Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir

The Devil in Paris, Part I

"I'll Protect You"

Ayla, running full-on to greet her cousin, ran straight into the tall stranger at the train station. The train had been on time, and she was anxious that her cousin be met with a familiar face. "Ooof!'

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, recovering quickly.

"Oh, bosh. I practically put footprints all over you and you apologize to me? I'm the one who should apologize!" She took in his stance, clothing…and voice. "Say. Your accent…are you American?"

"Guilty as charged," he said, making a slight bow, right arm across his chest. A curious gesture, that, she thought. She noticed he had what looked like a black choker or collar around his neck. What was that? It didn't look like anything she'd ever seen. "Let's just say, I feel as though I should have been more aware of my surroundings, then. Especially you." Again that strange bow.

Hm, she thought. From anyone else she would have taken that as a come-on, but from him-she didn't feel that. "Look, sorrys all around, but I have to go catch my cousin. So…if you'll excuse me?"

"Surely. I, too, have somewhere else to be."

…

In the cab, Ayla was making up for lost time with her cousin. "Did you know there was another American on the train? I practically ran him over getting to you."

"No, I wasn't. He must've been in some other car." Ayla noticed Linda had a distinctive twang to it. The stranger's hadn't, not nearly to the same degree. "What was his name?"

Ayla face-palmed. "I didn't think to ask. Everything happened so fast…and I was afraid I'd miss getting you."

Linda laughed. "Well, no worries. I'm sure he was nobody I know."

…

The next day at school Ayla was shocked to see the stranger sitting in the back row. "And I see we have two new students," said Miss Bustier. "Come down and introduce yourselves, why don't you?"

Linda was first. "I am Linda Castillo, from America. I'm the cousin of Ayla, so treat me nice, okay? Otherwise, she'll get you." This last said with a nervous laugh. Hmph, went Chloe, clearly underwhelmed.

The boy was next. To Ayla's surprise, it was the same one she'd nearly run over at the train station the day before. "I am Damien Bendarian, also from America. I look forward to this school year, and to getting to know you all." And with that, he replicated the right-arm-crossed bow Ayla had previously seen. Hm, Ayla thought, that's not an American gesture. It looks almost military. And why do I sense something…ever-increasingly odd about him?

Maybe even a little…dangerous?

"New friend?" whispered Marinette, sitting next to her.

"Not hardly. I literally ran into him at the train station, in my hurry to get Linda. I didn't even know his name, until now. But Marinette…do you get any weird vibes from him?"

"Hm? No, as a matter of fact I don't. Why?"

"'Cause I do. I can't place it…but there's something strange about him. Maybe I've seen him somewhere…"

"Really?" Marinette's voice took on a teasing undercurrent. "Does Nino have some competition here?"

"Get. Real. My only encounter with the guy was to practically knock him flat on the ground. I didn't even know his name, until now. It's just…there's something strange about him. I can't place it."

"Good strange or bad strange?

But Ayla just shook her head. "Can't tell.

"Yet."

Oh, no, thought Marinette. It was happening all over again. "Ayla, look. Promise me you won't do anything crazy, okay?"

"Of course I won't. I never do anything crazy. It was just that one time…well, maybe that time before that. And, yes, if you stretch it, that business with Hawk Moth…"

"And you don't see a pattern forming here?"

"Class will now come to order," said Miss Bustier. "Turn in your homework, and we'll begin today's lesson."

….

After school let out, Damien was making his way out of the building when the worst possible thing occurred. "Hey, Damien!" Nino and a group of boys were gathered in the basketball court. "Over here!" He beckoned.

Oh, no, thought Damien. He'd hoped to remain as inconspicuous as possible and now this? So soon?

Still, it was only polite to answer the summons, even though he had a bad feeling about it. "Yes, er, Nino, is it?"

"Wow. You've got a good memory for names! Yeah, the reason I called you over is, we're getting up a basketball team. Wanna be on it?"

"Ah…no, thanks."

"Oh come on! Here." He handed the basketball to a very reluctant Damien. "Just try one shot. I mean, you've got the height an' all. Just one shot! What can it hurt?"

