Disclaimer: I do not own Miraculous Ladybug or any of the characters. Everyone is fairly aged up in this story, with most (human) characters being in their twenties.
Knock knock.
"Ugh, five more minutes," Marinette grumbles at the intruding noise.
"It's been over thirty years. It's time to get up," a familiar male voice counters.
"Thirty years?! I overslept!" she cries, swinging open the wooden lid of her coffin. Light floods her sensitive vision, causing her to hiss and shade her eyes with her arm as she adjusts. Still disoriented, she looks around, two figures coming into focus. "Luka…Juleka…" besides a few changes in fashion and hair color, the two look the same as she remembers.
The Couffaine siblings are the closest thing she has to family—the only vampires she's ever turned. They are each other's only constants in a world full of change. Marinette had never intended to turn anyone, but when she saw her two friends bloodied and dying in a carriage accident, she had to act. She doesn't regret it. Juleka is like a sister to her. Luka is like—well, that's a bit more complicated.
Scanning her room, she sees it too is unchanged. Unless she counts the overall dustiness and moth-eaten elements of the décor a change, it hasn't been altered since her Art Nouveau phase a century ago. "Weren't you two supposed to care for the estate while I was resting?"
"We've been busy," Luka explains, "I'm a musician now. Juleka's going to university," A rush of pride flows through her at their doings. Ever since she'd saved them, altering the course of their lives, they'd been struggling with their new place in the world. Every immortal copes in their own way. Marinette tends to hibernate through rough times. The Couffaine siblings are inclined towards wandering aimlessly, as if searching for something. Purpose, or meaning perhaps. Their current employment might indicate they're beginning to settle down.
"Plus, this place doesn't even have Wi-fi. Super boring," Juleka mutters under her breath, earning an elbow nudge from her brother.
"Wi-Fi?" Marinette questions, before shaking her head, "Never mind. There's time to catch up later. I need sustenance,"
"About that…" he starts apologetically, "We haven't exactly been stocking the fridge. But don't worry, we have a contact. He's only 15 minutes into the city," he hands her a card with his details and address. "We'd come with you, but…"
"You're busy, I understand. Where's the keys?" he pulls out an electronic key fob.
"That's not for my Thunderbird…is it?"
"We sold that one. Turns out there's quite a demand for classic cars. The new one's much more practical," Juleka clarifies.
"I'm just going to take a cab," Marinette sighs, brushing past them and going stiffly down the stairs of her manor. She dials for a taxi on her old landline, only to hear it flatline.
"I'm getting you an Uber," Luka calls out, following her down the stairs.
"I'm not even going to ask. As long as it gets me to my meal, I don't care," she huffs, increasingly frustrated the foreignness of this time. She'd never intended to slumber for more than 15 or so years at once. Even that stretch of time can be tricky to adjust to. The pair must have been busy indeed if they neglected to wake her for so long. The thirst is starting to catch up to her.
It was in times like these she grows jealous of how easy they have it. For an ordinary vampire, anyone can be a meal ticket. There're no worries of consequences because there essentially are none. For her, all humans are off-limits. Unless it's to save a life or take one, her fangs can't break their skin without creating unwanted kindred. Her saving grace is a network of supernatural folk, a system of support where each kind can lend its strength to one in need. Nonhumans are unaffected by her bite, so she can feed on witches, wizards, and other species to her heart's content. In return, they'll usually want money, historical insight, or a task completed requiring superhuman strength. Her contact this time is Nino Lahiffe, amateur sorcerer.
"There's another way, you know. You don't need anyone else. I'm right here, willing and able," Luka murmurs, low enough that his sister upstairs won't hear it. She swallows. He's right, there is another option. One of the benefits of her pureblood is that it allows her to subsist off another vampires' blood. It is a possibility they'd discussed before. It makes much practical sense, for her to rely on the one who she'd known for so long and knows she can trust. The implications, however, she is entirely unprepared for. Long-term, living off him as he's suggesting…
"I'm not ready. I-I just woke up—I need to think about it a bit more," she stammers, delaying any finality. Last time, she'd been the one to suggest it and he the one to dodge the decision. For as long as they'd known each other, they were out of sync. Whenever she'd wanted more from him, he'd only want to "explore" and pursue casual flings. Inversely, when he shows interest, she's never in the right emotional state. Neither one has ever fully rejected or accepted the other. It was a perpetual, frustrating game of tag.
They sit on the porch awaiting her "Uber" and Luka takes the opportunity to fill her on what she's missed since the 80s. It was mostly technological advances and cultural fluctuations she needed to catch up on. He was in the middle of explaining the internet to her, for the third time, when a car pulls up. "That's your ride," he states, standing up, "Take my extra phone. If you're still confused on how to use it, have your contact show you. And don't forget your mask," she accepts the device, and begins towards the car. Digging in the pockets of her high-waisted jeans, she finds her old black and red polka dot half-face mask. The cloth covers her mouth and nose, diminishing her sense of smell. Its purpose is twofold: helping their self-control around humans and decreasing the likelihood of someone recognizing them from decades ago and getting suspicious. "Marinette!" he calls out before she enters the vehicle, "I missed you." She smiles sadly beneath the mask, giving a small wave goodbye.
