EDITED 1/6/20

(Warning: heavy themes of death and depression)

Chapter 6: Snap

Marinette didn't believe in luck. Before she met Tikki, she was shy and awkward and clumsy and never seemed to get a break from embarrassing herself. People often told her that she was just going through a phase of bad luck, that it would go away eventually. But, to Marinette, blaming her problems on poor luck seemed a lot less realistic, and a lot more complicated, than just accepting her inconvenient flaws for what they were. It was harder on herself, sure, but relying on the belief that her life was controlled by unseen mystical forces was bound to get her in trouble one way or another.

And then she became Ladybug. The literal embodiment of good luck. Marinette was still shy and awkward and clumsy, but Ladybug was loud and fierce and unflinching. She was saving lives and kicking evil's ass and just being plain awesome. She was admired, worshipped, respected. She was an icon. An idol. A hero.

So, how could she not believe it? Every akuma she and Chat encountered, they beat. Nobody, that she knew of, had found out her identity (despite dropping so, so many unintentional hints). She found amazing friends in the people around her, in Alya, Nino, Adrien; Tikki and Chat. Her class elected her president, and Chloé finally had someone challenging her unjust behavior. She was being recognized for the talents she held dear to her heart, winning contests and receiving amazing opportunities for her fashion and art.

She learned to believe in herself. She learned to believe in others. And, after that, being Marinette hurt a little less. (Except when she walked into walls.) (And fell off chairs in front of her crush.) (But that was not the point.)

For the first time in her life, she knew what it was like to stand tall. Not to stumble, fall, and get up halfway. Not to hover by the ground, praying that she was low enough so that the next time she was inevitably knocked down, it wouldn't hurt as much. She could stand with her back straight, two feet planted on the ground, and her chin raised, knowing she was constantly, endlessly loved and needed. And—who wouldn't feel lucky after that?

She let herself believe. Just for a moment. Just for a blink.

And now, she had nothing.

...

The alley was dark. Marinette was huddled behind a cluster of trash cans, wrapped in a blanket she'd snatched from her closet. She couldn't remember where she was, or how she got here. She'd passed out as soon as she arrived, and she woke up several hours later, feeling as though she were freezing and on fire at the same time. That's when Marinette took out her blanket, to see if maybe the soft, warm piece of home could bring her some sense of comfort.

Now, she stared up at the gray sky, and for a second she wondered why there still wasn't any rain. What was it waiting for? If it started to pour, at least Marinette had the chance to feel something other than this creeping, lethal kind of agony that was consuming her alive. At least she could remember what it was like to feel anything else at all.

In hindsight, Marinette realized she didn't have much of a plan when she let Tikki go. Of course, she had already planned where the miraculous was going to go, but what about the plan for herself? When she crept back into her house, besides taking the box for her—the earrings, she only grabbed a few warm things and some food. That wasn't very extensive preparation for . . . well, any plan she might've had.

What was she going to do?

Well, at the moment, there was nothing Marinette could do. Every last drop of her energy had been milked beyond dry, and even keeping her eyes open required an awful amount of effort. She grasped onto her consciousness by its decaying threads, because she wasn't positive enough that, if she gave in to this overwhelming desire to sleep, she would be able to wake up again. She was slipping away, so dangerously fast, and at this rate . . . she knew.

Marinette swallowed. Her eyes were glassy, but she didn't hold the strength to cry. Her body tremored involuntarily, due to fever and over exhaustion. The blood was finally beginning to dry, but it crusted and pinched her skin uncomfortably. There was so much wrong, there was no way to fix it. The short window of time she'd had had closed. If she were falling, she knew there was only one way she was going to land: in a surging, inexorable crash.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was her plan. Maybe, subconsciously, she had resolved to submit to her wounds and hole herself away, knowing that, even if her body was salvageable, the ruination of her life was not. Maybe she thought it was better to escape while she could, instead of being forced to witness the flames of disaster devour everyone and everything she loved. Even if she wouldn't live to experience it, in her mind, she could picture how it would be: screaming, boiling hatred running from the mouths of the people she trusted, of the people who trusted her, their disappointment chasing her and throttling her until she was choking for air, feeling her heart break piece by bleeding piece until there was nothing left to spare.

All of it was so vivid, so clear and evocative, that it must've been true. It couldn't have all been in her head, no matter how badly she wished it to be. She was going to lose them all, if she hadn't lost every one of them already.

She felt tears fill her eyes.

Ever since Marinette was first given the miraculous, she'd just hoped that she would never let anyone down. That's all she'd ever wanted. She wanted them to be safe, to have faith in her, to trust her. She didn't want them to be disappointed that Ladybug wasn't invincible, or disappointed that the person behind the mask was just some faceless schoolgirl. She didn't want them to be disappointed that, even when Ladybug tried her best, she could screw up so, so badly. She wouldn't have been able to stand it if she lost their trust, if their faith was shaken.

