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🎨 Creative [Comic book drafts] DC-78 Alternate Earth: New Nu You Universe


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Cool. Strange forces handing out super powers and a good solid Fugitive archetype. I like it.
I also kinda want to see a Mr. Miracle/Constantine crossover.


Knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men!
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Cool. Strange forces handing out super powers and a good solid Fugitive archetype. I like it.
I also kinda want to see a Mr. Miracle/Constantine crossover.
I think that happened a few drafts back...


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This is the end of the world.

Of Earth.

Oh, the planet will remain. Such destruction is, perhaps, beyond even the End of All. Or perhaps not… but why bother, when what has been done was enough?

It is barren. Lifeless. Airless. The earth burned away to black stone. The mighty seas boiled away. Mountains brought to dust, and new ones risen in terrible silhouette against the sun. The magnetic field torn open and blown away like dust on the solar wind. The mantle cracked open to let the molten core see the glory of the stars before the crushing cold froze a new layer to replace the old.

This is Earth. It has seen a war so bitter, so immense, so crushing in its totality that even the lifeless husk left behind cannot bear witness to its height. It has seen deeds so heroic, so heartbreakingly selfless, so stubborn in their sheer refusal to accept the inevitable, the stars themselves should by rights weep – but they only shine dully at the blackened remains of a once blue world. The loss of Earth’s atmosphere has forever stolen the gleam and glimmer of the starry sky. It has seen sacrifices so terrible, so monstrous, that perhaps this lifeless world is a blessing of a kind, if they are forgotten.

It was a war for Earth. A desperate, last-ditch fight for all that is and was.

It was lost.

And yet, it is not, entirely, over

  • Spoiler: Show
    Omega Base, what was once the Seychelles
    Spoiler: Show
    Spoiler: Show

Spoiler: Show

“…no more time! If we lose two more relays, we won’t have the power. We do this now or it doesn’t get done!”

“The shields will hold another 45 seconds. Leave. I can finish this myself.”

“A…all right. I’ll hold you a seat at…”

“No time. I’ll use the teleporter room. The Gotham Base. See you there.”


“No arguments. Go. GO!”

She can hear their voices, but she cannot see them. She doesn’t have to. They are as known to her as if the face she wears had been her real one, as if she had been with them all her years. In truth, there is probably no way to stop the proceedings now. The machine powered up five minutes ago. She can feel the warmth of the radiation streaming through her, feel the vibrations threatening to turn her body inside out. If he crawled beneath the machine and opened the viewing port, he could see her face, so she keeps it from unravelling with all her concentration.

He won’t. But if he did, he’ll see the face he gave her. Not the half-formed… thing… that is her true face.

“15 seconds.”

She can’t reply. She knows he knows. Opening her mouth would tear her face apart… which Is why this always had to be her. No-one else could make it… except maybe…

But no. She’s the only one left. If the relays are going down, she might really be the only one left even if this works. The very last one.

A cuckoo’s egg. A false child of Earth.

The last.

She can feel a tear run down her cheek and near immediately vaporize from the heat, from the vibration.

5 seconds.

And then – the viewport opens. For a long second, she sees his face. For an eternity all of four seconds long, she knows the pain of keeping to her face was worth it.

He doesn’t smile. But his eyes shone with something she has never seen in them before. Tears.

“Safe journey, Mar’i.”

Mar’i. He called her Mar’i. He’s never called her anything but…

The viewport slams shut. The world goes white.

  • A parking lot, 20 miles outside Metropolis, Earth 78

The parking lot was empty. So was the gas station it stood by – closed for lack of business, one more casualty of the new expressway. Who needed to park or buy gas when no-one used the old road anymore? There was just enough locals to keep one gas station around, and this one wasn’t it.

So no-one was around when a white-matter explosion levelled the derelict building and scoured the parking lot and every scrap of dirt for a hundred yards to the bedrock.

The blast was seen from Metropolis. Emergency teams and… other responders arrived in record speed, but not entirely soon enough. Oh, they arrived in time to find a young woman in the tattered remains of some kind of experimental pressure suit, kneeling by the vaguely human-shaped, still smoking epicentre of the explosion, staring at the grass, the clouds, the sky with tears running freely down her face and an expression of haunted, utter disbelief in her face. Shock, they assumed – and were not at all wrong.

She identified herself as Mar’i Grayson. She said very little else, at least nothing that made sense. “I… I made it…” was the most coherent.

None of them had seen the barely human… shape that crawled from ground zero. None of them had seen the purplish protoplasm shudder and gasp, then return to the human shape it wore with a light show almost as intense as the explosion itself and a scream of agony – a scream that ended as the wail of a human voice, but started as something never produced by human lungs and human throats at all.

