Marinette was late for school. Again. It was just homeroom, so the day hadn't technically started yet, but she was in a flurry nonetheless. Stopping briefly at her locker, she stashed her boots while grabbing her school-issue shoes. After shimmying out of her joggers, she managed to slip on the penny loafers while simultaneously wrapping and securing her kilt. Uniform complete, if a bit rumpled, she grabbed her books for first period just in time for the bell to ring and for students to rush out into the halls, their faces exhausted but their steps hurried.
"There you are!" A voice from behind her exclaimed and Marinette froze for a second before realizing it was just Alya and not Ms. Bustier busting her for her tardiness again. She turned and smiled.
"Hey," she chirped back. Alya walked over and immediately linked arms with her as they made their way through the sea of girls towards first period. When she'd been offered the scholarship, Marinette had been trepidatious about coming to the international all-girls school, even if it was the best in the city. Her worries were soon dashed when she met Alya the first day of classes. Their schedules were almost identical, and they had become inseparable ever since. Alya was the calm to her frenzy. They'd known each other two years now, and sometimes Marinette questioned how she'd ever functioned without Alya to rant to or to keep her from accidentally walking into traffic-which unfortunately, in her usual sleep-deprived state, had happened more than once.
They walked to their first period government and sociology class to see the students all storing their books and lining up. Alya must have noticed her confused expression because she just rolled her eyes.
"The field trip, Mari. To the MRA. Remember?"
Marinette cringed involuntarily at the mention of that particular agency, cursing herself for not remembering.
The métamorphe Readjustment Agency. An entire branch of the government whose sole purpose was to find métamorphes and "readjust" them. No one really knew what that meant. One day the métamorphes were discovered and the next they just disappeared. Never to be heard from again. No one questioned it, after all, those people were different, which for some reason always equated to dangerous. Marinette often wondered how many missing persons cases were actually métamorphes who got caught. Unfortunately, it wasn't like she could ever go about the research to find out. Asking around would draw too much attention to herself, and that's the last thing she needed, being a métamorphe herself.
She'd only shifted for the first time within the last year, but, if hesitant at first, had quickly grabbed a hold of her new identity and wore it with pride, making the MRA her natural enemy.
Many people had the gene. It was a part of their heritage as human beings, but it was the part of human history people liked to forget. A deviant evolution brought about by dubious magical origins, métamorphes coexisted alongside the statiques-the non-shifting humans-for generations. Usually, but not always, travelling in packs, those coming of age who possessed the gene would be activated by the mere presence of their kind or sometimes by just a particularly strong inheritance in their blood. Like with everything, there were some tensions-some métamorphes preferring to remain only with their own kind and some humans refusing to allow shifters into their villages-but for the most part they had all intermixed, statique and métamorphe brothers and sisters living side by side. For a time, it was peaceful.
Then the tides changed. Where once métamorphe powers were accepted and even lauded as god-given, now they were suddenly accused of witchcraft. Out of self-preservation, the métamorphes forced the gene dormant, scattering to stem the process of activation by proximity and, with the help of some brave statique allies, deliberately interbreeding in the hope that the gene would weaken and less and less children would answer the call of the shift.
It worked a little too well.
The gene was undetectable in most DNA now, and only about one person out of a hundred thousand had a strong enough presence in their blood to experience the shift naturally. Those who did lived among the statiques in constant fear of discovery, relying on the protection of the guardian to see them through the initial year, and then they were on their own.
That was the one stipulation set aside at the onset of the witch trials. For as long as métamorphes had existed, so had the monastery of Liu, preserving and studying the history of Master Yi, the first guardian who legend tells unlocked the ancient magic and brought forth the first métamorphe. But when the world started to hunt them, the elders recognized that in order for their people to live, a change was necessary. So they showed their people the way into hiding, but not before creating a provision to safeguard the métamorphe heritage and the magic of Yi.
A guardianship of the métamorphes was formed, an honor passed down through the generations that dictated the recipient of the ancient magic. Scattered around the world, each guarded a set of pithoi, seven ornate jars that encapsulate the basic essence of every métamorphe. But, in the event of dire need, they hold the power for something much greater: the activation of the protectors. In the beginning, protectors existed as the highest of monks, healers, shamen, and warriors, each serving a crucial cause among the métamorphe family. In peaceful times, they became ambassadors, protecting, counseling and healing statiques and métamorphe alike. When the monastery was abandoned, and the métamorphes scattered, so did the protectors. All mention of them was wiped from history, but the elders knew the day might come when the world would call for them again. They bestowed this last gift, this last responsibility, onto the guardians and those who came after them, believing they would know when the time was right.
