Unsung
achieving elysium

part i. liar, liar
chapter one

"I can't believe this happened," Marinette mumbled around a mouthful of pins. She plucked another pin from its spot sandwiched between her lips and used it to hold the cloth in place as she sewed. "I'm just glad it happened before lunch so I could deal with it now."

"You got this, Mari," said Alya, half-cheering her on and half-replying to a few messages on the Ladyblog forums. She looked up. "I mean– Mon dieu, girl, is that safe?"

"Hmm?" she hummed, taking the last pin from her mouth and gently pressing it into soft cloth. "Is what safe?"

Alya just sighed. "Guess it's a sewing thing. Is it done?"

She bit at the inside of her cheek and finished stitching up the hem, frowning slightly at it. It wasn't her best work. The hem had accidentally caught on something in her bag and had torn ever so slightly; she'd had to quickly make do and piece it together. It'd been rushed, and it showed, but as Marinette stood, letting the fabric fall towards the ground, her mind stopped picking apart the flaws.

"Woah," said Alya, standing next to her. The two of them stood for a second and admired the dress she'd labored over for so long.

It was beautiful, easily one of Marinette's best pieces and one she was really proud of. She'd started working on it weeks ago, having saved up enough allowance to pay for the yards of fabric she'd wanted. The dress was one she'd be wearing in a few hours' time for Paris' Young Designers competition – sponsored, of course, by the one and only Gabriel Agreste.

She swallowed, doubt rising in the pit of her stomach. "Do you– do you really think I have a chance, Alya?"

"A chance?" Alya cried. "The second those judges see it, they'll be so impressed they're just gonna hand over that prize."

Something warm and heavy settled in her chest. "You think so?"

Alya grinned, bumping their shoulders together. "I know so," she said, pushing up the rim of her glasses. "I'm as sure of it as I am about Chloé totally losing it."

They giggled together, and Marinette threw her arms around her best friend. "Thanks, Alya," she whispered. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Spend even more time mooning over Adrien Agreste?" Alya suggested, and Marinette squeaked, shoving her.

"I don't– I don't moon over Adrien, I just–"

Alya clutched at her face, framing at it with her arms. "I– erk– augh– Adrien– eh– um," she mocked, tugging at her cheeks and gushing.

Marinette's mouth dropped, and she turned redder than Papa's red velvet cake. "I do not sound like that," she protested, almost dropping the dress.

"Sound like what?" asked a new voice, and Marinette almost died when Adrien walked in, pausing to lean against their shared desk.

She made an unintelligible noise and went: "Ah, well, I, um, erk–" before promptly dissolving into a set of nervous giggles. Alya raised an eyebrow and gave her a look that clearly meant: see?

"Marinette here is just a little nervous for the Paris' Young Designers competition later," Alya said smoothly, and Marinette tried to compose herself. It was true, at the very least.

Adrien lit up. "I didn't know you were entering, Marinette," he said, smiling softly at her. Alya put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from collapsing right then and there. He looked at the dress she was holding. "Is that yours?"

"Um, um, yeah," she managed. "You're– it's mine." The look Alya shot her made her want to melt through the floor; she'd never live that slip-up down.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Alya prompted, helping to smooth out the front.

"It is," said Adrien. He reached out and traced one of the patterns with a finger. "I think you really have a good shot with this one, Marinette. It's really well made. It's inspired by China…?"

"Right," said Marinette a little too quickly, but it was easier to talk about her design than anything. "Um, I wanted to incorporate my roots somehow, so I spent a lot of time talking to Maman and Papa about, uh, Chinese designs and stuff, but I also took inspiration from, um…" She scratched at the back of her neck and took a deep breath. "from French architecture and the city of Paris."

She plowed on for a little longer, pointing out parts of the design – how she'd taken the overlapping front and higher collar from a traditional Chinese dress but ditched the silhouette, opting for something that would flow very well if it were ever put on a runway, how she'd done the split back and made the construction angular to be reminiscent of the Eiffel Tower, how carefully she'd hand-stitched every flower that wrapped around the front.

"–and, oh," Marinette said. "Oh, I'm sorry, I should stop babbling, you probably don't want to hear about that–"

But Adrien gave her that warm, soft smile again. "That's really cool, actually," he said. "and I don't mind. You're really passionate about it."

