[center][h1][color=darkgreen][b]D O O M  P A T R O L[/b][/color][/h1][/center][hr]

[indent]The cafeteria was a cacophony of silverware clinking against plates. The din of chatter rose above it as both students and faculty of the Future Foundation enjoyed their lunch. The smell of burgundy beef stew filled the air. From his table in the corner, far removed from the others, Clifford Steele watched and listened. 

At one side of the large room, Cliff noted Malcolm Duncan. The students of the Foundation were mostly split into two departments; science and the arts, with a light sprinkling of other academic fields for good measure. Mal, barely twenty years old, had been admitted to the program under the latter criteria. An aspiring film director, the young mister Duncan sported a creative mind that the staff would cultivate and nurture and allow to blossom. And with the equipment and funding provided here, he would flourish greatly.

Still, the arts weren't Malcolm's only passion. Tall with a large, muscular frame, Mal reminded Cliff of his younger days as an adrenaline junky. The youth always sought out physical activities and thrived on competition. A member of both the Baxter Building's track and wrestling teams - as the institute prided itself on having both healthy bodies in addition to keen minds - Mal had the spirit of a true athlete. Clifford could remember when, just four years ago, Mal had joined the Future Foundation and immediately made a name for himself both by winning that year's wrestling tournament as well as producing an award-winning short docu-film based on the rise of the modern 'superhero' and their place in the world. 

Cliff had given the star student a standing ovation on both occasions. 

Next to Mal, and currently sporting the former's arm draped around her shoulder, sat Karen Beecher, the other half of the Foundation's young power couple. She was about a foot shorter than her beau and very slim, with her dark hair cut into a bob. Unlike her boyfriend, Karen had gotten into the Foundation based on her sharp intellect. Cliff didn't understand what, exactly, it was she was working on, but he knew that her latest project had become the talk of the faculty.

On the complete opposite side of the cafeteria sat Wyatt Wingfoot. At thirty-one, he was about a decade younger than Clifford. Wyatt was six-foot with long black hair, classically handsome features, and a well-toned physique that clearly wasn't just for show. 

He also happened to be Cliff's replacement. 

Six years ago, prior to the [i]incident[/i], Cliff Steele had operated as the Future Foundation's head of security. He had been in his mid-thirties then and a well-known adventurer who had traversed the world from the Amazon Rainforest to the Himalayas and everywhere in between. He had swum, unprotected, with sharks and free-climbed mountains just for the sheer thrill of it. A born daredevil, Clifford had only accepted the position at the Baxter Building at the promise of being able to participate and lead the greatest, most dangerous expedition possible. He had been on the job for less than eight months before the mishap that left him in his current state. 

Then, Wyatt came in, hired while Cliff was still in a coma as his body slowly deteriorated. The younger man had taken his old position and had even joined in on Cliff's new role. Several of the adventures the so-called Doom Patrol had gone on in recent years had had Wyatt Wingfoot as a willing and able participant. And, just two years ago, the new head of security had been instrumental in fending off an attack on the Baxter Building. 

Clifford scanned Wyatt. Healthy, strong, dependable. And his replacement. 

He knew it wasn't Wyatt's fault. He understood that the man had done nothing to wrong him, had only ever been friendly and supportive. But, still. Cliff had been replaced in more ways than one. 

He noticed Wyatt taste a spoonful of stew before finally turning away. Cliff's optical sensors looked down to the empty table before him. No steaming, delicious broth. Not now. Not ever.

Cliff leaned forward and carefully rested his metallic elbows on the thin tabletop, making sure to hold most of his considerable weight off of the surface, and set his head between open palms. Truth be told, it was a vestigial gesture more than anything else. With his new body, there was no need to rest as there was no chance of fatigue.

New, he thought. It had been nearly a full six years since the accident that had left his former body mangled and beyond repair. Nearly a full six years since Victor Von Doom had made the decision to replace Cliff's biological form with that of one entirely composed of nanomachines - save his brain which had miraculously been intact. Nearly a full six years since Cliff Steele had become the [i]Robotman.[/i]

He didn't blame Victor. He held no ill-will or resentment towards his teammate and friend. In fact, Cliff was grateful to Victor for saving his life. And yet...

Cliff sighed deeply. Or, rather, his synthetic voice box approximated the sound of a heavy exhalation. Another vestigial habit of his and one he would likely never overcome.

Yes, Clifford Steele had been replaced. In more ways than one.


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