World On Fire: No More Heroes

by DrTwit

Marinette never thought there'd come a time where her only ally was Hawkmoth, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Three years after his death, Gabriel Agreste awakens to a Paris ruled by akumas and no heroes left to defend it. To save his son, and perhaps even his soul, he must team up with his arch nemesis, Ladybug, to save a future built by their mistakes.

51. Showtime

Present

The unfortunate side effect of falling into a routine is that it becomes a comfort, something that you cling to for a form of consistency and are thus easily threatened by the most minute of changes. In this pit of depravity and despair, Gabriel routine was one of pain and humiliation, where the biggest threat to him is relief.

He had to depend on this sordid routine, whether it be the two things dragging him to the showers to humiliate him with the hose or thrown back into the ring to be pummelled by the general scum, it was his lifeline. It gave definition to his surroundings, accumulated his senses to the world, kept him grounded. Without it, his world would be a spotlight surrounded by the incomprehensible.

Time was a basic foundation of life, losing your sense of time was congruent with losing your grip on reality. The routine allowed Gabriel to keep up with time. There were no clocks available to him from this cell, no windows to glimpse the shifting of the weather; time would effectively be lost to him.

It was lost to Juleka, and Gabriel wagered that was part of what kept her so listless. She said nothing outside of the occasional comment just to confirm that he was still alive, but her face told so much. Her eyes hung heavy, not from lack of sleep but lack of reason, tired of running over the same cracks of their cell with no variation or desire. Every time Gabriel caught a glimpse of her face, there was a certain lost look to her, groggy in how she took in the room, still deciding whether or not she was falling through a dream.

She didn't know how long it had been between thoughts, between breaths, between anything that mattered to her. There was no time to maintain her internal clock, leading to inconsistent sleep patterns and utterings of wasted seconds or minutes or weeks or years. Sequestered to the cell with no glimpse of the walls beyond, her only comfort was that corner she squished herself into as much as she could. It was the sole consistency; a firm point where two walls intersected and defined this as a room.

Perhaps that was her boon. She was quiet, inactive, practically catatonic to the rest of the world. That stopped her from being a target. The guards occasionally looked over at her, peering into the cage like she was a zoo animal, and sigh because she did nothing interesting. At some points, they'd contemplate getting a stick to poke her with just to see her do something.

Their entertainment was in breaking the person down, ripping from their station and seeing their pride unravel before them. You couldn't humiliate someone who had no self-respect or care left to generate shame. She gave them no reaction. Gabriel's ego made him a prime source of entertaining, when he buckled it was a show because they could see his pride bristle at his treatment, he still had a perch that they could rip him from, and he never had enough self-control not to bite back.

Gabriel maintained his understanding of time from the routine of others. It was rough, not entirely reliable, but he managed to make some confident guesses to extrapolate from. He pushed his sleep schedule to sync up to this theorical clock, familiarizing his body with the need to awaken some time near when the 'first' shift of guards showed up. He identified them by their green and yellow preferences in suits. They always arrived groggy, irritated and on the cusp of waking up; at least one of them massaging a hangover.

This was the evidence he used to propose that they were the morning crew, and thus the first shift of the day. Average workdays, which he knew could completely not apply to Roth's crew, made him incline to place this shift around seven to eight in the morning. His starting point was admittedly flimsy, but it did wonders to keep him grounded.

He spent a few days calculating the gaps between that first shift and Herman and Vincent's arrival for Gabriel's daily play session. The minutes slipped through the cracks of his focus every now and then, so he wasn't entirely confident, but he'd roughly place the first shift as five to six hours long. That would put it ending just after lunchtime.

Maybe Juleka caught onto this fact too, because that consistently became the time when she'd break down and beg the guards to feed them. Now, the guards wanted them alive, so they never let the two starve, but they clearly enjoyed waiting until Juleka and Gabriel begged for the meal.

His torture sessions ran, on average, for around two hours. Three if something had particularly vexed his captors that day and they had steam to let off. This allowed him to note an oddity with his sessions in how consistent they were. By this point, while his body had numbed to the constant abuse, he still didn't expect himself to be as durable as he turned out to be.

