Paris, France. 1900.
Le Cirque de la Miraculeuse was closed during the day. Though this created a great sense of disappointment in the air of whichever city it was in, there was an unspoken agreement amongst the population that it just wouldn't be the same during sunlight; some experiences were made only for the night.
The circus was empty to the casual onlooker. The acts took the day to rest, either practicing their routines and talents in secluded areas of the city or wondering around the town, hidden in plain sight. Out of their costumes, they were invisible; the simplest disguise is, sometimes, the most effective.
Very few people went near the area at which the circus stood at during the day; it felt almost sacrilegious to gaze on it when it wasn't asking to be seen. So it came as a surprise to many Parisians when, seemingly without a care in the world, a woman stepped through the unlocked gates into the circus' silent backdrop.
She wore mostly black, an ebony so dark it shone; her jacket and fluted skirt seemed to shimmer as she walked, and those who saw her enter the circus wondered if she might be an illusion, part of the magic brought along with the tents. Her outfit was punctuated by a scarlet sash around her waist, and blood red feathers arching out of her broad-brimmed hat. But it was her hair which drew the eyes of passers-by; the colour of cherries, it was so vivid that it couldn't be natural, yet it was the only colour anyone could imagine her possessing.
The woman walked through the circus with confidence, weaving through the maze of canvas buildings as if she'd known them her whole life. She was a flash of colour within the sepia of the day; the grey skies sharpened the outlines of the tents and brightened the scarlet which adorned her, emphasising her ever-moving presence in an otherwise still setting.
Her quick steps halted when she turned past the tent housing Monsieur Pigeon and his birds to face a large, white tent with what appeared to be black spots adorning its material. Upon closer inspection, the woman knew that the dots were actually tiny butterflies. The tent needed no sign – she had been there often enough to know she was in the right place. She took a breath, and steeled herself before walking through the spotted door flaps.
Her eyes skimmed the room, taking in the decor – or, more accurately, the lack of it; the tent was empty, a carpeted floor hosting only a large wooden table with three plush chairs encompassing it, a centrepiece of food and two silver plates resting on the mahogany. There was no light but for a single gap in the tent's roof, a window strategically placed to thrust the table into the brightest area.
The woman moved towards the table, her finger skimming the polished edge as she circled it. Placards had been placed by two of the chairs; she picked one up, the black of her gloves darkened by the yellow tinge of the cream card, and gingerly held the edges in her fingertips. The card she had chosen was embossed with a black moth in the top left corner, and had a single word in an elegant cursive script: Tikki.
A platter of cheese had been laid out, making up the table's centrepiece, with pieces of bread and grapes placed delicately around the variety on the plate, and a bottle of champagne set in the middle of three crystal glasses. Tikki rolled her eyes as she took her designated seat, smoothing the front of her dress before resting her hands in her lap. She exhaled, allowing her posture to relax momentarily; she was only given a short respite, however, before the flaps of the entrance rustled. Tikki straightened immediately, tense with anticipation.
The newcomer had to bend to enter the tent, removing his top hat so that it wasn't knocked off. Tikki relaxed as she took in the man's ebony hair, watching as he straightened up. He was fairly tall, and, like Tikki, was dressed all in black. His lounge suit was the same material as Tikki's dress, but whilst her clothes gave the crisp appearance of newness, his suit looked worn and lived-in. A midnight scarf was draped around his neck, which he slid off and placed over his arm before acknowledging Tikki's presence. He looked up at her once he too had surveyed the room, and nodded in recognition.
"Tikki," he said, smiling at the seated woman, "so good to see you." His eyes travelled from Tikki towards the food in front of her, and the man's eyes lit up. "Ah, our host has anticipated our needs perfectly!"
Tikki let out a soft chuckle. "You aren't exactly hard to predict, Plagg," she replied, watching as he took the seat next to her and began to pile cubes of cheddar onto the plate in front of him.
"Well, in our lives, some predictability is nice, is it not?" Plagg frowned at the placard by his seat. "He has to control everything, doesn't he?" he asked, rolling his eyes. Tikki arched an eyebrow, pulling the bottle of champagne towards her.