"You don't understand. I'm a 'Jonah."

"A whaaat?"

"I'm sure you know the story. Jonah fled from Eternal Powers and brought misfortune to everyone he came across. Well, that's me. You might say I'm a jinx. You wouldn't want me on your team."

Nino exchanged glances with the other boys. "A jinx, huh? Well, I'm a firm non-believer in jinxes and Jonahs. Here. Just step up to the line, over there, an' try a shot. I mean, it's basketball. What's the worst that could happen?"

Damien gave him a long look. "You're not gonna let this go, are you? Well, remember, you called it."

"Sure, just step up to the line there-" But Damien had, from a full seventy-five yards, already tossed the ball.

It flew through the air soundlessly-and swished right through the center of the net. "What- Man, that was a perfect swish! You're a natural!"

But Damien was just pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wait for it."

Then they heard a creaking sound coming from the hoop. With a sprang of yielding metal it fell from the post. "What th-*" And the metal hoop fell from the backboard, clanging as it hit the ground. "Okay, but that was just an acc-" Then the backboard fell off its supports, crashing to the ground on top of the hoop.

"You believe me now?" asked Damien.

Up on the bleachers, Ayla was taking notes-paper notes, notes that couldn't be hacked (…ambulatory accident.. Calls himself a "Jonah." Research that: origins. Why "Jonah"? Why not just jinx?)

It had been her experience that there was usually a reason for everything. Even jinxes.

…

Back at his apartment, Damien breathed sigh of relief. Nino and the others had finally accepted his word. He'd offered to repair the goal, but the school had maintenance workers for that. It was just as well, he thought. He'd probably just have made things worse.

His phone rang-the special phone he'd brought from home. He knew who it was, and regretted having to report what he'd have to report. He picked up the receiver. "Hello, Dee."

"Hello, Walking Disaster. You didn't check in, so I'm checking in. Since you're answering me by voice, there must still be an atmosphere there where you are, which in turn means you haven't destroyed the planet yet. Or have you, and you're answering me from a convenient space station?"

"No, no…just a, well, a basketball goal."

"A basketball goal."

"Uhm, yes."

"You destroyed a basketball goal."

"Again, yes. The guys were…very insistent, and I couldn't think of any good reason to refuse."

"Dame…I love you like the brother you are, but how many times have you been told not to get involved with these activities? I mean, it's not like you don't know what's gonna happen!"

"I told them I was a Jonah! They didn't buy it."

"And what would have prevented you from just walking away?"

"That would have been rather rude, don't you think?"

"If you had, they'd still have a basketball goal…and they would think you were only rude. As it is, I'm sensing something. Something you evidently do not."

"But Dee, I'm supposed to live in this society! How can I do that and never interact with the locals? And what, exactly, are you sensing?"

"There's trouble in the air. Someone…someone suspects, but what they suspect, I don't know." The voice on the phone paused a few moments. Then, "Well, all I can say is, try to interact in a less…physical way. That's what gets you in trouble, you know." Another short pause. Then, "You haven't been indulging in your…hobby, have you?"

"Grief, no. I've only just arrived. Besides, there are actual superheroes here. They don't need me, Short Cord."

The voice on the phone turned softer at the term of endearment. "Well, don't. If it looks like they can't handle something," the voice hesitated, "call me. I know how to be more…discreet, and you won't be charged. Again."

His voice firmed up. "Dee, I know and I appreciate your offer. But you of all people should know that I don't care what they do to me. Not anymore." He forestalled her next angry expostulation by saying "But I'll do my best."

She sighed over the phone. "I know. But I care. Love ya, big bro."

"Love you too, little sis." And with that he hung up.

….

"Something odd about him, you say? Like what?" Marinette had met Ayla at their usual hangout, which just happened to be Marinette's parents' bakery. They were upstairs, in her room. ("You need a bug signal," Ayla had commented. At Marinette's raised eyebrow, she'd continued. "You know. Like the Bat Signal."

