Disclaimer: I only do these once. I don't own Beauty and the Beast. I own the ideas behind this fanfiction. Nothing more, nothing less.

A/N at the bottom.

Chapter 1: Pilot

Songs: "Wait For You" by Elliot Yamin, "Silhouettes" by Sleeping At Last, "Buried Alive Interlude" by Drake ft. Kendrick Lamar, "Hanging On" by Ellie Goulding

The blueish grey stone of his balcony is frigid like the air around him, though to be honest, he isn't bothered by either. His current body is similar in appearance to his old self but carries with it some drastic changes as well. This body adapts to the seasons contrarily to those of normal men. This body is stronger than wolves and bears. This body is faster than the horses in his stables. This body is agiler than any woodland creature. This body heals faster than a normal man's would. This body is cursed.

He has grown used to it in the past nine years. It is still his face that greets him in the mirror, though the boyishness his fifteen-year-old not-cursed-self once held was gone, replaced with sharper lines of seriousness and maturity. His hair fell just past his shoulder, colored the same light auburn he had inherited from his mother. He is plenty attractive, he knows, yet he feels hideous because the mirror does not reflect the eyes of the man inside. Instead, they show him the eyes of the monster.

Lumiere defined his eyes as akin to dying embers near a healthy flame. Cogsworth insisted that they were a cross between a dark, candlelit glass of brandy and thick honey. Mrs. Potts mused that when he was full of energy, either when he was in a temper or pleasantly excited, that his eyes reminded her of molten iron. The prince found that closest thing to naming the hue his eyes now represented would have to be amber, but the mix of dark topaz, dull crimson, and white gold made his eyes appear to glimmer and swim with color. Sometimes the colors all blurred together, sometimes they stood out obviously, but they were not the dark azure orbs that had greeted him in the mirror since childhood. And yet despite the fact that they were the most obvious reminder of his inhuman state, he has grown used to his them as well.

Usually at this time of year Mrs. Potts would be especially eager to compliment his irises. But seeing as autumn had been a teasing affair and had quickly been overshadowed by a premature winter, she had not gotten the chance to compare his eyes to fallen leaves this year. It is not long past the ides of November now and yet as he stands on his balcony it begins to snow thick heavy clumps. The small patches of colorful leaves – those that did manage to fall – above the not-yet-dead grasses are quickly buried in white as the storm continues to blow in. This winter will be a harsh one, he realizes as he shakes the snow out of his hair and dusts himself off before returning to his room, being sure to firmly lock the balcony doors behind him. The gales would kick up soon enough and he did not desire the storm to be in his room with him. Content that they will indeed stay closed, he sits one of the two plush chairs in the tidy area by the fire.

In the first year of his curse, his personal chambers in the West Wing had been an absolute nightmare. He had destroyed every room with his newly acquired strength, ripping linens and drapes, tearing mattresses and pillows to shreds, and even shattering sections of the stone floors on many occasions. The autumn after the curse initiated, he realized that if he wanted things to change then he needed to make an effort towards breaking the curse. Shortly before his sixteenth birthday his servants had helped him restore the wing to its former glory. He could not completely lift the dreary aspect of the Enchantress's curse, but he could at least keep his chambers presentable.

From the autumn he repaired the West Wing until he turned twenty, the prince spent most of his time either planning, hosting or attending parties. He had to make up a story with Cogsworth to hide the curse's nighttime effect on the staff, but it seemed to make any guests the castle entertained that much more excited to come to his events. He could not allow any outsiders to stay in the castle after sunset, but he could open the doors at dawn and close them just after supper.

For those four years he intermittently studied, fulfilled his duties as a prince, and tried to find a wife. The Enchantress had been very clear with how to break his spell. He had to learn to love and be loved in return before he turned twenty-five. To help him with his task she had given him the enchanted rose, which served not only as his timepiece, but as his guide. If he willed it to, the rose would tell him the true intentions and feelings of any woman he thought of in its presence. And in those four years not a single woman that he took an interest in had any interest in loving him. Most of them were either being pressured by their parents to marry above their rank or desired to climb the social latter of their own ambition.

At the dawn of his twentieth year he lost hope. He gave up the parties, only allowed visitors for reasons relating to the crown, and made sure the only exception to his no-visitors-after-dusk rule was his uncle, who knew of the curse. The prince spent most of his time by himself from then on, but made sure his staff knew they were appreciated and thought of fondly. He did not want them to think he would not still attempt to free them from his mistake, but he had lost all sense of direction for going about his task. On more than one occasion, he had considered asking his uncle for permission to seek a wife from the lower class, but every time he attempted to put pen to parchment and open that conversation, his self-esteem plummeted and he forfeited the task.