"Le Papillion has always had a certain way of asserting himself," Tikki replied, popping the cork of the bottle and pouring the bubbling liquid into one of the glasses. She motioned to Plagg, nodding her head towards the musty green glass of the bottle. Plagg waved his hand dismissively.
"No, thank you. I'm not drinking today."
Tikki raised her eyebrows, the edges of her red-painted mouth quirking upwards.
"Ever the model citizen, I see," she remarked, bringing her own glass to her lips and taking a sip. Silence fell between them; a feeling of unease built between the couple. Words were building up in Tikki's mind, things which she knew should be said, would be said in due course, but couldn't yet bring herself to articulate.
The silence grew, a spider's web of fragile sentences hanging between the two chairs. With a breath, it disappeared into the air of an all too familiar conversation.
"So, it's time again," Plagg said casually, piling camembert onto his growing mountain of cheese. Tikki nodded solemnly.
"Yes. The periods between each game seem to get shorter and shorter, don't they?"
Plagg murmured in agreement as he popped a cube of cheese into his mouth. He swallowed, and picked a smaller block between his fingers, moulding it into a ball.
"How do you feel about your contestant?" he asked, rolling the cheese with his thumb.
"She'll win," Tikki stated. There was very little room for argument in her tone, but that had never stopped Plagg before.
"You underestimate my contestant," Plagg smiled, confidence letting cockiness slip into his words. "He's a natural; nobody has taken to the Miraculous as quickly as he has. I'm sorry, Tikki, but this time, the game is mine."
Tikki tilted her head, smirking, red waves of hair falling over the shoulder of her jacket.
"Funny," she said, placing one hand under her cheek, "I was about to tell you the same thing about my girl." She took another sip of champagne, eyes locked on the man next to her. He raised an eyebrow, placing the rounded cheese into his mouth. Plagg's eyes narrowed as he chewed, and Tikki could practically see the cogs whirring in his mind. He seemed to make a decision as he finished eating, and moved the champagne towards him.
"He can use Cataclysm," Plagg said, turning to his glass as he poured himself a drink. He looked at Tikki from the corner of his eye, expecting the usual reaction of acceptance and defeat when he threw the word out, and blinking when she merely nodded, her smile unmoving.
"Yes, I thought he might be able to," Tikki replied, delicately twirling her glass between her thumb and forefinger. Plagg frowned, his brows furrowing in confusion.
"I was under the impression that this would concern you a bit mo- oh. Oh. She can use Lucky Charm, can't she?"
Tikki's only response was a proud smirk. Plagg chuckled, shaking his head slightly.
"Well then, this certainly will be interesting. We've never seen both powers in use simultaneously bef-" Plagg stopped mid-sentence as the door of the tent lifted.
The atmosphere in the tent changed instantly; the conversation froze like raindrops into ice. Tikki and Plagg turned to face the figure entering the tent. His suit was a deep purple, accents of black on his shirt cuffs and bow tie emphasising the rich colour of his clothes.
His face was covered by a mask, crafted into an angular butterfly, and Tikki and Plagg eyed him wearily as he drew the vacant chair back so he could take the final seat at the table. He rested his elbows on the table, pressing his fingertips together in an arch as he smiled at his companions.
"Tikki, Plagg. Excellent to see you, as always. How long has it been, ten years?" he asked.
"You know exactly how long it's been," Tikki replied, her words tinged with venom whilst her posture remained demure, her hands folded in her lap as her back remained straight. Plagg rested a hand on her arm, a familiar gesture of both reassurance and restraint. She took a deep breath, and held her tongue from further comment. Le Papillion sighed.
"I thought we may at least be civil enough to make some small talk, Tikki, but it appears that is not the case. I can only hope that your protégée hasn't inherited your manners. We'll get right to the point then. Are your competitors ready?"
Tikki nodded as Plagg let out a soft laugh.
"If they aren't now, they never will be. If a decade of training with us hasn't prepared them, nothing can."
Le Papillion nodded, grasping the open bottle from Plagg and letting the pale gold liquid spill into his glass until it was nearly full.
"And they've not met?" Le Papillion asked, leaning back into the plush chair, his glass resting luxuriously in between his fingers. Tikki and Plagg shook their heads.