"Right," replied a dubious Marinette. "And where exactly would I put it? For that matter, how would I smuggle it in? Besides, isn't the Bat Signal supposed to summon Batman from his Batcave or wherever? Am I supposed to summon myself?")

"Yeah, odd. Just…different. I don't know how to explain it any better…I mean, how many people destroy a basketball goal with one shot?"

"School officials said the screws were coming loose. Even a little pressure…"

"What about the backboard? There was no stress on it."

"Alya, look." Marinette put her hands on her friend's shoulders. "I can already see what's happening. This is your 'obsession gene' kicking in. Just like with…a certain person you know. One who's very close to you. Physically." It was still only known to Ayla that Marinette was Ladybug.

Ayla pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. "I…know. I know it's just my imagination hard at work. But…something in me keeps insisting he's got a secret. A big secret. A secret…we need to know."

"Well, he is from America. They have superheroes over there, superheroes who aren't Miraculous holders. Maybe he is one. But suppose he is one. What would you do if you found that out? Would you 'out' him? Reveal his secret identity, the way you would have done me, back in the bad old days?"

"No…" But she somehow made the "no" sound like a camouflaged yes.

"And what if he's not a superhero? What if he's a supervillain? That would explain his being over here in Paris: he's on the run from the law. Ayla, you keep nosing around and your life could be in danger!"

Ayla struck a thoughtful pose. "I hadn't considered that. But, I don't really believe that. I don't get the impression that he's a superhero either."

"What's your gut feeling? What do you think he is?"

"In a word: unknown."

….

The next few days passed uneventfully. Marinette could tell that Alya hadn't given up on her obsession. She found her at a little coffee shop they frequented. "You really need to give it a rest, Alya. He's just some perfectly ordinary guy…" She had her ever-present tablet out and was scanning the archives. Marinette had to admit, if it was or had ever been on the 'net, Ayla would find it. "School shooting," she said, without looking up.

"He was involved in a school shooting?!"

"He stopped a school shooting. Seems he saw this grown man going into an elementary school, with the imprint of an assault rifle visible under his coat. He figured he wasn't there for show and tell, so he burst in, disarmed the guy, slammed him around from one locker to another…"

"So he's a hero!"

"...and got arrested."

"What?! Why?"

"When the cops burst in, all they saw was him standing over a bloodied guy, holding a gun. He nearly got shot, himself. As it was, the faculty and students, not to mention the security cams, backed up his story." She shook her head. "Law enforcement in America must be a joke. Somebody, some lawyer, actually put forth the notion that, since 'his client,' the would-be shooter, hadn't actually shot anybody, he therefore was being unlawfully detained. Damien was observed holding the gun, and that same lawyer wanted to prosecute him. He was holding the gun, yeah, but that was to keep the kids from picking it up, he said. Makes sense. But even after they believed him, an' all, they almost sent the would-be shooter to the local hospital, where he would'a just walked out of, first thing. As it is, he's doing some serious time. But apparently they arrested Damien, too, just for good measure. No charges were filed, but he still has a record. That's where I saw his picture. I thought he looked familiar." She fiddled with her tablet. "Huh. That's strange."

"What is?"

"Well, of course the gun was confiscated, you know, as evidence. But even though he was seen holding it, the only fingerprints…were the shooter's." At Marinette's look, she continued. "And they fingerprinted him at the station." She looked at her friend. "They tried more than once, of course, but…he apparently has no fingerprints.

"I don't know about you, but I call that kinda odd."

"Well, okay, now you know, you can-*

"And a bomb threat two years before that."

This time, Marinette was more cautious. "Okay. What's the scoop there, Lois Lane?"

"Couple of lowlifes had planted bombs on a Christmas parade route, which would'a resulted in who knows how many fatalities. The lowlifes themselves had even been nice enough to go to the trouble of posting a fifty-five page document on social media, telling people what they were gonna do, why, where and when. Yeah, they were that stupid. But apparently, either nobody acted on it or nobody read it, except for Damien. But Damien read it. He managed to be there before the parade started, found the bombs-they still don't know how-managed to somehow disarm them-said he found a video on Youtube telling him how. But there's no telling how many lives he saved.

