"DC Universe: Year One" Writing Needed!

Greetings to you, our Weekly Writing Prompt Warriors!

We apologize if you thought we were leaving you out last week - we wouldn’t, nor could, EVER do that. Alas, when WE throw confetti, we make sure EVERYONE gets a li’l messy! :wink: :tada: So, how would you like to celebrate DC Universe’s One Year Anniversary?

Want to pay homage to your favorite original series from DC, or celebrate the time spent here on the forums? Maybe reminisce about the time you narrowly escaped death during our Summer Supercation travels, or the fun had during our Batman’s 80th Anniversary celebration?

If the highlight of your year was an FCF prompt, no need to re-write anything, by the way - submitting what you wrote for that prompt is acceptable! But, please also feel free to create something brand new for the week, as well! New or old, we’d love to see what you have in mind! :slight_smile:

Please see the rules below for more info!

:sparkler: RULES :sparkler:
Deadline: The deadline for this week’s Fan Creation Friday is September 6th, 2019.

Prize: All eligible submissions will be given the chance to be used in excitin g ways throughout the DC Universe for our Year One celebration, including being featured in an upcoming News article!

Restrictions: Please make sure all artwork abides by the Forum Guidelines: http://yourdcu.com/cmg.


Rachel and Gar One Year Later

“Rachel, its been one year since we met, so I got you something,” said Gar Logan

“Really Gar? Thank you.”

“I even put a bow on it. it’s on the table, next to the couch.”

Rachel went to the table. She sniffed. “This smells like pizza.”

“Well, it’s not like I am heir to a large fortune, you know.”

“Not in this universe.”



They both sat on the couch. Gar opened the box. The pizza was already sliced.

Rachel picked up a slice. “I’m glad there is no Pineapple on it.”

Rachel started to chew. “It’s gooey. Too gooey. Damn. Some of it went on my top.”

“You look adorable that way. Always did.”

“Is that why you helped me win at pinball?”

“Yeah, and the blue hair. It contrasted well with my green.”

Gar continued. “And you weren’t scared when you saw me as a tiger.”

“I was a little. But you weren’t scared when I told you that I blew the roof off a convent.”

“Point taken.”

“I always felt safe with you. I knew you wouldn’t drag me down unto a basement.”

“Well technically I did.”

“I still remember you saying that there was nothing evil about me.” She winced and put her hand on the jewel embedded in her forehead.

“You okay?”

“Yeh. I just zapped him. Trigon I mean. He won’t bother us for a while.”

There was silence for a moment.

Then Gar leaned closer to Rachel. He put a finger under her chin.

Rachel leaned closer to Gar.

They kissed.

“Did I mess that up? I’m sorry. The Chief didn’t let me out much. And with the green hair, most girls wouldn’t have anything to do with me. And the others thought I was weird. So this was my first kiss.”

Rachel smiled. “Shut up. It was my first too. And It was nice. You’ll get better with practice.”

Gar beamed.

Rachel smuggled close to Gar.
“Just hold me close. for we have Now, if not Eternity.”

Fade out.

    The stage manager clapped her hands together, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “Okay, we are live in T-minus five minutes, folks.  The physical talent should be here any second now, so I’m going to be coming by each of your workstations for a last-minute check-in.”

The manager leaned over the shoulder of the holoartist and squinted at the skeins of light that hovered over her emitter.  The young woman was weaving the laseresque beams as though she was playing cat’s cradle. 

“One hundred percent good to go, boss,” said the artist, presenting a 3D image with a flourish of her thumb and forefinger.  “Though I don’t know why we wasted so much time and effort on this particular project.”

The manager considered.  “One hundred years ago, 'Titans' and 'Young Justice' were the very first shows released by DC Universe.  After all this time, I think they deserve the honor of a loving restoration using modern techniques.”

“Yeah, but in … 2D?” the artist scoffed.  “I know things were primitive back then, but why would anyone today watch anything so … flat?”

“A lot of our older fanbase remembers those as they were – don’t ever underestimate the power of nostalgia; it's one of the pillars of this service. And keep up the good work.” The manager blinked to check the time on her eyelid watch.  “Four minutes, all.”

The next workstation was labeled ‘Virtual Talent.’  “Were you able to fix the issue with the holographic A.I. of Kevin Smith?” she asked.