For generations, no one was chosen. The métamorphe gene was suppressed enough that any métamorphe that happened to occur naturally was immediately detected by the guardians and taught to hide it well, blending in and not drawing attention to themselves. They learned to be self-sufficient, each métamorphe for themselves, as they navigated the dangerous minefields of a society that was slowly forgetting them. With little danger, the guardians stayed their hands. The role of protector was a dangerous destiny to thrust on someone, and despite the threat of forgetting completely the métamorphe heritage, there was no need to disrupt people's lives without cause. As the years passed, the gene dwindled further, leaving only a small percentage of the population with even a trace of the gene potent enough, even skipping multiple generations between activated métamorphes. It seemed that the lineage would fade into nonexistence.
Then Hawkmoth arrived.
According to the story she'd been told, he played by the rules for a while, hiding in the shadows like all other métamorphes before him. Unlike others, he quickly grew tired of living under the burden of so many rules. Befriending the current guardian, he tried to convince him to activate him as a protector. Sensing his intentions were not at all honorable, the guardian began to distance himself from the métamorphe and Hawkmoth retreated. Except he lusted for the power, and before long, had stolen one of the sacred pithoi for himself.
At first, nothing happened. Weeks turned to months, and the guardian began to questions his instincts regarding the man, but before long, a series of murders confirmed his worst fears. In an attempt to make himself a protector, Hawkmoth had channeled the magic of this particular pithos into himself, the way that is never to be performed without the balance of all seven pithos. While Hawkmoth's bastardized version gave him power, it was dark and unstable. It allowed him to activate the métamorphe gene even at its weakest levels, but he was careless and ignorant, not in control of his powers and not stopping the activation process until he had absorbed a métamorphe's entire essence. It gave him the illusion of immortality, and the ability to shift into an unknown about of creatures-one for every life he stole-but it also made him volatile and dangerous.
Although the "how" was lost to history, the guardian was able to steal back the pithos, and for the first time since the elders prepared the safeguard, he activated a team of protectors, each deliberately chosen for their loyalty, intelligence and bravery. Together they pursued Hawkmoth, preventing the murder of countless more humans and métamorphes, but in the heat of their chase, he escaped. He'd remained silent for nearly two decades, but there was no doubt that he'd be back.
From that moment on, there was always a métamorphe team, carefully crafted and trained to be prepared for that day. Unfortunately, when they came into existence, so did the MRA.
The string of murders had been impossible to conceal, even had the guardian been inclined to cover up Hawkmoth's horrors, and the statiques suddenly remembered the existence of métamorphes. They also decided, based off the example of one psychopathic murderer, that they were "unnatural" and needed "help". Over the years, fewer and fewer métamorphes came into existence, and even in their newly connected society and with the guardianship of the protectors, no one dared identify themselves to other métamorphes. There always hung the eternal fear that came with knowing who each other were: if one is captured, they all are compromised. Only the guardian and protectors knew of those activated throughout the city, but the protectors identity remained secret.
Marinette would spend her nights training and patrolling the city. She knew the face of every métamorphe, one small benefit of being a protector when everything else was anonymous, but that was the extent of hew knowledge. No names. No details. That included her fellow protectors, except she didn't even know what their faces looked like. They were complete mysteries to each other.
Even with these safeguards, the MRA was continually evolving in their detection techniques, and the protectors lacked the resources and man-power to keep up. The MRA was always watching, discreetly placed CCTV following their every move until Marinette had learned to detect them instinctively, and DNA sampling for the activated gene. The community had been warned, but year after year, the population dwindled further.
If they found you, that was it. Another métamorpher gone, another bloodline lost. Tikki told her of a girl-one of them, a protector in training- who had been taken to the hospital after an accident. That's where they found her. Apparently around a decade ago, the MRA had started randomly sampling bloodwork of patients hoping for a hit, only being able to detect the métamorphe gene when activated. That day they found one, and the next day that girl was gone. Now all métamorphes avoided hospitals. There was no telling what revelatory technologies they had now.
