Haha you guys thought my "Friday update" would actually be on Friday? Ha.

Also, I can finally share my inspiration for this whole thing: TheBirdFromTheMoon-Art's Anti Hero AU! Check her out on Tumblr, her art's amazing.


Marinette stared at the mask in her hand. It was red, plain and simple, with black dots across it. A ladybug theme. Elaine's suggestion.

She'd been out for lunch with her, chatting aimlessly about recent events, and Marinette asked what color she thought would look best. It had been a harmless, flippant question, and it wasn't supposed to mean anything—she'd already bought some black fabric and fully intended on using it. But then Elaine had cried something along the lines of "Oh! Only red for ma coccinelle!" Showing her the unfinished design had made it even worse because, before Marinette knew what was happening, "rouge" was written in capital letters on the side of her design. In pen.

And so red had been chosen. Black would've been preferable, considering how much she was sure she'd spend running about at night, but apparently full black "would not do" and "will make you look like you don't eat". Then Elaine followed her to the fabric shop. Marinette had been forced to go for dark red. And if that wasn't enough, it just so happened that the "coccinelle" part of the whole conversation seemed to have stuck with Elaine a bit too much, and they happened to have the right pattern in the right color. So the costume ended up burgundy and black with a ladybug pattern.

The mask had, naturally, had to match.

So she'd made the mask. The one Chat had given her was safely tucked away in her drawer, the red one in her hand waiting to be put on.

And so there she stood, staring at the polka dots on the mask. In essence, it was nothing more than a piece of fabric—it wasn't supposed to feel so heavy in her hands, nor was it supposed to be so hard to convince herself to put it on. She was just supposed to put it on and go out, but still she just stood there, staring at it and trying to convince herself to put it on.

Metaphorically speaking, putting on the mask was like finally putting her money where her mouth was. It was telling herself that she was really going through with it, no matter how crazy or absurd it sounded or how insane she thought she was just for doing it. She had to put it on. Chat needed somebody, and she was the one who had to do it—she wanted to do it.

She wanted to be his partner, and all she had to do was put on the mask, step out those doors, and track him down. It sounded simple enough, did it not? Besides, the mask was no different than the rest of the outfit, right? And she'd already put that on. She'd already gotten so far, it was no time to be backing out.

She took in a deep breath, steeling herself.

And slid the mask on her face.

There. Easy.

She looked up at the mirror, tilting her head at the strange-looking version of herself standing there. It felt like another woman was staring back at her with a stolen mouth and eyes, and Marinette's own bangs swept across her forehead.

She smiled, and the woman in the mirror smiled back. Put her hands on her hips, and the same thing happened, until before she realized what she was doing, Marinette had struck a pose in the mirror, and what would you know, the other woman struck it too.

She was there in that mask, and she was looking back at herself.

She was that other woman standing proud in the mirror.

And she was going to be Chat Noir's partner.

It was with that resolve that she flung her balcony doors upon and made her way to the fire escape. Somewhere along the line, between climbing up onto the railing and telling herself not to look down, a smile spread across her face. She could do it. She wanted to do it, she was practically made just to do it.

She ended up down in the alleyway just as she'd been a few short days ago. It was as damp, cold, and dark as it'd been, with the streetlamp casting the same long shadows as before.

She paused.

Looking around, she noticed the ladder for the fire escape across the way was still down, and, not knowing how else to get on the roof, she climbed up it. All she intended to do that night was wander around Paris by her lonesome. She had no spray paint on her and no plans in her head, just an hour of nothing to do. She wanted to spend it walking around the city, trying to figure out where she was supposed to go, and hopefully not get lost in the process.

She had to figure it out on her own, and she had time to do so. It wasn't like she could pick up "Chat Noir's Guide to Paris" at a bookstore or find a Wikihow on the subject. No, she was alone in it.

But that was fine.

So she pulled herself up the ladder, then up the fire escape, clambering up onto the roof just as she had before.