So of course that was exactly what happened. Of course she lost everything that was important to her. Of course her life was destroyed in one explosive moment, in front of the whole city. Of course, of course, of course.

(Just. her. luck.)

She thought of her parents. She thought of the bakery, of her father's laugh, of her mother's smile. She thought of their hugs and their lectures and their relentless encouragement for everything she did, everything she believed in. She thought of their embarrassing antics and their incredible talent for baking. She thought of their kindness and their wisdom and their unconditional love for their absolute mess of a daughter.

She thought of Alya. She thought of her headstrong drive, of how she was willing to fight so hard for what she believed in, whether it was yelling at Chloé, or running after Ladybug in battle, or encouraging Marinette to go after Adrien. She thought of her incessant joking and teasing, of her unquestionable support and loyalty. She thought of Nino, of his sense of humor, his passion for music, and his even bigger passion for making people smile. She thought of how he was just as good a friend to Adrien as Alya was to her, and of how he could somehow subdue her best friend without burning out her fire.

She thought of Adrien, of his kindness, of how, despite the terrible influences and expectations that had been thrust upon him, he was such a genuinely loving person. She thought of his shy smiles and his ringing laughs and his posters on her walls. She thought of his selflessness and his bravery, of his unique, seamless way of making everyone feel so wholly important, even if they were the farthest from it.

She thought of Chat Noir, with his silly jokes and his toothy smile and his unforgiving 'crush' on her. She thought of his overall ability to wear his heart on his sleeve, to think something on his mind and say or do it without question. She thought of his sensitivity and his vulnerability to jealousy and anger, but also to sadness and fear and self-sacrificing. And most of all, she thought of how she loved and valued him with a vigor that could not be encompassed in words, thoughts, feelings.

She went through them all. Friends, classmates, relatives, neighbors. One by one, she watched as they transitioned from constants to memories. She recalled her final interactions with them all (laughing with Mylène and Ivan, high-fiving Alix for a clever sarcastic remark, complimenting Nathaniel for his beautiful drawing, rolling her eyes at Chloé, kissing her parents on their cheeks, turning away from Alya and Nino's identical smiles, holding Adrien's hand for that one, fleeting, magical moment before they were ripped apart in the chaos—) and she wondered what it would've been like if they knew that was the last time they were going to see her. Then she thought of Tikki's pleas for Marinette to get help, to keep fighting, to keep her, and she decided that it was better this way. Even if she hadn't gotten to say goodbye, there were still some beautiful, if not bittersweet memories left for her to cherish.

She thought of the little things. She thought of phone calls with Alya, listening to Nino's mixtapes, even just that feeling she got whenever she heard Adrien's laugh. She thought of baking, crushing opponents in video games, designing into the early hours of the morning, and dancing (really badly) to music, when no one was around to witness but an amused Tikki. She thought of swinging over rooftops and waving to people on the streets below, of sitting up on a perch with her best companion never more than an inch away.

She thought of her life. Of her past, her present, her future—of everything she'd done, and everything she had yet to do—and she mourned it, because there was so much that she was going to miss, so much that was being taken away.

But it wasn't like she wasn't used to losing things. Ever since she started protecting Paris, she'd dealt with an innumerable, choking amount of sacrifices that stole from every part of her. Not just from her life—from her relationships, from her grades, from her free time—but also from herself—from her safety, from her soul, from her mind . . . They caused so much damage, and they never stopped taking, not for a second. All of these secrets and lies and masks, the unbearable task of trying to fit into a million molds at once while simultaneously trying to stay true to herself—it ripped away pieces from her that she would never get back, and left scars in their wake that were only visible to her weary eyes.

No matter how much she did to try to fix it, no matter how many people she saved or how many akumas were defeated, the sacrifices took and took and took, and the weight of the danger and responsibility and expectations and paranoia grew and grew and grew until—

Until she was drowning in it.

And now, as she was completely and entirely submerged, she just wanted to know—what did she ever do to deserve this? Marinette was kind. She was a good listener. She was fairly optimistic, or so she tried to be. She was honest—at least, as honest as she could be without giving her secrets away. But, no matter what, Marinette stood up for the good in this world as best as she knew how, whether that was by telling off bullies and liars, or by being a supportive and encouraging friend, or by putting on a brave face and defeating akumas—innocent people intoxicated by pure evil, who were unjustly puppeted by a heartless man to help fulfill his villainous agenda.

