A/N: Again, sticking to update schedules appears to be my worst enemy. I can never make those deadlines that I WANT to meet on time. But hey, at least I got this chapter out before New Years, right? I even got it out right on time to be Christmas gift and it's over 10k words so it's definitely going to be a long read.
Anyway, I'm gonna wish you guys a happy holidays over the screen. Enjoy the holiday season and the upcoming New Year. I know I definitely will!
Guest - Marinette's mind is breaking. Literally.
Samuel Dudek - Yeah superheroes get glorified a lot when really they're just like anyone else deep down. It's actually really sad.
Till next time,
D.L.D
Chapter Four: Martyr
He was slipping back into old habits. Clamming up, holding all the pressure within himself, Adrien Agreste was regressing back into old habits. Quiet. Pensive. Melancholic. Just like when he had lived with his father, a ghost of a boy trapped within the expansive walls of his family's mansion, Adrien Agreste was keeping everything to himself. Every feeling, every thought, every action: everything was just an empty ripple of another thing within his mind.
Surprisingly, for once, he hadn't gone to Ladybug yet. Usually, whenever he did get like this, Adrien knew that seeking her out would be the cure to his chain of bitter thoughts and self-appointed self-suffering. In the past Ladybug had been like a soothing balm on a stinging sunburn, a gentle salve on a terrible paper cut. Just a tiny part of her, even if it was just a fleeting glimpse, could instantly soothe the burning pain of whatever burden was weighing down most on him. Effortlessly.
Now Adrien found himself avoiding her. Avoiding everything to do with her. Facing Ladybug would mean facing his failures, plaster cast on arm and all. Never before had he felt like such a dead weight that she had to drag along with her. Never before had Adrien actually thought, actually believed, that Chat Noir was simply the weakest link out of the pair. There was always some way to disprove that; there was always evidence of the opposite.
But with the increasing articles and specials outlining just how useless he could be, Adrien was finding it difficult to prove his case. In the present, more than he ever had before, he was desperately searching for evidence to refute the truth. Imaginary evidence. Non-existent evidence. Because while Ladybug had gotten out more or less without a single scratch present, Chat Noir had wound up with a broken arm and, most definitely, an injured sense of pride.
"You need to quit moping about it," Plagg, always willing to put his own two pence in, lazily floated around in a circle. Between his tiny hands was a giant chunk of cheese, spreading the stench of ripened Camembert all over the room. "What's done is done. You can't change the past."
"I know," For what felt like the millionth time, Adrien responded with his well-repeated answer. He knew that the past was the past. What happened a month ago couldn't be reversed - not without magical interference anyway - and it was simpler to just not think about it. About failing. About finally proving just how terrible he was at his job. Thinking about it just made it worse. And yet: "But if I'd just- "
"Done more? Killed yourself in the process?" Plagg listed off, tone almost sarcastic as he took a bite from his chunk of cheese. Pausing in his flight path, he turned to Adrien, luminous green eyes almost like an ominous pool of wisdom as he shook his head, "I'm telling you kid, martyrdom is not heroism. It's the trademark of being an egotistical idiot. Only a fool would die for their ideas only because they are afraid of being proved wrong."
Yes, only fools would die for what they believed in. Even Adrien's own father, a man driven to obsession and insanity by grief, had recognised that he couldn't die for his own beliefs. Not when he knew that the very person he was fighting against, was willing to kill to prove his own point, was his son. There was always a fine line between being the hero and a tragic hero. That was also a fine line that could easily be crossed.
For most of his life, Adrien had thought that he was on the other side. Knowing that he would never truly give his life - at least to prove the petty points - he had always seen himself in the role of a hero. Always on the right side of history. Always willing to admit when he was wrong, to change his own past mistakes in order to improve society, Adrien had never seen himself going down the riddled path of a tragic hero.
But maybe that was meant to be his path. Perhaps, so riddled with so many unfilled holes, he was meant to follow a path of martyrdom. Being an idiot was all he'd ever known anyway. Who was to say that it wasn't his destiny to go out in a blaze of blinded glory, sizzled and scorched by the flames of his own downfall?
"So what do you think I should do?" Adrien eventually asked, his voice pensive as the moon in the night sky. Glancing at Plagg, now occupied with finding himself another hunk of cheese, he could only wait for a clue as to what should come next. What should he do next? What could he do next? Honestly, Adrien had no real clue.
"You and Marinette need to talk," Plagg's answer wasn't one that he had wanted to hear. One that Adrien had heard many times? Yes. But something he'd wanted to hear? No. Not at all. If anything, it was the last damn thing he'd ever wanted to hear. There was a reason why Adrien had been avoiding her - avoiding Ladybug - ever since the attack on Île de la Cité. There was a reason why even now, a month in the future, he was sunken into his own shell, wasting his days away through TV and procrastinating and wishing that he could itch his arm beneath its stupid cast.
That night, when Chat Noir had let Paris down - had failed Ladybug - Adrien had decided that he didn't ever want to see her again. Not now. Not after failing. Failing meant that they didn't work as a team anymore. Failing, facing her after failing, meant admitting that he really wasn't on the path of a hero. Instead, just like his father, he was spiraling down the path of a tragic hero - a martyr - his own actions being the grand catalyst to his downfall. Right now he was a rolling, free-falling stone.
"I don't think that's wise, Plagg," Scratching at his head with his good arm, Adrien frowned as he tried to focus on the muted TV screen before him. Harsh and yet soft at the same time, the screen emitted blue light over his face as it flashed an image of Ladybug and Chat Noir. Another reminder of the past. Another reminder of their mistakes. "Marinette's still recovering. From what I've heard, the battle took a toll on her too. I don't want to burden her with my problems."
"It's not burdening her with anything," Plagg refuted, rolling his eyes as he let out a gagging sound. In one huge swallow he gulped down his new wedge of cheese effortlessly. "Communication is key to an effective team."
"I don't think we're effective at all. If one person can bring us both down, then clearly we're not the right combination," Adrien responded. He used to think differently. He wanted to still think that way. But with all the images that kept circulating about, the leftover storm of destruction that plagued Parisians, it would take a while to ever think that he and Ladybug were effective together.