Not ten days after the prince abandoned the parties for dreary solitude, the Enchantress came to him in a vision of sorts while he was alone in his chambers. She apologized for judging him so harshly and being unable to undo her curse, as the rules were binding and unchangeable. She made him a promise to make up for the wrong she had done him and swore to find someone who could break his curse, love him, and share the beautiful life he had built for himself. She told him to ignore any women who attempted to gain his affections. The only exception to her instructions would be the girl she sends to him, who he will be able to identify by her possession of an enchanted mirror, which the Enchantress would give to the girl herself.

After she told him not to lose his faith and have patience, she left, leaving him confused and starting at a large blotch of ink on his parchment, but that night he started having odd, fleeting dreams. In the dream he is trying to protect someone, a girl, but he isn't certain, and for some reason he loses track of her. But regardless of if he has the dream several times a week or a few times a season, each time he remembers those same miniscule details. He knows that the dream is to remind him not to lose his faith, but honestly he wouldn't have doubted the Enchantress's promise even if he didn't wake up in a confused, panicked sweat most of the time.

The prince is just barely twenty-four now. Meaning he has only a year left to undo the curse, and has yet to meet any girls with enchanted mirrors. He has obeyed the Enchantress's orders about courtship in the meantime, ignoring daughters of Marquis and Comtes when he's forced to do business with their fathers. He's been patient, but now he's rather anxious. How long would it take him to fall in love? How long would it take for the girl to love him in return? What if he spent the next eleven months trying to woo the girl and she rejected him in the end? Then he would only have a month to try and find someone else to break the curse. Was it even possible to fall in love in such a short period of time?

He peeks over his shoulder to glance out the glass of the balcony's glass doors. The snow on the balcony railings is now about half as tall as Mrs. Potts in teapot form and is coming down heavier than it had been moments before. The wind blows the flakes harshly sideways and the larger pieces of ice clink as they hit the panes. He sighs, striding further into the room to tend to the fire. Mrs. Potts did not care that the cold caused him no harm; she would throw a fit if he didn't keep his rooms comfortable no matter how he felt about the subject. Thus, he was in the habit of tending to the unnecessary fire.

As he stokes the flames, his sensitive ears pick up the sound of footsteps drawing near. Originally he assumes it is Mrs. Potts bringing his tea or supper, but as the steps reach the stairs he realizes that there are several people coming toward him. They are running and talking in hushed, worried tones. Something is wrong. He beats them to the doors. Lumiere and Cogsworth stop to bend double when they see him, making fruitless attempts at speaking and catching their breath simultaneously. Little Chip – frozen at four by way of the curse – has followed his mother and seems to be as confused as the prince feels. He also recognizes a few of the guards that usually patrol the grounds are with the entourage as well. Mrs. Potts, who has color in her cheeks from sprinting to him, manages to speak clearly and takes charge of the group.

"Sir, a most troublesome and wonderful event has occurred," she begins excitedly. "These men were out patrolling not half an hour ago when they stumbled across a young woman and her horse. The woman seemed to have slipped off and was half buried in the snow when they found her. Judging by her state and the animal's fatigue, they have been out in this mess since it started at the very least. She's got an awful fever and we have her in one of the warmer rooms in the East Wing on the first floor," she says in a rush. "But Master, before you get upset," she starts again, having seen the displeasure filter across his face, "When they carried her inside a small hand mirror fell out of one of her bags. The thing is so delicate looking and small it should have shattered, Master, but it did no such thing."

The prince absorbs her words, slowly letting them sink in and trying to keep his excitement at bay. "Is the girl awake?" He asks, eager as well as apprehensive.

"No sir," says a slightly less winded Lumiere. "But I would come see her regardless. She is a vision, Your Majesty, the most magnifique thing I have ever seen."

"She really is very pretty, sir!" adds Chip earnestly as he nods his blonde head with wide, honest blue eyes. He clings tightly to his mother's skirts.

Under any other circumstances, the prince would have thought Lumiere was teasing him in some way, but the utter admiration in his voice as he spoke of the girl told him that the Casanova was perfectly serious. The girl must be quite a sight indeed to render Lumiere in such a state of awe.

