Okay, so I thought people should know why I let Miss Fortune die (not literally). Well, I wanted more of a challenge. Their relationship wasn't enough - there had to be someone that could get under his skin and make him develop some twisted sort of feelings. So I wrote a novel-sized fanfic which I wasn't planning on posting but I thought I owed it to people who were annoyed that I'd just disappeared. The good news is it's already finished, so you'll get the whole story. I'm going to post two chapters a week and there are sixteen in total. Oh, by the way, some of the chapters contain mature content.

Disclaimer:This fandom does not belong to me it's property of Chris Nolan and Warner Bros. and the guy that invented Batman in the first place etc. This disclaimer applies to all chapters in this series.

My name is Scarlett. Well, that's my real name. Right now, I go by the name of Akako – Japanese for red. I grew up living in Gotham where my parents were at the top. It's my fault that we left. I'm paying for it every single day.

My mom, Relisys, is beautiful. It's a gypsy name, because that's what she is. Mom didn't have to change her name – she refused. She said it was disrespectful to her mother and she was proud to be gypsy. I'm proud of her too. The men don't leer after her anymore like they did in Gotham, now they just stare at her warily – she looks like a tramp to them. I don't care; I think she wears beautiful clothes. My favourite is her red velvet cardigan. It has short sleeves and displays all of her midriff. The front is covered in golden coins and beads that tinkle when she moves. She wears it with a matching red velvet head scarf and a long skirt made of rags of different brightly coloured material.

She has long brown hair and large eyes that draw people in. I took after her a lot. I'm small like her, only 5'1. I have dark brown, thick, wavy hair that falls just above my waist and the same large dark eyes. I don't dress like her though – I haven't had a gypsy's life and her clothes don't look as good on me as they do her. Besides, mom is adamant that I have to fit in here. I just wear normal dresses. Dad says we need to fly under the radar. I don't like him very much, although I know he puts me through hell for my own good. He wants me to lead a good life.

I'll tell you how it happened. We lived in Gotham until I was twelve. My mom danced for the men – to lure them in. When they were hooked on mom, dad got them hooked on his drugs too. The men always went home with empty wallets. My parents worked for the mob. We used to watch the news and laugh at it. Dad got me to point out mistakes that people had made that led to their murder. They weren't prepared or they were too trusting or too weak. Then he made me point out the good points that made the murderers and thieves get away with it. If they got caught, he'd ask me why. After weeks of this, I almost always got it right.

But I was young and foolish. I watched my successful father and beautiful mother at work and I wanted to join in so on my way home from school I didn't go straight home. I went to the Narrows. It was bleak and rough and had no edge of the glamour that my parents possessed. I knew it was stupid. I was off guard and had no weapons. I was unprepared. Knowing how furious my dad would be if I was captured from silly mistakes that I knew I was making, I left. I was twelve years old when it happened. Little did I know, I was being stalked in the shadows. The route I took home led me through many alley ways and though I thought I was being alert, the man followed a great distance behind me. He doubled round to the other end of the alleyway to head me off and it worked. He was a giant. Thankfully, that worked to my advantage. He grabbed me and hit me and I thought he was going to do something worse but I ducked under his arm and ran as fast as I could. Even he couldn't keep up.

When I got home with a black eye and told mom what happened she screamed at my father. She said it was his fault and Gotham couldn't teach me anything. My mom was tough, she told me stories of close escapes that she had as a gypsy. Learning to fight was easy and vital for her. Eventually, the decision was made that we'd move away from Gotham after the police raided our house. Thankfully, we escaped through the back door but things for the mob were getting worse and mom was frightened that I'd be put into care so we moved all the way to Japan.

My first week there was rough. Too rough.

Monday

Mom booked me into ballet classes. She made sure I was the best in the class. I'd be punished if I wasn't.

"Akako, how do you expect to be a good ballet dancer if you trip over your own feet?!" My ballet teacher would yell at me. "Try again. I will keep you here all night until you show me the perfect pirouette."

Mom would frown at me and check her watch. Sometimes, she'd leave me there for hours at a time. She was paying the teacher extra for one-on-one sessions to make sure I was ahead of all the other girls. It was true that when dancing in formation with everyone else I stood out more professionally than any of them b

ut when I was on my own with her, she tried to teach me more advanced things. Each time I fell or tripped my mom would scowl disappointedly and my teacher would look at me, sometimes with pity when she was teaching me extremely advanced things but usually with impatience.

"Get up you silly girl! How difficult can it be to do an Arabesque? Keep your leg straight and the other leg extended behind you at a right angle. That is NOT 90 degrees, Akako! Now hold your arms in a harmonious position so that your fingers are at the furthest possible distance from your toes." I had to stay like that for five minutes without mistake. Only one minute had passed. "How many times must I tell you that your shoulders must be held square to the line of direction?!"

