, brash, and entirely unconventional.

• Deep within the dimly lit, retro-futuristic bunker, the crackling voice of The Brain pierced the air, “Mallah, initiate lunar trajectory calibration,” The Brain commanded, his voice reverberating through the tinny intercom. “Madame Rouge, dispose of the approaching intruders.” In the mechanical gloom, Monsieur Mallah hefted a colossal piece of machinery, its barrel gleaming ominously under the sparse light. His massive, furred hands moved with surprising dexterity as he adjusted the weapon’s settings. “Mmmmm,” Mallah rumbled. On the other side of the room, Madame Rouge unfolded her legs with a catlike grace. With a wicked smirk, she stretched her limbs, the bones and muscles bending in ways that seemed more serpentine than human. “Let’s see if the Doom Patrol can bounce back from this,” she purred, before slipping out into the night with liquid fluidity. Outside, the Doom Patrol’s rickety van bounced down the dirt path, its engine struggling against the uneven terrain. The team’s excitement was palpable until the vehicle suddenly lurched backward, wheels spinning in place. Madame Rouge was stretched like a rubber band between two trees. “What the?!” Mento shouted, grabbing the dashboard as the entire van was violently launched back down the road. They hit the ground with a heavy thud, the van skidding to a halt amidst a cloud of dust. Tempest scrambled out first, followed by the others, weapons drawn and senses on high alert. “Everyone okay?” Celsius asked, brushing dirt off her sleeve. “Yeah, but what hit us?” Elastigirl wondered, scanning the treeline. Just ahead, they saw Madame Rouge smirk. Mento narrowed his eyes, pointing toward the disturbed foliage. “We’re close. Stay sharp. The Brain knows we’re here.” The Doom Patrol formed a defensive line, ready to face whatever twisted traps the Brotherhood of Evil had lying in wait.

• A heavy, metallic clang echoed through the underbrush as the bunker’s hatch creaked open. Monsieur Mallah’s red burret emerged, his intelligent eyes scanning the landscape. His broad shoulders blocked most of the entryway, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he couldn’t resist checking on the commotion. “There!” Mento barked, pointing at the opening. “That’s our way in!” Without hesitation, the Doom Patrol charged. Mallah’s eyes widened, and he ducked back inside, slamming the hatch shut behind him. Celsius melted the bunker lid and the team burst through the door just in time to see Mallah rearming himself, the massive gattling gun chattered with ominous power. Mento took charge, raising his hands and unleashing a telekinetic blast. The energy smashed into Mallah’s chest, but the brute barely staggered, his clunky ammo holster absorbing the brunt of the attack with a metallic clang. “Mind over muscle isn’t working!” Mento called out, just as Mallah advanced, his fist raised to crush him. Before Mallah could strike, Celsius appeared at Mento’s side, her hands already glowing with frost. “Back off, big guy!” she shouted, unleashing a wave of ice that coated Mallah’s feet, anchoring him to the floor. Mallah growled in frustration, straining against the frozen hold. Across the room, Elastigirl stretched herself like a rubber rope, her body winding around Madame Rouge, who twisted and coiled in response, trying to break free. Their battle looked more like a bizarre dance, each move countered by the other’s flexibility and speed. Meanwhile, Tempest and Celsius worked together at the rocket’s thrusters, Tempest’s hands crackling like static as he directed controlled bursts of wind to cool the machinery, while Celsius froze the fuel lines with pinpoint precision. “You think you can just ground the moon landing?” Tempest scoffed as ice crept over the metal. “Think again.” Just then, Mallah shattered his icy shackles with a powerful stomp, his arm swinging toward Mento. The telepath barely had time to duck before the gorilla’s fist would have turned his helmet into a pancake. “Hey, furball!” Celsius shouted, drawing Mallah’s attention again. A hot blast of fire struck his face, momentarily blinding him. Taking advantage, Mento gathered his focus and unleashed another mental pulse, knocking Mallah backward into a pile of ammunition crates. Tempest shot a quick thumbs-up. “Nice save!” Mento gave a nod, his focus shifting to the rocket. “No time for congrats, let’s stop that launch!”