“Yes,” said the artist sheepishly.  “Sorry about last time, but our crew has definitely cleaned up all the parameters from the original personality download. Any and all profanity will be caught by the filter now. If this special Thirty-Thousandth episode of DC Daily is being consumed by any viewers who are registered to be under thirteen years of age, substitute words will be … um … substituted.”

“Good, good,” said the manager.  “Three minutes.”

As the manager turned toward another cubicle, a cry from the other side of the room startled her.

“No, no, no! The aetherial server isn’t responding!” The worried young tech was hitting buttons as quickly as he could. “Oh no, this is a disaster!”

The manager used the most calming tone she could muster.  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Oh, it’s this new PlayStation52 software patch; it’s not allowing any of the liquid comics to download into readers’ retinal implants. Bottom line: the system won’t be ready in time for today’s celebration episode.”

The manager’s eyes narrowed.  “I want you to follow my directions to the letter.”

“Oh … okay,” said the tech, unconvinced.

“First, uncouple your workstation from the solar battery network.”

“What?  That’ll shut the whole system down.  We haven’t done that in decades; it’s always running.”

“Do it anyway.”

The tech frowned, but obeyed. “Fine. Done.”

All of the lights on the tech’s console went dark.  Everyone in the room was watching and holding their collective breath.

“Now what?” he asked, trembling with terror.

“Now … recouple it.”

He did as he was ordered, and lights began to flicker back to life.

“So what good did that do?” he asked.

The manager smiled. “Check it again.”

The tech’s fingers ran over his keypalette, urging his tools into motion.  Within moments, a scroll of text appeared in the air in front of him.

“It’s fixed!” Relief oozed from his every pore.  “We’re going to make it. How could you know that would work?”

“When I was young, we didn’t leave stuff running 24/7. Turning things off and then on again usually did the trick. Good thing too,” said the manager, pointing at the people materializing on the teleporter landing pad right next to the stage.  The talent gave the crew a few hellos, then sat together on the blue couch.

“One minute to air, folks,” said the manager as she prepared her deepcast console. “Let’s give 'em one for the ages.”

Posted this in HCQ’s thread too, hope that’s okay. Seemed to work thematically for both.

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:boom: edit the link to the rules by placing the ‘s’ onto the end of ‘http’ = https & then disappear the ‘.’ from the end of the URL. TaDa! You can then be swept away to read :eyeglasses: the rules Super Fans. Please read the rules :woman_superhero:

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Really love that idea, Super-Squirrel-- and, over the art thread, MissInkBlot told me there’s no problem in posting in both threads,


Thanks, @MisfitH. I wouldn’t want to be accused of hogging all the bandwidth. :grinning:

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First, the new one.


Panel 1. The Kent Farm in the middle distance.


Panel 2. The Kent backyard. Surrounded by a lot of adults around a round table, Martha and Jonathan each on either side of him, 1 year old Clark Kent is about to blow out the candle on his birthday cake. Let’s sneak a patch of bright red baby hair somewhere in the grouping.

Gathered (multiple word balloons): Happy Birth-day, little Clarkie, Happy Birthday to you!

Panel 3. We can tell by the color of the back of the shirt and pants that it is Jonathan Kent who has his fingers crossed behind his back.

Panel 4. Much as panel 2, Clark blows out the candle-- it looks like a breeze has picked up to ruffle some hair around the table, and a pile of napkins is disturbed, but not blown away. Someone’s super-breath has not gone awry. Martha and Jonathan exchange relieved glances while smiling happily.

MARTHA: That’s my big boy!

JONATHAN: Great work, son! Great work!

Panel 5. The party goers have separated into two groups, all chatting companionably. Let’s pop baby Lana Lang in here, being held by her mother. Clark is sitting back by the house on a large picnic blanket, looking up at some balloons stuck high in the nearest large tree.

MARTHA: Oh, no… Clark won’t try crawling away. Not while he’s got his cake and those balloons to look at. That boy of ours just loves things in the sky!

Panel 6. We’re behind Clark. He’s still looking up. Most of the two groups is facing away from him, but Martha and Lana’s mother-- and baby Lana-- are still looking this way.

MRS. LANG: My Lana’s so fast on her hands and knees, I seldom even dare to put her down!