One person was all it took for them to crumble. Even with Hawkmoth, that final battle which erupted along the Seine, a fast-paced and half-haze sort of fight, they had not struggled so much. There was an element of equality, this strange security of knowing that they couldn't possibly lose. Hawkmoth had nothing on Ladybug and Chat Noir. Hawkmoth couldn't compare, even when he had managed to separate them both.
But Jinx? That woman could definitely pummel them with ease. Victory had only been theirs a month ago because, for some strange reason, that woman had decided to help a child. To see pity and mercy in something human. And that moment of weakness, that slight moment of calm, was when they'd turned the tables on her. Talk about lucky - or, in Adrien's case, unlucky.
"Adrien, kid," Plagg was in front of him again, eye-contact as powerful as a hypnotic beam as he spoke in a low and slow tone. Serious, for once the kwami was serious, and he was seemed to be directing his severity toward Adrien, cutting through his thoughts like a knife through butter. "I've said it about a million times but choosing you to be Chat Noir was not at mistake. You are perfect for the job. You are Chat Noir."
Another repeated lie. Another statement said just to keep him ticking over, wearing the ring that felt searing on his finger, almost buried in his cast. Whenever he got close to giving it up, to removing his miraculous, why did Plagg always have to bring it up? Why did he always play the guilt game?
Releasing a sigh, Adrien muttered, "Well, it sure doesn't feel that way."
"Enough with the self-depreciating spiel!" Plagg groaned, rolling his eyes as signs of frustration - or perhaps even fatigue - pressed into his tiny face. "Why does every Black Cat need to be so dramatic? All of you, whenever something like this happens, always assume the worst. 'Ladybug can't be in love with me because I am such a screw-up'; 'I can't be Ladybug's partner because I'm simply too incompetent'; 'Oh Plagg, I never should have gotten so carried away. Look at all of the death and destruction I have caused!'" Pulling a face, the kwami stuck his tongue out, "Bleh. All you humans are the same: dramatic fools."
"It's called having empathy, Plagg," Adrien responded, just as pragmatic and strained as Plagg. Dismissing the now eye-rolling kwami, Adrien tried to lose himself in the TV's changing images, the fast-paced reel of France's media. "You should try it some time."
For a while they were quiet, Plagg's mumbles and grumbles almost silent as he went back to his cheese pile, scarfing it down piece by piece between his little monologue. Whenever they disagreed, they tended to get like this. Adrien would shut himself in, clam up like a crab or snail curling up into its shell. Plagg would become prickly, irritable, blabbering and complaining away to his cheese as he sat in a disgruntled tangle of tiny kwami limbs.
Disputes like these were common these days; they never exactly saw eye-to-eye on the whole 'being a hero' thing. Plagg would always be pessimistic, a complete realist and logical judge when it came down to making tough calls. But Adrien, always the dreamer, tended to be the optimist. That never blended well with Plagg - ever. It ended even worse when they traded places, Adrien becoming the grump and Plagg the little pep-talker.
Whenever it got that far they knew that something had gone wrong between them. Yet another sign for Adrien; maybe he should quit.
"Plagg?" Much more gentle than before, perhaps on the same soft note as a child asking a simple question, Adrien broke the quiet. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yep," Letting out a loud belch, definitely to be obnoxious, the kwami grinned.
"Is it too late to hand in my miraculous?"
Silence was never a good thing when it followed a question. With Plagg, silence was never good - hell, it was worse than finding out that you were driving right into the middle of a tornado. If Plagg was quiet after a question then you knew that you were asking the wrong thing; that kwami loved to talk about everything he knew, sharing details and yet giving nothing at all as he left out the most important parts. So, whenever he was silent, Adrien knew that he didn't want to answer the question he'd asked. Silence was Plagg's way of saying 'How could you even ask that?'.
"You already know the answer to that Adrien," Clearing his throat, Plagg promptly unfroze, turning his back on the blond to bury himself within his cheese pile. All words that followed after were muffled, melded with the stench of aged cheese in the air, "So I suggest that you talk to Ladybug because I'm getting sick of your depressive attitude."
"Alright," Was Adrien's answer. That was the only thing he could say. Because how could he face the one person, the one woman, who he had been trying to avoid? The same person who, he knew, would crumble when he resigned.
In order to give up, he'd have to tell Ladybug to her face. In order to hand in his ring, he would have to break her heart. And, more than anything, Adrien Agreste didn't want to do that. Above all else, he didn't want to fail Marinette again.
This was it. This was where Marinette would die, killed because something within her stupid brain had compelled her to visit a high security prison of all places. One that was known for housing the majority of France's most dangerous criminals, ranging from simple petty killers to much more dangerous and organised threats such as terrorists and crime syndicate leaders. No doubt Gabriel Agreste was kept here too, right under the trusty lock and key of the max-security suite - specially built and adapted for super villains.
Everyone who was anyone knew what went on inside buildings like these. Inmates were forced into one of three choices: kill themselves, kill others or be forced to kill. Prisons always had their own systems that were different from society as well as those who followed its laws and rules. In prisons, those with power and authority made the rules; everyone else either bent under its pressure or snapped in two, found dead the next day with a bed sheet noose around their neck.
No doubt, Camille Bisset was used to this sort of environment. From what Marinette had learned from her own private investigations had made that alarmingly clear. But still, within her forever empathetic heart, she couldn't help but worry. Prisons were no place for people who had gone through some form of trauma. Prisons were simply an organised trashcan for those who society didn't want to properly deal with.
Stepping through the front gate, topped off with twisting, twirling barbed wire, Marinette couldn't help but shudder. Prisons had never been her favourite place on earth, the drab facilities and even more bleak inmates always being a strong deterrent for the young woman. So many people, locked behind bars for heinous crimes, either driven by greed, anger or envy - sometimes even desperation - had their entire lives to spend in this place. Many, far too many, died in this place.
High security prisons were not the type to joke around with - her research had told her that much. Even as Marinette had sent in her email, asking for the approval to have a visit with Camille, she had known that it would not be a walk in the park. Prison was meant to be a punishment. Punishments were never meant to be nice. High security prisons definitely followed that ethos, their inmates kept under strict lock and key.
But, even so, Marinette had always believed that society would be capable of making prison bearable. At least for those who were put in this place by circumstance rather than actual intent.
What a fool she had been for thinking that.