The drive is quiet, except for the peppy tunes from the radio. She takes the opportunity to take inventory of herself. Her hair had grown long during her sleep, almost reaching her legs. It is unruly after decades of bedhead and hangs loose around her shoulders. It needs a trim. A haircut is priority number two, after getting fed. Next step would be updating her wardrobe, though she doesn't feel as out of place as she expected in her vinyl jacket and acid wash jeans. Normally she'd expect to need a bath after such a long sleep, but ever since upgrading to a sandalwood coffin, she woke up freshly fragrant.
The vehicle slows to a halt half a block away from her destination, in a convenient drop-off. She thanks the driver and strolls to Nino's flat. Halfway there, she sees someone exiting the flat. That better not be my contact. He should be expecting me. The figure is a lithe blonde with emerald eyes. Even though his clothes are plain, Marinette is rapt. He's beautiful.
A car horn tears away her attention, honking at an elderly woman who's stumbled and collapsed on the street. Before she can react, the blonde is rushing to the scene. He helps the woman up, assisting in picking up her things and letting her hold onto him for balance. He displays incredible patience and empathy in his manner with her, taking extra care in slowly escorting her across the street. He's positively angelic, she marvels. It takes more willpower than she'd like to admit to not pursue him. Instead she knocks on the door to the flat, hoping her contact could enlighten her as to the stunning stranger's identity.
A tanned man with thick frame glasses and a red cap opens the door. "Yo! I'm Nino. You must be Luka's…friend, Marinette?" he greets, friendly and a bit flustered.
"I am," she confirms, stepping inside and removing her mask, "It's a pleasure to meet you. How do you know Luka?"
"We've done a couple gigs together. He's a chill dude. Juleka's cool too, we've had a couple classes together. So," he starts uncertainly, "You're old? Like ancient history old?" Marinette snorts, unsure whether to be offended or amused.
"Yes, I am,"
"Whoa. I know the Couffaine's are old-timers but you're straight up medieval, right? That's so sweet,"
"Uh, thanks," Marinette replies, taken aback by his enthusiasm. "You're a sorcerer, aren't you?" politely shifting the topic.
"I'm a technomancer. I've also been told my DJ-ing skills are mad magical. Sorry—I'm probably talking too much, huh? This is my first time doing something like this. You must be hungry. I've been drinking plenty of water and stocked up on bandages. Is that all we need?" She nods reassuringly.
"Let's move somewhere comfortable and get started. Will your left arm be okay?" he confirms, and they sit on the coach, Marinette holding steady his left arm. "Some pain is normal but let me know if anything feels wrong. Tap my shoulder if you need me to stop,"
"Well, uh, groovy. I think I'm ready," he smiles apprehensively. Marinette leans in for a deep inhale, taking in his scent. She runs her tongue over her extended fangs, salivating already. Closing her eyes, she bites into his wrist. He winces, but keeps his squirming restrained. After the initial stab of the sharp incisors, the pain fades and he experiences only queasy discomfort as his blood is drained. A minute passes and she pulls away, licking her lips and breathing heavily.
"Stay seated, I'll get you a bandage," she orders, retrieving some gauze and covering the wound with an elastic wrap. Energy flows through her, banishing her earlier lethargy. "Are you alright?"
"Affirmative. It wasn't that bad," he declares, mildly surprised.
"Good. What would you like in return?"
"There's this project I've been working on. I need your help with it. C'mon, I'll show you what I've got so far," he gets up slowly, testing his constitution. Once he feels steady on his feet, he leads her to a back room. A history project? Or maybe he needs me to bend some steel? Marinette is thrown for a loop when he shows her a room filled to the brim with technology. Wires, extension cords, and chargers litter the floor like vines in the jungle. There are several desks set up with desktops, speakers, and even a projector. A shelf set up with servers lights up green and blue. She barely recognizes any of it. Her bafflement grows as Nino begins explaining his project. "I've been researching methods of channeling the otherworldly. Witches' and mediums' methods were super inefficient, drawing only from psychic energy. Using technomancy, I can channel spirits using the speed and processing power of an internet connection!"
"You're saying you can summon ghosts…using wi-fi?" she inquires in amazement. She recalls all the times she'd attempted to summon her best friend Alya's spirit over the years. Ouija boards, seances, and rituals were just the beginning. She'd pestered almost every witch she knew to find her, but it was all in vain. Eventually Marinette had agonizingly accepted her friend had moved on to the other side. It was the traumatic loss of Alya that triggered her voluntary hibernations of the last century. If what he's saying is true, maybe I can get her back!