Panel 7. Both groups are looking away. Baby Clark has has just floated a couple of feet in the air.

FARMER: Government folk just don’t understand how serious we are when we say rabbits ain’t all bunnies for pettin’.

Panel 8. Part of one group has turned back towards Clark. He’s sitting on his blanket again.


Panel 1. Both groups are faced away again. We can see Jonathan clearly. Clark is floating even higher, this time.

A FARMER: Well. Jonathan, if that boy of yours love the sky so much, he might just have a bright future as a crop duster if he don’t like attendin’ to the land with his hands.

JONATHAN: I tell you, Dewey… my boy’s future will be bright, no matter what.

Panel 2. Once again, some people are looking Clark’s way, and he’s back on his blanket again.

Panel 3. Baby Clark’s frustrated look.

Panel 4. A blur of baby Clark colors flashing from the blanket to the tree. The two groups remain turned away. We can note the back of Baby Lana’s head.


Panel 5. Another blur, down from the tree to the blanket. Baby Clark has just landed. He has three balloon strings, and the hint of balloons at the top of the panel. The two groups are exactly as before, including baby Lana. The have had no time to shift.


Panel 6. Close on Baby Lana, a thoughtful frown on her face. Maybe the slightest hint of baby Clark reflected in one eye, and a balloon or two reflected in the other.

CAP (MRS LANG): I swear, this girl is the most curious child on the face of the Earth!

Panel 7. Mrs. Lang-- Lana’s still got that look on her face, maybe the start of a shy smile-- and Martha-- her face a calm mask.

MRS. LANG: My goodness! However did Clarkie get a hold of those balloons?

MARTHA: Must have been a strong wind along the house there! You know how crazy a good, stiff Kansas breeze can be!

Panel 8. Little Clark is on his blanket, one handing stuffing his mouth with cake, the other hand holding tight to the strings of three balloons. Lana’s face should be reflected in the balloons.


BABY CLARK: Pre-teee



And the reprint.


Panel 1. Establish Gotham Park Stadium. There’s an electric sign that reads Gotham Guardians vs. Houston Astros. Excited baseball fans are heading inside. Some can’t help but notice the limo in the parking lot.

CAP: One year after Crime Alley.

Panel 2. We’re in the back of the limo. Young Bruce Wayne is dressed like any other Guardians fan. But his posture is perfect, and frozen like a statute. His face is an empty mask.

Panel 3. The bleachers are packed, and Alfred Pennyworth is seated just beyond young Bruce in a foul-line concourse. Bruce remains frozen and rigid.

SFX (ANNOUNCER): Robinson slides into third!

Panel 4. Home plate. One of the Guardian is swinging and getting a good hit on the ball.

SFX (ANNOUNCER): That’s at least a triple! And… it’s headed for the stands!

Panel 5. Close on young Bruce. Just the hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth.

Panel 6. Bruce has jumped up on his seat to catch the baseball as it flies over head.

Panel 7. The slightest of smiles on his face, Bruce has just jumped down off his his seat to gift the ball to a shocked Alfred Pennyworth.


Panel 1. The Batcave. Batman at the wheel, the Batmobile is starting to roar away. A forlorn-looking Alfred in the backgound.

CAP: One year after the return to Wayne Manor.

Panel 2. Show 2 tickets to a Gotham Guardians game in Alfred’s hand.

Panel 3. Wayne Manor. Alfred raises a glass of Champagne to a large portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Panel 4. The Batcave. Batman has just climbed awkwardly out of the Batmobile. His shoulder is badly bloodied.

Panel 5. Mask down, Bruce/Batman is seated at the Batcomputer console-- Alfred is right behind him, finishing bandaging that shoulder.

Panel 6. A blue-gloved finger pushes a button on the console.

Panel 7. A half smile on his face, Bruce looks back at a wide-eyed Alfred.

SFX (FROM OFF-PANEL BATCOMPUTER SCREEN:) Welcome to Game 3 of the Houston Astros at the Gotham Guardians–

BRUCE: You know I haven’t seen it–

ALFRED: N-or I, Master Bruce.


Panel 1 (inset, top left). A bat-gloved hand is holding up an old-looking baseball to Alfred (probably front of shirt and jacket, only,)

Panel 2. Main panel, medium shot. Alfred is still standing, but leaning forward on the second chair. We can just make out the base ball in his hand. Bruce is actually leaning back a bit in his chair, relaxing.