Alya was smiling like crazy when she looked over. "See, girl?" she said. "Nothing to worry about. Everyone's going to love it."

Marinette ran her fingers over the soft, silky fabric and nodded mutely, raking her eyes over it. The dress was a pale grey – not white, no, that was bad – and accented with deep gold. Red flowers climbed up the front, following the line of the fabric where it overlapped from the neck to chest. She'd stitched little dragons along the ends of the sleeves, collar, and hem. The back was another story in itself, the fabric coming together at a point just below the neck but splitting apart, folding over to form a triangular shape.

It'd taken weeks, a few sleepless nights, and a missed night patrol or two (as Chat had suggested) to get it done. She swallowed.

"I hope so," Marinette said finally, rubbing at her wrist. She suddenly wished she had the bracelet she'd given to Adrien for luck, but her searching fingers found nothing.

"Did you make that?"

"Good luck tonight, M."

"That's so pretty–"

"–woah–"

Whispers of conversation drifted through the previously empty classroom as students filed in, clustering at the first desk to admire Marinette's work. She blushed, trying to ignore Alya's bright smile and answering questions left and right.

"–we'll be there to support you–"

"–it's not like Paris' Young Designers competition is the most talked about competition around, who would miss it?"

"I hope you do well!"

In between the compliments came a loud, too-familiar voice. Marinette made a half-strangled noise as Sabrina pushed through the crowd that had gathered, Chloé following with a large, deep red drink in her hand that she passed to Sabrina when she walked in.

The blonde girl scoffed when she saw what the ruckus was about. "You're entering Paris' Young Designers?" she asked, twirling a lock of hair around a finger. She laughed; the sound was harsh and mocking. "You won't even stand a chance. You know, my daddy's one of the judges."

Marinette tried to keep her cool. It was hardly surprising, after all – Chloé never had anything good to say.

"Your point being?" she asked, mindlessly smoothing out the dress again. Chloé snorted.

"As if you have any chance of winning," she said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Alya, her chair scraping as she moved closer.

"You wouldn't understand," sniffed Chloé haughtily. "First of all, that dress is hideous. Those designs – so two hundred years ago. And who are you, anyway?"

She jabbed a finger in Marinette's direction, and she tensed, her hand curling into a fist at her side.

"Excuse me?" she asked quietly as the people around them stirred restlessly, sensing that this would not go down well.

"You heard me," Chloé snapped. "Everyone in this class – hmph, I have to spell it out for you, don't I? You're a nobody, Marinette, I mean, what, the daughter of some low-life bakers no one has ever heard o–"

Marinette slammed her hands down on the table, feeling one of the stitched flowers fold underneath her anger. Chloé looked taken aback.

"Don't you dare insult my–"

"–little family?" Chloé interrupted, her eyes turning icy. "And what do you have that's so special? Just like your parents, no talent whatsoever. Sabrina, my drink."

There was a moment of silence as Marinette struggled to process the words, a heartbeat in which Sabrina handed her friend her drink. Chloé sipped at it once, assessing Marinette with cool blue eyes.

"You're pathetic," Chloé spat, her eyes locked on Marinette's face. "And – what is that? No, don't tell me… those are Ladybug earrings. As if someone like you could ever come close to being Ladybug."

"Hey," Adrien warned, but he stopped when Marinette screamed. The sound tore from her throat in the same way Chloé had just torn the earring from her left ear. She sagged against Alya, the world crumbling around her.

"I hope you know what you're doing is hopeless," said Chloé, cocking her head to the side, a malicious glint in her eye as she looked at Marinette's earring and laughed. The girl slipped it in her pocket. "Have fun entering. You don't have a chance anyway."

"Give that back," Marinette cried, all thoughts of her dress forgotten. "You can't– give that back, Chloé, please."

Alya held her, passing a hand through her hair. Somewhere nearby, Adrien said something, but it sounded muffled, like he was speaking from underwater. Chloé turned as if making to walk away, but she paused, seeming to think differently. "Oops."