Marinette swallowed, absentmindedly following Alya out the door and shrugging on her coat as they marched single-file into the cold mid-morning air to await the bus. Marinette had tried very hard to forget that she would soon be forced into the lion's den, and it had worked a little too well. Now that the day was here, she felt her heart trying to leap out of her chest. Her entire body tense, she tried to console herself that she was with her classmates, and the government class from their brother school was coming too. It was highly unlikely that out of everyone they'd single out. That they'd somehow find her.
Still, as she sat on the bus, she felt the telltale prickling at the back of her neck. The same sensation she felt every time she transformed. It was easy for the common métamorphe, their transformations simple and straightforward. But for protectors, there was a hole extra learning curve. A calling towards the ancient magic and extra abilities that developed after activation. She was still so new to this, so out of control sometimes, especially when stressed. Her current situation definitely qualified as stressed.
The boys from their brother school across the street finally got on the bus and it lurched forward. Marinette was taking calming breaths while Alya looked at her curiously, but her eyes were stuck on someone else entirely. He was impossible not to notice, with striking features, a shock of blonde hair and startling green eyes, but that wasn't what caught Marinette's attention. He sat tensely, somehow even more tightly wound than she was, and was rubbing the back of his neck. It could easily just be a nervous gesture, but Marinette suspected it was something much more. It reminded her of her own nervous tick, rubbing her chest when the urge to shift was just too much.
He turned then, as if feeling her eyes on him, and they locked gazes. The nervous prickling faded, replaced by an immeasurable warmth and she felt her breath catch in her throat.
She suddenly had the feeling of deja vu, like she'd seen those eyes a million times, even though she was sure she would have never forgotten a face like his. Before she could ponder their familiar gaze, the bus slowed as she looked out the window.
They were here.
Shuddering to a stop, Marinette grimaced at the ostentatious glass and steel building, following as the other students filed off and into the pavillion, just steps off the crowded pedestrian street. Out front was an austere looking woman with a huddle of security guards staring at the approaching crowd menacingly. Marinette forced her feet to keep moving until they were all gathered within listening distance.
"Welcome, to the métamorphe Readjustment Agency. We are very excited to welcome you all here today. You are the leaders of tomorrow, and here at MRA, we are dedicated to making out city a safer place for all."
"Oh, so that's why the métamorphes all disappear. You're just making them 'safer'." Marinette heard the grumbled comment and subtly looked over, not surprised but validated in her suspicions when she saw it came out of the mouth of the blonde boy. A bespectacled boy next to him nudged his arm to be quiet and they shared a secret grin.
What was his deal? Marinette tried to discreetly observe the two, but got a nudge of her own from Alya. She gave her an eyebrow wiggle noticing the direction of her gaze and Marinette just rolled her eyes with a smile, turning to pay attention to the woman up front.
"We'd like to give you a full display of our agency's capabilities today including each facet of out mission statement. Discover. Recover. Readjust. Now, if you'll all just follow me, I'll show you the simplicity of the first. Discover."
The woman's heels clicked as she turned and started leading them all to a turnstile that allowed entrance to the building. Everyone seemed to surge forward at once, but Marinette got lost in the shuffle. Before she knew it, she was towards the end of the line, Alya having raced to the front, chatting eagerly with two overly excited teachers. Marinette huffed, watching them ooh over some kind of technology.
"Now, just place your finger here," the woman instructed Ms. Mendeleev. "You'll feel a slight pinch, but it's nothing to be concerned about."
Marinette watched in horror as her teacher placed her finger on the pad and a sample of her blood was taken.
Human.
The screen flashed brightly and everyone chuckled as if to say obviously.
There was just one problem. Marinette's result most definitely would not garner a chuckle.
She started glancing around in what she hoped was a nonchalant way, standing to the side of the line and pretending to try and get a better look, when really she was just letting others pass her and hoping to stall for sometime. Then her eyes met his, green orbs reflecting the panic she felt coursing through her own veins, and she knew he was doing the same thing. She didn't know who he was and didn't want to know, but right now, they needed to be anywhere but here.