Panel 3 (insert, bottom right): A tear starting to roll down Alfred’s cheek, and the crinkle lines of one, bright smiling eye.


@MIB Thanx! I might just copy and paste one in here, so I’m not accused of being some bad boy rule breaker

flips up collar on leather jacket

Now, which one to C/P? Hmm…

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The kids say Pete is a righteous dude.


@TurokSonOfStone1950 - got your submission all saved! :slight_smile:

@Vroom - ahh, the choice between villain and hero can be a toughie, sometimes. :stuck_out_tongue: Got confirmation, though, so you’re all clear to do as originally asked to. And of course! You’re most welcome. :slight_smile:

@Super-Squirrel - indeed, as @MisfitH said, no worries, posting in each thread is fine. Thank you for asking, as well as to @MisfitH for the help! :smiley:

@Toonatonian - oh, yes, I’m sorry about the link issue. >,< Makes Community 2.0 something to look forward to all the more. :wink:

We appreciate all of our entries so far! They’re a great reminder of what made our first year on the forums so much fun! :heart:

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In all honesty, I’m a bit confused by the prompt here. Is “My favorite thing I wrote for FCF” an eligible answer? “My favorite thing I posted, period”? What about for a new fic? What exactly are the criteria?

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My first year with DC universe while on Spring Break in Myrtle Beach I read at least 20-25 different books and watched lots of Doom Patrol while there and all I can say is definitely well worth the money I definitely will be excited when this is added to my PlayStation 4 I currently have it on my IPad and iPhone

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Any word count limit? My submission may run a bit long, but it shouldn’t be too hard to pare down a little if I absolutely have to.

@MIB Sounds good, thank you.

flips up collar on leather jacket and fires up Judas Priest’s “Breakin’ The Law” as he ruminates over which of his DCU stories to pick for an entry

I know I’m bending any rules, but I was in the mood for some JP, so… yeah :wink:

Previous post should read “I know I’m not bending any…”.

Oh, 2.0’s edit functionality, where art thou?

Dinner at the mayor’s house was always a chore. Nevertheless, like any chore, it certainly had to be done. Bruce Wayne knew how to play the game, of course, but he’d long found politicians distasteful.

Perhaps it was for this reason that he found himself sitting next to the only other attendee who looked as uncomfortable as Bruce felt: Captain James Gordon of the Gotham City Police Department. He knew he should minimize contact with Gordon in his civilian identity, but the risk was more palatable than listening to the mayor compare yachts with Roland Daggett or Carmine Falcone.

Bruce swallowed another bite of chewy steak and settled into the slightly-too-plush chair before speaking.

“And tell me, Captain, did you ever catch that vigilante fellow you were asking me about? The bat-fellow?”

Gordon shifted awkwardly and took a gulp of water from an expensive glass goblet. A voice at the back of Bruce’s head pointed out that he was holding the goblet wrong.

“Uh, no,” Gordon said, “In fact, we haven’t heard much… from him…”

Gordon trailed off as one of the mayor’s staff approached the table.

“Captain Gordon?” the man said with an audible sniff.

“So they tell me,” Gordon replied, “Is something wrong?”

“There’s a telephone call for you from police headquarters,” the man explained before beginning to stroll away.

Bruce reached out towards him and he stopped and turned.

“Say,” Bruce said, “Do you know where there’s a bathroom around here?”

“The powder room is down the hall and to the right,” the man explained, gesturing half-heartedly through the oak double doors at one end of the oversized dining room, “Will there be anything else?”

“That’s all for now,” Bruce replied.

He strolled out of the dining room, deciding that if anyone caught him walking to the telephone in the front hall instead of the bathroom, he’d say he got lost.

“Lambert?” he heard Gordon say, surprised, “As in the chemical king?”

There was a pause.

“If his son’s prints are on the knife, I don’t see how much of an alibi he can have.”

Another pause.

“Alright, I’ll come talk to him.”

This variety of nightly diviersion sounded more up Bruce’s – no, up Batman’s alley.

The police cordon around Frank Lambert’s house might have been difficult to slip past for the average snoop, but Batman bypassed them efficiently and soon found himself perched on a narrow ledge beneath Lambert’s second-story window.

