#earth-2

[cremeriie]

city of stars 🌆💫

ft. winter wear variant

[browsethestacks]

Superman

Art by Matt Wagner

[vexic929]

Earth-2 Etude

Chapter 1

Warnings: none

Chapter 2: link

The metal doors to Iron Heights opened with a loud, discordant clang that made Hartley Rathaway wish he'd turned his hearing aids off as he set his personal belongings in a basket and removing his tie pin before stepping through the metal detector. It beeped - an equally annoying noise, in Hartley's opinion - and the corrections officer waved him through, handing him a clipboard to sign.

"You get two hours with him, CSI. Anything happens, you press this." The man thrust a small, round device attached to a lanyard at Hartley. "This panic button will let every officer know to come get you. Bastard wants parole, though, so you probably won't need to use it."

That wasn't particularly reassuring but Hartley nodded anyway. "I need my tablet back."

The man frowned and picked it up out of the basket, grumbling under his breath as he handed it over. Hartley tucked it under his arm and adjusted his blazer, smoothing it unnecessarily to calm his growing nerves.

"Singh's in room twelve. Guard'll show you the way." The officer jerked his head toward the hall.

Hartley offered a curt nod and followed the appointed guard, his shoes clicking against the polished concrete floor. The sound echoed faintly, a lonely kind of rhythm that made his chest tighten with anxiety. A few of the inmates leered at him as he passed, one or two shouting vulgar comments. God, this place was vile, why the hell did it have to be Hartley on the job?

Room twelve loomed at the end of the corridor, its number a stark black against the gray. The corrections officer accompanying him rapped twice on the door. "Singh," he announced, his voice gruff, "you've got a visitor."

The door swung open, revealing a stark, utilitarian space. At the center sat David Singh, the infamous mob boss, leaning casually back in his chair, thumbing through a paperback novel. His orange prison jumpsuit was undone to the waist, revealing the white tank top beneath that clung to his broad chest. His dark eyes locked onto Hartley the moment he stepped inside, their intensity almost physical, pinning him in place. For a fraction of a second, Hartley forgot how to breathe.

Singh raised an eyebrow. "Who the hell are you?"

Hartley straightened, his chin lifting slightly. "Hartley Rathaway, CCPD." His tone was clipped, professional. He wasn't about to let Singh see how much this encounter unnerved him. "I'm here to discuss one of your properties."

Singh's lips curved into a slow, mocking smile. "My properties? I don't have any of those anymore, remember? Confiscated, seized, sold - what do you cops call it? Civil asset forfeiture?"

Hartley ignored him, sitting across from him and tapping his tablet to pull up the files he'd prepared. "One of your old hideouts is in use again. We believe the Darbinyan crime family has taken over the location. I need you to provide the layout - anything that isn't on the blueprints."

Singh leaned forward, resting his elbows on the metal table and his chin on one hand, his gaze slow and deliberate as it swept over Hartley from head to toe. The mob boss's voice, rich and low and laced with amusement, broke the silence after several uncomfortably long moments. "So, they sent me the scrawny one."

Hartley bristled, feeling a bit like he was being sized up to be eaten. "You refused everyone else."

Singh snorted and leaned back again. "Right. Wasn't about to talk to Captain West or her lap dog."

"Or any other officer, according to the warden." Hartley added, crossing his arms, trying to look equally as collected and casual.

Singh chuckled, low and rich, his dark eyes locking with Hartley's. "You're awfully bold for a man who looks like a strong breeze might blow him over."

"You're awfully vexing for a man who supposedly wants parole." Hartley countered.

Singh's gaze stayed locked on Hartley, unrelenting and far too self-assured. "Vexing? Fancy word. You always talk like you've got something to prove, Mr. Rathaway?"

Hartley adjusted his glasses, refusing to rise to the bait. "I don't need to prove anything to you, Mr. Singh. I'm here because the captain thought your knowledge might actually be useful. Clearly, she was being optimistic." His tone was clipped, every syllable calculated to maintain control of the conversation.

Singh rolled his eyes. "You're here for information about my old hideout. A place I haven't set foot in for over a year. Tell me, Rathaway, what makes you think I care if the Darbinyans are squatting there now?"

"You have a personal history with them, don't you?"