"We've been careful," Plagg replied. "They shouldn't have crossed paths. And if they had, I'm sure we would know about it."
Le Papillion took a sip of champagne. "Yet neither of you know the identity of your protégée's competition. How can you be sure?"
Plagg's shoulders tensed.
"We've been doing this for long enough to know how to keep the competitors separate, Sir," he said, anger humming in every syllable. Le Papillion raised his eyebrows.
"My apologies," he replied, raising the glass towards the other man, his words as trustworthy as a mirage. "But really, Plagg, don't you think it might be more interesting if they met beforehand?"
"No," Plagg said, not even pausing for a second before responding.
"That wouldn't be interesting," Tikki whispered, eyes narrowing into slits at the suggestion. "That would be cruel." Le Papillion placed his glass back on the table, raising his hands in a gesture of mock-defeat.
"Of course. I know that the two of you wouldn't want to meet the other protégée. You'd be afraid of caring about more than one of the contestants, and heaven forbid they care about each other." His mouth slid into a malicious grin. "After all, only one will be left by the end of it. But you must admit, the games are getting very... similar."
Tikki and Plagg stilled. Plagg's hands were grasping his knees rigidly under the table, visible only to the woman next to him. She took a breath, straightening her back so that she was looking at Le Papillion head on.
"And what would you suggest?" she asked, her voice eerily calm. She clenched the folds of her skirt, crumpling the soft material in her fist. Her fingertips dug into the fabric, and pressed into the palm of her hand viciously through the crisp materials of her skirt and gloves.
Le Papillion laced his fingers together, creating a rest for his chin. He leant forward, his cruel smile never faltering.
"We change the venue."
Tikki and Plagg relaxed slightly; both had been expecting something worse.
"Where will it be changed to?" Plagg questioned, grasping a cube of brie and popping it into his mouth.
The older man straightened in his seat, and gestured towards the tent surrounding them. "The circus."
Plagg choked on his cheese. Tikki slammed her hands on the table, standing up instinctively.
"Absolutely not," she hissed, leaning towards the bemused man.
"No?" Le Papillion replied, his eyes flicking between his two companions. "You're right, Tikki, maybe I could change something else. Would you rather I added more contestants? Or changed the style of the game? A short and sweet battle, maybe, to test their prowess? Plagg's competitor can use Cataclysm, are you sure you want your darling protégée to have to fight that?"
Tikki was shaking, anger coursing through her bloodstream. Plagg had recovered, and once again touched her arm. Their eyes met, and Tikki slowly sat back down in her chair, fists curled tightly.
"The circus could be an... exciting change to the game, it's true. When would we leave?" Plagg asked, forcing casualness into his tone. Le Papillion laughed.
"We? You misunderstand. Your competitors will be on their own this time, with only their wits to help them. Having them compete in one place is so stagnant. With the circus, they will learn the true extent of their abilities, will be able to adapt to new environments. This game will be entertaining, to say the least."
Tikki was breathing heavily, her gloves creased from the strength of her curled fists. Plagg shot her a look of warning, his usually smiling face taking on a sombre tone.
"I can see you're both affected by the change of venue. I understand – saying goodbye to your protégées so soon must hurt. But rest assured, whenever the circus is in Paris, they will be allowed to visit you. Until, of course, one of them wins. Then whoever is left may stay with the circus, or leave it for good." Le Papillion removed his head from the back of his hands, and took a drink from his champagne.
"Le Cirque de la Miraculeuse leaves in three days. You know the rules. Be back here at midnight with your competitors." He placed his now empty glass back on the table. "The game will begin then. Make sure they are prepared." He smiled, mockingly, at the couple opposite him who were staring at him with unadulterated rage in their eyes. Tikki stood up, Plagg following her lead, and stormed out of the tent in silence.
Plagg walked behind her, curling his scarf around his neck as he moved, his other hand clamped around his hat.
"For someone who's so insistent on that damned black and white colour scheme, he rather enjoys his purple," Plagg remarked as soon as he thought they were out of earshot. Tikki snorted, a sound which he knew meant she was furious.