“I don’t know what you expect me to tell you!” cried a voice from inside.

Another voice, Gordon’s, spoke.

“Calm down, son.”

“Calm down?! My dad’s dead and you think I did it! How can I be calm?!”

It was hard to tell without being able to see his body language, but Batman guessed the kid was either sincere or a good liar. Regardless, he’d met enough good liars (and, for that matter, enough innocent people) to know not to jump to conclusions.

“Then explain what your prints are doing on the knife,” said another voice, most likely another cop.

“Listen, man,” the younger Lambert said, “I’ve already told you. I heard him yell, found him stabbed, and took the knife out of him.”

Batman squinted, trying to focus on the young man’s reflection in the open casement windows.

‘Interesting,’ he thought, ‘No blood on him. Didn’t have time to wash up before the police arrived, and it would’ve splattered if he’d committed the stabbing himself. Wish I could get my hands on that knife to confirm, but I’m not out of options yet.’

“Alright, let’s suppose you didn’t do it,” Gordon said, “Did your father have any enemies?”

‘Stupid question. He ran-’

“My dad ran a chemical plant,” young Lambert said, “If you want the full list, talk to his lawyer.”

‘Yeah. That.’

“The safe’s open and empty,” Gordon said, “What was in there?”

‘Better question.’

“Nothing,” young Lambert answered, “just some papers from the company.”

‘Interesting. Something involving Lambert’s partners?’

“Send someone to look into Steven Crane, Paul Rogers, and Alfred Stryker. In the meantime, we’re going to have to book the kid.”

‘And I think that tells me our killer’s next targets.’

Batman perched in the sturdy branches of an old oak tree in an affluent Gotham suburb, squinting through the night at Steven Crane’s two-story home. Everything appeared to be quiet, but appearances proved deceiving as the firecracker pop of a pistol shot rang out, echoing through the neighborhood.

‘Too late,’ Batman thought, ‘but it looks like my hunch was right.’

Batman swung into action, landing on the roof of the house and storming up the steep incline before sliding bumpily down the other side. A pair of masked men were running from the front door toward an old sedan waiting at the curb, a rolled-up piece of paper in one of their hands.

Batman springboarded off the lip of the roof, twisting in the air and landing in a crouch between the killers and the car.

“What is that?!” one killer cried, terrified.

“Shut up and kill it!”

The two looked at one another and reached into their jackets, drawing handguns. Batman had already drawn a batarang from his belt. He threw it, flicking his wrist. The small projectile arced through the air, slicing through both killers’ hands. They reflexively dropped their weapons.

Batman sprang forward, tackling the killer with the paper to the ground and ripping the document out of his hand. The other took a clumsy swing at Batman, who stepped backwards before doing so again to avoid another punch.

The killer had left himself open, so Batman struck, delivering a swift uppercut to the jaw. The killer was sent sprawling. Batman knelt down above the one who’d been holding the paper, grabbing him by the jacket.

“Tell me who hired you.”

“D-don’t hurt me…” the killer sputtered.

“That can be arranged,” Batman growled, “If you tell me who hired you.”

“I- I-” the killer began.

They were interrupted by the sound of police sirens. If the police caught Batman out in the open, things could get difficult. He would have to hope the document could shed some light on the killer’s identity and motive.

He jumped to his feet and took off into the shadows, even as the street was flooded with the light of the police car’s headlights.

Batman unrolled the document on the evidence table in the Batcave and examined its title.


He moved to the introductory paragraph.

“This contract (“The Agreement”) is between Alfred G. Stryker, an individual residing at 27 Kane Street, Gotham City, NJ (“Stryker”), and the following individuals (collectively, “The Shareholders”): Franklin Lambert, residing at 1939 Sullivan Place, Gotham City, NJ, Steven J. Crane, residing at 40 Thomas Wayne Memorial Parkway, Gotham City, NJ, and Paul B. Rogers, residing at 1914 Finger Lane, Gotham City, NJ. The preceding four named individuals (collectively, “The Parties”) are joint and equal shareholders in Allied Chemical Enterprises, Incorporated, a corporation headquartered at 1 Moldoff Avenue, Gotham City, NJ (“A.C.E. Chemicals”) and there are no other such shareholders.”

This much, he knew or suspected already. He skimmed to some important terms.