When the line started to dwindle, and the teachers and security guards had all passed, watching the progress from the inside, Marinette made her move. She grabbed his hand and almost dropped it immediately, his skin seeming to buzz against hers. One look over her shoulder, and she pushed that reaction to the side for a moment, yanking him towards the sidewalk and disappearing in the crowd of the business center of the city. She pulled him along behind her, absently cognisant of the bizarre feeling that the world seemed more vivid the moment they touched, until she noticed an alley along the side of the building. She pulled him there, peeking around the corner quickly to make sure no one was watching them.
Looking back at him, she racked her brain to figure out if she'd seen him before, berating herself for forgetting one of the faces she was tasked with protecting. Then again, a part of her knew that wasn't it. One glance at those emerald eyes that seemed to make the air between them vibrate with some unnamed energy, and it would have been impossible to forget him. That left her only two options: he was a protector like her, or some anomaly. The likelihood of her just happening to stumble upon the other protector was slim, but him being some rogue métamorphe that slipped Fu's notice didn't make sense either.
Before she could ponder it further he finally decided to speak up.
"What do you think you're doing?" He tried to sound indignant, but Marinette could tell he was as rattled as she was.
"Saving your ass," she responded, looking back at him. Her heart fluttered when she found his eyes watching her so intently-and definitely not from fear- but she pushed that to the side. This was not the time for one of her romantic daydreams. They needed a plan.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Look, blondie-"
"Adrien," he corrected automatically, but his eyes held a bit of amusement at her nickname. She cringed. She didn't want a name. She was already on the verge of breaking so many rules, and sharing identities was a definite no between métamorphes. That went doubly for protectors. She could maybe pass off this interaction to Tikki as her protecting one of their own, but in order to do that, she needed this to be as anonymous as possible.
"Adrien," she repeated, berating herself for how much she like the sound of it, but refusing to give her own name. "Let's just say I've never failed a test in my life and neither of us were prepared for that little pop quiz."
She watched as his eyes dawned in comprehension, and cursed. He hadn't quite put the pieces together on his own yet, but she just did it for him.
"You-How did you know?"
"I don't, nor will either of us confirm it, but right now we have bigger problems. Like explaining our sudden absence."
Marinette was rubbing her temples in agitation when she noticed his mischievous grin.
"The two of us, alone in an alley? I can think of a few explanations," he wiggled his eyebrows at her and she groaned.
"God, I don't even know you and you're already insufferable."
Adrien grinned wider at that and leaned in closer. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Marinette noticed the boy's teacher, Mr. Damocles, passing the alley.
She didn't have time to warn him, but they reacted at the same time. She reached up and grabbed his sweater as Adrien leaned in fully, kissing her with an intoxicating and infuriating slowness that had her clutching his sweater for dear life. Suddenly, she forgot that she was in a grungy alley in fear of her life and that one, probably two, teachers were marching towards them right now. All she knew was Adrien. All she felt was the maddening pace of his lips.
"Mademoiselle!" She was jolted back to reality by Ms. Mendeleev, her tenor indicating to Marinette just how much trouble she was in, but she honestly didn't care. It was either this, or being "discovered" and "readjusted" by the MRA. That would be a field trip no one in her class would forget anytime soon. Although, stealing a glance back up at the blonde boy with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, she knew this wouldn't be a field trip she'd forget anytime soon.
Her teacher just pointed towards the mouth of the alley, and Marinette abashedly disentangled herself from Adrien and went to walk in that direction.
"I'm calling you a cab, and you can explain to the principal exactly what this little...adventure was about."
"Wait," she glanced back and saw Adrien trying to see around his massive teacher. "Wait! I didn't even get your name!"
He called to her, and Marinette had to stifle her laugh at the horrified look on her teacher's face at her improper behavior. Kissing a boy during a school-sponsored function was one thing, but they didn't even know each other? The scandal!
Ms. Mendeleev parked Marinette on the curb and whistled for a cab, muttering the whole time about youth and their lack of decency.
Once settled against the worn leather seats, the door shut against the cold, Marinette looked back out the window and past her disapproving teacher. The last thing she saw as the cab pulled away was Adrien's shy smile as Mr. Damocles hurried him into a car of his own, likely towards a similar punishment.
Marinette lifted her fingers to her mouth, still tingling from his kiss, and couldn't help but giggle. She'd almost been discovered, but then that kiss...Well, maybe she was delusional or high on adrenaline...but that kiss had been worth it.
"Adrien," she whispered his name again, like the forbidden fruit it was, and smiled, relishing this moment before reality set back in.