EDITED 1/4/20
Chapter 2: Creak
Marinette felt a raindrop land on her cheek.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, squinting against the harsh light. Marinette could feel the hardness of the ground beneath her and the bits of gravel sticking to her cheek. Her grimy hair itched the back of her neck, the ribbons holding her pigtails long since tattered and lost. She could feel the uncomfortable weight of her clothes sticking to her body, plastered to her aggravated skin with sweat and something else. She wanted to tear them off, but just the thought of moving, even sitting up, was enough to inundate her with nausea.
She couldn't see much besides silhouettes of people, whose blurred movements made it harder for her eyes to focus. Her throat and lips were painfully dry, and the lingering smoke sent her into a coughing fit that irritated her throat doubly and made her ribs scream. Even through the ringing in her ears, she could still vaguely hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. Another raindrop fell, this time sliding down her forehead.
(Clouds. Thunder. Rain. The storm was looming.)
Everything was hurting. Her flesh, her bones, her muscles, even her own blood—boiling and rushing and burning the lining of her veins. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Her brain felt as though it were getting rhythmically stabbed by hundreds of needles over and over again. Marinette's body trembled involuntarily, and she was too hot—too hot, too much, she was going to asphyxiate in her own battered skin.
Would this be how she died?
It was ironically befitting for a hero of Paris to flicker out at the foot of the Eiffel, in the line of saving her city. Given the circumstances, it was more than she could have hoped for; not as painful, sudden, or disturbing as some scenarios she'd imagined in the past.
She just wished she had more time. She wished she could've said goodbye. She wished she could've apologized.
Her parents would be heartbroken. Alya would lose her best friend. Her whole class would be shaken, upset, confused. She would be mourned, but she had faith that she would be remembered by many.
But life goes on, even in tragedy. And as the years passed, as life changed and people grew, Marinette knew she'd inevitably be forgotten by most. That would be okay, though, because Marinette was never meant to be remembered anyway. Because she was just Marinette—ordinary, normal, not particularly remarkable. She knew she would live on with the people that mattered. That was enough.
However, where Marinette was gone, so was Ladybug. Paris would grieve for a fallen hero, admire her for her bravery, and be thankful for her dedication. But still, as much as they respected her, they knew so little about her. Of course, this was the intended effect of her anonymity, and it appeared that her secrecy didn't interfere with the city's support—the people trusted Ladybug wholeheartedly; after all, she kept them safe and seemed brave enough to do so. In the end, they would remember the mask, the magic, but they wouldn't remember the girl. They couldn't possibly remember a person they never even knew.
Regardless, they wouldn't be Ladybug-less for long. It would be the end of Marinette, but Tikki would find a new chosen. A fresh Ladybug for the Parisians to cheer for, for Alya to obsess over, to purify the akumas and battle Hawk Moth, to be Chat's—
. . . Chat.
Marinette squeezed her eyes shut. Chat Noir would miss her. Chat would miss Ladybug. If she was gone, he wouldn't have the time to stop and heal like everyone else did. He would be forced to continue saving the city, forced to jump back into work like she never even left. He'd be forced to cooperate with a new partner, with someone who had no idea what they were doing, at a time where he needed an expert. Their work would be sloppy and out of sync, their conversations strained and professional. And when he looked over his shoulder to look for someone familiar and reliable, someone to ground him and reassure him, to look for her, he'd see someone foreign and trifling and out of place. He'd see a stranger.
And, she . . . she couldn't do that to him. She couldn't put him through something like that, not now.
She was stronger than this. Better than this. Braver. Ladybug wouldn't allow this, she wouldn't give up so easily. Not without trying.
She needed to get up.
Marinette started small by gently wiggling her fingers and toes, to make sure she could still move them. When they proved to be functioning well enough, she moved to her arms and legs, which were more stiff and less cooperative, but didn't instantly appear to be broken or paralyzed. Bracing herself, she ever so carefully shifted her body and moved to sit up, even though her aching body screamed for her to stay sprawled on the pavement. It was taking all of her strength and concentration to peel herself off the ground, but a choked gasp above her head caused her to pause and divert her attention to the source.
Chat Noir was staring down at her, his green eyes blown wide and a hand covering his mouth in shock. His other hand was clutched loosely, and she could just make out a purple butterfly fluttering around in it. There was still blood smeared over his cheek, and a nasty cut on his forehead, and surely many other injuries concealed by the suit, but he didn't seem to be aware of how roughed up he appeared. He stepped towards her timidly, as if he were afraid of penetrating some unseen forcefield that, if breached, would cause the girl before him to crumble to pieces. When nothing happened, however, it was he that began to crumble—his knees began to shake and his breathing became ragged and his eyes screamed something that was too loud for her to hear.
