Setting: Spectrum General Hospital – Special Maternity Wing for Cross-Universal Cases.

The early evening glows soft and sleepy through gauzy curtains. Outside, the sky is painted with peach and lavender, and the hum of the city is distant, like a lullaby whispered through clouds. Inside the quiet birthing room, warm amber light wraps around clean walls and cartoon-printed privacy screens. There’s a faint scent of cocoa butter and chamomile.

Dannah Phirman exhales into her pillow, cheeks flushed with effort, eyes glassy with emotion. The Lexiconian-human birth team moves gently around her, their footsteps light, voices kinder than clouds. The last contraction has passed—but something new has arrived.

A delicate cry rises, squeaky and soft, like the first note of a melody waiting to be sung.

“She’s here,” the doctor says, smiling wide. “And she’s… radiant.”

They lift her into view.

Round cheeks. Wide, curious eyes that shimmer like twin planets. A head full of dark hair pulled into the tiniest twin puffs, each one tied with a glowing star clip. Her outfit—fitted for a newborn, but unmistakably heroic—is red with a yellow star at the center, tiny gloves, and a cape the size of a tea towel.

She kicks once. Gurgles. Smiles, unprompted.

Dannah’s lip trembles as they place the bundle against her chest. “She’s perfect,” she whispers, tears slipping freely now. “My little… WordBaby.”

The infant grips her finger, strong despite her size. Her tiny cape shifts as she wiggles, clearly already eager to move—just not quite ready to fly.

“No booth, no mic,” Dannah murmurs, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “Just… you.”

They lie there under the warmth of shared breath and heartbeat, a superhero born not in a lab or a spaceship—but here, wrapped in softness and lullabies, in the arms of the voice who gave her life both on- and off-screen.

Outside, another day ends.

Inside, a new story begins—gentle, bright, and waiting for its first word.