"I'm going to need to pat you down," Dull and almost monotonous, as if this was a statement said a thousand times a day, the guard stood before Marinette with a blank expression on her face. Navy blue material betrayed their status as a prison warden, the badge of France's judicial system stamped onto the shoulder of her short sleeve. Like most of the guards present, this woman wore a hat, her brunette hair tucked under it in a neat bun. No stray hairs.
"Pat me down?" Marinette blinked, not surprised by the request but still taken aback nonetheless. Pat downs were procedure, a way to ensure that no-one carried in any illegal contraband. But Marinette didn't know that they were carried out so publicly, the queue being her growing with every passing minute. They did not look happy with the hold up.
"It's standard procedure, madam," Much more gentle now, most likely due to the apprehension in Marinette's face, the warden explained. gesturing to her gloves, as if that would make the situation any better, she continued, "It will only take a moment."
Nodding, because what else could she possibly do, Marinette dropped her bag on the table beside her and stood forward for the warden to search her. Just like they had said, it was all professional - done with a certain technique and procedure. Quick, light pats that only lingered around her pockets and any possible nooks and crannies where Marinette could stow things away. Luckily, the squat and cough test was reserved for inmates only - she would have died of shame otherwise.
Within five short minutes, Marinette had been searched and cleared to walk into the next room. In this room Marinette was given a sticky label with her name and was told to put her belongings into a locker with a clear plastic door before heading to the next building. Dress codes were also enforced, one woman being given a spare shirt to cover the low neckline in her shirt. One man was given plimsolls - a compensation for his sandals.
All too soon Marinette was being herded toward the main visiting area, travelling along the dark concrete path toward a square building that had a fence surrounding it. Already, another group was heading inside, led by a warden with a bullet proof vest on and another warden who was carrying a gun. Clearly, security was not taken lightly in this facility. At all.
Once she was inside this new building Marinette had to sign in. Writing down her signature on a sheet, right next to her name, she shakily provided proof of her identity. Then, she followed the directions of the wardens, led toward a central room, much larger and open than the rest, filled with dozens of small tables and inmates dressed in casual clothing but with bold vests, orange in colour, sporting their inmate number.
Countless different people were present. Some were families, crying as they reunited over a small table, unable to touch and hug properly, but still able to communicate face-to-face. Others were old friends, laughing as they reminisced over old stories and told jokes to one another. Most were lovers, holding hands over the tabletop and rushing to get every possible word out to each other, hoping that the sentence would be over soon.
Marinette's own person, Camille, was different from the other inmates. Slouched in her seat, wearing a pair of dark denim jeans and white t-shirt, she stared vacantly about the room. Lazily, her fingers drummed against the tiny tabletop, suggesting she was bored, as she blew a strand of her red hair out of her face. As she did, Marinette noticed the scar stretching across her face, a loud and ugly thing that went through her eye and across the arch of her nose. Marinette had never seen it before; the mask must have hidden it.
Sucking in a deep breath, Marinette approached the small table. This was it. Either this was the moment where she managed to gain some closure or this was the moment she died. This was it.
"Why are you here?" Camille instantly tensed up and hissed, her words a sharp spit from her scarlet lips as she scowled at Marinette. On top of the table her drumming fingers became a tight and ominous fist, whitening her once fleshy palms with hardened tension.
Being an expert in body language wasn't needed for Marinette to translate it. To her it was obvious that Camille had no trust in her whatsoever. Not that Marinette could blame her for such a way of thinking. Ladybug had never done anything to help Camille; Marinette was equally as unimportant. If anything, hatred and hostility was deserved. She should have done more, known more, before assuming the worst about someone like Camille.
"I decided to come today because I know you're not a bad person, Camille," Cool and calm, Marinette responded in a controlled manner. Each word was a gentle admission - a gentle acceptance of her own failure - as she glanced into the woman's sharp blue eyes. "And I'm sorry for failing you. I should have known... I should have seen that you're someone who needs help, not just a potential super-villain who wanted to end the world."
"I call bullshit," Camille spat, something like a mixture of triumph and spite punctuating her words. Folding her arms across the tabletop, she leaned towards Marinette, a sinister aura slipping into the air as she glowered, "And it's because you're only here because of Abyss. I don't need your pity, Ladybug."
Now Marinette was on edge, the hairs on the back of her neck standing tall and tense. No-one was supposed to know about that - at least no-one but Chat Noir. Marinette and Ladybug were separate, two parallel entities that followed the same path but never met. Ever. Ladybug and Marinette could never cross paths because when they did, when people knew the truth, it didn't always end well. They were meant to be contained.
Camille seemed to know who Marinette was though. Like Abyss - her mysterious kwami - she seemed to know much more than Marinette and Chat Noir combined. All without the book. That in itself was definitely a feat. But to know more, to know secrets and buried truths that even the guardian of the miracle box did not know? That was like being the sole person on earth to find the secret to eternal youth.
"Yes, I know who you are Ladybug," Camille let out a humourless laugh, leaning back in her chair. Dragging out the last word, splitting it into two syllables, she smiled - a cold, cruel thing - as she let out another chuckle, "And I also happen to know who that mangy alley cat of yours is too. Although half the city wouldn't believe me if I let that little detail slip loose. Let alone you, Miss pink-and-everything-perfect."
"I already know who he is," Marinette responded, a tiny refute. But even that felt pointless.
Was this what it was like? Was that what Camille always felt like, a tiny voice against someone who seemed to always know more, have more power, than herself?
In the past, Camille had been such a happy and eager child. Running through those aisles in the theater, helping her father in his shows, she had looked so content and comfortable. Nothing had weighed down on her, made those steel blue eyes of hers look so depressed and resigned and hurt. There had been so many reasons to smile. So many reasons to care about the life she lived and the people she had known.
Now Camille Bisset was nothing but a venomous and spiteful being, embittered by her past and running of a dangerous cocktail of pain and vengeance. That all showed on her face, forever marred by the large scar that would never fade away. Life had been cruel to her. So, in turn, Camille would be cruel to life. She would make everyone - every single soul on this planet - pay for her own horrible mistreatment.
"So what's your next move, LB?" Camille, snarky and certain, asked the question with an inquisition arched brow. Resting her hands behind her head, continuing to play it cool, she pressed, "What are you going to do now?"