And, just as before, there was Paris.

Her city.

It was the same as it'd been with Chat, nothing but a glittering jewel before her, spreading out towards the line on the horizon below her. It was just as breath-taking, just as beautiful.

Something in her told her she'd never get tired of it.

It felt odd to stand there without Chat alongside her. She was by herself, with nobody around to laugh at her or make jokes or play a pretty song on the piano for her, nobody by her side. It felt off. A little empty. Like he was supposed to be there.

But that was a problem she intended to fix.

She smiled again, stepping back from the ledge, and picked a direction.

Then raced off.

Paris swam by in a haze of colour, nothing more than a blur. Flashes of lights whizzed by. The wind blew cool on her face. Her heart raced faster and faster in her chest, and she took all the longest jumps she trusted herself to make, taking bigger gaps with each roof she crossed.

She was reliving it all over again, but this time it was just that much more fun—running by herself just made it so much more fun. Her blood thrummed, her legs ached, and there was a smile on her face. She marked landmarks in her head just as she would've if she was going for a walk, pushing herself to go faster and faster until the gaps in the roofs seemed smaller.

She could run for hours. She could be up there for hours.

She felt alive.

It was thrilling. God, it was amazing and it was thrilling and she knew now how much she wanted to just keep doing it until she couldn't anymore. She could run and run until her legs gave out or her heart gave up, and she'd welcome it with open arms. It was worth it.

She skid to a stop when she ran out of roof.

Looking out over Paris, she saw that it was still as gorgeous as she remembered. She breathed in long, let it out, and let her eyes fall closed for a moment, letting it all wrap around her. In that moment, there was nothing but the sounds of the city and the breeze all around her.

She opened her eyes. Keep going.

Looking around, she noticed a ladder peeking up from the edge of the roof. A fire escape, ripe and ready for her to use it.

And that was when she'd heard the hissing. That telltale sound of spray paint.

Maybe ladybugs were lucky after all.

She looked over the edge, and there he stood. There was that familiar sunflower-blond head of hair spinning a bottle around in his hand 50 metres down. He frowned at the brick wall, spun the bottle again, then picked up another bottle and kept going. Other bottles sat tossed across the ground behind him, some looking more beat-up than others, some laying with caps nowhere to be seen.

He made swirl here, a polka dot here, another swirl somewhere else, then he'd step back and admire it a little before starting the process over again. She sat there, watching, for a little while, amused by the way he seemed to dance around as he went and shift around gracefully on his feet.

She sat there, mesmerized, for a minute or two. She'd never seen him paint before; nobody ever did, not really. He was always running away from the cameras and the police, not standing around and doodling while they watched. She was going to let it be.

Something near the end of the alley shifted.

"What…" she muttered, watching.

There was a derelict car parked at the end of the alley. It was rusty and old, something she wouldn't even think to touch without a tetanus shot on hand. Derelict, abandoned, however you wanted to put it, the car looked like it'd seen much better days, like it'd been sitting there for at least a year. The thing, whatever it was, was behind the car. Eyes reflected in the darkness, big and round—goggles, not eyes.

Chat Noir hadn't noticed it yet. He just went along humming a tune under his breath and added a spot here, a line there, completely oblivious to whatever was happening.

The thing moved again, slowly advancing towards him.

She was tempted to call out Chat's name and get his attention. But that'd just give the thing an opening—she'd distract Chat just long enough for the thing to strike. Instead, she thought quick, creeping down the fire escape as quietly as she could manage.

She slid down the last ladder and stuck to the shadows as best as she could, taking in the stranger again. Wild hair was slicked back and shoved under a baseball cap, a hoodie drawn over the whole mess. Their clothes were shabby, their face completely hidden by the gas mask. They didn't look like a cop, and she doubted they were one. Anybody working for anybody could be under that mask—Chat Noir had a lot of enemies in high places, and she doubted they wouldn't be willing to take revenge into their own hands.