Singh's eyes darkened, his fingers flexing against the steel table, though his gaze never left Hartley's. "Personal history," he repeated, his voice a low rumble. "You could say that."

Hartley felt the atmosphere shift and briefly wondered if he'd have to use the panic button. He pushed away the thought and dropped his gaze to his tablet, his fingers dancing over the screen in precise movements. "We don't have time for cryptic remarks. If you're going to help, start talking. If not, I'll be sure to let Captain West know this was a waste of her time and mine."

Singh shifted in his chair, his tank top slipping slightly with the motion, revealing a scar just below his collarbone. It drew Hartley's attention momentarily, his sharp mind calculating the possible stories behind it before he forced himself to focus again. He was here for the Darbinyan family's operations, not Singh's mysterious past.

A moment of silence more and Hartley sighed, pushing his chair back and standing to leave. "Fine. I'll let the parole board know you're not interested."

"Sit back down."

The command wasn't loud but it carried a resonance that stopped Hartley dead mid-step. It took him a moment to gather himself enough to realize he'd followed an order from a mob boss. He felt the tips of his ears flush with frustration and embarrassment.

"How dare you-" Hartley started but Singh interrupted him.

"Sit."

Hartley remained standing, placing his tablet and hands flat on the table as he leaned forward, glaring at the other man. "If you have something useful to say, say it. Otherwise, this is over."

The corner of Singh's mouth twitched upward and, for a heartbeat, Hartley thought he might laugh in his face. Instead, Singh leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight, arms crossing over his broad chest as he shook his head, looking amused.

"Come back next week. I'll have something to say then."

"I'm not playing this game, Singh." Hartley snapped but David didn't so much as flinch.

"You want information, you'll come back. See you next week, Mr. Rathaway."

[the-antiapocalyptic-man]

A bunch of Earth-2 characters (The Arrow “Family” and the Reverse-Flashes)

-Robert Queen survived the shipwreck that killed his son, Oliver, at the cost of his arm. Replacing it with a cybernetic prosthesis after returning to civilization, Queen became protector of Star City (Seattle) as The Green Arrow. He later joined Sly Pemberton’s Seven Soldiers of Victory with his protege and rival, Red Arrow.

-Roy Begay lost his parents to a wildfire at a young age. Adopted by Nathan and Moonday Hawke, Roy studied archery, coming to be recognized as the best in the world. After the death of the Ternion at the hands of Steppenwolf, Roy joined Amar Khan’s World Army. Initially using the call sign “Speedy”, Roy became Red Arrow after meeting Robert Queen and committing himself to both surpassing and succeeding the Green Knight of Seattle.

-Dinah Lance lived the quiet life of a florist, the daughter of Dinah Drake and World Army Captain Kurt Lance. After the death of her mother during the Apokoliptan Invasion, Dinah sought out power from The Wizard of the Injustice Society. Bestow a powerful sonic scream, she set out on a mission of revenge against the man she held responsible for her mother’s death: The Green Arrow

-Hunter Zolomon’s father fought in the War of the Americas, returning home only to kill his wife and himself. The orphaned Hunter grew up plagued by strange visions, until a chance interaction with a storm of Speed Force energy connected to the source of his visions: his own future self, a Judge of the Speed Force, transforming Hunter and his multiversal counterparts in Zooms, powerful Negative Speed Force avatars.

-Velocity was an experiment of Zoom’s, a clone of Jay Garrick powered by opposing Speed Energy. He considers himself Judy Garrick’s Rival, though she and other Wonders of the Justice Society hold out hope Velocity can be redeemed…

-Dr. Edward Clariss, The Rival. After tiring of the paltry contests of Wonders and Horrors, Clariss retired to an isolated region, reinventing himself as the master of a Speed Force Cult: Savitar, The God of Motion.

-John Allen Chambers, a native of Earth-3. Escaping to Earth-2 to hide out, Johnny Quick masqueraded as a Wonder, eventually falling in love with Liberty Belle and starting a family.