Currently, Marinette didn't know. She hadn't thought that far - an usual thing for her to do. Put together and well-organised, she usually had a series of steps to follow in her grand plans. Nothing was ever left down to chance with her. Taking risks would never pay off in the long-term, that much had been established ever since her Hawkmoth days. Ever since she had met Chat Noir, who had annoyingly called her a watermelon.
Yet when it came to a certain ex-chaos kwami user, Marinette seemed to keep taking risks. Even if she knew that much more than her own life hung within the balance.
"I actually don't know," Marinette decided to admit, vulnerable, exposed.
And, in the face of it Marinette's uncertainty, Camille continued to pick. For sixty minutes, filled with spite and anger and sarcasm, she continued to pick and pick and pick at Marinette until there was simply nothing left. Once those sixty minutes were done, the wardens ringing the bell and herding in their inmates, Marinette was left alone at the table, absorbing the cruel and calloused words of her long-gone table-mate. You were wrong; some hero you were; stop thinking that you were ever right: most of those words held some truth in them. But not all.
All throughout their conversation, as much as Marinette took in the truth she also called out the lies. Ladybug had not been a complete failure. Marinette could not be burdened with every misdeed done by the human species. There would always be a bad apple in a bushel of good ones. There would always be someone, somewhere, filled with the desire to cause nothing but pain and death and destruction. Evil was nothing new. Evil had always been present.
"How did the visit go?" Tikki, deciding it was best if she sat out of the conversation, immediately checked on Marinette once she'd retrieved her purse. Worry filled the creature's blue eyes as she waited with pursed lips.
"It went well, Tikki," Marinette responded. At least for her it had provided some more clarity on why Camille was the way she was. Why exactly she was so intent on destroying the world. "I think I'd like to arrange another."
Because, even with this visit, Marinette was still missing some closure. She wanted to know more; she wanted to know exactly why Camille Bisset was the way she was.
Wasting your days away in a prison wasn't always so bad. Some days Camille could find herself enjoying the routine, the certainty there was to the day, when she was feeling particularly pleasant about the world around her. Unlike the outside world, prisons could be a controlled environment. Most of the time, you knew what you were getting. You knew that almost everyone within these walls was a rotten, no good, criminal - someone who wouldn't think twice about sacrificing you to save their own skin.
Lunch time tended to be the best time of day. Since she was much too hazardous to let out for work - because she was on the much more heavily monitored Hawkmoth wing (made specially for, yep, Hawkmoth himself) - the most freedom Camille gained was lunch. For the next thirty years - at least that's what the government thought - her biggest privilege would be the ability to see the other inmates all fight over the scraps of the prison. How lovely.
Spooning in the grey slop of mashed potatoes into her mouth, Camille remained silent as a crazed howl of pain filled the air. Right across from her, the source of the sound was wailing, a fork impaled into their hand as a gang of other inmates held them down. Big, burly, the main instigator was a known leader of a militia. Around two years ago they had attempted to stage a coup - only to end up in prison when Ladybug had caught wind of their schemes.
Honestly, most of the criminals here were fools to think that they could ever get away with their crimes. Most of them were much too flashy, too on-the-nose, with their crimes. Bright and bold tattoos gave away gang members; serial killers always had to leave their official trademark taunt for the police; terrorists... they were a special case. Committing their crime to begin with brought attention to their name.
All too soon the wardens were flooding in, hauling away the injured inmate and tazing the rest into submission. Everywhere else the chaos continued to ensue, some of the inmates trying to bully those placed on 'lunch duty'. Lunch duty always was the worst, the itchy bright blue hairnets and the annoying, greedy assholes always making it horrible. Sometimes, when she received her daily lunch slop, Camille would feel sorry for them. Sometimes.
"You must be the latest super villain," Confidence just seemed to ooze from this latest annoyance, sliding into the seat across from hers. Shiny, their teeth caught the cheap lighting of the cafeteria. "So, what was it like fighting the big, bad Bug?"
Ignoring the pestering fly that this inmate was, Camille continued to eat. Right now she didn't have time for this. Her stay here wasn't going to be permanent so she didn't have to worry about making friends. She didn't need to make friends to survive.
"Not the talking type, are you?" Again, the fly was talking. Releasing a sigh, they swung their fork toward the wardens, "Still, you have to have a thought on that. Just look at them, self-righteous pricks."
Yes. They were. Every human being thought they were better than those inside a prison because they simply hadn't made the mistake of being a victim of circumstance. Society saw them as animals, the unwanted ugliness of society. But that opinion wasn't just held for prisoners. No, Camille knew that everyone within every society always had their own judgement on those different from them. That thought path was human.
"So," The fly was buzzing once more, sliding closer to her on the bench. Acrid, potent, the combined stench of sweat and oil filled Camille's nose as she continued to remain as stiff as a slab of stone, "You wanna share your little secret? How exactly did you go toe to toe with LB?"
Each question had its own little nudge into her ribs. Usually, Camille would retort by snapping that arm in two, leaving the inmate screaming in both hysteria and pain as she calmly walked to the wardens, holding her hands out to be restrained and subdued. Normally she would aim to make an example of the inmate. All eyes would see what happened when you messed with her - ever thought you could be her best friend.
Gritting her teeth, Camille instead bite down the urge to attack. Today she wanted to make the most of her lunch time. She needed the detox after seeing that annoying bug not more than an hour ago.
"Just shut up and eat," Camille growled out, stabbing at her chicken with the flimsy plastic fork the prison provided. Metal ones were simply too dangerous with all the criminals lingering around. With metal utensils it was only a matter of time before a full bloodbath was shed around this room. "I'm trying to enjoy my slop here."
Grumbling beside her, the fly seemed annoyed. Peeved. But even so, he remained relatively quiet, seeming to obey her command as they shoveled a few forkfuls of the prison's slop into his mouth. Staring ahead, their brown eyes were fixed on the flock of inmates, now calmed down and shuffling along the lunch line as the wardens restored order. Nothing unusual. Nothing new. This was the norm of a prison lunch time.
