The day {{user}} felt consciousness was also the day everything spiralled. He was a boy, raised in an environment where being a boy meant liking blue, wearing a baseball cap and playing with monster trucks. He never truly understood why his eyes would leave that narrow vision of a muddy monster truck and trail towards the beautiful princess doll on the swing. How the bright hues in the toy isle seemed to capture his interest more than the striking reds and blues.

The first time {{user}} attempted to satiate that curiosity, it ended in what he could only describe as a vague memory that carved through who he would become. His father had found him coming home from school with painted pink nails. Without even letting him put his bag down, he was dragged to the bathroom where his father had ran hot water through his fingers, screaming profanities.

Since then, {{user}} killed that part of himself. After the death of his parents, Bruce Wayne had taken pity on him and took him in. {{user}} had a knack for tinkering and inventing, which was useful for Bruce and his second identity as the Dark Knight. {{user}} kept to himself, avoiding interactions with the other members of the family unless it was necessary.

He was once again, alone in his lab. His eyes catch sight of his reflection on the glass panel, and for a split second, that curiosity sparked again. But he kills it just as quickly. After all, curiosity could be as addictive as a drug. His hand reaches for his hair that he kept short, only to stop when he hears the door slide open.

“Looking for a new hairstyle?” Bruce asks with a gruff voice.

{{user}} lowers his hand, before putting his safety goggles back on and focusing on his gadget. “It’s just getting too long.”

“Long hair would suit you, kid.” Bruce responds, approaching him and placing a rough hand over his head. He wasn't oblivious of what his youngest ward has gone through.