“3. Stryker will pay to each of The Shareholders a sum of one hundred thousand (100,000) U.S. dollars annually for the following ten years (“The Payment Period”), due on the thirty-first of December (“The Payment Date”).

  1. In consideration of the payment identified in Section 3, The Shareholders will, no more than thirty (30) days after the final Payment Date of the Payment Period, transfer ownership of their respective shares in A.C.E. Chemicals to Stryker.”

“Hm,” Batman muttered, “Maybe someone didn’t want to pay?”

He skimmed through the rest of the document, until one final provision caught his attention.

“27. If one or more of The Shareholders dies before the end of The Payment Period, his shares in A.C.E. Chemicals will be distributed evenly among the remaining Parties, regardless of how many payments Stryker has made.”

“Got you,” Batman muttered.

As Batman snuck into the twisted Gordian Knot of pipes and smokestacks that was the A.C.E. Chemicals building, he noted that the old plant at least had a state-of-the-art security system. It was only moderately difficult for Batman to simply break in without triggering a silent alarm, but he would’ve hated to have been an untrained criminal actually trying to steal from the site.

He took a perch in the rafters of the mixing room, looking over the cavernous network of catwalks and vats as he heard voices. A burly man in worker’s coverall’s was dragging a mustached man in a suit into the room.

“Jennings,” grunted the suited man, “Why?”

“‘S money,” Jennings said simply, “Now shaddup and die, Rogers.”

Jennings began to heave Rogers into one of the vats when Batman dropped from his vantage point, landing directly on Jennings’ shoulders. Jennings stumbled and hit his head on the railing.

“My god!” Rogers cried, “Who-?”

“A friend,” Batman said, “Come quickly, before-”

As Batman and Rogers neared the end of the catwalk, a fourth figure burst through the door at the far end, charging toward them and brandishing a handgun.

“No you don’t!” he shouted, “Not when I’m so close! Die! Die!”

Batman shoved Rogers through the door and dived off the catwalk, rolling behind a vat as a gunshot ricocheted behind him.

“Alfred Stryker, I presume,” Batman called from the shadows.

“Who are you to presume?!” he yelled back, madness dripping from his voice. “You’re a dead man, that’s who! I kill you and I kill Rogers and it’ll all be mine, yes!”

Batman curved around another vat, hoping to approach Stryker from a good angle to disarm him, but the madman was moving too erratically, turning every few seconds. Batman had to keep him talking.

“Your plan is ingenious,” he said, “Kill your partners and let their shares vest directly to you without paying a thing.”

“It’s going to work, too,” said Stryker, “Just you watch. Wait, no, you can’t watch; you’ll be dead.”

He fired off another shot wildly towards the floor.

‘Still six more in his gun,’ Batman thought, ‘If I wait for him to run out of ammo, I’ll be here all night.’

“There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” he said out loud, “All three of your partners drop dead and a secret contract giving you control of the corporation turns up? You’ll be the prime suspect.”

“I didn’t do it,” said Stryker, “Jennings did. But he’s dead. I’ll shoot him and say he came for me.”

Batman heard faint shuffling on the catwalk, and realized what was about to happen.

“Stryker, wait! Jennings isn’t dead! I only-”

“Don’t try to distract me!” Stryker yelled back.

“Die, traitor!” Jennings roared, tackling Stryker.

Batman reached for his Batrope, but before he could throw it, Jennings had knocked Stryker and himself clear over the railing, sending them careening into a bubbling vat of toxic waste.

Batman’s arms fell limp at his sides. He hated when any case ended in bloodshed, but he had to admit one thing about Stryker’s death: It was a fitting end for his kind.


Been on dcu since March!!! LOVE the comics!!! Wish Swamp Thing got another season, but looking forward to Titans S2!!! Everything about DCUniverse is Amazing!!!:zap::zap:


Year one already. Time flies. From Titans to Swamp Thing. Young Justice to Batman Beyond. The death of Superman to Batman Hush.

I’ve enjoyed every moment. I have been able to introduce my kids to DC characters they were not familiar with. We went to see the Death and Reign Double feature. We read comics on the app and discuss them after. Makes my heart sing seeing them enjoy some of the books I love.

DC Universe year one has been something special and I cannot wait for more.

Thank you DC Comics
A Superfan for life