April Yang and Dick Grayson share deep-rooted connections to Gotham, even if they prefer not to give them much thought and keep their emotions to themselves. When Dick turns up in Devon City, where April works towards becoming a surgeon, she inevita...
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April's favorite color had always been red.
Not because of roses, or summer sunsets, nor thanks to the thousands of its lipstick shades. At times she thought it could be because of how she felt her cheeks redden when happy—thus wished she could've associate the color with a moment of joy. April liked books with cherry-colored covers, wines of deep burgundy color, and crimson eyeshadows she'd always damp onto her waterline.
At heart, though, she knew that this particular color preference occurred only thanks to her mother.
"Pick a happy color for the bracelet," the woman had said once, not short before she had sent April off to live with her father in Gotham. "Red, like blood."
At the age of seven, or perhaps even earlier given that her mother was an outstanding surgeon herself, April decided to recognize blood as a positive thing. She'd become fascinated with the concept of a human body from a biological standing point—how it worked and how it could be fixed. Due to her rather odd nature, April found it difficult, nearly impossible, to make any new friends whatsoever. Reflecting back on her methods of trying to impress the kids, she realised that the idea of making a cut on her ankle and then stitching it with a timer in hand was flawed from the beginning.
She didn't need friends, or so she thought. April had her father, although that itself is an overstatement. Granted, he was not always there and, as well as her mother, took little interest in his daughter's achievements or hobbies, but if by some dumb luck he had appeared in town, April could be sure he'd spend every breathing second watching her. Only after some time she had realised that his behavior, despite him saying that it was powered by care for her, was purely driven by a need of control.
No decisions were never truly her own, her friends almost always transactional, and her actions scrutinized by not only her father, but also various nannies and governesses. She had to eat a specific way, drink correctly mineralised water, or walk a certain way. From the moment she woke up there were people to watch over her; to dress her. Her father ordered the employees to put her in blues and whites—colors of royalty, and she had then obediently decided it was her new favorite color.
April would smile. She would dance and nod, sometimes cry in the bathrooms. She'd laugh and scratch at her skin mercilessly. She'd bang on walls and make good small-talk. Everyday, April would wake up with eyes wide-open and hope there would be no next days.
That was, however, up until the day of her eleventh birthday.
As she had found herself being able to dress on her own and go down the stairs without an escort, April looked around and, terrified, screamed. There was no one there, no one to tell her what to do. She wondered if she had dreamed the previous four years of her life—if it was all a joke, but found that the pain was all still too real. She could go out in the garden and eat two pieces of bread rather than one. April put on her squeaky shoes and ran out of her house and straight to the city, barely even thinking of the possible dangers.