"Of course. It's the colour of royalty, and that man couldn't think more of himself if he tried. Naturally, he has to stand out." Tikki practically spat the words out, walking speedily to get as much distance between herself and the tent they'd left. Plagg jogged to keep up with her, catching up and touching her shoulder. Tikki paused at the contact, and turned to face the man behind her. Plagg said nothing, merely offering his arm to her. She looped her arm through his, resting her hand on his bicep, and then began to move again. The duo weaved around the tents, not needing to communicate to know which way they were heading.
The weak sunlight spilled through the pale clouds in a mockery of a sunny day. The sepia of the daylight gave the circus the feel of a graveyard, the silence of its two inhabitants angry and mournful.
The brittle silence between the two shattered when Tikki couldn't contain her words any longer.
"The circus. The circus. Without us there to guide them. Damn him, damn him to the darkest depths of hell where he belongs."
"Tikki-"
"It's supposed to be the prize, not the venue! They'll learn, of course, but everything at the circus come with a price..." Tikki trailed off, her voice catching. Plagg patted her hand in an attempt to comfort her.
"Come now, Tikki, where did that confidence from earlier go? You were so sure your competitor would win! You're wrong, of course, but that's no reason to lose spirit if she's as good as you say. She surely stands a chance?"
"You don't understand, Plagg, my girl... she's kind. If I can't remind her about the costs of losing, she- she might not-" Tikki broke off, her shoulders drooping; she seemed to deflate, her hand tightening around Plagg's arm. He exhaled, and turned to look at her.
"My boy is, too. He's competitive, I won't lie, but he has a good heart. Whatever else, this game won't be violent again." Plagg sighed. "One of us will lose someone, Tikki, I can't pretend otherwise. But at least, if they're kind, the game will go on for a while. It won't be vindictive; it will just be beautiful."
They had reached the gate of the circus, and stopped walking. Tikki removed her hand from Plagg's arm.
"I'll see you tomorrow then, for the first performance. Would you like to go first, or shall I?"
Plagg pondered the question for a moment.
"You go first. There are a few alterations I want to make to the costume before I present him to you."
Tikki nodded. She looked at the cracked pavement beneath her, its pale stone the same colour as the skies above, before meeting her friend's eyes.
"This time will be different, Plagg. I can feel it."
Plagg raised an eyebrow, shrugging at Tikki's statement.
"Well, whatever happens, it can't be worse than the previous game," he mused, taking Tikki's hand and moving it to his lips. Plagg pressed a gentle kiss to the black-gloved hand before releasing it, ready to part from his companion, and Tikki smiled sadly.
"That's what you said last time."
***
Marinette sat in the back room of the boutique, a newly finished bowler hat resting on its stand. She spun it carefully, her skilled eye looking for any mistakes; she had never made a bowler hat before, but was pleased with how it had turned out.
It was, after all, for a special customer.
She'd been surprised when he had requested the hat to be grey, but as new colours came into fashion, Marinette had realised that he was just prepared – whilst others would now have to wait weeks for their clothes to be a la mode, Adrien would be at the top of the Parisian fashion chain.
Marinette carefully grasped the brim of the hat, moving it closer to her face so she could examine it more closely. After finding nothing she could criticise, Marinette let herself relax. She had another week to go over it, should she have a burst of creativity, and could figure out exactly what she would say to Adrien when she finally presented it to him.
Marinette looked up at the flaking ceiling paint, letting out a sigh of relief. She was proud of her work, and when the time came, would be able to talk to Adrien without-
The ring of the bell above the boutique door interrupted Marinette's musings. She rolled her eyes, moving to put the hat back on its stand.
"Adrien! Bonjour!" Marinette heard Alya, who had been manning the front of the shop, cry. "How can I help you today?"
"Hello, Alya. I was wondering if I could place another order for a hat. My master has misplaced one of his, and where else could I come but here to buy a replacement?"
Marinette nearly dropped the bowler in her hands when she heard Adrien's voice filter through the wood of the door. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that she was out of sight in the back room. The cream wallpaper peppered with pink roses surrounded her, reminding her that she could still plan what she was going to say. Adrien didn't know she was here; she might not have to embarrass herself today.
