Stan Lee has repeatedly cited classic monster duality as core inspiration—especially Frankenstein and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—for the concept of a man wrestling with an uncontrollable other self. Jack Kirby also leaned into the “Frankenstein in all of us” idea when describing why the Hulk worked as a character people could relate to. That’s the genius of the Hulk: He’s not just a superhero. He’s a myth. A warning. A mirror.

At the time, superheroes were struggling. Golden Age comics had faded. Interest was dying. Barry didn’t just debut —He resurrected the superhero genre. His clean-cut optimism, scientific mind, and grounded humanity set a new tone. Where earlier heroes were mythic symbols, Barry was a modern man facing modern problems — with hope, discipline, and intellect.

She moves with the calm certainty of someone who has faced extinction more times than she can count. Her boots hit the metallic floor with deliberate weight. Her armor shifts—ancient Chozo alloys whispering with every controlled breath she takes. The hum of her Arm Cannon builds like a heartbeat finding its rhythm. Outside the ship, below her, the planet waits. Zebes. A graveyard of memories. A crucible of scars. A world that raised her, broke her, and forged her into a myth.

The city calls him Robin — and for more than eight decades, that red thread has stitched the Bat-Family together, turning fear into hope, solitude into partnership, and grief into legacy. This is the story of every Robin — their victories, losses, failures, reinventions, and why Batman doesn’t just work with a Robin… he needs one.

When Dennis O’Neil and Neal Adams introduced John Stewart in Green Lantern #87 (1971), they did more than create a backup for Hal Jordan—they broke barriers. A Black Marine Corps veteran from Detroit, John arrived during the civil-rights era, confident, brilliant, and unwilling to bow. Adams said later, “We didn’t want a stereotype; we wanted a man who could stand toe to toe with gods.