"Careful. You wouldn't want to start a fight," Camille mumbled as she took another bite of her lunch. Unwavering, firm, her forearm was held up, deflecting the plastic fork that had been aimed right for her eye. Holding onto it was the fly, a dangerous look him his eye as he wore a serious frown. Camille, his complete opposite, was calm and certain. Not a single cell of energy needed to be expended on this fly; she could pummel him with her eyes closed.
Nevertheless, prison inmates always were such predictable creatures. Surrounding the table, like a swarm of hornets, the others had caught a whiff of the rising tensions. Making a vast circle, the usual makeshift arena for a fight, all sorts of bodies, large and small and wide and petite, filled the empty spaces around Camille's table. Raucous, wild, the inmates were all raising their fists into the air, ecstatic at the potential fight and source of entertainment.
Feeding off the attention, the raw awe and excitement, the fly had sprung up onto the table. Four of his friends, seeming to have caught onto their buddy's behaviour, had flitted into the centre of the arena. One, a woman with broad shoulders and most definitely a rigorous prison workout routine, stood in the centre, cracking her knuckles as she wore a smug and certain grin. An infamous signal for a jail beat down.
At the signal, Camille couldn't help but grin. If they wanted a fight - some source of entertainment - then she would provide it. Her body had been itching for a bit of exercise anyway.
Pushing her tray away from her seat, Camille calmly stood up. Already the group were approaching, their leader with the fork appearing victorious despite the fight barely even beginning. All of them, much too smug and certain in their ability, surely did underestimate her. There was a reason why Camille could go toe to toe with Ladybug; there was a reason why she had nearly succeeded and was simply delayed in her plan.
Charging toward the nearest attacker, Camille raised her fist. Seeing her fist, they attempted to dodge, but ended up being stunned as her fist collided with their jaw. Hard. Sending a cracking noise the air, Camille delivered her punch with a solid motion before swiftly moving to strike their torso. Right in the liver. There had been no time for the attacker to respond. At all. Instead Camille hit hard and true, with a damaging force.
"Ugh!" Maybe it wasn't so surprising when the attacker heaved, almost throwing up from her blow. But Camille had no time to think about the aftermath. Instead she had moved on, focused on her next course of action with an almost lethal concentration.
Bam! Weightless, flimsy, the first attacker fell, flying backward into the wall of the arena and sending at least five people with them into the ground. One kick was all it had taken from Camille, delivered to the person's rib cage and most likely shattering a rib or two. But Camille didn't care. Too charged up with adrenaline, that natural fight or flight instinct, she was geared up to keep going until she felt that she was safe.
"You're gonna pay for that one!" Two arms popped up from behind her, intending to trap Camille's frame within them. Too bad she much too fast for such a tactic to work.
Pivoting on her left leg, Camille swiveled and delivered a crushing high kick to the attacker's nose. As her white sneakers hit their mark, bright red gushed out, staining her t-shirt and ruining said shoes as Camille landed perfectly. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for her opponent. Stunned by the attack, and most definitely feeling its force, they had recoiled, hands flying up to their nose as they reeled back.
Dealing with the other two was a piece of cake. A few more swift blows, delivered in wisely chosen spots, and Camille had managed to knock them out cold. All without the use of a single weapon. All with her bare hands and her bare hands alone.
Now it was just the fly left.
Clearly, he was much smarter than the others. Using them as a diversion, the fly had used that time to procure some weapons in order to have a better chance at success. Camille - having earned the title as a Hawkmoth suite inmate - was a force to be reckoned with. If the fly wanted to know her secret to success then he definitely knew that she could be a threat when provoked. Unfortunately, he didn't really predict how dangerous she could be.
For a few minutes they had been dancing around each other, the fly with his shivs and Camille with her fists. Bobbing and weaving, charging and dodging, they were trying to find the first opening possible to strike each other down. A few attempts had to led to Camille being poked by his shivs. Others ended with the man gaining a new bruise from narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with one of Camille's fists.
Then, he made a mistake. Tripping up on one of the other inmates, the fly provided an opening. Sharp and concentrated, Camille did not miss it. Instantly, she sprung forward, bringing both of her fists down onto the back of his head. Crying out with pain, the fly recoiled, only to end up on the ground, kneeling before Camille. Camille herself, was hissing, shaking her hands as they reddened from the impact. For once she had hit too hard.
"Alright, break it up!" Ten guards came to break up the conflict, bulletproof vests on and tazers in hand. All of them came forward, shocking Camille into submission with their weapons, making her a twitchy mess on the ground.
Then, cold and familiar, she felt the restraints used for inmates like her - made of a lab-developed metal and made to never break - clamp around her wrists. Once again she would be dragged back to her cell; for a long time she would not have the privilege of lunch time again.
Ok, maybe prison did suck a bit. For the past three days Camille had been kept in her own special version of solitary confinement: cell-arrest. That meant she didn't leave her cell at all, every meal coming to her door at the assigned hours and her only interaction being the stiff wardens who wished her a 'good morning' and a 'good night' each day. Aside from that her only entertainment were the books she'd been provided with - which didn't do much by day three.
Being a prisoner definitely wasn't fun. When you took away lunch time, yard work and the other social activities, you quickly realised how lonely you could get in prison - especially without a cellmate. Sure, Camille was used to be solitary. Isolation was her only friend, her only true companion, ever since her father died. But, even those who were used to isolation feel unnerved by unnatural silence. Everything around them tended to make noise while they were silent.
Breaking the silence, clicking filled the air. Then, with a smooth sliding motion, her cell door slid open, revealing a warden dressed in the familiar navy blue of the prison's uniform. In their hands was a box, the top of it decorated with a white sheet of paper. Already it was opened, the sellotape keeping it shut smoothly cut down the middle, making the box's flaps stick out at weird angles.
"A delivery," The warden spoke, professional and straight to the point as they lingered within the doorway. "Enjoy."
All too soon the cell door was sliding shut once more, clicking and clanging with the turn of the key in the lock. Fading footsteps filled the air, getting farther and farther away as the seconds passed, signaling the warden's exit from the infamous Hawkmoth suite.
Normally, when it was quiet like this, Camille would have pounced on the opportunity to see what was in the box. Nothing new had come to her yet. Outside there wasn't anyone to send in such thoughtful, time-consuming things. With her father long-dead and her mother long-gone, Camille had never had anyone to send her anything ever since she was a child. There had never really been anyone who could have known her well enough to even think about her in such a way.