• As the team regrouped, Mento glanced toward the central console, where The Brain’s jar sat ominously, wires and tubes linking his glass enclosure to the lunar lander’s guidance system. Mento’s eyes narrowed behind his helmet. “I have an idea,” he announced, his voice steely. “If I can get into The Brain’s brain, literally, I might be able to disrupt his control over the rocket’s guidance systems.” Elastigirl raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna psych out a brain in a jar?” “It’s risky,” Celsius cautioned. Mento took a deep breath. “It’s worth a shot. I just need a clear line of sight…” He stepped forward, focusing intently. His fingers pressed to his temples, and a faint glow surrounded his helmet as he reached out with his telepathy. Suddenly, his entire demeanor changed, his face contorting in horror as his consciousness collided with the vile, festering thoughts of The Brain. In an instant, the campy charm of their mission melted away. Mento’s mind filled with dark, unsettling memories: scenes of twisted experiments, grotesque mutations, the cold, clinical cruelty of T.O. Morrow’s wartime research. Pain, isolation, a man’s spirit replaced with unyielding logic and ambition. The vivid nightmares clawed at Mento’s sanity, and his hands trembled as he fought to pull back. A chilling, hollow voice echoed in his mind: “You thought you could outthink me, Dayton? You can’t even comprehend the lengths I’ve gone to for power. You are weak. You are nothing.” Just as Mento’s legs buckled, the eerie tension shattered. Elastigirl stretched her arm across the room and landed a stretchy right hook straight into The Brain’s jar. The container tipped over, sliding off the console and hitting the ground with a loud clunk. “Oops,” Elastigirl quipped with a smirk. “Looks like you needed a little brain check, Steve.” Mento snapped back to reality, panting and wiping sweat from his brow. “Remind me,” he muttered, trying to shake off the lingering dread, “never to do that again.”

• Mallah rushed forward, scooping up the fallen vessel with surprising tenderness despite his towering, hulking frame. The Brain’s voice crackled with irritation. “Imbecile! You let them compromise my genius!” Mallah, unfazed, tucked The Brain securely into his massive arm and grumbled apologetically. “Mmmhh.” The Brain’s artificial eye flickered with fury. “Cowards! We do not retreat! We…” “Have no choice,” Madame Rouge interrupted, slinking over with a scowl. “The Doom Patrol has outmatched us this time.” Reluctantly, The Brain relented, issuing his new orders. “Fine. Activate the emergency protocol! Convert rocket into an escape pod. We’ll live to plot another day.” With deft hands, Mallah twisted a series of valves, and the rocket began to shift, panels unfolding, thrusters repositioning. The Doom Patrol watched the rocket roar to life and take to the skies, blasting into the distance. As the plume of smoke faded, The Brain’s voice echoed through a loudspeaker, declaring, “Mark my words, Doom Patrol! This defeat will not be the end! One day, I will have my revenge, and you will rue the day you crossed The Brain!” Celsius huffed, arms crossed. “So dramatic for a pickle jar.” Tempest just smirked. “We’ll be waiting, Brain. We’ll be waiting.”

• Back at Doom Manor, the team gathered in the living room, the mood bright and triumphant. Mento adjusted his helmet, attempting to compose himself while the others reveled in their victory. Tempest leaned back in a worn armchair, smirking. “So, remind me again, how did the great Brain plan to take over the world from inside a mayonnaise jar?” Celsius chuckled. “By getting under our skin. Which, judging by how he scrambled Mento’s brain, almost worked.” Elastigirl patted Mento’s shoulder reassuringly. “You did great out there, Steve. We couldn’t have done it without your quick thinking.” Mento offered a tight smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Just... needed to get inside his head, that’s all.” Tempest grinned. “Next time, maybe pick a head that isn’t full of nightmares, huh?” They all laughed, the room filling with a sense of relief and accomplishment. The Chief rolled in, nodding approvingly. “Well done, all of you. The world remains safe, and the Brotherhood of Evil remains... creatively defeated.” Amid the banter and lighthearted jabs, Mento remained quieter than usual. He stared ahead, fingers tracing the rim of his helmet, his face unreadable. As the room’s laughter echoed, his gaze seemed far away, hollow and haunted. Behind the facade of the heroic leader, there was something dark and empty that lingered in the depths of his eyes.