I have taken a bit of liberty with all that is Disney in this new undertaking. I like music. I also like Disney. This is the product. The main character is Tod, from Fox and the hound respectively who through the course of yet to be exposed events, has become a figure known world-wide, read on to see why. Lady and Tramp with also be key elements, Vixey will be there, or so I heard. Just a charming soirée, isn't it! This is a tale that I opened with a comical air. A tale of fame, fortune, escape, maybe some romance? A tale of false satisfaction and true happiness… and whatever else I feel like. So Read on Reada', READ ON!

I do Not own nor claim to own the rights to any of the characters mentioned in this fan fic nor the rights to their respective movies. Yea…

Chapter One: "From the Beginning."

"It's rather funny actually, as I sit here. Funny, and a bit depressing. I can't remember a time when things were normal, when I was normal. Perhaps there never was such a time. Either way, none of it mattered now." –Tod-

Tod sat motionless in the plush arm chair, enveloped by the smooth, warm texture of it's leather. The room was small and overcrowded with luggage, garments and assorted envelopes. The door adjacent to him reached to the ceiling in a most peculiarly ostentatious manner. He sat before an enormous, elaborately decorated mirror stretching nearly the full length of the wall. Connected to it, a table extended outward covered with various cosmetics, pens, brushes, and hair products. The lights in the mirror cast a burning gaze upon him, jarring him to shudders now and then.

"Do sit still Mr. Tod, your making this more difficult than it has to be." A young woman of about thirty commanded, scissors in hand. She was of short stock, heavy set, and possessed a most unpleasurably high-pitched squeak in her voice. She huffily placed a firm hand on his shoulder as she spun him a quarter turn to the left in the chair, lowering the scissors to his disheveled fur. She began to clip precariously; quite agitated as she did so. Every few seconds, she would spout out a negative comment.

"For someone of your position, I expected a bit more hygienically speaking," she jerked the chair violently to the right, thrusting Tod's head to this side with a most unsatisfying snap.

"Just 'cause you are some big shot "Mr. Famous" (she pantomimed quotations) guy, you think people just have to do every little trivial thing for ya, huh?"

Tod hesitated, then spoke, "You know this really isn't all that necessary…" he chuckled "…I'm quite accustomed to being…"

The girl swiveled the chair violently once more, cutting him off mid sentence.

"Oh just shut up, alright? I've no need to be patronized by an animal."

"Fox…" Tod corrected derisively.

"Whatever!" She snapped. "I do models, male, female, and hair. Make-up when necessary." She pulled away from his head. "I don't do foxes." She stated firmly and conclusively. She centered the chair and returned to her surprisingly random clipping. Tod sighed as he watched the hair fall, blowing small bits out of his snout occasionally. He saw no reason to continue any form of conversation.

"God, I can't believe I'm being paid $7.50 an hour to trim a fox! Things sure have gotten weird. Next thing you know, you'll be tellin' me you've hired a human maid for you apartment or something, God!" Tod didn't.

Silence dominated the remainder of her visit when finally, there was a subtle knock on the door which did not subside, but grow louder, drumming rapidly with utmost urgency.

"Tod, TOD! Is that you in there?" the voice, much like the knocking was piercing and persistent. Under the pressure of his constant volleys of rapping upon the door, it actually began to splinter, then broke the lock all together. He stormed inward, apparently unaware of the damage he had just caused. He was an older man, outspoken and amiable… in fair dosage. His height was unimpressive as was his physique. He shared a surprising (and rather frightening) resemblance with the young cosmetics girl who now folded her arms, tapping her foot impatiently.

Tod and the girl sat staring directly at him, near motionless.

Oh, ah, um, right! The door!" he spoke, his voicing shaking on each syllable. He made for it and stopped mid-step, redirecting his attention to Tod.

"Ah… yes, terribly sorry, but we must leave now, your on in five!" he flailed his arms desperately. "You mustn't be late!"

"Scott," Tod started, half sighing, "you get like this every time, just wait a moment while…"

"No time." Scott interrupted and grabbed him by the paw, dragging him out the door.

Scott briefed him as they hastily stormed through the hallways. "You know we've got a talk show tomorrow, Good morning America, I believe. You need to be well rested, which means you need to finish this one fast. Just one probably, two if there's time." Scott continued to drag Tod along the last stretch of hallway.

Before them was a door, short and narrow, its elaborate handle stretched along most of its surface, the beautifully polished sliver gleamed even in the dim lighting of the backstage. Beside this door stood two men. Both very tall with particularly dark complexions, both dressed in fine tuxedos.

The one to the left held the door shut with pride, his right arm caressing the handle, his left, crossed professionally behind his back. He smiled as he looked down at Tod, a perspective which he still rather disliked. The man to his right dashed towards Tod, shook his paw vigorously, and ran off in the opposite direction. It is needless to say he was apprehended five seconds later by a pair of Russian security guards who had been feverishly looking for him for an hours past on one count of illegal backstage trespassing.

The doorman smiled again and opened the sound proof access slowly. A cacophony of applause assaulted Tod's ear, they cocked in response. Tod entered with a slight push from Scott and the fading word's "Go get 'em Tiger!" The door slammed abruptly and Tod stared out into a sea of 3,000 faces. The applause subsided as he approached the lone Bosendorfer in the center of the stage, the lights beamed upon its polished ebony surface. He sat at the bench. The lights dimmed. The crowd hushed. His paws stretched and with a subtle plunge, he struck the first sonorous chords of Rachmaninoff's Second piano Sonata.