"But somebody, some big wig to do with the parade, actually filed a complaint, stating, I kid you not, that Damien had interfered with the parade, and he got charged again. Nothing came of it. The bigwig was, er, pressured to drop the charges, which he did. She smirked. "It's rumored that, unless he had dropped the charges, his wife and mother were gonna drop him. Off a tall building, that is." She turned back to the tablet. "But, once again, our boy got arrested, and that went on his record." Another smirk. "Strong rumor has it the judge had, er, words with the police department. They had red flag laws, which should have been a dead-giveaway, er, no pun intended, but nobody did anything about it."

"If you scroll down a little further," said a calm and completely familiar voice over Ayla's shoulder, "You'll see the shoplifting charge a couple of years before that. "They both jumped; Marinette had been looking over Ayla's shoulder, and so neither had detected Damien's approach. He shrugged, his coffee in one hand and his Danish in the other. "I really have no excuse for that one. It was on a dare."

Alya had dropped her tablet flat on the table, and jumped up in surprise. "You always sneak up on people like that?

He seemed to think a moment. "Not always. I tend to vary my technique. Sometimes I use…other means," and he glanced meaningfully at Alya's tablet, "Of finding out about people." Another glance at the tablet. "But I suppose our learning curve never really stops, does it?"

"Well, since we're being so civilized about it, what, exactly, did you shoplift?"

"An orange."

"An orange? You risked a criminal record for an orange?"

Damien's expression became one of fond recollection. "It was a really good orange."

….

He no sooner opened the door but that the phone-the special phone-rang, a bit angrily, he thought. But that was probably just his imagination. "Hello, Dee."

"Hello, Mr. Hard-Head. What have you done this time?"

"'Me? Nothing! What do you mean?"

"Uncle Darian has been in contact with me. The Black Throne has been in conference with him. Needless to say, he isn't getting good news from them. There appear to be some Magenta K sub1 lines running around you. You know what that means."

"Well, I haven't been doing anything. Oh, a few times I've gone out at night, just to savor the ambience of the city-Paris really is lovely at night-but, I mean, I did nothing, certainly nothing to attract the attentions of any K sub 1 lines, Magenta or otherwise."

"That's actually worse. If it's not you, then who? Or what?"

"I'll keep my eyes peeled. Anything or anybody who'd attract that kind of attention would have to be pretty obvious."

"Yeah, but remember, you, brother mine, can do obvious so easily. You have before. And if you and…the whatever…get together, you destroying the planet…

"...could easily end up being the least of our concerns."

….

Midnight, the following day: Chris Lahiffe was spending the day at the Chamack's, with Manon Chamack for company. He was preparing for a sleepover, and judged that one (or two, to be more accurate) items he should have brought was a set of earplugs. That, because Manon's chief delight appeared to be tormenting him in some way.

But finally, they reached the limits of human endurance, and prepared for bed. Manon couldn't resist one last dig. "Those are the ugliest pajamas I've ever seen!"

But this last was not quite as tormenting as Chris had felt it would be. "I wouldn't know. I've never been much of a connoisseur of pj's. I think these were a Christmas gift."

"You mean that Christmas when you got akumatized and nearly stole everybody's toys?"

He sighed. "That's the one." Would people ever forget? "That whole experience is blank to me, so it's possible mom or somebody bought 'em on sale. You know how a lot of shops have post-akuma-alert sales. Mostly to celebrate being unsmashed after an akuma's been neutralized."

They turned in. Of course, both had their cellphones-was there intelligent life before cellphones? Chris didn't think so. They both played with the phones, until Chris got sleepy and put his on the nightstand.

But just as he was on the verge of sleep, they both heard a measured thumping sound come from overhead, a sound seeming to be traveling from one end of the roof to the other. "I wonder what that is?" asked Manon, more to herself than to him. She couldn't keep the tremor out of her voice; the sounds just sounded so…sinister. She'd mentioned the odd sounds before, to her mom, her mom had just dismissed it as Manon's overactive imagination.

