Disclaimer: A Series of Unfortunate Events belong to "Lemony Snicket" and/with David Handler. I do not own the characters. Repetition is key. I do not own the characters. Repetition is key.

Author's Unfortunately Slightly Sarcastic Note: Incest. For someone's sake, don't read it if you don't like or can't handle the concept of incest or the thought of Violet/Klaus. And for Bowling Jesus' sake, if you still do, don't "review".

"Reviews" that consist of "Eww, gross. U iz sik" and "I'm sorry, but I totally do not see the Violet/Klaus incest pairing. Try another one next time. Thank you for hearing my pointless opinion" are deemed irrelevant by the author and will sadly be deleted (in the case of an anonymous account) and ignored thereafter, since it will possibly-sadly-cease to exist. I just want to practice writing. That's all. Lastly, this is for the malnourished V/K community and the theory that, if everyone had separate, non-related parents, the world would be terribly overpopulated today. Think about it.

This here is also a prologue, and the style is not how the story will be written. It only outlines and foreshadows the story as a painting or moving picture at most. Yes, this will be a series.

Inevitable

An Unlucky Prologue

Easy as ever, the night slowly fogs the seeing distance beyond the train.

The eldest child, who we now recognize as a Violet Baudelaire, stares out the window in a failed attempt to see beyond the night and into the face of whatever was coming next. She spies shadows of trees and outlines of lakes and senses the silence outside.

But she still lifts her delicate fingers to the glass, fogging into imprints even before they touch the inevitable coolness.

That's when she notices that the inside of the train is unnaturally warm.

The leather seats, we can imagine, feel sticky and uncomfortable from previous passengers, but her two younger siblings do not seem to mind, for they are both asleep with drooping heads and leveled breathing. She manages a tiny smile at them before surrendering her attention again to the outside deep.

In this moment, we can observe the morose beauty of the form of a girl no older than seventeen and, intertwined in her right hand, the same beauty in a velvet black ribbon, also, sadly, seventeen.

In a year she will be eighteen but she doesn't think of that, mainly for fear of a sudden shift in emotional elevation and she probably prefers that we don't discuss that now.

What Count Olaf regarded years earlier has only been, up until now, experienced by her two siblings, easily understood if it weren't for her tricky eyes. That, of course, refers to her sinister beauty. Sinister, in this case, meaning Baudelaire, a deliciously rolling (supposedly French) word that evokes the nature of sin.

Unfortunately, and also up until now, the Baudelaires have been anything but sinful, an irony that still haunts.

And…

This is where we follow the grace of her cheekbones onto the slippery slope of her neck and unto the slightly freckled shoulders then to the black lace until about a left turn to the supple crocheted skin of her inner arm where her pretty hand is knotted with the beginnings of her brother.