Being on her own is disjointing.
Where once there had always been music and lively voices, the only sounds now emitting from the apartment originate from her upstairs neighbors. The sounds of her own footsteps startle Marinette, so three days after her parents leave for a Bakery Exposition in Avignon, she takes to her headphones, ardently seeking recluse in the mellow ballad pulsing from her iPod. But there's no escaping the vacuity of the apartment.
So, when she's finished with homework and sketching the beginnings of a spring jacket, she transforms into Ladybug, launches herself through her bedroom window, and flings into the nightlife of Paris.
The discordant sounds of car horns and idle chatter is soothing as Marinette somersaults over rooftops and trapezes over telephone wires. It's a respite from the noxious silence of her home. As she meets Chat Noir outside the Arc de Triomphe, Marinette's thrumming with stifled energy and anticipation. She's bouncing on the balls of her feet and twirling her yoyos between her fingers. Chuckling at the fidgeting, Chat stretches his arms behind his back and rotates his neck clockwise.
"Eager to get started, are we?"
Marinette rolls her eyes and turns to the southern pillar of the Arc. She steps forward, the movement eased by the marble masonry beneath her feet, and presses a hand against the ecru sculptures reaching out from the monument. Running her fingers over the chiseled stone beneath the towering goddess of Victory, she looks over her shoulder and asks, "What's on the menu?"
"Not much. There's tell of a standoff over on Rue Baillet and a convenience store robbery near Rue Basse. And I might have heard something about a disturbance in the Catacombs."
She frowns at that. Turning to face him, she pinches her lower lip between her fingers and asks, "The Catacombs? Why would anyone be poking around there?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is some guys saw streaks of red coming from the entrance", Chat replies with a shrug. His bell jingles from the movement: buoyant and lively and not unlike those welcoming patrons into the Boulangerie Patisserie.
Marinette's eyes bring the delicate instrument into focus, a speck of gold against a backdrop of black. Tempted to reach out and cradle the bell in her hand, she averts her stare. She winds and unwinds her yo-yo, then says, "That's three places for the two of us. We should split up and come back together for the standoff; you know how those are."
"Yeah, those are always kinda intense." Chat materializes his staff, resting his chin on the butt of it as he stares up at Marinette. "So I was thinking I'd take the robbery while you take the Catacombs."
She tosses her yo-yo and lassoes it around a street lamp. "Wouldn't it make sense for a cat to be running around the cCatacombs", she muses, jutting her hip out.
"Oh, well, if you're scared, milady-"
"Shut it and get to Rue Basse." Marinette gives the yo-yo a tug and finds herself zipping off the ground and through the air. From below, Chat salutes her before proceeding to crawl onto all fours and follow her directions. As Marinette's feet settle onto yet another rooftop, she smirks and locks her yoyos into place. Ducking beneath a few clotheslines and hopping over a discarded mop bucket introduces an odd sense of relief. After lounging around the house for hours on end, the activity is a welcomed, almost relieving, change of pace.
And then there's the power. Assuming the Ladybug Persona enhances her physical abilities, no doubt, but there's also a psychological component; of not only becoming more than her corporeal self but also becoming another person entirely; flinging through the lucent city towards the Barrière d'Enfer, Marinette is intoxicated with confidence and resolve. The hellish nature of her destination is a matter of vague concern, and as she draws nearer, the rising sensation in her chest only builds.
The cluster of houses and businesses fade to scattered buildings of a decaying presence. Beyond that, the land dips and reveals a ditch tunneling deep into the earth. Marinette withdraws her yo-yo and lands at the foot of the extensive trench, a cloud of dust billowing at her feet. An archaic sign sits embedded in the walls, warning trespassers against disgracing the slumber of those buried. As she strolls past it, a chill snakes underneath her suit and pierces her skin. The euphoria dwindles, like a gushing stream of water trickling to a mere drip; taking hold of her forearms, Marinette continues onwards, dimly aware of the growing presence of souls, of something not quite alive but not quite dead either.
And she should be scared. If not for the taboo of the act, then for the uncertainty of her task. Even as she delves further into the Catacombs, uncovering signs of recent disturbance, she doesn't startle. She just keeps trekking, more concerned with the frequent brushstrokes of graffiti than the sinister atmosphere of the tunnels. It's why, when she finally finds a robbed figure standing upon a pit of chalky bones, Marinette's only response is to retrieve her yo-yo and stiffen her stance.