Then I fell and she sighed irritably. My mom put her head in her hands. "I want you to practise this to perfection." The teacher told me. She handed my mom some cod-liver oil tablets and told her to make sure I have two in the morning and two at night.

Every Monday night I had to show Dad what I'd learnt in my private lessons. This was the part I always dreaded. I was expected to learn each new move by the end of the day and when I stumbled or couldn't hold my balance I would only get served porridge for my meals. I'd have to go to bed early, but I'd crawl under my bed and get out my torch and book. I read Little Red Riding Hood every night and gaze at the picture of the wolves and the girl. When I was good and learnt my moves in a single session I could have a new dress or a book about wolves. I've learnt a lot about wolves.

Tuesday

Gymnastics and again the instructor was being paid for extra sessions. I preferred gymnastics far more than ballet. Ballet seemed tedious and pointless. I hated learning to keep my body in strange, painful positions for hours. Gymnastics was so much better and I improved quickly with each session. I had a male instructor who was incredibly helpful and friendly but he always pushed me harder. With him though, I didn't want to let him down. I often injured myself from straining my body too hard but, injury or not, my parent's forced me to continue.

"Your leap onto the second bar is beautiful Akako, but surely you can rotate your body three times instead of two?" After many bad landings I mastered it. "Incredible. You are an excellent student. Now, on your landing, I want you to turn your body 360 degrees whilst flipping twice."

It was exhausting work but being airborne, leaping and twirling gave me the adrenaline rush that I loved. I felt free. All the stress that built up throughout the week was dispersed in my movements. I could clear my mind and just focus on the movements of my body whilst always trying to improve my speed and fluidity.

Dad was much more pleased with my progress in gymnastics. My mother beamed at me proudly and I grinned back.

Wednesday

Perhaps equally as fun but far worse for tormenting my body were self-defence classes. The instructor was a large, burly man with a body mass of about five times mine. He got me in a sleeper hold. I was always used in demonstrations to the class.

"Now," He said to the class with his arm wrapped around my neck, "If an attacker gets you in this position, I'll be honest, your chances are pretty bleak. If you become deadweight – by taking your feet off the floor and making your body go limp – the attacker may not be able to hold you and I would recommend this first. If the attacker can hold you then try and unhook his feet with your own to make him stumble or try to use his arm to push your legs backwards, as high up as you can reach. Give it a try Akako."

I let my body drop but obviously he still clung to me. I tried to make him trip but he didn't move an inch. Gathering all my strength I pulled down hard on his arm and swung myself backwards so that my feet rammed his knees and bent them the wrong way so that he had to let go or risk breaking his legs. He dropped me but thanks to my other training I fell lightly on the floor and jumped back up quickly.

He laughed gruffly on the floor. "Very good. Aiming for the joints is always a good idea. Now, grab a partner and practise this yourselves."

I was always partnered with the teacher because no one else dared go against me. A fact that my father was incredibly proud of.

Showing my father this was sometimes worse than showing him my pitiful ballet moves. He always made me practise on himself. He also insisted on making it more realistic so when he put me in a sleeper hold he took it one step further by blocking off my oxygen supply. I mostly managed to escape but I fainted a few times.

Thursday

On Thursdays I had more strenuous fighting. I was lucky to be accepted into one of the few Ninjutsu training schools that taught about strength and stealth, how to be hidden, how to escape, how to block attacks with your arms and hands and also how to fight with weapons such as nunchucks and long knives.

Dad continually stressed that this was the most important. I learnt this until there was nothing more I could learn and I won every battle against the instructor. Then, Dad found me other people to fight against. He said I could always improve myself and that there were better fighters than my instructor out there.

I excelled at this, mainly because of Dad's fury if I didn't. He didn't care about the other training as much as he cared about this and if I lost a fight he'd find ways to make me pay.

Friday

Fridays were my absolute favourite days. Mom taught me how to dance like her and how to put on make up in the best way. She styled my hair and then made me style hers. She told me how to pick clothes that would make the most of my assets.

She taught me how to walk in a way that would grasp men's attention. How to always seem confident and in control like a dream that people couldn't grasp. She taught me how to allure people with my mysterious eyes and how to change my voice to trick people of my mood.

She taught me how to steal without getting caught and how to sneak without being heard. She taught me everything she knew.

Looking back, I wish I had seen why. I thought it was all punishment for making them move away from Gotham and getting myself in a stupid situation. I believed this for years. Even after my parents made me study law at weekends, I never guessed. When I got older, the pieces started slotting together.