But now she had confirmation and correlation. "You hear that? Mom says it's the house settling or something. Sure doesn't sound like it, though…"

"It's the devil," said Chris, brought back to full awareness by the timor in her voice.

She rolled over towards him, on her side. "The devil? What's the devil doing on our rooftop?"

"Looking for souls, I guess. I…" he hesitated, as what he was about to say would just give her more ammunition for her apparent hobby, Teasing Private Chris. Still, he'd brought it up. He really didn't know why. "I dream about him sometimes. He's always walking the rooftops." He shrugged. "I guess looking for souls. Isn't that what the devil does, I mean?"

"Oh, you're so full of it your eyes are brown." He couldn't argue there; his eyes were brown. "There's no such thing as the devil; my mom said so."

Again he shrugged. "Maybe not." He reached over and got his cell from the nightstand. "I was catnapping one day when my Mom was out, and when I woke up, this number was flowing through my head." He pulled up the number and showed her. "I never could track it down. I'm sure it's just a wrong number, or maybe no number at all, but one I just made up. But after I dreamed it, that's when I started dreaming about the devil. Here in Paris. Never tried dialing it, of course."

A-ha! Something new to torture him with! "So let's call it!"

"Uh, Manon? If it's nobody, what would be the point? And if it is the devil, well, I, personally would really rather not phone him up. I don't see any upside to either situation. Why would you?"

"Why not?" And she grabbed his cell and, before he could stop her, rapidly punched in the mysterious number. "If anybody answers, I'll just tell 'em it's a wrong number…" They could both hear the ring tone coming from the phone.

And then, in the next second, they heard a ringtone sound coming from directly overhead.

Chris Lahiffe moved faster than he would later believe possible, grabbing the phone and punching the "hang up" button, then threw it over into a corner of Manon's room. Then he grabbed her and rolled them both over into the crack between the bed and the wall. They both fell to the floor, and Chris rolled them underneath the bed. "Chris! What're you-*"

"Sh! Don't make a sound, don't move, and most of all, don't look." He rolled them both underneath Manon's bed, and threw a trailing sheet over them both. "Just don't say anything. I'm on the outside, between you, 'n him." He seemed to be listening, listening for something, speaking as though he were dreaming, not fully conscious of what he was saying. "His trident will go through me first.

"I'll protect you."

What the ever-lovin'-* Manon thought, before she heard the sound over by her window, and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were no longer alone in the room. The floor in her room was paneled wood, so they both heard the slow, steady sound of footsteps approaching. A creaking sound: heavy boots-or something-on the hardwood flooring.

Neither of the two children made a sound. The only sound in the room was the steady approach of footsteps, which seemed to zero in on them. Chris, holding Manon's head against his shoulder ("Don't look, Manon. Whatever you do, don't look"), glanced towards the edge of the bed and saw two columns of shadow right there at the edge of the bed…

Then, right before whoever or whatever it was in the room with them reached the bed, Chris's phone chimed again. Darn! he thought. In his haste, he hadn't turned it off!

The feet(?) turned around and marched over to the corner where he'd tossed his phone. Paused a moment, then the sound of the phone's dialing seemed to lift as though someone had picked it up. At no time did whoever it was make a sound, aside from the sound of footsteps. There was a snap-hiss sound, an odd sort of crunch, something fell to the floor-and all sounds from the room ceased.

Chris carefully peeked out from under the bed. But they were alone in the room. They both scrambled out. "What," she asked him, "was that supposed to mean?"

"I think it means I don't have a cell phone anymore," he said dismally, picking up the wreckage of what might once have been a functioning phone. Now it looked crushed and, she noticed, the hairs on the back of her neck stirring slightly, charred as well.

"Not that! What you said, under there!"

"What, about not looking? I dunno, it's just, it came to me that seeing him would make him mad, like those monster stories you h-*"

"Not that, either!"

He'd had enough of being not-thatted. "Well, then what are you talking about?"

"That stupid thing about you 'protecting' me! Like you were some big superhero! That stupid thing!

He looked thunderstruck. "I said I'd protect you?" His voice dropped slightly.

"I must've been out of my mind."

To be continued…