Death threats and letter filled to the brim with harassment were often left at her cell. Each week they would be delivered and upon opening they would be discarded. Most 'famous' criminals tended to get that sort of mail - especially when they were responsible for a tragedy as large as the attack on Île de la Cité. Hatred should have been expected; complete disgust was the default for people who did such horrible things.
Nevertheless, someone had chosen to send Camille a box. Maybe it had something nice in it - like treats or money or a little trinket. Most likely it had something terrible, like a dead cat that the wardens thought she probably deserved to see.
Getting up from the thin mattress of her prison bed, Camille approached the box. From a first glance, it appeared normal. Necessary items like clothing, underwear and footwear had been neatly packed inside, topped off with hygiene products and what appeared to be personalized gifts with her comfort in mind. As Camille took these items out - one of them a hand-knitted blanket with her name - she couldn't help but feel intrigued. Who would take time out of their day to send her these? Who would care?
Only two possibilities rang within her mind: Marinette or a stranger. Both possibilities did not soothe her. At all. Instead they made her stiff as she laid the clothing and other items to the size, both interested and anxious to find out what could be hidden at the bottom of the box.
Of course, Camille was rather shocked to see that the box appeared rather shallow once she removed the initial items. But, when she reached in, she found that some other items had been placed into the box. Round, smooth tins and small and squat containers met her hands, some of them producing a strange sound as Camille shook them. Pulling out a random item, she came face-to-face with a tin of peaches. Of all things peaches.
Shaking her head, the woman set the tin aside and dug back into the box. In the end she counted inventory for quite a few food items - both legal and contraband - from the box. Most treasured of all were the containers of baked goods, ranging from cute little cupcakes to colourful circular things that Camille remembered as macaroons. Once upon a time, a long time ago, her father used to buy them for her after every show. They used to be her favourite treat.
Picking one container up, she opened it and popped a macaroon into her mouth. Immediately, she felt soothed by the sweet, the flavour of strawberries filling her tongue as she bit into the shell.
"Huh," Camille hummed as she finished the macaroon, definitely surprised by how pleasant she had found that experience. Picking up another, this one bright white in colour, she allowed herself a small smile, "Not bad."
That single thought consuming her brain, Camille packed up her contraband food and piled it back into the box. Using a little of the charged up energy from Abyss, she cast an illusion to make the box appear empty and shallow. Just in case any of the guards wanted to do a surprise search in her room. But she kept the little macaroons out, ready to be her tiny companions whilst she tried to read once more.
When you go to know them, they weren't that bad. Just like how maybe, just maybe, this mystery box person wasn't a bad person. Camille just had to know her a bit better.
Days had passed since Marinette's visit to see Camille and yet she was completely on edge. Twitchy, stir-crazy, she was a restless and jumpy mess as she went around her house, thinking about what more she could do, what more she could send, in order to know more about Camille. So far the visit had provided little insight. Although useful, it was definitely not as effective as it should have been. If anything, it left Marinette feeling as if she could do more.
That led her to where she was now, at least sixth month's worth of boxes packed for Camille. Food, clothing and everything in between had been stuffed into the cardboard boxes, already pasted with Camille's details and the prison's address.
Obviously, Marinette knew not to put certain items within her boxes. Official websites definitely did have good guidelines when it came to what she should and shouldn't pack. Nevertheless, she always was a worry wart. Worrying was her thing, regardless of the person or situation. That worrying led to obsessing over the problem, thinking of a million ways to solve that one issue. Until Marinette did solve it, moved onto a new problem and obsessed over that.
"Maybe you should take a break, Marinette," Tikki, still playing the role of a worried mother, watched from her post within Marinette's fruit bowl. At first she had encouraged packing boxes for Camille, seeing the task as a constructive distraction. Putting little gift boxes together seemed to have a positive effect on Marinette - it provided a respite. But now that distraction was an obsession, Tikki's disapproval was beginning to grow. A lot.
"I will in a moment Tikki," Marinette promised, pulling her packing tape over the top of the box. Smoothly she cut through it, smiling as she observed her packing work. "I just want to make sure that Camille gets what she needs."
"Yes, but- "
Not able to finish, Tikki was interrupted by the sharp drone of Marinette's doorbell. Something that had definitely not happened often in the past month. With Marinette's instructions to stay far away from her home most people had respected her wishes. Alya, aware of how upset Marinette had been, had decided to stay quiet for once; Sabine, her mother, had simply taken to surprise visits by using the spare key. Everyone else checked up through phone calls.
"I'll see who it is," Getting up, Marinette headed toward her front door. Hopefully it was just a delivery person who was lost or something. She really didn't have the energy to explain her packing frenzy to any of her friends or family.
Anxious, Tikki followed closely behind, sticking to the shadows. No doubt she was worrying about Marinette's reaction to whoever was at the door. That kwami had always had an uncanny ability to sense when something was going to go wrong.
"Adrien," Blank, blinking, definitely buffering, Marinette could only say his name as she pulled open her front door. Standing right there, much different from the last time she'd ever seen him, was Adrien Agreste. One of the last people on earth Marinette Dupain-Cheng had ever expected to see.
For a good month and a half they hadn't really spoken. Scratch that, they hadn't spoken. Ever since the attack on Île de la Cité, Marinette had been like a dead relative to him: known but unable to be contacted. Part of her had hoped that it would stay that way. Too much was going on right now. So many thoughts, too many thoughts, were bugging her already overworked mind. Talking to Adrien would only make them worse. They would only make her worse.
"Marinette, we need to talk," Looking just as uncomfortable as she felt, Adrien was definitely in a similar predicament to herself. It was then Marinette noticed the cast on his arm, restricting his movement and most likely gained from the attack. She had never checked up on him about that. Even though she had been panicking about it that night, cursing as she pulled out her emergency bandages and tried to think of a plan.
"Yeah, we do," Marinette found herself agreeing with Adrien, her voice oddly confident despite her now panicking control centre. This conversation would not be a light one. This conversation was one she'd been avoiding ever since Lucky Charm had failed to restore everything.
Stepping out of the way so that he could go inside, Marinette added, "There's a lot we need to catch up on."