Her hope of remaining a secret dissipated as soon as she heard Adrien's next words.
"Is this your sketchbook, Alya?"
Marinette groaned softly; she had left her sketchbook open on the shop's counter, presuming that business would be slow today. And whilst this wouldn't necessarily betray her, she knew that Alya would never take credit for Marinette's work. Whilst this was usually a good thing, it meant that Marinette had limited time to prepare what she would say when her friend inevitably dragged her to the front of the shop.
"Alya, these designs are wonderful!" Marinette heard Adrien exclaim. "You're so talented!"
Marinette felt heat rise to her cheeks; Adrien liked her designs. Adrien thought she – well, technically Alya – was talented. She clutched the bowler hat to her chest, burying her face into it in order to muffle her squeal of delight. Her head shot back up as she heard Alya reply.
"Oh, no, these aren't mine. They're Marinette's. Aren't they just stunning? She's incredible, you should see the hat you requested - actually, she's just in the back room, finishing it. I'll run and get her, I'm sure she would love to hear what you think!"
"I thought the hat wasn't due to be finished for another week," Adrien said, surprise colouring his voice.
"She's talented and quick. But you can tell her that yourself, give me one moment." Alya's voice was getting closer to the back of the boutique, causing Marinette's eyes to widen in panic. She looked desperately for somewhere, anywhere, she would be able to hide in the five seconds she had before Alya walked through the door linking the front of the shop to the back. The papered surroundings provided no such place, and the auburn haired girl pushed open the door, one hand sliding a loose curl back into her pinned hair. Alya let the door close before breaking into a grin of pride.
"Marinette! You should come through, Adrien is complimenting you! And I may have told him you finished the bowler hat, so you should probably bring that too." Alya whispered to her friend. Marinette shook her head rapidly, her pigtails bouncing from side to side.
"No! I always make a fool of myself. Here, you take the hat-" she thrust the grey piece of headwear at Alya "-and tell him I'm ill. It'll end better for everyone."
Alya raised an eyebrow.
"I am not giving the man of your dreams the hat which you painstakingly crafted for him. Go out there and speak to Adrien!"
"You really should call him Monsieur Agreste, Alya-"
"Nonsense, we've known him far too long for such formalities."
"I doubt Madame would agree..."
"Well, what Madame doesn't know won't hurt her. Now, go show him your incredible hat-making skills and win his heart!" Alya said, taking Marinette by the shoulders and pushing her towards the door.
"I highly doubt that's how it wor- Monsieur Agreste! Bonjour!" Marinette exclaimed. She felt Alya remove her hands from her shoulders, and raised the bowler hat in front of her like a shield. Adrien looked up from the open sketchbook in front of him and smiled.
"Marinette! How are you?"
The girl in question blinked.
"I'm very well, thank you!" she sputtered, feeling her face redden. "Yourself?" She gripped the hat's brim harder, channelling her nerves into her shaking fingers. Adrien stopped leaning on the shop's counter, his fingers tugging on his shirt cuff to straighten it. The sharp cut of Adrien's clothes made Marinette all too aware of her own, the pristine white blouse and gored skirt appearing less than fancy in comparison to Adrien's own attire.
"I'm fine, thank you," Adrien replied. "Although I wish you would call me Adrien. Monsieur Agreste is my father, and I have very little intention of turning into him." He winked at Marinette, whose blush deepened.
"I – yes, of course – okay, yes, Adrien it is," Marinette babbled, her eyes wide and smile nervous. Adrien's emerald eyes lit up as his smile grew.
"Wonderful. I was just telling Alya how fantastic your designs are, Marinette," he said, gesturing towards the sketchbook on the counter. Marinette looked at the floor, a small smile of pride gracing her lips.
"Thank you," she said, her voice soft. "That's very- I mean, you're very-" she paused, words failing her. Marinette panicked, and thrust the bowler hat in her hands at Adrien. "Here's your hat!"
Adrien blinked, looking from Marinette's face to the hat and back again. He looked slightly concerned as he took it, his crisp white gloves brushing against her fingers as he removed it from her grip. He rotated the hat, looking over it, before looking back at her.