Everything seemed to slow down as Chloé's drink tipped, bright red juice spilling all over Marinette's new dress. Her hands shook as she lifted her dress to inspect the damage. It would be unfixable, the dress she'd worked herself to the bone over–

And her earring. Her Miraculous. The only connection she had to Tikki, arguably her greatest friend and confidant. Without it, Tikki would disappear, and with that, there would be no more Chat Noir, either…

No one held her back when she lunged across the table, fury igniting in her veins. Something white-hot simmered in her blood. Everything about Marinette – about Ladybug – was meticulous, planned, thought-about from every angle and perspective. But for the first time in a long time, Marinette didn't think.

She didn't spare a single thought as her hands found the bright yellow of Chloé's jacket, didn't think as her lips drew back into a snarl, every inch of her being bursting with pure, unbridled anger–

"Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng, what are you doing?"

Chloé shrieked, tugging at her jacket in an attempt to free herself. She went from surprised and mocking to completely terrified in a moment, the change too fast for Marinette to comprehend.

"Madame," she wailed, playing the victim.

"Max, Kim," someone called sharply, but Marinette wasn't listening.

"I'm going to–" she growled, but there were hands tearing at her. Marinette struggled against whoever was holding her back, caught between Max and Kim as she fought. "Let me go– Chloé, don't you dare, you don't– let me go."

She was faintly aware of the tears that were running down her cheek; Chloé looked back at her with a mix of satisfaction and disgust in her expression.

Madame Bustier wrenched her backwards, spinning her so she was trapped between the teacher and the desk, Chloé out of sight. Her head swam. She took deep breaths, chest heaving as reality hit her.

"Marinette, your behavior is completely unacceptable," she snapped, any traces of the bright, kind teacher wiped away underneath a mask of anger and disapproval.

She had no answer, no excuse, only the dying embers of what had once been an inferno raging inside of her. She took another deep breath, trying to calm down. Marinette dimly noted the fact that she was still crying.

"Madame," she tried, and the embers sparked again, the dredges of her remaining anger rising up. She could see a smug Chloé in the background, could just barely make out that satisfied smirk and the laughter in her eyes. Chloé had ruined her dress, had insulted her, had insulted her family, and she'd taken away the connection to Marinette's second life – and there was no apology in that cruel face.

It was enough to cloud Marinette's mind again, enough for her to lunge again even as Madame Bustier held her tight and dragged her in the direction of the door.

"No," she rasped out. "No, no–"

"To the office," snapped Mme Bustier, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Now, Marinette."

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, any of it–

Marinette tore herself from Mme Bustier's grip and ran in the opposite direction, sprinting down the stairs. Her footsteps sounded like thunder, but it was nothing compared to the raging storm that tears through her very veins, the rain that collected in the hollow of her cheeks and in the palms of her hands.

"Marinette!" someone called, and the voice was distant, too faint and faraway. She sobbed, barreling from the school and running blindly, letting her feet carry her to a destination far, far from Chloé's lies and her shame and her doubt.

Chloé was right in ways that Marinette didn't like to admit. In a matter of minutes, she'd destroyed everything. Marinette's dreams of the runway – flashing cameras and even brighter smiles – seemed like they'd been crushed now. And Ladybug–

A keening wail tore out of her, soft and desperate. Marinette told herself to stop, that it was okay, that she could figure things out; she always did. But something about the way Chloé spoke, her awfully sharp words cutting right at Marinette's weak points.

Ladybug. Marinette stared at the dress in her hands, rubbing the soft fabric between two fingers and slumping down against a wall. What Chloé had said about Ladybug…

She reached up with two fingers, pain like lightning striking against the soft flesh of her ear when she touched it. They came back red, the same color as her suit, and Marinette curled in on herself. It really was gone, then, her Miraculous.

Not knowing what she was doing, Marinette slid the dress over her head, the soft fabric crinkling as it settled. She looked down at it, her hands finding the large, ugly stain right down the front of the dress.

"Stupid," she said to herself. "stupid, stupid, stupid."

Worthless, said an imaginary voice that was not unlike Chloé's. Stupid. You can't do anything right.

She looked into the calm waters of the Seine, staring at a girl with a tear-splotched face and ruined dress. This wasn't her – couldn't be.

Not fair, not fair, not fair. Who would listen to a girl like you?