She was on the last set of stairs when the person advanced.

A gun gleamed in their hand.

"Hey pussy!"

Chat dropped his bottle, and he jerked his head to look at the stranger. "Uh…" He cast a glance between her and Mssr Gas Mask, focusing on the gun for a moment. "Can I help you two?" he asked.

The stranger clicked the safety off. "I think you can help me cross some things off my list."

Chat stiffened. "Hey now, no need to be trigger happy," he said. A smirk came across his face—staring down the barrel of a gun, and there he was smirking again like an idiot. "Blood doesn't too go well with brick. I'd rather not clash."

And joking. He was joking with the person holding a gun.

The stranger stepped forward, the gun still trained between Chat's eyes. Marinette stayed frozen in place.

She couldn't just stand there. This was the whole point of her going out and doing this, to make sure Chat didn't get himself stuck in a bad situation out by himself. Whether he got killed or caught, a bad situation was a bad situation, and with that look on his face, he was about to make it so much worse.

The stranger's hand tightened on the gun, and they stopped just a metre or so away from Chat. He stood there, frozen just like her.

Her eyes locked with Chat's for nothing more than a second, and she gave him a short nod. She wanted him to know that she was on his side, that she was going to help him take down that stranger with a gun.

He gave a slight, if hesitant, nod back.

She looked back to the stranger.

"You know," he said, smiling wider. The look in his eyes was calm and relaxed. "Pointing a gun at someone is generally considered a sign of-"

"Shut up," the stranger said.

Chat's smile dropped for a half-second, and he let loose a shrug. "Whatever you say."

He sent her a glance and nodded slightly.

That was her cue.

She sprang forward, tackling the stranger to the ground as quickly as she could. With a bang, the gun went off, and the sound ricocheted around the alleyway.

"Duck!"

She ducked, and Chat sprang over her head, wrapping his arms around the stranger's legs. They kicked out, but he held firm, while she tried to keep their torso from wrangling about. She clutched to their chest like it was some kind of life raft, and when they didn't stop, she punched them in the face with a loud thump.

"You got 'em, bug girl?" Chat said, sitting on the legs.

She barely missed getting her own punch to the face. "Not really!"

He stood up and, without much ceremony, stomped the stranger right in the gas mask.

In seconds, he had the gas mask peeled off and tossed on the ground. He was so at ease about the whole thing, it seemed out-of-place, different than something the Chat she knew would do when disarming someone. He hadn't even gone for the gun yet.

"Is this normal for you?" Marinette asked, leaning forward. She stood herself up and looked over at the stranger's face sans gas mask. It was a woman, with pink hair hidden in her hood and a trail of red leaking down her nose. She was passed out.

"It's-" he stopped himself, looking up at her. "She's always pulling this crap on me," he said, chuckling. He picked up the gun and pulled out the magazine, showing her. "See? Paintball gun." He tossed it to the ground. "Her acting's getting better though."

Marinette stepped back. "Oh."

He turned back to her, standing up. She was suddenly all-too aware of how much taller he was. "Now that that's handled," he said, "Care to tell me who you are?"

She paused. The name thing was still undecided. In her defense, she hadn't planned on meeting anybody that day, had just wanted to explore Paris for a little while.

"Eh…" she said, rushing to think of what to say. "I'm a friend."

"A friend?" He smirked. "No name?"

She nodded.

"Bug will have to do then."

That was what she got. Didn't think up a name fast enough, and she was stuck with 'Bug' for a temporary name. She'd have to put up with it till she came up with something better, if she ever came up with anything that made a lick of sense.

"Now Bug," he said, walking around her. "Why don't you tell me what you're doing here?"

"You looked like you were in trouble," she said.

"Did I?" he said, putting a hand to his face in thought. He smirked.

She smiled. "Like a damsel in distress."

"That's an… interesting image," he said. "But what about before the gun part?"