"Marinette, this is fantastic! I can't wait to wear it around Paris," Adrien said, placing the hat over his blonde hair. He smiled sincerely, and turned to examine his reflection in the mirror on the wall. "I'll be the talk of the town, and it'll be because of this hat!"
Whilst he wasn't looking, Alya gave Marinette a thumbs up from behind the counter. As Marinette struggled to come up with a response, admiring Adrien admiring her handiwork, the bell above the boutique's entrance chimed. Marinette spun towards the sound, her dark blue gored skirt twirling around her ankles. Her mouth had formed a professional smile, ready to greet a new customer whom she didn't have feelings for; she was surprised to instead see Tikki, her face sombre.
"Madame," Marinette said, falling into a small curtsey. "You're back earlier than expected." It was more of a question than a statement; timekeeping was her mistresses' forte, and the unexpected arrival was concerning.
"Hello, Marinette, Alya. Bonjour, Monsieur Agreste," Tikki said, turning towards him and smiling shortly. He bowed in response, placing his hand on the top of his hat to ensure it stayed on his head. "I hope my girls have been hospitable," she continued. Adrien smiled as he straightened, tipping his new bowler hat in the direction of the older woman.
"They've been perfect ladies, as usual," he replied politely. Tikki nodded.
"I'm glad to hear it. Sadly, Monsieur Agreste, the shop will be shutting early today. My apologies; there has been news which requires my immediate attention."
Alya and Marinette exchanged a glance, worry spreading within them as they looked back to their employer. Adrien's smile fell, and a look of genuine concern crossed his features.
"I understand, of course. Is everything all right?" he asked. Tikki's smile in response was tight, her eyes flicking towards Marinette.
"We shall see." The severity of her tone allowed for no questions, and Adrien nodded in understanding. He moved towards the entrance to the shop.
"I'll be on my way, then," he said. He looked towards the two shop girls, and broke out into a smile. "Au revoir, Alya! Thank you again for the hat, Marinette. It's truly fantastic – you're incredibly talented!" He called before exiting. Marinette raised a hand in response, waving at the already empty space where Adrien had stood until Alya pulled her arm down.
"Is everything alright, Madame?" Alya asked, smoothing down the front of her skirt nervously. Tikki paused before responding, selecting her words with the precision of a scalpel.
"Perhaps," she pondered, her serious tone becoming resigned. "Perhaps not. Alya, I'm sorry, but I need to speak to Marinette alone. You will, of course, be paid for the entirety of today."
The fact that it was a dismissal was unquestionable; Alya squeezed Marinette's arm before leaving the boutique, her fast exit encouraged by Tikki closing the blinds of the shop as she left.
Silence hung between Tikki and Marinette as the former slid the final blind shut. She turned to look at the younger girl, and wasted no time.
"We must practice your routine immediately. Come, Marinette." Tikki's tone was brusque, her steps determined as she moved into the back room and opened what Alya believed to be a broom cupboard. The door swung open, revealing a wooden staircase.
"Tikki, what happened? Are you alright?" Marinette asked as she followed her guardian into the cellar of the boutique, clasping the banister with one hand and lifting the edge of her skirt up with the other to stop her from tripping. The small stage which had been built in the musty underworld of the shop had no props on it, and Marinette instinctively walked to centre stage as Tikki moved to the single chair placed at the back of the room.
"I'm fine," Tikki replied. She gazed at the petite girl on the stage, confusion clear in her bright blue eyes. "Some... unforeseen circumstances have meant that our time has shortened considerably. You will be performing in the Underground tonight. Your routine must be flawless, and so you must practice."
"What do you mean 'our time has shortened'?" Marinette said, her quiet voice echoing around the cavernous room. She tugged on one of her pigtails nervously, a habit Tikki had tried to discourage over the years, and stared at her guardian. Tikki's shoulders sagged for a split second, her head bowing to the ground in a gesture of defeat. She exhaled softly before regaining her determination, her flame-coloured hair spilling down her back as she raised her head sharply.
"The game starts tonight. And you have a routine to practise."
Tikki paused for a moment, her tone softening as she looked at the concern written on Marinette's face.
"Now, Marinette. Begin."