"Excuse me", she yells, twirling the yoyos beside her. The figure turns around, and Marinette smirks as she tosses her tools towards the cloaked being. They wrap around their waist and send them tumbling down the pile, bones following in the avalanche and crowding around the figure as it crashes to the floor. "Maybe you weren't aware", she begins, approaching the being with a calm voice. She crouches beside it and reaches for its hood. "But the Catacombs are currently off-limits to civilians."
A coarse voice emits from the hood. "I guess I could say the same for you."
"Maybe. But then again." The strings of her yoyos glow red, and Marinette tightens their hold on the person. "I'm not exactly a civilian, am I?"
The figure raises its head and smiles. It's a woman. "No", she agrees. "I suppose you aren't."
"Okay, enough small talk." Marinette pulls the woman to her feet, blocking her view of the pile of bones with her body. The woman's arms burn red against the force of the strings; the sight unnerves Marinette, but when she catches the woman's amused smirk, she's almost tempted to increase the pressure. "What's your business here", Marinette demands; she gives the woman a gentle yet firm push and begins guiding her away from the tunnels.
"Nothing particularly nefarious", Hood replies, shrugging as much as she can through her restraints. "Just your run-of-the-mill sorcery; a girl can't kick the night off without a little fun. You do know what fun is, don't you?" She titters and looks over her shoulder at Marinette. "Or are all those pesky toxins too much for one body? Not enough room for anything else?"
At that, Marinette slows her pace and raises an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about you, darling. Well, not you, per se, but your miraculous."
She delivers a swift kick to Hood's stomach and sends her doubling over. The resulting huff of air expelled from her pleases Marinette in ways she's taken care to avoid contemplating. She pulls the woman up by her hair and dips to hiss into her ear, "You don't know what you're talking about."
The woman chuckles lightly. She tilts her head back and croons, "Really? You know, I'm having a hard time believing you. With a reaction like that, I'm almost inclined to believe just the opposite." She nods to the black and red pieces of jewelry attached to Marinette's earlobes. "The Ladybug Miraculous. Obviously", she explains. When Marinette makes no move to silence her, Hood continues. "Gives its wearer strength and confidence and an elevated sense of leadership. You know the spiel, you've been living it for about three years now."
Marinette flushes. Her yo-yos recede to rest on her waist; she takes a step back and scowls. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Oh, it wouldn't be. If it weren't for the, ah, side effects. But you know how that is. Nothing good comes without a price."
"You say this as if you've got experience with the Miraculous", she interrupts with a distrusting eye. "But that's impossible. Mine's been deactivated for thousands of years, and no civilians know about them."
Hood rolls her eyes and raises her arms. Her eyes flash red, and she takes a step forward. "Well, that's just the thing", she says just as a tremendous rumbling emits from behind Marinette. "I'm not exactly a citizen either, honey."
With that, she reaches into the sleeves of her robes and pulls out two glistening ornaments. Marinette spends half a second eyeing the objects in confusion before Hood launches them from her hands; they glide through the air and slam into her stomach, expelling a pained grunt in the process. In the moments it takes her to recover, Hood has reached into her sleeves yet again and retrieved a minuscule spellbook. She utters a few words in a language Marinette doesn't recognize; the ornaments split open at Marinette's feet and expel a thick puff of purple smoke. She swipes her hands through the air and breaks through the vibrant smog; upon blinking and scanning the cave, though, Marinette finds the woman, and the pile of bones, to have disappeared. The only sign of their presence lies in the dust where the pile once sat and the ornaments beside her feet. Crouching to take hold of the metallic orbs, Marinette sighs. She rubs her eyes and turns towards the exit.
It's a long journey back to the surface.
. . .
The standoff has ended by the time Marinette joins the scene. Chat sits perched upon the statue of a lioness outside the Espace Dalí , tapping his fingers against his chin in unconcealed apathy. When he spots her, his spine straightens, and he leaps from the statue, rushing to meet her. "Lady", he greets. "I was just about to take off and go looking for you." He's about to say something else when the faulty silvery light from the street lamp above flickers on and illuminates the purple powder coating Marinette's suit; he then takes note of the unfocused glint in her eye and frowns. He leans forward and asks, "Are you okay?"
Marinette sways. She looks over Chat's shoulder; two police officers cuff a man dressed in black to a park bench and reach for the radios upon their waists. One catches Marinette's stare, smiles, and gives a shy wave before returning to her device. Marinette shifts her eyes back to Chat and says, "Yes."