[truespectros]

Superman (Earth-2)

2 months later, here is the beginning of my new series!! enjoy!!

it will also be on my bluesky

[cantsayidont]

February 1986. Incredibly bleak: Earth-2's Helena Wayne (The Huntress) and Dick Grayson (Robin) survived the cataclysmic events of CRISIS ON INFINITE EARTHS #10 (January 1986), only to find in the following issue that the world into which they awakened afterward had no record that they had ever existed. Both were then killed by falling debris during the final battle in CRISIS #12 and subsequently laid to rest by their JSA comrades, almost the only people on the reformed Earth who still remembered them. Earth-2's middle-aged Dick Grayson was a relatively minor character even before the Crisis, but the fate of the Huntress was a bitter pill, although at least she was spared the awful post-Crisis origin revamps of Power Girl and Fury (the daughter of Earth-2's Wonder Woman and Steve Trevor).

[thatsnotmygunflash]

The ask went away because I'm dumb but @simpledontmeanpeachy asked for 2 and 25 and I went back and forth on if I'd do them together or separately but since my mind went in two different directions on settings I decided to do both. So, here's 2, set on Earth-2.

It's the third day of being stuck in the stuffy conference room with Mayor Snart going over the details of his metahuman algorithm when Barry finally snaps.

"What's your problem with me?"

Mayor Snart raised one perfectly calm eyebrow up at the sudden outburst, calculated eyes narrowing as he glanced up from the paragraph he was in the middle of highlighting.

"I don't have a problem with you, Allen."

"You do." Barry had been doing his best to ignore the obvious tension between them but he couldn’t for the life of him understand what he could have done to offend Mayor Snart. "You definitely do. I know you do, I just don't know why you do."

The sly smirk that slid onto Mayor Snart's face was not making Barry feel any better about this conversation, but he couldn't spend another week trapped in this room for hours at a time dealing with Mayor Snart’s icy indifference.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I know how easily your feelings get hurt."

"Hey!"

"Case in point," Barry did his best not to stare at the amused smile that his protest had spread across Mayor Snart's face. Was it weird to be that attracted to teeth? Probably, but God, did this man have a nice smile.

"I just want to know what I did, you very obviously don't like something about me." Barry shook himself to get his mind back on what was important.

"You're right." Snart confirmed easily, leaning back in his chair while tapping his highlighter against the stack of papers in front of him. "There is something I don't like."

"What?"

"You're too nice."

"Excuse me?" Barry huffed.

He couldn’t be serious.

"You're too nice. It's sickening."

"I'm...sorry?"

"You should be."

Barry narrowed his eyes, readjusting his glasses nervously as he fought not to squirm under the Mayor's intense gaze.

"...are you messing with me?"

Barry wouldn’t be surprised if he was, Mayor Snart seemed to enjoy doing that a lot.

"You know, Detective West warned me you were oblivious, and I'm really starting to think she was right."

When had his ex-wife talked to the Mayor?

"Oblivious to what?"

The delighted head shake and snort of laughter his question received was enough to make Barry bristle.

"The only problem I have with you, Barry Allen, is the fact that you're single."

That...was definitely not what he was expecting.

"You're...mad...I'm single."

"Yes."

"But why?" Barry asked in confusion.

"Really Barry, there isn't a single reason you can think of?"

"Not really."

"How about I give you a hint then," Mayor Snart snatched up his pen, scribbling something quickly on a loose sheet of paper before pushing it across the conference table towards Barry.

"What's this?"

"My private number."

[doctorslippery]

[avatarskywalker78]

Fancast Alert - Melanie Scrofano as Teri Merlyn

Tagging (let me know if you want to be added or removed) @shrinkthisviolet @starstruckpurpledragon @negative-speedforce @dawnquafam

[artphotographyofmen]

Superman by Jay Hero

[cgbcomics]

[browsethestacks]

Superman

Art by Norm Rapmund

[vexic929]

Earth-2 Etude

Chapter 3

Warnings: Hartley being judgey about fashion, Osgood Rathaway being a controlling homophobic asshole

Chapter 1: link

Chapter 2: link

Rathaway Industries hadn't changed in 10 years. The same glass and metal walls - modern at the time of installation - loomed over Hartley, daring him to enter. Hartley Rathaway had spent half his life within these walls, and the building had never once acknowledged him as anything more than a cog in the machine. Now, especially, he wasn't welcome here - his father had made that very clear the last time they'd spoken and he had no delusions that the staff would be any kinder.