"Indeed, S-sir," a stuttering Cogsworth gasps, "She's positively stunning! A-a most attractive couple you'll be if she is indeed, the girl you were p-promised." Cogsworth supports himself against the wall, still attempting to regain his breath.

The prince returns his attention to the guards. "There's no good reason any young woman, gorgeous or otherwise, would be out in this sort of storm at this hour," he says, and the adults instantly catch his meaning judging by their expressions. "Tell the rest of the guard to bundle up. I want patrols all night. Keep the perimeter close to the grounds so we don't lose anyone in the snow, but if anyone is after this girl, I want them stopped before they can so much as inquire of her whereabouts."

"Yes, Sir!" the four guards chorus as they take off down the hall to relay their orders. The prince is left with only Lumiere, an almost recovered Cogsworth, Mrs. Potts, and Chip, who look at him expectantly.

He shifts his weight as he thinks. "I'd like to see the mirror…and the girl, of course," he adds, if only to avoid any further encouragement. Regardless of his nonchalance, the four of them look at him excitedly as they lead him to her room in the East Wing. The prince tunes out most of their chatter along the way, only really listening when Mrs. Potts talks about the girl's health, apparently her fever is startlingly high, which confuses the motherly woman since the girl is clearly in her early twenties. She suspects that the girl must be under a lot of stress if her body is having so much trouble battling a simple cold, which makes the prince worry as well. There are very few scenarios he could come up with in which a beautiful young woman would end up with such a stressful daily life that it affects her health and none of them are innocent in nature.

He's lost, reeling in nightmarish thoughts as they descend the main stairs and navigate the first floor to the East Wing. With every step, he gets more anxious. The Enchantress would obviously send him a girl who knew life's hardship as well as he did. He realizes that her logic with that decision is sound, since the girl needs to be able to accept him as he is. And yet he is greatly bothered by this notion as well since he has so little time to assess the situation and break the curse. Surely she won't trust him or even want to stay in the castle if she's hell bent on self-preservation. There are dozens of reasons to explain why she would be on the run. Perhaps she is not a victim, but rather a criminal herself. How could a prince justify marrying a felon? Though the more he dwells on that unpleasant scenario, the less likely it seems. The Enchantress promised someone he could love and be loved by, someone to share his life with. So the girl must be someone he could marry with ease.

Coming full circle, he decides she must be a victim of some sort. In some ways he would prefer her to be a criminal. He can teach her how to change her character, but how on earth would he comfort her if she's been attacked, wrongfully accused of immoral behavior, or worse, violated. He shudders, clenching his fists as he walks. If she is as beautiful as they say, there's no telling what horrors she could have sustained in life. The upper classes tend to protect their daughters better, but the lower classes turn a blind eye to cases where daughters are taken advantage of, wives are beaten, or daughters are raped and then forced to marry their assailants. And how on earth would he gain her trust if such were the case? No sane creature would live in a castle full of people she doesn't know, men she doesn't know, if she had experienced such violence.

Not to mention, the girl must have a family somewhere, mustn't she? Unless she is an orphan like himself, and that theory opens the doors to a dozen other problems he may have when attempting to gain her trust…

"Sir, we're here," Mrs. Potts says gently. He flinches to a stop, willing his hands to relax once more, and finds them before a set of oak doors. Giving Mrs. Potts an appreciative smile for bringing him out of his thoughts, he passes his entourage and enters the room. A subdued Madame Armoire is to his left tending the fire diligently. The former lady-in-waiting glances at him as he enters, appearing as worried as Mrs. Potts had been moments before. He gives her a small nod, taking in the space before him.

Though it is smaller than his chambers, the layout is almost identical. The back wall is lined with windows and has two glass doors leading to a snow coated balcony. Doors frame each side of the mantle. The one closest to the back wall leads to the washroom, while the one closest to the entrance opens to reveal a walk-in closet. Her room simply lacks a small table near the closet with a rose under a bell jar and an adjoining study door. Not to mention several dozens of square footage. Dark wine colored curtains block out most of the light in the room, save for a sliver coming from the balcony doors. The four poster against the right wall is smaller than his, but seems excessively large compared its inhabitant, who is the single most enchanting creature he has ever beheld.

