Unsung
achieving elysium

part i. liar, liar
chapter four


Marinette.

Fabricator surveyed the city of Paris with sharp eyes, combing the angular skyline for any sign of Ladybug or Chat Noir. Something stirred inside of her at the thought of the two superheroes; subconsciously, her fingers found the soft flesh of her earlobe where an earring had once sat. They'd been important once; it was the only thought that kept Fabricator from sliding the remaining earring off of her ear and tossing it away, some part of her clinging to a life that was long gone.

Marinette.

The threads around her moved restlessly, looking like they were being carried by the wind. They murmured quietly, though Fabricator didn't listen to most of it. Her threads absorbed noise, but most of it was nonsense – news reports mixed in with soft pleas for help, nothing that really mattered.

Marinette, a voice whispered along the edges of her mind, and Fabricator frowned. Only Papillon could speak to her, and even now, he was strangely silent, letting her do as she wanted. And… the voice was different. Quieter, softer, carrying a spark of a memory.

Fabricator didn't remember much of being Marinette. There were flashes, pieces of a puzzle she hadn't quite figured out yet. The strongest were of Chloé Bourgeois and the girl's sharp, biting words, followed closely by Chat Noir of all people. She frowned again, lips pulling down. Her threads reacted to her emotions, twisting around her like miniature snakes.

Remember, Marinette, came the voice again. Remember, remember.

The threads carried the same words to her ears, though they were distorted and fuzzy; Fabricator shook her head, trying to listen, but the words seemed to get fainter and fainter.

No matter. Whoever this voice was, whoever was trying to communicate with her… soon she'd silence them, too. Soon, it would only be her voice left – no lies, only the blade of truth, her sharp tongue a weapon of its own.

Remember.

Pale hands clenched the soft fabric of her dress as Fabricator listened. For a moment, she could remember – a boy, hair like spun gold, Chat Noir, grinning slyly, others with warm smiles, the smell of freshly-baked bread. She gritted her teeth and pushed the memories aside.

Marinette.

She tore at the hem of her dress. "That is not my name," Fabricator snarled to no one in particular, eyes searching for the source of her discomfort. There was no one to blame, though.

You have to remember, Mari–

"Get out of my head!" she screamed, leaping backwards as her threads reacted violently, darting this way and that. "No more lies."

The voice – a presence, she realized, one that belonged to Marinette but certainly not to her – retreated. She let out a slow breath, hands falling limply at her sides.

The wind picked up around Fabricator, tossing plumes of dark hair like smoke around her face. She buried her face in her hands and felt her heart cleave in two.

Fabricator…, Papillon murmured, and though he wasn't there next to her, she heard him almost clear as day. Remember your promise.

There was that word again – remember.

Fabricator picked at the hem of her dress. "Ladybug will come," she reassured him. "and Chat Noir won't be able to stay away for long. They're too… good for that."

She sneered, and Papillon laughed. Of course, my dear, he said. But I want those Miraculouses.

Fabricator hummed in displeasure, suddenly annoyed. "And you'll have them, Papillon." Oh, he'd have the Miraculouses, alright – and then she would silence him, too.

She stood, looking down at the street for a moment before leaping down gracefully, stopping an inch above the ground. Fabricator let her threads lead her to a small crowd gathering around a large screen, watching the latest news.

"–Chat Noir last seen a few hours ago; we managed to snag a quick interview and found that the akuma raging through the streets is Marinette Dupain-Cheng, a young girl–"

Fabricator landed on top of the screen, smirking down at her new viewers.

"You've got the wrong girl," she called, feeling giddy as her threads gathered around her. Someone screamed. "but I have some breaking news for you."

A girl turned to run and tripped over her own feet, sobbing. A nearby businessman looked panicked, clutching at the dark tie around his neck as if it'd just become a noose.

No more liars, Papillon said. Fabricator grinned.

"No more liars," she agreed; she'd visit that reporter later. There was a moment of sound, loud, horrible sound – a cacophony of screams and words she had no interest in hearing.

Then Fabricator swept an arm forward, and the girl who'd tripped was wrapped in red, then the businessman, then a woman and her son, until each and every one of them were bound and quiet.