Hartley took a breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside. The air-conditioning was cranked too high, a deliberate power play to keep employees just uncomfortable enough to never linger. The cold bit through his coat, sinking into his bones. The reception desk stretched before him in sleek, uninviting marble, its edges too sharp, its surface too polished. Everything in Rathaway Industries was curated for intimidation, from the overly bright fluorescents to the carefully arranged magazines, each cover only a month out of date, an illusion of relevance maintained with surgical precision.

The secretary didn't bother looking up immediately. She was clad in a structured navy dress with a high neckline that, while undoubtedly expensive, was severely outdated. Her horn-rimmed glasses perched low on her nose as she flipped through something on her tablet with disinterest. Her blonde Eaton cut, once stylish, had settled into an unflattering limbo between 'classic' and 'out of touch'.

Hartley crossed the room with precise, measured steps, his dress shoes clicking against the polished floor. He saw the way her mouth tightened when she finally glanced up, the flicker of recognition chased away immediately by professional indifference. She knew exactly who he was. That made her little performance all the more insulting.

"Do you have an appointment?" She asked, finally, returning her gaze to her tablet.

Hartley let the silence stretch, waiting for her to meet his gaze. When she didn't, he exhaled sharply, fingers curling against the edge of the desk. "Don't insult both of us, Marjorie."

Marjorie finally glanced up, her answering smile cruel and sardonic and showing too many perfectly white teeth. "I'm afraid Mr. Rathaway doesn't accept unscheduled visitors. If you'd like to schedule an appointment-"

"I wouldn't." Hartley interrupted shortly, crossing his arms.

Marjorie's grin didn't falter. "Then I'm afraid I can't help you," she said, tilting her chin up with the sort of performative regret only achievable by someone who took delight in being difficult.

Hartley grit his teeth, schooling his expression into something bored rather than irritated. It wasn't worth the effort to argue with a glorified security measure. He was, however, more than happy to make her as uncomfortable as possible.

He leaned against the desk, smoothing the sleeve of his coat and plucking a small piece of lint from the tweed fabric, letting his gaze travel pointedly over her. "Horn-rims?" he mused. "Bold choice." He let the pause linger, just long enough for her to squirm before continuing. "Not quite the statement they used to be, though. And that haircut - it must have been very flattering before the decade changed."

Her smile went brittle but she was well-trained enough not to take the bait. Hartley breathed sharply through his nose. He was wasting time.

"You and I both know I'm not leaving, Marjorie. I'll sit in the lobby all damn night if I must."

They held each other's gaze for a long moment before Marjorie let out an exasperated sigh and picked up the phone. She turned away slightly as she dialed and Hartley let his gaze drift across the lobby.

He could feel the eyes on him - scientists, engineers, executives who had once worked alongside him, treating him with respect as the future head of the company, the heir to a technological empire. Now they whispered behind their hands in the hall.

"I thought he was cut off."

"He was."

"Isn't he homeless now?"

"Did you hear he had a total breakdown?"

"I heard he got arrested. Someone saw him at CCPD."

"I thought he ran off to be a pianist in Europe or something."

"What a waste of a mind."

Hartley rolled his eyes.

Marjorie set the phone down with a sigh, a sour look on her face as she turned to face Hartley again. "Mr. Rathaway will see you."

The walk to his father's office was painfully familiar. The same gleaming corridors, the same low hum of machinery and voices that never quite filled the space. The walls were lined with framed awards and patent certificates - all bearing only Osgood Rathaway's name.

At the end of the hall, the door to Osgood's office loomed, sleek and heavy. Hartley squared his shoulders, forced the nervous energy curling in his gut further down, and stepped inside.

Osgood Rathaway barely acknowledged his presence. He turned a page in the folder before him, his expression impassive.

"You've wasted a trip," he said. "I don't have anything for you."

He never had, had he? Hartley shut the door behind him with more force than necessary. "I'll be the judge of that."

Osgood sighed heavily and removed his glasses, finally deigning to meet Hartley's eyes. "Fine, if you're going to be difficult. Why are you here?"

Hartley hesitated - just for a second, just long enough that Osgood's eyes narrowed. Lying was an option, one he had prepared for. But standing in this office again, under his father's gaze, he found he couldn't force the words.

He inhaled sharply before admitting, "something's wrong with me."