"Uh…" She paused, thinking. She couldn't just say she was watching him—that was creepy, and it certainly wouldn't explain the way she was dressed. "I… uh- I want to help you," she said, trying a smile.

He blinked at her. "Help me?"

She nodded.

"You're a fan, right?" he asked, looking her over again.

"Eh… not in the way you think. I'm not like that owl guy," she said. "Different circumstances."

"And those are?"

"Umm…" she said. Different circumstances meant, in her brain, that she was Marinette and she wanted to help him. But she didn't think saying that out loud would go over too well—saying her own name to begin with was probably a bad idea. "That's confidential," she said instead.

"Confidential, eh?" he asked, stepping back. He stepped over gas mask girl on the ground, picking up a bottle of paint.

She nodded.

"Confidential…" he repeated, a thoughtful look on his face. He spun the bottle in his hands for a moment, then he tossed it to her, a smile on his face. "Alright then. Show me whatcha got, Spots."

She caught the bottle.

From the smile on his face to the easy-going demeanor, it was obvious that he was just humoring her. Everything about the situation just blared off those telltale 'fake' sirens in her head. Although, in his situation, it was the smart thing to do. The fan would paint, be complimented by their idol, and be sent on their merry way, content enough not to come out ever again. It was genius, and it probably worked on any other fanatics running out in homemade suits.

But, unbeknownst to him, she was not just another fanatic.

She looked down at the bottle in her hands, then up at him. "I don't… know how to paint," she said.

His face dropped. "You don't know how to paint?"

She nodded.

"But you want to help me?"

Again, she nodded.

He stopped for a moment, a thoughtful look coming over his face. "Well I'm afraid that's kinda one of the job requirements," he said, trying on an easy smile. "But I'm assuming you knew that."

She fell silent, not sure how to respond.

"If you don't want to paint with me—or rather, you don't know how to paint," he said, fixing her with a scrutinizing look, "Then what're you here for?"

"It's not what you think," she hurried to say. "I'm not like… It's just- I'm just worried about you. With all the-"

"You're worried about me?" he asked, stepping forward. "Bug, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I'd say that's not the best reason to be out here. I've been doing this for years."

Her heart sank. There was no ill meaning or malignancy to his words, they were really gentle in meaning, but they struck home anyways.

He was right. From his perspective, she was some fan with a happy obsession that decided watching him on TV was concerning, that she wanted to run out and help him with no experience whatsoever. Which was true, but her worry wasn't from the place he thought it was. And she couldn't tell him without taking off her mask.

"I appreciate the gesture, I really do," he said, a surprisingly serious look on his face. "But this is a lot more dangerous than it looks. Not the best idea."

"Well, it wasn't my idea. I mean… it was kinda my idea, but I guess you could say… a friend sent me?" she said. Maybe he could understand. She could show him that she wasn't just a crazy fan, that her worry came from a real place, and he would understand.

But she regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.

"Then I think you've been pranked, little bug," he said. "That, or you need new friends."

"A friend of yours," she supplied. "Or… I guess a mutual friend?"

"A friend of mine?" He stepped closer, arching a brow. "Who?"

She fell silent, at a loss for words. She couldn't tell him her name, couldn't associate Marinette with Bug. It would be a big mistake, could only result in who knows how many disasters, and she was not going to do it. Even if it cost her this chance.

At her silence, he frowned. "Bug, I don't have too many friends. And the ones I do have… they wouldn't send me some kind of helper without asking first."

"You think I'm lying," she said.

He thought she was lying to him.

"I- I'm not," she said. "Trust me, I'm not."

He paused, looking down at her. "Bug, I'm sure you're a nice girl," he said slowly, "But this is no way to go about making friends. You trust me on that. So please… You can keep the bottle if you really want, that's what Alix over there's for," he chucked a thumb over at gas mask girl on the ground. "But I think it'd be best if you'd just…"

He trailed off. She heard the last word anyways.

Go.

He wanted her to leave.