She threw her hands over her ears, shrinking into herself. "What–" Marinette tried, her voice cracking.

Poor girl, whispered Papillon. Something dark flitted in the corner of her vision. They're all wrong, aren't they?

"No," Marinette said, her breaths coming short and fast. "No, get out of my head, I don't want–"

Don't you?

She couldn't think straight; Marinette felt heavy, like she was weighed down with lead.

No one wants to listen to you, do they? Papillon hesitated. But I will.

Some part of her – the part of her that was feebly trying to resist – quieted. Marinette looked at her reflection again; above her face glittered a butterfly-shaped mask. "You will?"

"Marinette," came a soft voice, and her heart stopped. She knew that voice, recognized it. Something zipped in front of her face, and her heart cracked a little.

"Tikki," she whispered. Marinette blinked back the next set of tears, still feeling like there was something heavy sitting on her chest.

"I'm still here," the kwami said, looking up at her with big eyes. "I won't leave unless you want me to."

"Tikki," she said again, and the darkness faltered, the sight of her friend keeping it at bay. Marinette wasn't sure how long it would last, though – how long she could last. "I failed, Tikki. The earring–"

"You're still Ladybug," Tikki reassured, though her words sounded as if they were coming from underwater. "and we can always get it back." Marinette wasn't listening.

Marinette, marionette, a fabricator of dreams, Papillon mused. They've played you like a puppet. Your peers have lied to you – they're not your friends. How can they be?

"A fabricator," she murmured. "My friends…"

Your so-called friends watched as – what was her name, hmm, Chloé? – beat you down. No one bothered to help when she spoke; not even Alya, the one you call your best friend…

"No," she wailed, clamping her hands over her ears in a useless attempt to block him out. "No, you're lying–"

Am I?

Her voice cracked, but the man didn't seem to notice. Don't you just hate lies, darling?

Her voice wavered, but the word slipped past her lips anyway. "Yes."

What was the word Chloé had used? Pathetic.

"Marinette?" ventured Tikki, her small voice sounding panicked, and she stumbled back, looking at the kwami with wide eyes. "Marinette, you can't listen to him–"

Fabricator.

"Tikki, go–"

The area around her face darkened, and Papillon's offer suddenly sounded much too tempting. There was nothing for her to lose from joining him. The competition had ended before it had even begun; Ladybug, too, was gone. A flash of red signified Tikki's departure. There was nothing to hold her back.

Chat… She hesitated, heart in her throat. "Chat," she choked out.

Even the superheroes of Paris do not want to save you, crooned Papillon.

"No, no," Marinette gasped out, but he was right. Chat wouldn't come – couldn't come; there was no way he'd know. Her resolve weakened.

She was alone. She'd been lied to, ridiculed in front of her entire class.

Come now, Marinette, Papillon said, and she twisted her hands into the fabric of her dress. No one will ever lie to you again.

Her friends didn't care. They would've been here by now, would've said more against Chloé, but none of them had. A word here and there, maybe, a comforting hand, but nothing else. Liars. They were no friends of hers.

For a split second, she could see him; he didn't look like the villain she knew. Papillon was smiling, hand outstretched. He looked like… like he really wanted to help her. Why had she been fighting him? Why had she been resisting?

Fabricator, he whispered, voice brushing against the edges of her mind, and Marinette smiled at that. All you need to do is bring me Ladybug and Chat Noir's Miraculouses.

The answer to her own questions were somewhere in the back of her mind, but it didn't matter now. Something shifted inside of her chest at the mention of Ladybug and Chat Noir, though Marinette couldn't fathom why.

Marinette looked at her reflection again, at the butterfly mask and the ruined dress and the girl they covered. She chuckled. "Papillon," she said aloud. "Transforme-moi."

So that happened. This was really fun to write even though I furiously texted BFF Cho and good friend Haley (Silverleaf15, I believe) during the entire process and rewrote certain scenes, like, ten billion times.

Check out my trash tumblr, achievingelysium, for thoughts/updates/multifandom stuff. Better yet, go follow my ML sideblog chassecroissant bc I'm proud of that pun and also I'm going to start posting my content there, hehe.

Yeah, this is basically just self-plugging. I hope you hate me.

achieving elysium