She shuddered as the absorbed sound traveled back towards her, crescendoing in her mind before dissolving underneath her skin. Her eardrums felt like they'd been pounded on too hard by a band kid.

A small price to pay – a side effect of her new powers, Fabricator had quickly realized. The more sound she stole, the less noise she could hear. It was a dangerous gamble, one that ensured she'd never hear a lie again but also a disadvantage should anyone try to stop her.

"Don't worry," she said, hopping down from her vantage point, still on a high from the amount of power underneath her fingertips. Her voice sounded softer to her, quieter now. "Your heroes will come soon…"

Wide, terrified eyes looked back at her. "…but it's too bad they won't be here to save you."

Marinette, sang that voice again.

Fabricator twirled a piece of hair around her finger and waited, deep in thought. Three. Three was a lucky number, found everywhere and anywhere. In stories that Fabricator could barely recall being read to her, things came in triples – magic, people, happenings.

Threes also stood for something spectacular… miraculous, even. More importantly, a great rise and fall. It was fitting, Fabricator decided – here, she would face Chat Noir for the third and final time, and he would not win.

Chat Noir would come; Fabricator knew this, knew it in her heart of hearts though she didn't quite know why. Ladybug… she hadn't lied, before, when she'd told him the superheroine wasn't around. Ladybug had truly abandoned Paris, not to mention her partner.

Liar, liar. Chat Noir had said he'd cared. Ladybug had, once upon a time, promised to protect the city of Paris. Liar, liar.

A soft thud sounded behind her, quiet through her damaged ears but still there. Chat Noir grinned as he saluted with two fingers.

"Just dropping by," he announced cheerfully. "Bet you missed me, Princess."

"I've been waiting for you," Fabricator told him, ignoring his words and instead drawing herself up, back straightening as she prepared. Her threads caught another victim behind him with a gentle prompting from her mind.

"How kind of mew," Chat Noir said, his smile widening. Fabricator caught a glimpse of sharp canines. "I really appreciate the welcome."

Infuriating, that was what this cat was – absolutely infuriating.

"Hmph," Fabricator huffed, but there was something almost familiar in the way he stood, in the gleam in his too-green eyes and curve of his lips. He'd said he'd cared – but no one had cared as she'd torn out of that classroom an eternity ago.

Chat Noir flashed his ring at her, the green pawprint on it teasing her. She narrowed her eyes. All the pieces were falling in place; the only thing she had left to do was take his Miraculous.

"Looking for this?" he drawled, spinning his baton casually before lounging against it.

Fabricator struck, faster than lightning as she sprang forward, her eyes locked on the Miraculous. Chat Noir was no hero – she'd expose who he really was, and finally Paris would see the boy behind the mask, no illusions to shadow his face any longer.

What was left of Paris, anyway.

Chat Noir matched her attack with cat-like reflexes that no one else could have done. Claws tore through her long sleeve, and marks appeared on her skin, red beading where he'd struck her.

She shrieked in both anger and pain, retaliating as her threads grabbed him and threw him far, far away, a silhouette in the city. Fabricator didn't let him escape, directing her threads to catch him before he could hit the ground and regain his footing. Two red stripes crossed around opposite-facing buildings and held him fast in the middle.

Fabricator let herself float up until she was perched on the threads, a tightrope with Chat Noir in the dead-center. Most dangerous were his claws, magically sharpened and able to cut through almost everything.

She balanced on the pseudo-tightrope and smiled down at Chat Noir. Absentmindedly, another thread came to wrap around his torso, holding him further in place.

"Is that all you've got, kitty?"

There was panic on that handsome face, eyes widening as her threads wound around him again and again. A spider and her prey.

He mouthed something, unable to speak, and Fabricator flicked her hand, sending even more red thread to wrap around his mouth until she could only barely see his black suit and a pair of eyes.

"Too bad no one's here to save you," she spat bitterly. "so now you know how it feels."

He stopped fighting immediately, eyes widening in horror. She laughed again, the sound sharp and painful to her own ears as she remembered running and feeling so, so alone.

"Chat Noir!"