Her hair is a dark brown and contrasts with her delicate cream colored flesh. Equally dark eyelashes rest against the feverish tint in her cheeks. Her brows naturally arc over her resting eyes while her nose sits perfectly amidst her other features. Her feverish cheeks match the light pink hue of her lips, which are parted ever so slightly as she breathes softly through them. Mrs. Potts and Madame Armoire only have the covers pulled up to her waist, most likely because of her fever. And she's wearing a thick modest nightdress instead of the blue frock he noticed over the back of the chair by the fire. He sees that the sleeping garment is too big for her tiny frame, frowning when his eyes catch her collar bones, which are a tad too prominent. Her arms are thin as well, with tiny shoulders that wouldn't hold up the nightdress on their own if she were up and moving about. At present, her left hand is tucked under her head, but the right rests gently on the bed. From what he can see of her left hand, there is no trace of a wedding band, which pleases him, but those hands are so small, fingers too thin. She's a ghost of a woman under the nightgown, judging by how much of the thing she doesn't fill out, but she's still lovely.

Very lovely, in fact, yet the obvious malnourishment she's sustained makes him mildly nauseous and more than a little angry. The girl couldn't possibly be younger than nineteen and certainly not older than twenty-three, so why wasn't she married? Someone should have claimed this tiny beauty the moment she was of marrying age and yet here she is, lying sick in one of his rooms, seemingly unmarried. The prince locks his jaw, realizing that the odds of this young woman being the victim of some sort of abuse were getting higher and higher.

Madame Armoire is waiting patiently beside the bed as he looks over the girl and organizes his thoughts. He turns to her, still frowning. "When you changed her clothes, were there any physical indications of harm?" he asks hesitantly, afraid of her answer.

Her lips press into a grim line. "She has several bruises along her right side, although those could be from falling off her horse. No fresh wounds, but she has several scars in…telling places…" she tells him solemnly. When he raises an auburn brow at her last statement, she continues reluctantly. "It looks as if someone took a blade to the tops of her thighs. The wounds did not appear self-inflicted. They're thin, short, flat slivers of scars, but there's a good dozen or so on each leg, almost as if she fell in glass. There's also some similar scarring on her stomach and ribcage, and one faint line on the left side of her neck as if -"

"As if someone held a knife to her throat," he growls quietly. The beast in him is seething with anger and a foreign sense of protectiveness for the girl. He has to do something. "I wish to move her," he says through clenched teeth.

Madame Armoire blinks in surprise. "To where, Master?"

"My room."

"But, Sir, she'll likely be terrified of you-"

"I am well aware of that fact!" He snaps harshly, losing his patience. "But she has the mirror, does she not?" Madame Armoire, nodding with subdued excitement, motions towards three bags sitting beside the door. There is a leather satchel, a canvas messenger bag, and a cotton knapsack. "Which one?" He asks. She points to the leather satchel. He opens the flap, finding the mirror between a book, several folded maps, and carefully rolled up parchment, along with two very lethal knives, an expensive looking pen, and a few bottles of ink. Carefully observing the crystal looking glass, he takes note of the slight magical hum radiating into his palm. The same hum he felt around the enchantress the last time he saw her.

"She's the one," he says firmly, standing after he returns the item to its rightful place. "I want her moved to the West Wing, my chambers, at once."

"But Master," Mrs. Potts says from the door, having been quietly observing and listening to his exchange with Madame Armoire with Lumiere and Cogsworth. "She's quite possibly terrified of men. She'll think you mean her harm. She could panic; attempt to harm you or herself, sir, please reconsider!" Mrs. Potts proclaims with intense motherly instinct visible in her posture.

He does his best not to growl at her, but his patience is at its end. The beast is displeased by the state of the little woman on the bed. And despite the improvements to his temperament since the curse took hold, he could still get quite scary when provoked. "She will learn to trust me by sleeping in my bed. She will learn that I will not touch her without her expressed permission. She will learn to be safe here," he says in a quiet hiss, barely maintaining his irritation. He bends down and starts putting her bags on one shoulder. "While she's ill I wish to tend to her. Obviously there are actions which will require you and Madame Armoire, Mrs. Potts, but the girl is my only chance. If she's truly been so horribly broken by some bastard with a death wish, then I do not have the luxury of waiting to gain her trust at her pace. Hopefully, something in her things will confirm my suspicions, but think on it. What father would not have a daughter this beautiful safely married by now? She's nearly spinster aged," he continues. "She's likely an orphan with little to no family. I would guess that she's a peasant just trying to avoid any further torment. Let us simply hope she hasn't been impregnated because if so I will track down the bastard who harmed her and have my uncle execute him. Her birth rank be damned." He vows, his tone serious and as deadly as his promise.