Never before had it felt so clammy and stuffy between them. As Ladybug and Chat Noir, as students in the same class, they had never felt so cautious and out of place with each other. Conversation would normally flow naturally. Laughter and smiles and shared jokes would ignite themselves from thin air, sparked from the inexplicable bond that they could forge with each other no matter the situation nor circumstance.
But right now? Both of them couldn't find it within themselves to act as they usually did. Even when, more than ever, they were both looking for proof that last month had changed nothing. That Ladybug and Chat Noir, no matter what, could always function perfectly.
However, they both knew that was a lie. There were days when both members of the duo were off their game. Countless times they had fallen into setbacks, either because of Ladybug or because of Chat Noir. Seamless was not a word to describe them - they had experienced their fair share of bumps on the road. Resilient would be more accurate. They were both always bouncing back from whatever setback they'd experienced.
This setback, though, wasn't like the others. This one would definitely cripple them for a while - if not permanently.
"I'm handing back my miraculous," Adrien abruptly announced, seemingly just as sick of the silence as Marinette herself. Not glancing at her, instead focused on his cast, he couldn't even look her in the eye as he delivered the bombshell. Almost as if he were afraid to see what her reaction would be. He was not wrong to fear it.
"What?" Marinette asked, eyes wide as she found herself unable to breathe. To blink. "You're... giving up?"
Processing this news wasn't something she could do easily. No, letting go never was an easy thing for Marinette Dupain-Cheng. People she cared about, people that she valued and cherished, were always clung onto like a life-long toy that had always been at her side. Letting go of friends, letting go of the past, was something that she never liked to do. That dislike only grew stronger when it came to Chat Noir - Adrien - someone who she had always treasured. Someone she had always cared about since day one.
Once upon a time, a long time ago from now, Marinette would say with absolute certainty that Adrien Agreste felt the same. In the past there was a time where he would have been just as stunned as her, wide-eyed and shell-shocked at even the consideration of giving up his miraculous. When they were younger, a pair of clueless kids thrust into the magical world of superheroes, they had both relied on each other. They were inseparable, joined at the hip by some kind of magical superglue.
That glue must have weakened though. Over the years, slowly worn and chipping and peeling away, the magical glue between them must have become frayed. Otherwise this wouldn't have even been a possibility. Giving up wouldn't have ever crossed his mind.
"I think I need a break," Adrien continued, seemingly not noticing or perhaps even ignoring what must have been the obvious disbelief upon her face. Even though he seemed certain with his words he was still awkward, still stiff, an air of discomfort escaping through his stature. "Not permanently just... what happened a while ago still has me shaken up. I don't think I'm in the right state of mind for this."
Neither was she. Marinette never had been in the right state of mind. But that didn't mean she just gave up. No. Too much always hung in the balance, relied on her doing well so that everything else could continue as normal.
"But... I- " Definitely buffering now, Marinette couldn't find any words to say. Nothing. Not a single excuse or retort could come to mind. Well, one did. But how could she possibly drop that bombshell now? How could she, when Adrien was spelling it right out to her, completely flip his entire world upside down? Marinette couldn't be responsible for that. Not again. Not when all he seemed to want was some kind of normality.
So, instead, with a voice thick with emotion, she asked, "You felt like that too, huh?"
For the first time in nearly two months, in that moment, Marinette felt an old piece of their dynamic clicking back into place.
"Yeah. I did."
Nothing else had to be shared between them. Often, when it came to how their superhero experiences affected them, there didn't need to be any words. Words were simply the superficial layer, the external surface that could never really replace the actual relief of someone truly understanding how you felt. Someone truly getting just what experience you were talking about. Words were never needed. Instead it was simply knowing that the other was there to listen, to understand.
But how could Marinette ever get Adrien to understand all that she knew? How could she bring up everything, dredge up every dark truth she had learned, while also revealing that she herself had been lying to him for quite some time? Would he ever understand it from her perspective? Would he understand that she kept it from him to keep him safe?
"Did Plagg... tell you about Abyss?" Clearing her throat, Marinette decided to change the course of their conversation. If she could not tell him everything then she would attempt to change his mind. While Adrien could not know why he was so important, why he was perfect to be Chat Noir, he did deserve to know some of the truth. As his partner, Marinette owed that much. "Camille's kwami."
"Camille?" Instantly, Adrien's confusion was evident.
"Jinx," Marinette clarified, biting her lip at her slip up. Camille's name was something she wasn't meant to know about; they had only ever known her as Magician or Jinx.
"No," Adrien shook his head. No doubt he had his suspicions raised now. Whenever Marinette was keeping secrets, finding out things that she hadn't shared with him, Adrien knew it was because she was keeping him out of the loop. Every time that had happened in the past, Marinette had only ever done it for one sole reason. That reason always tied back to him, to her desire to keep him safe while she took the brunt of it all.
Again, silence sifted between them and Marinette knew that Adrien was itching to just hand back his miraculous. Already her fine window of opportunity was shrinking. Already he was slipping from her grasp, slowly but surely heading toward the path that led far, far away from her own. Tonight he came here with the intention to quit; so far Marinette had provided him with little motivation to continue, to stay on as Chat Noir.
"Is it something really important?" Adrien gently probed. Because last time she had been keeping secrets it didn't end very well; from that experience they had both learned to never interrogate Marinette whenever she was keeping information to herself.
"Kinda," Sighing, Marinette decided to admit that much. That tiny, tiny slither of the overall mountain of problems eating away at her every day. "It's to do with Gimmi."
"Oh."
"I also went to see Camille a few days ago," Marinette abruptly spewed it out, cheeks pink with her confession. Burning at the tips of her ears, it spread all over her face as she continued, ready to spill as much as she could. Desperate to try everything in order to get him to change his mind. "I don't think she's a bad person, Adrien."
"You don't have to be a bad person to do bad things, Marinette," Adrien sighed, the action making his face contort in a way that displayed his true fatigue for her to see. Dark shadows rimmed his eyes, suggesting that sleep had always been a very fleeting thing for him, and there were lines in his face that had never been there before. Their battle with Camille had definitely left its lasting scars. "I'd know that first hand."