Chat nods, the movement slow and accompanied by an arched eyebrow. "Right. What's with all the, uh, purple? You get attacked by a clown?"
"More like a woman in a robe. She was talking about magic and… and my Miraculous."
He stretches out a hand to steady her and directs her to the steps of the curb of the street. "She knows about them", he asks, sitting beside her. His eyes are wide with worry, and his hand has moved to rest beside hers. Seeming to think better of the movement, he quickly withdraws the hand and moves it to scratch the back of his head. "Uh, is that something we should be worried about?"
"We should probably be worried catching her", Marinette sighs. She tugs on one of her sleeves and stares at the smudges of purple spotting the red material.. "She smoke-bombed me-"
"Seriously?"
"-before I could get much more out of her. But she definitely knows something. She was saying things that only someone with a Miraculous would know; it was all so bizarre. Like I was talking to another Ladybug. Only darker and magic-y."
A siren blares from the police car parked a few meters to the side. Marinette and Chat watch as the officers guide the man into the backseat and themselves into the front seat. They give brief nods to the teens, then drive away, the tires of the car crackling against the crumbling asphalt. Marinette watches the car disappear down the road before turning to Chat. He's staring at her. His cheeks tinted red, he once again asks, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine", Marinette reassures, giving him a smile that's meant to comfort him but only serves to drain her further. "Just a little dizzy is all. I'll feel better after a bath and some rest."
Chat falls silent. Before he can get in another word, Marinette rises from the steps. She reaches for her yo-yo and is searching for a viable target when leather-clad fingers latch onto her forearm. Looking up, she finds Chat staring once more, his features contorted in scrutinization. His eyes zip from her weary expression to her precarious stance. It's only when he's finished taking in the exhausted Marinette does he finally settle upon her eyes. Neither moves and, for a moment, all she can think of is the firm grip of his hand on her arm.
And then it's over.
"Goodbye, Chat." She tosses her yo-yo around a street lamp and, within seconds, launches off the ground and disappears.
. . .
Walking home is more of a struggle than usual, even more so than her most unruly battles. It occurs to her that she could minimize the trip with a few simple swings, but the energy required to do such a thing keeps Marinette's feet firmly planted on the ground.
This part of the city's asleep: window drapes have been drawn, dark and ominous from the absence of light peering through the thin glass; the streets are barren of people, and the usual clamor of impatient car horns and barking dogs has been replaced with the delighted thrilling of crickets and buzzing of central heating systems. It's cold for a mid-May night in Paris, something that Marinette is increasingly aware of as her Miraculous loses power.
A flash of white engulfs her; her suit recedes and, in its place, appear a white t-shirt and pink pajama bottoms. Upon finding the clothes to also be coated in purple, she pulls at her shirt and holds the hem between twitching fingers. The powder sticks to her fingertips and, after a brief moment, sinks into the skin. Marinette groans, staring in mild horror as something in her blood gives an abrupt, violent lurch. Small bubbles emerge through her skin, and something saccharine swells from her stomach and floods her taste buds. She parts her lips, raises three fingers to gently press them between the gap, and waits. When she pulls her fingers away, they're covered with a viscid substance; it's thick like tar but as red as the attire of her Persona.
"Kinda freaky, ain't it?"
Marinette whips her head around and braces her arms beside herself. She's about to reach for the container of mace in her purse when she finds the sidewalk still devoid of life. Giving the neighborhood an extensive once-over, she frowns but allows her stance to relax.
The rest of the walk home is uneventful; nonetheless, she keeps her hand close to her purse and only finds herself at ease after letting herself into the apartment and collapsing into bed.
. . .
The sun rises the next morning, partially cloaked by thick, gray clouds, and encourages Marinette out of bed. She stumbles from her room and into the kitchen, where she fixes herself half a bowl of Fruit Loops. Then, scratching her hair, she walks into the living room and takes a seat on the couch. Snatching the TV remote from the coffee stand and balancing her cereal attentively, she eases into the welcoming cotton of the couch and sighs; she flicks on a rerun of House of Anubis and lifts her spoon.
Before it passes her lips, though, Marinette pauses to consider her milk: the dye from the cereal has begun to run and turned her milk red. The soggy o's stare up at her like hollowed out eyes; if it wasn't for the early morning induced-lethargy, the sight would have been more troublesome. Instead, she shovels the spoon into her mouth, places the remote beside her, and settles in for her program.