The voice was so small Fabricator believed she'd imagined it until she found herself weightless, plummeting from the air as her threads snapped underneath her feet. A raw scream tore out of her throat before she could stop it, the sound scraping against her skin.

Chat Noir was already on the ground, running in a different direction, and Fabricator's momentary fear was replaced with white-hot anger. For all his supposed courage, his bravado, his heroics – and still he was running away from her.

Flying next to him was a red blur the same color as her threads. Kwami. The knowledge came to her unbidden and unwelcome; Fabricator frowned as her feet touched the ground, unable to remember how she'd known that or why.

Tikki.

She threw her hands in front of her as she ran, stumbling forwards in her mad chase after Chat Noir.

Tikki. The name was enough to send a rippling shock through her systems, as if she'd been dunked into cold water. She didn't know where it'd come from or what it meant, but Fabricator didn't like it.

"A little out of breath there, Princess?" Chat Noir called back to her, bounding up the side of a building and running sideways for a split second before disappearing high above her head, the only sign he'd been there a flash of green.

She had to focus – she had to get to his Miraculous.

Her world rocked again. Tikki. A pair of earrings.

Fabricator held her head as she ran, willing the memories from her mind. She tracked Chat Noir through the city, not even caring as they passed dozens and dozens of Parisians panicking in the streets at the sight of the two of them.

Up ahead, Chat Noir let loose a yell – a name, but her head throbbed when she realized she couldn't hear it. Her hearing was diminishing, deteriorating far faster than she'd thought it would.

He landed on a roof and spun around, claws outstretched as she slammed into him bodily. They crashed into some potted plants, and the balcony they'd landed on shook. Someone shrieked.

Fabricator shook her head, trying to clear it as her ears rang from the impact. Her bones shuddered, and pain flared up her right leg. It was instinct that saved her from Chat Noir's next attack, the boy flying backwards and crashing against the railing. There was a loud crack.

"Mon dieu," someone said breathlessly. "Ladybloggers, I am on the scene of the fight between Chat Noir and M– Fabricator herself. Front row seats, best view you're gonna get from any reporter."

The voice was familiar. Suddenly, so was the place.

"Alya, you idiot!" Chat Noir cried, and she sent threads tearing through the air at him. He deflected them with his baton, leaping in front of the other person on the roof with them. "It's too dangerous–"

"I'm getting the scoop on t–" The girl let out a surprised yell as Fabricator sent another wave of threads. Chat blocked her again.

"What did I tell you," he growled through gritted teeth, keeping himself between them as a sort of human shield. "It's not worth it, Miss Cesaire. Please go inside and stay there."

"No way am I missing this!" the girl argued, and Fabricator narrowed her eyes as she remembered an arm slung around her shoulders, passing notes as a teacher droned on and on, the glow of a phone and an even brighter smile. Alya looked at her, and Fabricator gazed back coolly even as her breathing quickened. "and this isn't just a story, okay, this is real and that is my best friend–"

"Shut up!" Fabricator snapped, and she slipped under Chat Noir's guard and sent her threads toward Alya. She got to her before Chat could, red wrapping around her body; a shock traveled through to her, and Fabricator winced as her ears hurt. Her chest heaved as she took in the scene in front of her.

Anger roiled in her stomach. She forgot about Papillon, about Ladybug and Chat Noir, about getting their Miraculouses. All Fabricator could see was the girl she'd tied up.

My best friend, she'd cried, and the thought alone made Fabricator's blood boil. Her strongest memories were tinted with purple and black, how alone she'd felt standing against Chloé in a room that'd been filled to the brim with people. How no one had listened to her, had bothered to go after her.

"Hello, Alya," Fabricator said, her voice cold despite the fire that roared inside of her. Then she did what she'd done for Chat Noir and released the sound again, Alya coughing a few times.

"Alya," Chat Noir groaned, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. He immediately knelt by her side, using his claws to cut away at Fabricator's work. "I told you–"

But Alya wasn't paying attention. Instead, she was staring at Fabricator, her gaze heavy and eyes wet.

"Marinette," she choked out, and Chat Noir gripped her shoulder in a show of silent support through the binds. "Marinette, you– you…"

Fabricator cocked her head. "That's not my name," she sang.