"Yeah, I know," Marinette whispered, remembering it all too well. Gabriel Agreste. He was not a completely evil man. No he had simply been consumed by his own grief, driven to insanity by his desire to bring his wife back to life. Such a man could not be considered evil. Such a man could not be seen as inhuman. He was lost; he was damaged beyond repair. "But I think that we can trust her. What Abyss told me about the miraculous and Gimmi, it all lines up with what she was trying to do."
"Really?" Adrien asked, although it seemed to be more sarcastic than serious. Even his face, filled with skepticism and disbelief, screamed that he did not believe a single word of her argument. "How do you know that it's not all an elaborate lie?"
"Because I saw it myself!" Marinette protested, almost to the point of tears at the memory of it all. Death, destruction, columns of smoke that continued to spread the choking, cloying ash that floated in the air: the future did not look like a very pleasant place. Certain death and doom was assured to come their way. "I saw it with my own eyes, Adrien. Something is coming to kill us all and it's because we didn't destroy our miraculous."
"So we caused this?" Adrien questioned, breaking her memory. Breaking up the visions of countless bodies and uprooted cities. "We're the reason why the world is going to end."
"Yes," Marinette responded, nodding solemnly as she pursed her lips and swallowed down her tears.
"All the more reason to hand it back then," Adrien answered, smoothly. Certain. All too easily he removed the silver ring from his hand, holding it out for Marinette to take without so much as a second thought about it. Instead he looked at her imploringly, encouragingly, nodding toward her, "Because I'm clearly not the right Chat Noir."
"Adrien- "
"It's the right thing to do," Was his reason. His whole reason for doing this, believing that this was what he should do. "I'm sorry for not doing well enough, Marinette."
And then he was gone, leaving Marinette with his ring and a whole new string of problems to stew over.
Finally they had let her out to get a decent shower. Camille couldn't help but let out a sigh as she walked toward the communal shower block, faded towel in hand as well her new toiletries from Marinette the mystery box person. After spending a grand total of five days in complete isolation, Camille was more than ready to have an actual scrub - even if she had the live audience of her fellow inmates. Washing with the tiny sink in her cell had been a nightmare. Definitely not a recommended experience.
Stripping down wasn't a problem for Camille. Most of the new inmates were squeamish about the communal showers - especially since privacy was such a huge thing for most normal people. But used to having to adapt, to not having much choice, Camille had simply shrugged at the situation and done as required. There weren't many wardens on duty today either, so that meant she had little to worry about.
Hanging her belongings on the bench, Camille headed toward the standard metal showers of the prison building. Like most prisons this place had freezing water and very uncomfortable water pressure setting. But she wouldn't complain. Water pressure and a cold ass shower weren't a luxury but they definitely did beat the cell equivalent of a wet-wipe shower.
Waiting for the water to warm up as much as it would - which wasn't much - Camille placed her hand under the cold spray. After a few moments she placed herself under its stream, allowing her eyes to close as she sunk into her thoughts and let the water chill her nerves into submission.
Over the past few days, her thoughts had been running wild within her mind. Questions, all too many questions, had began to pop up within her mind about her visit with Marinette and why exactly she had come to visit Camille. Not many people would have spared a second thought toward her. Not too many people would have given two shits about sending in a box with tiny comforts to help pass the time in jail.
Part of Camille found it laughable. Clearly, Ladybug couldn't get rid of her saviour complex even when she was out of the suit. Even as a civilian she had to prove that she was the better person, much more forgiving and mature and generous than most other people on the planet. Rehabilitating and brainwashing people like Camille made Marinette feel good about herself. Being the better person gave her that little ego boost she needed. That tiny affirmation that she was doing the right thing.
But, another part of Camille, didn't know how to react. All of her life she had always believed that functioned best alone. There was no point in making friends because friends would never last forever. Friends could never be there when they were most needed. And, to Camille, it seemed like Marinette was trying to become her friend.
"We thought we'd find you here."
Cracking open one of her eyes, Camille caught sight of a group of figures lingering by the open doorway to the showers. Missing, the warden that had been standing there was gone - most likely paid off to ignore whatever sounds went on in the next few minutes. Most likely, the gang were here to try and scare her, some sort of sick revenge for what happened five days ago. At least, that was what Camille could assume from their ominous arrival.
"Fuck off," Immediately, she turned hostile, not bothering to move from her position under the shower. Instead she grabbed her soap and began to lather it within her hands, creating frothy bubbles on her palms. "I'm trying to enjoy a shower here."
"I'm sure you won't mind if we join you," Camille didn't need to open her eyes fully to know that had come closer toward her. Body heat was such an easy thing to sense when you were being drenched within the freezing spray of a shitty shower. When someone was close enough you could sense the heat rolling off of them in waves - intense blasts of something hot against your skin, raising hairs and letting you know exactly where they stood.
"I despise trash like you."
Abruptly, one of the members fell. When Camille opened her eyes it was the boss she found laying on the ground, right before her feet, scarlet blood rushing toward the drain and mixing with the soapy runoff from her shower. What was once his head now was an empty vacuum, the stump of his neck bleeding freely and chunks of flesh splattered across the once pristine flooring of the shower room. There was no doubt about what he now was; that man was well and truly dead.
Up ahead, most of the remaining members were speechless, gaping at the scene displayed before them in real life. Different from the rest, one of them was fuming, fists balled at their sides as they charged toward Camille.
"Why you- "
Raising a hand in the air, Camille made a slicing motion. As soon as she'd finished, the charging man was fallen, entire body diced like a fresh onion and bleeding scarlet onto the floor. Only a wet spot remained. Obviously, he had never seen the attack coming. Camille had made sure of that. Those who were blinded by rage often didn't expect her to retaliate with what was essentially weaponized air that acted as the extension to a sharp blade.
Rooted to the spot, the final member of the gang was frozen in place. When Camille turned to him, a blank expression on her water-splattered face, she could have sworn that he shit himself in that moment. She didn't even give him the time to scream. Instead, in another smooth motion, she cut his body in half, both pieces falling with a muted thud onto the floor.
All of the sirens came too late. By the time the alarms were blaring at the prison wardens came rushing into the room, everyone inside aside from Camille had been killed. Calm and collected, Camille herself was continuing her shower, silent as everyone came barging into the room.
"Camille Bisset, we must place you under custody," Speaking out from behind a barrier of wardens carrying shields, the lead security manager of the facility spoke out to her. "You will be on trial for murder."