What made the dimensional journey was a Matrix, an artificial human, a clone made of protoplasm and twisted DNA.

Perhaps the last survivor of another Earth.

OOC: TL; DR Mar’i Grayson is a – or rather, theMatrix, an artificial human. She has her counterpart’s powers, as well as the regenerative powers and the ability to take human form of the Matrix Supergirl. She is, or rather mimics, the daughter of Dick Grayson and Koriand’r, but from a different reality – no narrative claim whatsoever is laid to those two. In fact, I will allow anyone who feels like it to draft *this* Earth’s Mar’i Grayson.


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He wakes up in the river, and he remembers these words.

Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday.

This is all he remembers. He remembers basic things-he remembers that people walk on two legs, that the water that is crushing him and flooding his lungs is not what he can breathe and that he breathes air instead, he remembers the words to speak two languages, he remembers what color the sky is outside of the consuming water-but he does not remember where he lived and walked, what he spoke, or even his name. All he knows is that Solomon Grundy was born on a Monday and that he is lying with his back on the muddy floor of an endless void of water.

His legs feel strange, simultaneously heavy and light, somehow dissociated from himself, but he forces them up. The water buoys him up. His vague memories of how the world works tell him he should be in more pain, he should need to breathe. In the wet darkness, he kicks his legs, thrusts his arms forwards on muscle memory. His eyes are blind, stagnant water cloaking them. He feels mud in front of him, stone. Riverbank. Wall? He does not know, but he digs his fingers in. He knows now that he does not seem to have to breathe. He can feel the water in his lungs, sloshing as he moves upwards, and taste its foul stagnancy in his mouth. His nails dig into cracks in the wet masonry, dragging him up.

He doesn't know how long he crawls like this, all that is in his mind that this should kill him and a sense of growing panic only held off by this seeming more like a dream than anything real and Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday. But then his head breaks water, and he feels the sensation of air, cold and so much sharper than the stagnant murk. He is in a river, wide and sluggish, stone walls keeping it contained. The banks behind the walls are mostly concrete sidewalks, but near him there is a trash-littered patch of grass behind a rusted bench, the yellow light of a streetlamp illuminating it. He reaches out, grabs for the top of the wall-it rises high above the water, and it seems to him for a moment it is impossible, so he simply grabs for the dry stone, digging in his nails again before beginning to climb. It is much more difficult now, and his body is beginning to rebel. Dark green water streams from his nose and mouth, and a convulsion grips him, but he drags his painfully heavy body upwards. Not yet. Not yet. Not-

He pushes himself over the wall and lands in a heap on the patch of grass. It is softer than concrete. His body convulses, vomiting, expelling the water that burdens it.

It is two hours of vomiting before he is able to move. The water changes through it, going from the dark, muddy water of whatever river he came from to something clear to the point of sparkling that burns his throat like what his vague knowledge tells him whiskey feels like. The grass changes where the second water touches it, but his vision is cloudy and unclear.

He has seen himself through his convulsions, with little to do but feel misery and try to glimpse in foggy vision things that might help him know who he is and why he is-is today a Monday? This is a birth of sorts, so is he Solomon Grundy?-but now he looks at what of himself he can, slowly. His skin is marked with heavy scars-a ring around his neck, a stab wound on his stomach, wounds from what look to have been battles. His clothing is shabby and drenched, his feet are bare(he keeps himself very aware of where he is putting them, the ground does not seem safe to walk barefoot on). His shirt is ripped, and the basic knowledge he has tells him that this is what bullet holes look like. There are new scars, small, round, and much fresher than the pale, worn lines of the old ones. He has been shot enough times to kill him, and then woke up drowning enough to kill him again, yet he lives. He raises a hand to one of the bullet holes, prods it. It does not hurt. His heart beats evenly. The other wounds might well have killed him too, when they were given.

On his forearm is what his memories tell him is a brand-a series of characters burnt into his skin, an angry dark red raised against his arm. He knows what they mean, both in the language they were written in and in the one that the Solomon Grundy line that echoes over and over through his mind is spoken in. Ra's Al Ghul. The Demon's Head. Solomon Grundy's mind races with what it might mean, but with nothing but a rhyme in his memories and the knowledge that he should be dead, he is again lost in darkness.
OOC/TL;DR: A nameless man, with evidence of at least one death and no particular need to breathe, wakes up drowned in an urban river with no leads or memories aside from Ra's al-Ghul and Solomon Grundy.

Daz Florp Lebam

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Nice. I do loves me some Solomon Grundy!

I won't be able to post my full thing for a couple hours, so for the time being...

OOC: TL; DR ...Angel O'Day is Kamandi
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