For her mistake, he thought she was a liar, stupid enough to rely on trust from a friend she wasn't supposed to know he had.

He thought she was lying to him to earn his good favor.

But she was not a liar. She lied about trivial things or matters surrounding Chat Noir, yes, but not to earn someone's favor. She wasn't your average Lila Rossi, and she certainly didn't want Chat of all people to think she was.

But he did.

Because, as far as he knew, the girl in the ladybug costume wasn't Marinette. As far as he knew, Marinette had nothing to do with Bug. Meaning that, unless she dragged her real name into it all, there was no way he'd believe anything that came out of her mouth. Why would he? Without supplying her own name, she was giving him nothing to go on.

She seemed like a stranger, wasn't supposed to know about his friendship with Marinette, and there was nothing she could do about the situation. If she did tell him her name, she would be getting herself involved in a way she was not about to do—not just for her sake, but for other people's sake too.

She screwed up.

She screwed up bad.

She'd charged headlong into the situation without even pausing to think about it. She hadn't even thought that Chat wouldn't trust her word—she was thinking that he'd treat her like Marinette right off the bat. She'd gotten drunk off a view of Paris and a piano song, and she'd expected things to just be peachy-keen from then on out, didn't stop to think about what was going to happen when she went through with it. And that look on Chat's face was the price to pay.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." she said, stepping back. She held out the spray can. "Here, just… just…"

Silent, he took the bottle out of her hand.

"I'll just… go," she said, stepping away.

He didn't stop her when she turned tail and made her way back up the fire escape. Nor did he call out when she made it to the top of the building and stumbled along the rooftops. Gone was that feeling of being alive, that amazing view of Paris nothing more than a dull blur, that spirit she'd been in sunk. In its place was a pit.

She locked the balcony door behind her when she got back, pulling the mask off her face and setting it on her desk. Gently, she pulled the rest of the costume off. It was dropped on the floor of her closet, tucked into the back corner to be forgotten. In its place came the biggest sweatshirt she could find and a pair of pyjama shorts.

Every movement was an effort, her brain blank, her legs still numb from all that running. It felt like the energy had been drained from her body.

She couldn't believe she'd been so stupid. She'd jumped into the deep end and expected to know how to swim, without even thinking about drowning or anything else. And now Chat Noir thought her—or well, Bug her—was a liar. An ugly, dirty liar that would say anything to get a few words of praise from a person she looked up to.

She sank onto her bed.

Things had gone about as wrong as they could've.

And she had no idea what to do.

So she sat there on her bed, turned on the TV, and tried not to think about it. Thinking about it would only make it worse, and she honestly didn't know what else there was to do. There was nothing else that could be done, not unless some plan popped up into her head with all the right answers and everything.

When Chat Noir's face popped up alongside Chloe Bourgeois', she changed the channel. She couldn't… she just couldn't. Not then. If she did, all those stupid thoughts would come back, and before she knew it, she'd be pummeling herself into the ground just because she could.

She'd ignore them. She'd ignore him. She'd give it a few days to figure out what to do. That was her plan.

Unfortunately, her plan only lasted about ten minutes.

Then came the soft tap, tap on her balcony door.


So. Summer break is coming to an end. Which means school is starting soon.

Sadly, I must say I can't give you guys a steady schedule anymore. Or a fast one. I've got a very heavy course load (Full diploma IB yay), band, and Cross-country/Track to be doing all year long. And, unfortunately, those things have to come first. I don't want to give you guys a schedule, then disappoint you or neglect those things to try to keep up. I'm so so sorry :(

That said, on top of this I will be taking a very brief break. No longer than a week and a half of just editing. Now that I've wrapped up Act 1, I feel like, having written nearly 30k words in about a month, I might've chosen quantity over quality. Nothing will change story-wise, so no worries.

You guys are absolutely the best readers, but if you have ANY constructive criticism, feel free to share. Like I said, I'm editing. Even if you're new or you haven't dropped a review yet, lemme know whatcha think :)