Lumiere clears his throat cautiously. "Actually, Master…she may not be a peasant. Her horse is a purebred Belgian and very well trained. He's of excellent temperament, in fact. Certainly something even the lower ranks of nobility could not have afforded. At least, not with the training and discipline he has," Lumiere explains gently.

The prince hums in acknowledgement, still holding back his temper. "Tell the stable boys to take good care of the Belgian, but should she somehow get out of my sight, she is not allowed to leave the grounds on that horse without my expressed permission." Lumiere nods diligently. The prince returns his attention to Mrs. Potts. "I want her upstairs before sundown, please," he grinds out. And then he breezes through the door and back up to the West Wing, with the girl's bags.

Once back in his rooms, he sets her things beside his study door before adding significantly more wood to the dimming fire. The little woman will certainly need to be kept warmer than he does. Glancing at the bed, he realizes his habit of sleeping with sheets rather than quilts and duvets will not suffice for his guest. The presence or absence of blankets does not bother him due to his lack of discomfort from the chill of the room. Finding one of his maids tending to the fire in his study, he asks her to fetch him the items he requires. He isn't waiting in his room for long when she comes in with a large stack of fabrics in her arms that block a good portion her view. After taking the heavy load from her, he thanks her and sends her on her way. Spoiled prince he once was, but he could make a bed by himself.

His loot of linens consists of one thin light blue quilt that he recognizes from his childhood, two thicker quilts, one lavender and the other sea green – both of which his mother had once particularly enjoyed curling up in near a fire with a book – and the duvet to match his bed set. He layers the items over his already straightened sheets, which are dark blue sheets with gold accents. Then he adds the light blue, lavender, and sea green quilts, and the dark blue and gold accented duvet. Once he has the duvet smoothed and has turned down each layer on the left side of the bed, he idly studies the swirling gold pattern of thorny stems leading to a large shimmering rose in the center. He remembers why he had it put away to begin with as his gaze travels to the wilting enchanted rose in the corner between the door and the fireplace. Deciding the duvet no longer upsets him, he then makes certain that all of the drapes are pulled shut keep out the light reflecting off the snow. As he finishes adjusting the last navy velvet curtain, his ears pick up the sound of approaching footsteps.

Beating them to the doors once more, the prince opens them wide to allow Lumiere inside with the girl in his arms. It bothers the prince to no end that it takes very little exertion on Lumiere's behalf to have carried the girl thus far. The gangly man walks around the bed and sets her down gently. The prince trades places with Lumiere once he's detached himself from the girl and diligently wraps each layer around her tiny body. Once he's satisfied with his work he returns his attention to his staff.

"Mrs. Potts, Madame Armoire, I would appreciate it if when you venture to this wing in the morning for your typical mid-morning duties, you bring what is needed to bathe and dress the girl," he says gently. The beast's and prince's tempers had been given a chance to cool down as he prepared his rooms, and he felt a tad of remorse for being so harsh with them before. The two ladies nod emphatically, neither seeming to hold any hard feeling for his earlier behavior. "Lumiere, Cogsworth, double check that the guards relayed my orders. I want the strictest patrols until the girl has awoken and I have assessed the situation." There's another round of nodding. He returns his attention to Mrs. Potts once more. "Could you please tell cook of the girl's arrival? She will likely need soups and bread to eat when she awakes. She's such a tiny thing. When she's well enough I endeavor to get her to a healthy weight," he says softly.

"I've carried sacks of flour heavier than she," Lumiere offers unhappily. "She's too beautiful to wither away like that…"

Mrs. Potts purses her lips. "I agree that the poor dear is extremely underfed, but if she has a family she will not stay here long past recovering from her sickness," she says reasonably. "We have no way to be certain that we will be able to take care of her or have her here for the long term."

"You are correct, Mrs. Potts," the prince sighs, remembering his earlier thoughts about the girl's situation, "but I hope to find out what we need to know about her while she sleeps tonight. I have her things. There were letter writing materials in her satchel, perhaps I will discover some correspondences among the rest of her things," he tells them in a hopeful tone. "For now, I believe I have everything I need."

Lumiere and Cogsworth bow and take their leave.

"I'll send up some medicine for her," Madame Armoire says quietly before bidding him farewell as well.

