Rated M: This is a rating not necessarily for anything majorly graphic (though there will be brief sections that are more graphic than the rest) but there is (or will be in later chapters) a VERY strong and more adult theme. To put it short (because some people may be turned off by this and if that's the case, I don't want you to waste your time): Bruce Wayne's 'niece', the child of Clark and Diana, falls in love with Bruce. Yes, it's supposed to be fairly twisted and it's supposed to make you uncomfortable. It is not, I can promise you, smut.

The only main character throughout this fanfiction whose personality I'm responsible for would be Hope (though I'm still unsure of whether that is a suitable name, and suggestions are quite welcome, I just wanted to make due in a pinch!), though even she was initially inspired by the established Kingdom Come plotline.

This fanfiction is set to a post-Kingdom Come time period: if you haven't read the graphic novel—and it is HIGHLY recommended, whether you are a Wonder Woman, Batman, or Superman fan, enjoy comics, or enjoy mythology (since I'm one of the firm believers that comics are indeed modern mythology)—then here is a rundown without ruining the plot:

Batman is very old, in his late sixties or seventies, and even needs such a thing as a small metal exoskeleton to support himself.

There are a good number of 'super-children' around now that the old superheroes have had children, and some of which are even beginning to have children of their own.

Most superheroes are now retired, determining that the world of crime fighting should (more or less) be left up to humans to take care of.

If something is a bit sketchy, I apologize (and I would love for you to let me know!). I have a decent working knowledge of the Batman universe, but my knowledge of Wonder Woman's and Superman's universes are each pretty limited. Remember: any and all feedback is welcome, whether it's to tell me I'm doing good or to berate me on how horribly I play the characters. I'm a big girl, and I can handle it.

Without further ado (hah, like you even read any of that) I give you the prologue.

Prologue

"Hello?" These days, Bruce Wayne has to answer his own phone: it's been many years since Alfred's death, and he still feels that something is innately wrong when the phone rings and rings if let be. He coughs, stretches a little; he has been sitting at the chair before his computer console in the cave, monitoring the city.

"Bruce, it's time." The voice coming to him from halfway across America (some hospital in Kansas) is familiar, and there is an unbidden excitement in it—though maybe a slight queasiness as well. Bruce can understand that, because immediately his own gust feels tied in knots.

"I'll be there as soon as possible." He hangs up, and then turns, going as quickly as possible to his hangar—the private jet. For a moment he pauses, pale blue eyes turning form the jet to something darker, sleeker: the Batwing.

Diana and Clark would want me to go as Bruce Wayne, not as the Batman, he thinks, and wonders if that's more of an incentive than a deterrent. He imagines that he owes it to them to go somewhat normally. But what's faster? He asks himself. Smirking in the way that he has, where his lips barely curl (like he's hiding a secret), he reasons: Then again, they wouldn't want me to be late.

It only takes a few minutes, and he's in the air over Gotham: Bruce is glad that it's night here, but knows that it's probably only early evening in the Midwest. It doesn't really matter though, his stealth technology works for both radar and plain vision. The flight is smooth, and as fast as he's going, it will take only 30 more minutes before he reaches his destination. Even then he knows that by the time he gets there, by the time he's walking in through the hospital doors, it will be over: Amazon princesses didn't spend very long in labor, and as far as he knew, weren't known for complicated births.

Though he can imagine that it is unlike him, Bruce Wayne can barely contain his excitement. He is well versed at maintaining a stony, austere countenance, but he is also certainly aware of his own emotions that tumult and twist inside of him. They had kept the gender of the baby a secret—had asked not to be shown during the sonograms (and Clark had promised not to peek): it would be a surprise for everyone. It's been obvious that Diana has been hoping for a girl—less obvious (but still noticeable, to Bruce at least) that Clark wants a boy. Bruce knows that Diana thinks he's been rooting for a boy, but he isn't so sure, really. He's had some experience with 'raising' both boys and girls, and part of him is actually wanting a girl more than a boy, at this point.

