The Doom Patrol

Chapter One: New Game, Old Way

"The [second] argument was called “Achilles,” accordingly, from the fact that Achilles was taken [as a character] in it, and the argument says that it is impossible for him to overtake the tortoise when pursuing it. For in fact it is necessary that what is to overtake [something], before overtaking [it], first reach the limit from which what is fleeing set forth. In [the time in] which what is pursuing arrives at this, what is fleeing will advance a certain interval, even if it is less than that which what is pursuing advanced … ."

(Simplicius(b) On Aristotle's Physics, 1014.10)


Gwyneth was running. Her heartbeat whispered to hurry. She was faster than a speeding bullet. Because speeding bullets were what was coming after her. Or, at least, she was thinking so.

Darkness strangled fiercly the neighborhood. The garbage stench had saturated the air. At every step the mud splashed all around, defiling her shoes. She didn’t care. She didn’t bother. She barely noticed.

Dogs barked as if hell was claiming their souls. Screaming chats frightened the kid. She was on the edge of giving up. The line was too thin to hope it wouldn’t be cut by those fine razor fangs. Everything was against her. She was moved only by survival authomatism, while her mind was already set to abandon every still of reason.

And she did. Kneeling in the middle of nowhere, crying out every tear, she was not ready, but withdrew to an unescapable death.

She couldn’t see the elegant men approaching, guided by those demon dogs, but the perception was pretty evident. They were not silent at all, as their arrogance could terrorize every human in the block. No fear scarred the face of the first man of three, standing behind her holding confidence in his hands. We can name that confidence “unauthorized gun”.

Fuck! Who of those grim guys in black suit and black glasses needed aithorization?

He charged, foreseeing the oncoming act of purge.


Probability is a huge misunderstanding. It’s all a matter of percentage, specimen, method, no way truth.

So, even though I tell you that the ending is now self-evident by a 99%, you can still hope for that 1% to vaporize the statistics and rise as the shiny sun of dawn.

And yes, if you want to know, that’s the time. It’s sunrise. And a strange clanging is clashing down the street. And when I say down, I mean really down.


The manhole blew up in front of the gunned gentleman, like a punch between the eyes, crashing his glasses. The two henchmen unsheathed their rifles, trying to reason the situation, but a tall shadow emerged from the stinky smoke of sewers. As a chemical reaction out of control, the gunmen opened fire, welcoming the host with a lead rain. The shadow seemed not to be affected by those greetings and walked towards them, accompanied by a noise of pounded steel.

Two iron hands escaped the smoke screen, to hold the canes and twist them up. Pale as the moon they drew back, without caring for their pal on ground.

- Some days it’s like the entire world has mistaken your chest for a target. There isn’t a prize for the best marksman! -

The shadow proclaimed.

In the meantime the steam was thinning away. Gwyneth was still waiting for her ultimate bullet to end it all. Shaking and sweating. So, when the cold hand touched her a shoulder, a frozen shock ran up her spine.

- Keep calm lady, the cavalry is in. -

She slowly got up, uncertain and incredolous. She turned and saw the blazing metal skull in front of her, observing her figure standing up. He was strangely manlike, but gifted by an artificial glance, that felt uncomfortable to everyone had crossed his both human and alienated aurea. The look on her face was ghostly, so the robotic giant opened his sharp mouth in a wide smile, generous and disturbing at once.

- The one they forgot about won’t be asleep forever. I suggest you to follow me. Come down the Rabbit-Hole. -

- Oo… ok. I suppose… -

Holding hands, the two outcasts leaped into the city sewers.