"Exactamundo. All I need is material to draw them in with, personal information and something from their life, and then I can hook up their consciousness to my system! Genius, right?"
"It really is… how can I help?" she enthuses, surprising Nino with her eagerness.
"I don't know any dead people. Not closely, at least. Even though the process is streamlined, I still need intimate knowledge of a specific spirit, and something to draw them here. Since you've been around so long…I assume you know plenty of dead people who might have unfinished business?"
"I do. I know just who to try it with! Her name was—is, Alya Cesaire. She has hazel eyes and a beauty mark over her right eyebrow. She—"
"Whoa, slow down there. Let me pull up the program," he takes a seat at one of the desks, booting up the machine. After a few clicks of the mouse, he rambles, "Okay…hazel eyes…eyebrow mark…" typing each detail into the system. "Go on,"
"She was born March 8th, 1899. Her eyesight was bad, she always wore black framed glasses. She's medium height. Her hair is dark red. She's a middle child, she was always great with children. She was a suffragette. Her dream was to be a journalist…she's so brave…" as Nino types away Marinette is overcome with sorrow.
"Sounds like an amazing dudette," he comments, eyes glued to the screen in front of him. "I just need a couple more things. How did she die?" Marinette breathes deeply, composing herself.
"She was killed. Murdered by a mob who didn't like what she was doing. Thought it wasn't right, sticking her nose in men's business…their boss didn't like it, felt threatened by her…" tears prick at her eyes. "It was in an alleyway outside a speakeasy. She was only 23." This time Nino notices the emotion in her voice and gives her a moment before speaking.
"I'm sorry. You don't have to keep talking about it if you don't want to,"
"No, I want to do this. What else do you need to know?"
"Just one more thing—what unfinished business do you think she has? Did her killers get away with it?" Marinette chuckles humorlessly.
"They most certainly did not. I tracked down each one. They died slowly," she confesses, remorseless and almost proud of her vengeance on Alya's behalf.
"Oh," he mumbles, feeling fear in her presence for the first time. "Then what could her unfinished business be?"
"I have no idea," she sighs. "Maybe it's that she never got to accomplish her dream or get to see women vote. Maybe it's me. It could be she's never forgiven me for not protecting her,"
"I'll just put down 'unknown', for now," he decides. "All that's left now is for me to work my magic. Since you two were close, your presence here should be enough to lure her spirit. Moment of truth," he rubs his hands together and stands. He arranges the cords into a semblance of a summoning circle, placing his hands in the center. Sparks begin to surge from his palms, entangling themselves in the wires. He feels a bit lightheaded, from both the vampire's intimidating presence and the exertion of the spell. Oh, and blood loss, he remembers, before collapsing.
"Nino? Nino!" Marinette kneels next to him, shaking his shoulder. "Out cold," she notes regretfully. Maybe I took too much. I was a bit thirsty. She picks him up, carrying him to the couch. She prepares a glass of water for him to drink when he wakes. It was common for sorcerers to black out when attempting a powerful spell. Maybe he just overestimated his capabilities.
The bluenette waits by his side until he recovers, bringing him food and a blanket. After five minutes, he begins to stir. "I'm sorry, Marinette," he apologizes, "I couldn't get your friend back,"
"Shh, don't worry about that. We can try again. It will work. But don't worry about it until you feel better," she rises from the floor, brushing herself off. "I just have one question before I leave."
"What is it?"
"Earlier, I saw a man leave your flat. Blonde, green eyes. Who is he?"
"Adrien Agreste. Figures he'd catch your eye, that model boy always makes me look like a moronosaurus in comparison," Nino scoffs and jokes, while smiling affectionately.
"He's a model…hmm," she murmurs to herself, then tells Nino with a maternal tone, "I called your number with my new phone, so you know how to contact me. Call me if you need anything okay? I'll check up on you tomorrow, with cookies. It was nice meeting you, Nino."
"Nice to meet you too," he responds, myriad emotions mixing within him as he watches her leave. Meanwhile, Marinette is only feeling one thing: triumph. Before today, she had no idea it was still possible to find Alya. Now it was only a matter of time before they were reunited. Not to mention the angelic boy from earlier was not only an Agreste, but a model. While it had been decades since she'd dabbled in the fashion world, her connections went way back. Her "grandmother" knew Coco Chanel, her "father" not only worked with Christian Dior but bailed out his company when Group Arnault went bankrupt. The public couldn't know it was her legacy directly, but they'd still respect her "family's" past. The Dupain-Cheng name holds weight. It would be simple to use that influence to put Adrien Agreste exactly where she wanted him—in her studio, possibly in her arms, wearing her designs. Get ready, Paris. Here I come.