Her heart sank heavily into her stomach. She tried to tell him that she was okay, if only just to set him at ease, but her throat burned too much for her to speak. She did, however, let out a soft groan as a sharp pain bloomed on her temple. She sorely raised a hand to the tender spot, and when she withdrew it, her fingertips were coated with dark blood.
. . . Wait.
Bare fingertips.
Marinette's fatigued expression transitioned to one of confusion. She slowly flipped her hand back and forth, looking at the ungloved surfaces as if she had never seen a hand before. She raised and inspected her other hand, which was also bare, in the same fashion. 'Why . . . ?'
Then she looked down at herself. Her clothes were dirty and bloodstained, but it was unmistakable.
Pink shoes. Pink pants. White shirt. Gray blazer.
...
She . . . wasn't transformed.
...
. . . She wasn't transformed?
For the longest time, Marinette couldn't do anything but stare at her clothes, her mind whirling. She didn't remember calling off the transformation. Did she call off the transformation? She briefly ran through the choppy memories of the fallout with Falling Star, Chat almost getting killed, and then herself getting thrown into the Eiffel Tower after her blind effort to save him. She—she must've blacked out, and Tikki must've been too weak to hold—
Marinette quickly sat up all the way, ignoring how rapidly the pain escalated and the air left her lungs. She scanned the ground, and spotted the small red kwami a short distance away. She quickly grabbed Tikki and cupped in her hands, and the kwami shuddered at the touch. Marinette felt tears land on her palms, and Tikki looked at her, her blue eyes heavy in a way that made her look her real age. She hiccupped.
"Marinette, I'm—I'm so so so so sorry, I-I tried so hard to keep—I didn't want you to get hurt—but I—the Lucky Charm—"
"Tikki," she whispered, her voice weak and scratchy. "Are you hurt?"
"Don't worry about me!" the kwami cried, her eyes wide with disbelief. "What about you?"
Marinette clutched at her shirt, ignoring the wet feeling that coated her hand and seeped through her fingers. She was slowly becoming more and more aware of her surroundings, of the commotion, and she suddenly realized just how many people were watching them. There were cameras, a lot of cameras. She couldn't hear sirens in the distance over the crashing sea of voices:
"Wha—who is that?"
"I can't believe . . ."
"Holy shit."
"Are you recording this?"
"What the . . ."
"Nino I swear if you don't let me go right now—"
"Alya, please—"
"Oh my god . . ."
"Someone call 112!"
"She's just a girl! She can't be older than—"
"How is she even alive?"
"Marinette," Chat whispered.
Marinette abruptly tore her gaze away from the crowd. Chat Noir was kneeling in front of her, his free hand extending towards her shoulder. He was wearing that steely mask again, but it was starting to fall apart, panic bleeding tauntingly through the cracks.
"M-Marinette," he said, his voice breaking, "Marinette, you're—"
"Chat . . ." she choked.
He gulped. His eyes swarmed with something like defeat. ". . . My Lady."
Marinette's heart stopped. She could feel the blood in her veins turn to ice, and the already insufferable pain amplified tenfold.
She looked out at the crowd again against her better judgement. Instead of immediately focussing on the faces, Marinette's eyes fell on the phones and cameras, blinking and flashing and focused on her. They'd seen everything. They knew everything. They—
They knew she was Ladybug.
They knew she was Ladybug.
And now, so would the rest of France.
So would—
"No," she whispered.
The one word was enough to shatter Chat's mask, but only for a second. He glued it back together before she could notice. He couldn't—he needed to—
"We need to get you out of here," he said quietly. "I—I can get you out of here. I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?"
He was waiting for her reply, but Marinette didn't know how to respond. She was still processing—
They knew she was Ladybug.
How did this even happen? She'd . . . she'd been so careful, she worked so hard to keep her identity a secret. Months of lies and excuses and sacrifices and bottling everything with an iron lid . . . Was one screw-up all it took to destroy all that?
That wasn't fair. That. Wasn't. Fair.
Everything felt like it was closing in on her. The crowd seemed to have enough sense to keep their distance, but just their presence was enough to smother her. She could hear sirens nearing dangerously close to them—An ambulance? Police? Whatever it was meant more people, and she didn't think she could handle that. She couldn't bear to meet Chat's eyes, and she could feel Tikki shaking in her palms, and it was getting really difficult to stay upright, the pain was nearing intolerable and her brain was panicking, overwhelmed, telling her to shut everything out, but she didn't know how.
Before her distress could augment any further, Marinette gave into her screaming ribs and head and everything, really, and roughly laid back down. She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined herself away, removed herself from the moment. Her mind seemed to veil the outside world for her, similar to the way a heavy drape could shield the eyes from the sun. She suddenly felt like she was being submerged underwater, like she was surrounded by a deep, dark sea devoid of any other life, the surface high above her and the bottom non-existent. The voices and noises around her became muffled and warped, her surroundings blurred by a light-fractured field of darkness. Her body was painless, weightless, like a feather floating on air, and all her senses were almost underwhelmed.