His father did not react.

Hartley continued, considering the lack of resistance or immediate removal a good sign.

"My hearing...something changed. Last night. I don't know how or why but I can hear everything. Sounds that shouldn't register. Frequencies well beyond normal range. It's-" He grit his teeth, pulse thundering, nearly drowning out every other sound. "I need to understand what's happening."

His father studied him, gaze unreadable. "And you assume I have the answers?"

"You built the hearing aids," Hartley snapped. "You designed them. You forced them on me. If anyone knows how my auditory system works, it's you."

If Hartley's words had struck any kind of nerve, it didn't show. Of course it didn't. His father had spent decades perfecting the art of emotional omission. Hartley held his breath, waiting for a response or, perhaps, his father calling for security.

"There will be conditions," Osgood said finally.

Hartley swallowed the instinctive surge of nausea. This shouldn't come as a surprise. His father was a businessman, above all else, and Osgood Rathaway never gave anything away for free.

"What conditions?" Hartley asked warily, throat dry.

Osgood folded his hands neatly atop his desk. "You will provide me with detailed documentation of your symptoms daily including precise auditory range, disturbances, and any changes over the next month. You will submit to a full diagnostic workup in my lab and allow me access to your implants as necessary to monitor their function."

Hartley bit his tongue, tamping down the immediate urge to argue. That was tolerable. That was expected.

But Osgood wasn't finished.

"You will also cease all contact with Jerrie."

Hartley resisted the urge to flinch, feeling as though he'd been punched in the gut.

"She's my sister-"

Osgood interrupted. "You've done her no favors by keeping her close. You never were a good influence."

A sharp, bitter laugh scraped its way up Hartley's throat before he could stop it. "Oh, forgive me. I didn't realize unconditional love would corrupt her."

Osgood exhaled sharply through his nose, the closest he ever came to outright irritation. "She's young, impressionable. You've already wasted your own potential, I won't have you dragging her down with you and your...choices."

"Do you even know how to talk to her?" Hartley demanded, the constant onslaught of noise snapping his admittedly short fuse in half. "Have you even bothered to learn any sign since I left? You sure as hell didn't try with me-"

"Enough. You will keep your attitude in check or you will leave."

Hartley's breath came sharp and quick through his nose, his vision narrowing to a pin-point. The air in his father's office always smelled the same - polished wood, ink, and something faintly sterile, like no one actually lived here. The same as the house, the same as the man who ruled over both with an iron will and a frozen heart.

"You don't actually care what happens to me, do you?" Hartley said, his voice steadier than he felt. "You just want control."

Osgood Rathaway didn't flinch. He didn't even look annoyed - only vaguely inconvenienced, like Hartley had stepped into his pristine office tracking in mud and expected sympathy.

"I care about results," his father corrected. "If this-" he waved a hand in Hartley's general direction, dismissive, "-is real, then I want to know why. If it's not, then I'm not wasting my time on your theatrics."

Hartley curled his fingers into his palms, nails biting sharp crescents into them. "And if I refuse your conditions?"

Osgood didn't even blink. "Then you can see yourself out."

For one second - just one - Hartley hesitated. Not because he was considering it but because a sick, twisted part of him had hoped, despite everything, despite all evidence to the contrary, that his father would care. That something in his father's expression would soften, even if only for a second. That he would see his son - his actual son, not the one he had tried to force into existence.

It didn't happen. It never did.

Hartley scoffed, shaking his head. "Of course. You're exactly the same."

Osgood hummed as Hartley turned to the door. "Rachel misses you."

Hartley froze, hand millimeters from the door handle.

It was a trap. He knew that. And yet, his throat still tightened before he could stop it.

His mother had called, once. Years ago, just weeks after he'd been unceremoniously ousted. Just to hear his voice. Hartley had let it go to voicemail.

"She knows where to find me."

He yanked the office door open, not caring that it slammed against the wall as he strode out.

Hartley could hardly hear through the fury ringing in his ears as he strode quickly back through the halls, Marjorie's too-cheerful goodbye barely cutting through the rush of his pulse. He needed air. He needed space to think, to breathe, his father's familiar cruelty an icy weight over his lungs and heart. He stopped outside, leaning against the building and clutching his chest just outside of the camera's view. He needed to control himself, to calm down. Focus on something solid and real. The concrete under his shoes, the burnished metal beneath his fingertips, the damn employees still muttering rumors about him from inside Rathaway Industries.