"Marinette, listen to me, girl," Alya begged. "I'm sorry about– about what Chloé did, and I'm sorry she said those things, and–"

"Is that what you think this is about?"

How pitiful. Chloé would have used the word pathetic, perhaps.

Fabricator took a step forward, her anger mingling with a sense of satisfaction as she watched emotion flicker across Alya's face.

"Marinette," Alya croaked out as Chat Noir freed her, standing on unsteady feet but refusing to leave as the boy next to her supported her weight.

"Did you ever think for a moment," Fabricator began quietly, her fingers finding a thread and toying with it. "that it was your fault, too?"

The phone that Alya had been holding slipped from fingers tipped with blue nail polish and clattered against the ground, the screen darkening even as the blinking red dot implied it was still recording. A charm that had been attached to it rolled off and stopped at Fabricator's feet.

She remembered this. A Ladybug charm, red with black spots on one side and the opposite on the other – she'd made it for Alya's fifteenth. A birthday gift… and a thank you, for being her best friend.

The charm cracked underneath her heel, breaking cleanly in two.

A moment passed. Alya made a choked sound as she stared at the now-broken charm before Chat Noir grabbed her, scooping her up in his arms and leaping off the roof.

Don't let them get away, Papillon cried in her head, and Fabricator shook her head, beginning the chase once again. Chat Noir continuously stayed one step ahead, the only sign of him his cat ears and the long tail that trailed behind him.

He disappeared behind a building and reappeared with no one in his arms, but in his attempt to keep Alya safe, he'd slowed down, and Fabricator used that to her advantage. She swung forward, using her threads to propel her much like Ladybug did with her yo-yo.

Fabricator slammed bodily into Chat Noir, and they fell towards the street, landing hard on concrete and flipping over each other a few times. Her mind drifted ever so slightly as Chat landed above her, keeping her pinned with his weight, his strength holding her down.

"Let me go," she hissed as his hands found her wrists and held them down, preventing her from moving them. She bucked underneath him, twisting wildly as if she was a feral animal in a cage, but Chat Noir held fast.

"I don't think so, Princess," he retorted. "Third time's the charm."

There was a roaring in her ears. A moment later, Fabricator realized that they were in the last place she'd expected them to be in, right next to the Seine as the water raged. The beginning and the end, a circle. Whatever happened, it would end here.

Liar, liar, liar, liar. She struggled harder, panic clouding her mind. Liar, liar, liar, liar. It was an unending chant, repeating in her head like a broken record – and it was enough for her to throw Chat Noir off, her blood singing.

The two of them panted as they faced each other. Green eyes stared at her, unwavering, and in them there was only warmth, a compassion she hadn't been expecting.

Marinette, came that voice again, and a cool breeze lifted heavy locks of hair off her neck, kissing her skin. Emotion lulled inside of her like the waves of an ocean; she was sinking beneath the waves, the water dampening all sound and leaving her breathless.

She couldn't move fast enough.

The air sang as claws clipped at her ear, razor-sharp as they bit through soft flesh and dark hair before managing to snip a few of her threads. He slashed again, and threads dropped to the ground around them, red lines littering the sidewalks.

She gasped, retreating towards the river as Chat Noir went on the offensive, his gaze burning on her skin. He said things she couldn't hear, the only thing Fabricator understood the emotions rolling underneath his words. He kept going, switching between his baton and his claws.

"No, no, no," she muttered. She couldn't lose, couldn't afford to lose – not to him, not to anyone.

So Fabricator blocked his next attack and sent her threads moving wildly around them. Red billowed around their legs, twisting up torsos and hanging around Chat Noir's head until he was completely surrounded.

He cut through most of them, but she replaced them, gritting her teeth as a wave of exhaustion threatened for her legs to give out underneath her. This was it. Fabricator had to make her move now.

Chat Noir lunged for her. She kicked at a spot right underneath his knee, and his mouth opened in a cry she didn't hear. Claws dug into her arm, drawing blood while keeping her in place, and he swung his baton with his free hand.

Fabricator ripped herself free from his hold and brought both arms up, catching the baton. They fought against each other, Chat Noir having the advantage of his strength and height, but Fabricator gritted her teeth and pushed back.