The prince notices that Chip did not following his mother this time as the concerned Mrs. Potts studies him, unmoving despite his gentle dismissal. Her expression is equal parts curious and displeased. "Sir, Lumiere's mention of her horse concerns me greatly," she murmurs. "I only know of two families in all the nearby provinces who have ever had expensive, well trained Belgians…"

He feels a prickle of anxiety crawl up his spine at her insinuation. "I fear your worries may hold weight, Mrs. Potts. Let us hope that if you are correct in this assumption that the rumors we heard prove to be the unreliable sources of information they've always been." She nods to him stiffly; clearly fretting over the troubling possibilities her wayward thought sparked.

"Tell cook to have broth ready for soup, remind Adele to bring the medicine, make sure Lumiere and Cogsworth speak to the heads of guard…" she murmurs, ticking off her fingers. "Is there anything else you'd have us do before sundown, Master?" She inquires, clearly attempting to distract herself from other worrisome topics.

He shakes his head. "That should suffice unless Cogsworth would like to aid me in my study while Lumiere speaks with the guard. If so, send him up. He will know what I'm looking for better than I will," he tells her. "Thank you, Mrs. Potts."

She smiles at him, though she still seems troubled. "T'is nothing to thank me for, Master, that's what I'm here for." She gently pats his bicep, gives it a reassuring squeeze, then makes her way down the hall.

He sighs quietly, returning to his bedchambers where the slumbering Aphrodite lay curled in on herself beneath the layers of bedspreads. Quietly, he makes his way round to the left side of the bed so that he might check her temperature. With a feather light touch, he brushes a few pieces of sweat-soaked hair from her forehead and tucks away. She's warm, but not dangerously so as Mrs. Potts has implied earlier. He folds down the duvet and two quilts so that some of the heat can escape her upper body without her catching chills. Once he's finished making sure she's comfortable he goes to the door between the enchanted rose and his fireplace – his walk in closet – and dresses for bed.

Once he throws a thick dark blue robe over his night clothes, he takes a candle from the mantle and lights it, setting it on the empty, non-sentient candle stick on his night stand. Between the fire and the candle, there was a soft warm glow in the room, but not enough to wake his little treasure. Finally content with the state of the room, the prince takes a few steps to his right, to the door that connects his study to his bedchambers. He leaves the door ajar as he enters, making his way over to his desk. He quietly shifts through the files and letters there, looking for specific pieces that will help him prove or disprove the girl's possibly identity. Cogsworth knocks quietly from the hallway entrance some time later to help him. They spend quite a good bit of time going through Cogsworth's filing system for the prince's letter correspondences. The portly man turns into a small clock at sundown, and despite being offered the option of leaving, the sentient-clock quietly directs the prince to where he believes certain letters are filed away. The moon is high when the prince deems their search finished and sends Cogsworth, who seems rather pleased at being needed by his master, off to bed.

Leaving his loot on his study desk, the prince quietly blows out all the candles he had lit and kills the fireplace. He shuffles back into his bedroom, slipping off his robe as he does so. The door quietly clicks shut behind him when he notices that the woman in his bed is stirring. He holds his breath, unmoving beside the bed as she rolls over, her body now facing him. His heart stutters as her eyes slowly flutter open and her lock onto his. Mrs. Potts's warning of her possible reaction to his presence echoes in his ears as he watches her blink at him, unfazed. But nothing the matronly woman could have said would prepare him for what was to happen next.

"Hello, Adam…"

Yes, dear readers, that was a cliffhanger worthy of the gods. I have a lot planned for this fic and I hope my evil cliffy doesn't deter you too much. But there wasn't anywhere better to end it.

Now, just so this is out there to begin with, I'm a college student. I love fanfiction and my readers dearly, but we all know life gets in the way. If we get halfway through this fic and I fall off the radar for a few months, I apologize in advance. Those who have read "Cato and Katniss Outsmart the Capitol" know what I'm talking about. Even if it takes me forever to post the final chapter, I will finish as story. I'm stubborn like that.

Almost done, bear with me. This fic is rated M for a reason. There will obviously be some dark themes in play here. As of right now I have not decided if I'm going to have a lot of smut in this fic, but I will warn those of lighter hearts at the beginning of any chapter containing citrus should there be any. I can't tell you much more without giving away some of the future plot, but let it be known that I do not encourage rape and have no intentions of having to write such a scene. I'll warn you if anything aside from referencing past events comes into play in this fic.

As always, if there are any questions or concerns with the material or themes please express so in a review or PM. I will respond to all questions and most reviews at my earliest convenience.

I look forward to sharing this story with you guys. See you next chapter. 3

-LMK