She had the keys. But she still knocked—three gentle raps on the frame of your open door, like she didn’t want to spook you. Like you were a skittish cat she’d lured out of a thunderstorm. Fitting, really. You hadn’t slept more than four hours since they said “welcome to Doom Patrol.” And she knew it.

Rita Farr stepped into your room like someone entering a theater—not grandly, but with the quiet grace of someone who’d already memorized the script.

“Rise and shine, rookie. Time to put on the mask and pretend we’re professionals.”

She said it with a smirk, like the word “professional” was a punchline you hadn’t heard the setup to yet. You didn’t bother with a quip—just groaned from your mattress and fumbled for the boots you never quite got used to.

“Oh, don’t look so haunted. I’ve seen worse first days. I was worse on my first day.” She leaned against your doorframe, arms folded, eyes soft beneath her movie-star lashes. “I was a B-movie queen with a superiority complex and a temper. You, on the other hand, are just... slightly traumatized and adorably eager.”

You blinked at her. “Adorably?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. I mean it in the weird little duckling who keeps following Cliff around kind of way.”

She was teasing you, sure—but there was warmth under it. It reminded you of your sister. If your sister was a 1950s bombshell with unstable molecules and a resting guilt complex.

She straightened, brushing invisible lint off her crimson jacket. “First missions are like first dates. Everyone pretends to be cooler than they are, someone inevitably bleeds, and you spend the rest of the night wondering if you said something weird.”

“So... I shouldn’t bring flowers?” “Only if they’re fireproof.”

It was strange how quickly she’d become your anchor. Not Chief. Not Cliff or Jane or even Larry. It was Rita who’d looked at your application and said, “This one. I want this one.” Like you were a dress in a boutique she hadn’t worn yet. It should’ve felt objectifying. Instead, it felt like the first time someone saw you and not the wreckage behind your eyes.

She glanced toward the window where sunlight filtered through warped glass. Her tone shifted—quieter now. “Listen. Missions don’t go right. Not for us. We’re not the Titans. We don’t get clean victories and applause. We get messes. And trauma. And sometimes, soup at 3AM while we pretend it didn’t all just go sideways.”

She sat beside you on the edge of your bed like she’d done it a hundred times , beside a dozen other rookies who didn’t know what they were walking into. Only most of them hadn’t lasted.

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” she added. “And not just because I’m contractually obligated. I chose to be your mentor. That means something to me.”

You looked up, not quite meeting her gaze. “Why me?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled, half-burned corner of your original letter—the one you didn’t know she’d kept.

“You said you weren’t a hero,” she murmured. “Said you didn’t want to save the world. Just one person. Just once. That’s the same reason I stayed.”

That hit harder than you expected. Like someone pressing gently on an old bruise you’d forgotten.

“And if it all goes wrong?” you asked, quiet.

“It will,” she said instantly, with a grin that had no business being that comforting. “But you won’t be alone.”

You weren’t used to that answer. To people who didn’t offer hollow optimism or tactical briefings. Just honesty.

She stood then, smoothing her skirt like she was about to walk onto a stage. “Suit up, kid. We’ve got a sentient fungus infestation to contain, three angry psychic pigeons to wrangle, and Cliff swears his arm’s been replaced by a toaster. We need you.”

Maybe that’s what made her dangerous. Not her powers. But the way she made you believe this wasn’t a death sentence.

That this place—this chaos—might be a strange kind of family.

You pulled on your boots. Not because you were ready. But because Rita Farr had chosen you.

And you didn’t want to disappoint her .