By no means was Marinette perfect. She was so, so, inexplicably far from that. But she really did . . . she really did try her best, both in and out of the mask, to help as many people as she could. Of course, with the mask on, she could make a far greater impact, and she was grateful that Ladybug's hard work was admired and acknowledged. She was grateful for the cheers, and the hugs, and the smiles, and she was grateful for even having the opportunity at all. Somehow, out of all the people in Paris, she was endowed with these powers, endowed with the responsibility to protect the city. It was a privilege that humbled her, rather than boosting her ego (unlike a certain cat she knew).

But Ladybug never asked to be held on a pedestal. She never asked to be looked up to. Heroism is just an occupation. She was just doing her job.

And look how she was repaid.

The sky was growing darker. It wasn't quite sunset, but that was only a matter of time. A crack of thunder resonated throughout the atmosphere, and Marinette sighed quietly, feeling the breath rattle in and out of her chest. When she felt her eyelids begin to droop shut, she forced them open again, even though the miniscule action continued to grow more and more difficult by the second.

Was this really it? Was this really how she was going to die? Hidden on the ground, bleeding, all by herself? Nobody knew where she was—how long would it take for them to find her body? Maybe a day. Maybe as long as it took for someone to use these trash cans. Or maybe until the stench grew so bad—

Marinette had to will the thought away before she got sick.

She rarely ever used to think about death. It was natural, but it was morbid, and the idea that one day she, and everyone around her, would inevitably cease to exist . . . it was frightening, to say the least. She believed there was no use in worrying about something that was bound to happen sooner or later—preferably later—so she just never focused on it. When she became Ladybug, and she and Death began having tea on a weekly basis, she realized that her days could be more numbered than they were before. Even still, she chose not to worry about it too much; there were far more pressing 'what if's for her to worry about than when her life would end. She would cross that bridge when she got to it.

Now, the infamous bridge itself stood before her, waiting for her to pass. But all she saw on the other side were dark, encroaching shadows, waiting to seize her soul and swallow her alive.

She didn't want to die. Not now, not yet. She didn't want her life to flash before her eyes and for the final vision to be this calamity of an ending. She didn't want this to be her legacy, didn't want to be remembered as the girl who was chosen to be a hero and ended up being an absolute joke of one. She wanted to make it right.

But she couldn't erase the world's memories, or undo the chain of events that led her here. There was no conceivable way to fix this without going back in time and avoiding Plan C in the first place.

There was nothing she could do, and she hated it.

Marinette's eyelids were getting heavier. Her breathing was slowing down, and an eerily comforting warmth had washed over her body. She knew it was the familiar veil of unconsciousness gently luring her into slumber, but it might as well have been the embrace of Death, waiting for the perfect moment to take away her being with its greedy hands. She fought to keep her eyes open, but her blinks were dragging on longer and longer.

(She wished she had more time.)

She wanted to scream. She wanted to curse and yell and weep. She wanted to claw at her face and rip out her hair and bash her head against the brick wall over and over again. She wanted to jump and leap and soar and run—run away from this body, this life, this existence, and just start all over again. Start bright. Start fresh. Remember what it was like to have hope again.

(She wished she could've said goodbye.)

She wanted a world of peace. A world built on love, kindness, respect. A world with no Hawk Moth, no akumas, no danger. No sacrifice, no loss, no disapproval. No hatred, no heartbreak, no expectations. No sea of terrible thoughts rising up past her waist, taunting her, waiting for her to drown in them. Just her, her yo-yo, and the skyline of the city.

Perhaps it could be real, somewhere in a dream.

(She wished she could've apologized.)

She wanted to be in her home. She wanted to be in her room, in her bed. She wanted to be with her blankets and her family and her closest friends. She wanted to be held, wanted someone whose chest she could bury her face in, someone who could tell her that everything was going to be okay, even though they were both agonizingly aware that it wouldn't be. And she didn't care whether it was stupid or cliché, because damn it—she was scared and hurt and all she wanted, for the last moment of her life, was to be loved.

(She didn't want to be alone.)

She looked up at the sky one last time. There was a flash of lightning above her head, and in her exhausted stupor, her mind was overwhelmed by the distant memory of an afternoon in the rain—when Adrien apologized for something he didn't even do and gave her his umbrella as a peace offering. She remembered feeling her anger melt away into something far, far more pleasing, and she remembered how, when she looked into his eyes for the first time—really looked into his eyes, really saw Adrien for the amazing, genuine, beautiful person he was—she knew she was a goner.

(Suddenly . . . she didn't feel so lonely.)

With the vision of loving, green eyes on her mind, she finally closed her own.

...

...

...

She didn't see the akuma flutter into the alley.

...

With a clap of thunder, it began to pour.

...

...

me at myself, editing this chapter in 2020: pardon me ma'am but uhhh what the genuine authentic hell and actual singular fuck