"Not a chance," she hissed through her teeth. Chat strained, and her feet slid backwards slowly until they were on the banks of the river, so close that spray kicked up against her back.

Marinette.

Her focus slipped with her, and Chat released, her momentum pitching her forward. She brought her arms up as Chat Noir aimed a punch followed by a harsh kick that would leave bruises and knocked the air out of her lungs.

He shifted on his feet, and his eyes flickered to her unprotected stomach. Fabricator knew his next move before he made it, a curled fist driving downwards where she was vulnerable; she caught his fist with a strong hand and ignored his surprised expression, hooking a foot around his and pounding him into the ground.

"Marinette," he said, breathless, and she could hear him as if his voice was breaking through a thick fog that had hung over her head. Her name echoed in her ears, and she brought a hand up to the ear Chat Noir had cut earlier.

Chat Noir gasped for air as he lay there, sprawled on his back. Without even thinking, she held in place there with a few threads, though the effort cost her more than she wanted to admit.

"Marinette," he said again, bowing his head. There was grief in his voice. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry."

Marinette.

Flashes. Running on rooftops, Chat Noir in front of her, looking back with an easy grin she hadn't seen on him during their lengthy fights. A hand in hers. Sitting together in a small corner of the Eiffel Tower overlooking the beloved city of Paris. A red, patterned yo-yo swinging in a hypnotizing circle. Loud laughter. The taste of freedom.

Marinette. Marinette. Marinette.

Chat Noir looked away from her, turning his sad eyes to the sky. "My Lady," he whispered, his words so faint she could've imagined them. "I failed you."

My Lady.

Marinette.

"Ladybug," she breathed aloud, and Fabricator brought her fingers down from her ear, staring at the blood that stained her fingertips. The wound stung as the wind caressed it.

Another flash. Reaching up with two fingers and finding emptiness, an earring that had been torn out by none other than Chloé Bourgeois herself. An earring that had been the same color as her threads… and her suit.

"Take it," Chat Noir said, turning his gleaming eyes back to her. Her heart shivered. His voice strengthened as he tried to sit up. "Go on, isn't this what you want?"

His ring shimmered in the light, entirely black with only a green pawprint on the flat surface. She'd seen that ring so many times, had run her fingers over it until she'd memorized the feel of it.

Fabricator knelt in front of him, transfixed. She moved forward until their faces were barely inches apart, breath mingling. She swallowed, and the threads released him as she took his gloved hand.

Chat Noir didn't even try to fight back. "I do care," he said, his voice thick. His eyes searched hers for something. "Take my Miraculous, Marinette. I trust you."

Somewhere in the distance was laughter, Papillon's laughter, but the sound was grating and harsh. Fabricator's hands trembled; something invisible compelled her to tug at the heavy ring that sat on Chat Noir's finger. Maybe it was Papillon claiming his prize. Maybe it was her own heart, a very, very small part of her believing the words he was saying even though it felt like everyone had lied to her. Maybe it was the look on his face as he'd told her he trusted her.

Marinette. In the corner of her eye, there was a flash of red; Fabricator looked up and found the kwami – Tikki – hovering above the both of them. Tikki called out to her again. Marinette. I love you.

She could barely breathe, her lungs drawing in shallow breaths that were suddenly too loud.

"Marinette," Chat Noir said again. Tikki smiled. Marinette.

Fabricator closed her hand around the black ring, cold against the skin of her palm and biting in her grip. The weight of it, the feel of it, was heavy and familiar, as if a part of her recognized it as something so much more than a piece of jewelry.

A flash of light. Blood roared in her ears, as did an angry but faraway voice, and around her red threads danced, fluttering in the wind. A smile, and tired green eyes glanced up at hers.

Fabricator felt infinitely heavy.

"Adrien."


Today's my birthday - so obviously, I'm updating with one of my favorite, favorite chapters. I'm exhausted - had a rehearsal and concert today, ahh!

Of course, don't forget to come find me on tumblr at achievingelysium.

As a birthday gift... review? Pretty please? Hamilton references always acceptable.

achieving elysium