Hartley stilled, straightening, a plan slowly forming in his mind. Beneath the layered murmurs of the building, he caught something else - the dull thud of heavy boots, a security guard pacing two floors above. Another one, moving steadily near the West stairwell. Another by the elevators. Hartley slowed his breathing, adjusting his jacket, and let himself listen.

He could hear the hum of the security system, the faint electronic beeps of keycard readers activating and deactivating. His father locking his office door. The quiet buzz of an internal call informing security that he was on his way out.

He could come back.

He could slip past security, dodge the guards, break into his father's systems. He could get the information himself. He knew where the cameras were, at least he had 10 years ago and he doubted they'd changed much.

But the thought sat uneasily in his gut. He didn't love his job at CCPD. Most of his coworkers barely tolerated him and he'd made no effort to change that. But he was good at what he did. He had a successful career, a steady income. If he got caught, there'd be no smoothing it over, no talking his way out of it. It wouldn't just be his father cutting him off - it would be everything.

He needed answers. He wasn't sure if he could afford them.

[the-antiapocalyptic-man]

The Cyborg Superwoman, Secret Weapon of the World Army of Universalis Secundus, recreated from a Kryptonian Sunstone Total Mind Back-Up by Commander Amar Khan and General Sam Lane.

Her shell was a spare Red Tornado gynoid body that's since been scrapped and entirely replaced by K-Metals and pseudo-organics. Her new body both approximates Kryptonian abilities and allows for technopathic interfacing with non-sentient (and some sentient technologies).

Her early interactions with Earth-2's Superman Family were incredibly difficult. She found a surprising ally in another of the World Army's experimental attempts to create their own Kryptonian weapon, Paige Stetler aka Galatea, a clone of Power Girl.

As the barriers between universes begin to weaken under the endless assault of Anti-Matter Shadow Demons, Dark Matter Monsters, and the Knights of Sorrow, The Cyborg Superwoman would find herself face to face with the one person she could never truly confront on her own Earth: Lois Lane, her long deceased original self, alive and everything that her Earth-2 counterpart always wanted to be.

[djrenard]

All-Star Squadron:

A master list of the All-Star Squadron publishing initiative. Each group belongs to the larger overarching Squadron community. They share information, resources, and support...crimefighting or otherwise.

Justice Society: the classic multigenerational team

All-Stars: The premiere team; the big guns

Infinity Inc.: Young upstarts

Freedom Fighters: Golden Age teens fighting for the freedom of today's youth

Seven Soldiers of Victory: Armor, battles, and chilvary

[cantsayidont]

June 1968. Aside from its striking Gil Kane cover (I love the cityscape), this issue of GREEN LANTERN is pretty close to being an Alan Scott solo adventure, set largely on Earth-2.

Which raises a point: With the renewed interest in Alan Scott coinciding with the JSA revival, Alan being outed, and the ghoulish Tim Sheridan miniseries, it's frustrating that DC hasn't taken that as a cue to collect some of Alan's past adventures beyond the smattering reprinted elsewhere (some of which are long out of print). A sampling of his Golden Age adventures, such as the early appearances of now-familiar villains like Vandal Savage, Solomon Grundy, and the Harlequin would be nice, but there are also some Silver Age and later adventures that would be worth reprinting, including his Silver Age team-ups with Hal Jordan (GREEN LANTERN #40, #45, #52, and #61), a brief solo strip in the late '70s (GREEN LANTERN #108–110), and the team-up with Hal and Oliver Queen in GREEN LANTERN #111–112 that was the first attempt to really address the connection between Alan and the Green Lantern Corps. If one wanted to present a complete bio, the INFINITY INC. Annual that explained his relationships with the Thorn (who's the mother of his kids) and Molly Maynne would be appropriate, and he had a charming solo strip in eight issues of GREEN LANTERN QUARTERLY in the early '90s that was torpedoed by "Emerald Twilight." Only bits and pieces of that stuff have been previously reprinted, and collecting it would provide a nice foundation for whatever dumb nonsense Geoff Johns and Tim Sheridan are now trying to scaffold onto it.