Then, the darkness wrapped around her—
(frozen—)
(enclosing—)
(suffocating—)
—and when she tried to breathe—
(cry—)
(scream—)
—her lungs were filled with water, and suddenly she was drowning—
(dead—)
(dying—)
—and she tried to reach the surface—
(thrashed—)
(kicked—)
(fought for it—)
—but all she could do was keep sinking—
(deep—)
(drag—)
(down—)
—and she couldn't—
(down—)
—she couldn't—
(do—)
(—wn—)
she
(dead)
...
She needed to breathe.
...
Marinette snapped back into reality when Chat's hand fell on her arm, and she quickly shied away from the touch, as if it burned her skin. He was too close—
"Marinette—" he started worriedly.
The girl scuttled backwards clumsily. Her body was still broken, operating like a puppet with tangled strings, but her mind was desperate for her to distance herself. She could hear the crowd begin a new wave of murmurs, the shutter of camera lenses, sirens again, closer this time. Chat's expression was saturated with concern, but she clenched her eyes shut before she could let him hypnotize her. She could hear the sounds of car doors slamming shut—help was here. They were going to take her away. She was out of time.
She needed to go.
"Tikki," she whispered under her breath, her voice shaking. "T-Tikki, can you—?"
Tikki didn't meet her eyes. By this point she had stopped crying, but the kwami's sorrow radiated off of her in waves. Her voice was hollow, but the words were stronger, determined, devoted. "I'll give you as much time as I can."
Marinette took a deep breath.
...
(Was she really doing this?)
(She had no choice.)
...
"Tikki, spots on."
...
The transformation happened with a familiar burst of pink light. Though duller and delayed to complete itself, the outcome was the same. Where Marinette sat seconds before was now a familiar spotted hero.
(Could she still call herself a hero? She didn't feel like a hero. She wasn't sure if she'd even felt like a hero in the first place.)
The crowd gasped, and there were more voices, more cameras. As if they didn't already know.
Chat stared at her, and this time she stared back. When the shock faded, she could see his eyes narrow slightly, calculating, until they widened all the way with fear. He started to reach out towards her. "Ladybug, don't —"
Ladybug stood up. Her legs felt like they were about to snap in half, and her stomach lurched, and her ribs all but caved in completely, but the strength from the suit helped her keep it together. Still, her knees were on the brink of buckling, and Tikki's magic wasn't going to last long at all. Hopefully it would be enough. It had to be.
She turned to her partner. There were tens, hundreds, millions of things she wanted to say. I'm sorry would probably be the most coherent and effective message for her to relay.
Instead, she said, "Don't follow me."
Before he could say anything else, her yo-yo latched onto a support and she swung off, without looking back. Chat screamed her name, but she couldn't hear it over the blood rushing through her ears and the teeth-grinding pain tearing through her arms and the voice in her head screaming for her to 'go go go go GO!'
She'd never swung her yo-yo so fast in her life, nevermind while being so injured, but then again, she'd never been in such a hurry to run away. Throw after throw after throw, she glided down several streets in the blink of an eye, and by the time Chat could even think to run after her, she was already out of sight.
He screamed her name again, but she was too far gone to hear.
...
...
He watched.
White butterflies sat in the darkest corners of Hawk Moth's lair, finding shelter in the shadows. Their wings flapped mindlessly and out of sync, creating an unsettling anthem for Hawk Moth as he focused on the scene before him.
He watched.
He watched her swing through the streets, more of a red blur than a girl. But he knew it was her.
He caught sight of her face as she looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was following, her eyes fearful and desperate. She was too far ahead to see her partner trying to stay on her trail, but eventually making a wrong turn. And of course she didn't see him.
It had been anguishing, even torturous, for the villain to abstain from releasing akumas for so long. No akumas meant no progress, (albeit one could argue that akumas achieved nothing when those heroes defeated every single one, but the feeling of at least trying held some weight of accomplishment), but as tedious and as difficult as it was, he had to swallow his impatience. He knew anger would get him nowhere. Besides, he'd waited this long; he could stand to wait a little more.
And, as he looked at the scene before him, he knew it'd been worth the wait. Oh kwami had it been worth it.
By conserving Nooroo's energy and practicing with his dark magic for an entire month, his ultimate plan had been to produce an akuma powerful enough to send Ladybug and Chat Noir enough steps backwards so he could at least get somewhere. Best-case scenario, the miraculous were his. But he would take what he could get, because with the skill advancements he'd made, he was guaranteed to gain something of value.
The second best scenario was getting one of their identities.
The ambiance of the lair suddenly seemed to shift. Sensing a change in the atmosphere, the butterflies faltered in flapping their wings, before they jerked to a halt. The sound died, and all that remained was an impossible, eerie silence.
...
He watched.
...
And then he smiled.
...
...
...
"I found you, Marinette."
...
...
wake me up