I couldn't understand why I had to continue to train if they wanted me to become a lawyer. The more I got to know them the more I realised how much they hated abiding by the law. I knew there was a reason but I couldn't figure out what.

Sometimes, my Dad would bring home tramps and kill them, so that I knew what death looked like. When I got a bit older he made me kill them. Mom watched in the background and gave me a huge hug after I'd done it. She called me her little girl and told me how proud I made her.

That wasn't the only thing that changed as I grew older. Mom and dad finally agreed that ballet wasn't useful for me anymore. On my seventeenth birthday they cancelled my ballet lessons and enrolled me in parkour instead.

It even beat Friday's with my mom. It was risky, of course. Gymnastics was in a controlled environment where I knew I was always safe but parkour took place in the city. I attempted jumps from ridiculous heights and distances without hesitation and clambered up walls and over railings with ease. That wasn't without its accidents. I often came home bruised and bleeding. Once I split my head open and broke my leg. After that my Dad forced me to try the same stunt over and over again until I could do it with perfection. It was the most fun I had ever had because I was truly free to lose control. After I had finished studying law, Dad tutored me at weekends on Science, Maths and Weapons. He brought all kinds of strange devices home, half of them I couldn't figure out what they were meant to do.

After learning self-defence I was forced to fight my dad on Wednesday's instead. He didn't hesitate to injure me and once I found out his weaknesses so that I won the majority of fights we started fighting with weapons instead. Mom increased the amount of time where she taught me her methods of dancing and seducing, insistent that it was important I kept my femininity and that Dad had me doing too much sports.

I still read "Little Red Riding Hood" to myself at night. I imagined it was me running through the forest, jumping over branches and leaping from tree to tree. The wolf would never catch me.

This morning was my nineteenth birthday. I woke up groggily, my back aching from the previous night's gymnastics.

To make my mom happy, I got dressed up as I usually did. I had a shower then dried and curled my dark hair. I applied my face powder, eyeliner and mascara as usual – remembering to make sure my lipstick didn't clash with my chosen dress. It was a corset dress with a ruffled skirt that fell just above my knees. It was bright red – my favourite colour. I repainted my nails to hide any cracks in the polish and looked stunning walking down the stairs. No matter what she said, I always felt that she looked more beautiful.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart." Mom cooed. She had tears in her eyes. She never usually broke down and seeing as this wasn't even an important birthday, she caught me off guard.

"Thanks mom… what's happened?" I asked.

Dad approached me and rested a heavy hand on my shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak but mom interrupted him. "No! Not yet. She's just come downstairs. We can wait a little while longer. Please."

Dad nodded and sat at the kitchen table, followed by mom who motioned for me to sit down. A pile of steaming pancakes sat in the middle of the table and they helped themselves in silence. I didn't ask questions. This had happened on my seventeenth birthday when dad announced he was going to start bringing victims home.

"Your mom taught you a very important lesson. The fighting and agility lessons were for your protection. To really get somewhere you'll need to use everything your mother taught you. You would be surprised at how easily men… succumb to a woman's charm. They fall head over heels. They do almost anything."

At this mom smirked behind her cup of coffee. After breakfast, we went into the lounge where mom showed me my presents.

"Your father and I have bought you a house. It's very well hidden and I think you'll find it perfect. I know how much you loved that old fairy-tale so we bought you a small cottage in the forest. It was cheap because there are wolves nearby but I'm sure they won't get to you." Mom said carefully and showed me a picture.

It looked perfect. Mom had written a message below the picture. It said: Be who you want to be. Different people stand out against everyone. Live your dream with confidence.

I smiled at her and gave her a hug, setting the picture aside. When I pulled away she looked nervously at my Dad who shook his head and picked up another picture. "We also bought you a motorbike. It'll give you more freedom than a car will."

It was beautiful. It was a big, bright red Ducati. A Ducati Sport 1000 S to be precise. I opened the parcel next to it and it revealed a Red Riding Hood outfit. I laughed.

"Mom, what is this? Am I meant to wear this in my cottage and pretend to be Red Riding Hood?"

"Did you not read the message I wrote on the picture of your new home?" Mom asked, approaching the subject gingerly. This wasn't like her.

"Where is it mom?" I asked and from the look on her face, I had asked the right question. "We don't live anywhere near a forest. Is it on the other side of Japan or something?"

Mom looked away and remained silent. Dad pursed his lips and glanced at the picture of the house in front of me. I picked it up again and stared at it before realising that it opened like a booklet.

The first thing I noticed was that a plane ticket fell out. Not three plane tickets. Just one. The second thing I noticed was the address of the house. The paper fell out of my hands as I ran to the bathroom and managed to reach the toilet before I was sick.

Gotham.