Bruce Wayne passes into the hospital, dark shades on even though the sun is gone from the sky, glowing faintly before falling completely away from this side of the world. He moves more slowly than he likes, but as fast as his old body will allow. He tries to hold his back up straight, but there is a permanent slouch about him now, and the only thing left of him that is bright and quick are his eyes, faded but sharp. He nods towards a nurse, giving her a charming smile, and she tells him where to go—deciding instead to escort him, she takes the time to beam at him, saying that he is expected. Battered fingers that used to be able to grip windowsills and the sides of buildings, worn out hands that used to help him live life stories above the pavement, slip the sunglasses into the pocket of his collared shirt, which is a blue slightly darker than his eyes.

The man (who is both commanding and nearly a cripple, if one was to remove the braces supporting his body) walks with a purpose, with a drive that burns in the eyes of onlookers; this is the way he's always walked, the way he's walked since he was eight years old. Now however, it is possible that there is something lighter about it, less brooding: maybe even there is a slight bounce in his step, if you look at just the right time, with a certain angle.

When the elderly man enters the room, he quickly recognizes that he's missed the actual birth by only a few short moments; he can spot his two friends immediately, though there are quite a few people in the small room. They seem to glow: Diana lying on the white hospital bed, and Clark leaning over her. He doesn't think that this glow (and it is a tangible thing, a very real luminescence, as if the lighting were different about their shoulders) is because they're more than human, but rather because they're new parents. Watching them there, cradling and cooing at the newborn, Bruce feels a cold aloneness in his gut that combats the hot excitement in his chest. Two's a company, he thinks even as he wills himself not to be bitter.

"Bruce!" Clark-El, Superman, the once-upon-a-time Clark Kent, turns to him smiling, and through the thin frost that has settled over his heart, Bruce returns the smile: he's given the man a hard time before, of course he has, but this? Even Bruce can't think of bringing a dark cloud here. To anyone watching: one man is old and bent, and the other is still in his prime, strong-looking—in fact, younger than Bruce remembered him from the latest crisis. Batman, the Dark Knight turned simply Bruce, Bruce Wayne, moves toward the hospital bed.

Diana's mouth opens in the kind of smile that only a woman part-Goddess can render; her dark hair is tossed and her brow is glistening lightly with perspiration. Her chest heaves, but only lightly now, and there is a bundle crooked in her arm, held to her. Bruce thinks that she is striking in this moment, that she is both warrior and mother, and seeing her like this somehow makes her infinitely more beautiful. He can barely look away from her, towards the infant in her arms.

"A girl," Diana breathes, still smiling her broad, Amazon smile: Diana who is Wonder Woman, who is a princess, who is the embodiment of both the necessity of war and the forever goal of peace. "A baby girl." She is beaming, and Bruce feels like the air he breathes is that much more sweet—he thinks that maybe he's been holding his breath for the last few months. A beautiful baby girl, he concurs, and knows that already Diana couldn't be more proud; knows too that Clark isn't disappointed, not even a little.

There is a hand on his back, a hand that could without a doubt crush his entire body—and it gently urges him forward, closer to the bed. Bruce doesn't know whether to resent this kindness, that the newborn's father would allow Bruce his place in order to be closer to the baby, at least for a while, or if he should just be glad for it, appreciate it. He goes with the latter, and then he's close enough to smell Diana, the sweat and life on her, and close enough to see the baby girl's tiny little fingernails. Reaching out tentatively, he traces a finger over the baby's arm, which is extended from the blanket.

It, she, takes a hold of his finger, and gives it a squeeze: doesn't seem very willing to let go, either. "Her name is Hope," Diana tells him, and he feels the warmth and already a certain type of strength in the newborn's grip. There is a stunning, yet somehow elusive scent of lilies that come from nowhere and everywhere, and eventually Bruce has to turn away, to hide the couple of tears that are welling in his eyes.