Dulled pain receptors wouldn't stop the damage itself, the sessions should be inconsistent with the torturers holding back or ending early in order not to kill their toy too soon. He should be feeling the aftershock of his ordeal long into the night and the next day. And yet, they were always punctual, always consistent and, strangest of all, Gabriel would wake up the next day fresh with a body clean of wounds aside from the odd bruise here and there.

Was this another clue to the question of his strange existence? A consequence of his resurrected body? Or was his mind inventing a puzzle to be solved? It was hard to ignore, theories keeping his mind alight, which made the lack of answers all the more maddening.

So, he buried himself in his journal and his notes. He busied himself practising his memories of the guardian tome, managing to get a small cup to wiggle. The newfound timeline made his scribbles look all the more organized, and he found that it calmed his nerves somewhat just to be able to thought to paper instead of keeping it locked inside his head.

By his calculations, it had been two weeks since their capture. He still had yet to piece together what Bob Roth had planned for his prisoners now that Gabriel had burned away any possibility of co-operation. Was the bastard content to simply let them rot away in their cells, or was he merely waiting to use them as bait for Marinette?

I hope you're not getting yourself into too much trouble, Marinette.

---

"You looking to die, asshole?!" The hairy beast of a man snarled, driving his fist into his palm so conveniently positioned in front of Marinette's head.

"N-Not at all, my man. My pal. My buddy?" Marinette forced out a fake rasp to carry her flimsy disguise, once more adorning herself with a fake moustache and a wig because, at this point, it had simply become a tradition. "I just wasn't watching where I was going, Frienderino. Didn't mean to knock you on the old elbow there."

She had no idea what she was even saying at this point, words we just escaping her mouth as her eyes desperately darted back and forth in fear of finding any one of Roth's men coming over to investigate.

Wordlessly she brought up the package tucked under her arm, i.e a cardboard box filled with random junk she plucked from the mansion. She jiggled it around a bit, emphasising… Something. She didn't know what point she was making, but the noise made her feel like she was doing something. "I'm just on my way to deliver this important package of important things, because I am… A delivery boy. Yup, just a delivery person."

Oh my God, why do I sound so suspicious?

Luckily for her, the man didn't seem to give enough of a crap about her to listen, he just jabbed his thumb into her chest and growled. "Well, you better watch your step, Mailman, 'cus otherwise you're gonna walk right into an early grave." Before stalking off.

"Thanks for the advice…" Marinette muttered, heaving a sigh of relief as she shuffled over to the far corner of the street, sliding into an empty chairat the front of a café and pulling a newspaper from her pocket. She quickly got to word unfolding it into a makeshift shield, sheltering her face from the crowd as she observed the area through little slits she made in the paper.

Marinette and Jagged emerged from the resistance base with nothing but the buggy, the clothes on their backs and no plan. Their first stop had been the Liberty to give Anarka the bad news, and while her and Jagged fought over many things, in this instance the two were on the same wavelength. By the end of that night, their band of conspirators for operation 'Break the Bob' grew to four, including the advertising lady that Marinette now knew was named Brussel.

The resistance would be busy evacuating and covering their tracks, and Roth's forces had already been through to question Anarka, so the Liberty wasn't quite a risk to visit every now and then. Still, Marinette knew it would be foolish to make it their main spot, so Jagged led her to his own little hidey hole, an abandoned bar that looked like it was one loud noise away from crumbling into nothing.

Marinette had stayed true to Gabriel's plan, any visits to the mansion were done in secret. She knew Jagged suspected something, but he was fine never asking her any questions about the how's, just the what's.

For the past two weeks, the name of the game had been recon. The plans Alec gifted her were a tremendous framework but would be useless without a good idea of what was inside those lines. The Gold Record was built like a palace, so large and grand that even the stairway up to the entrance was big enough to have intersections where stalls and shops littered the lower levels of the climb.

It took ten straight minutes just to get to the final step, only to immediately book it to the nearest rubbish bin (which she only realized later were adorned with a ladybug spotted aesthetic – bet Roth felt really proud of himself for that one) to hide behind when realising just how much security was out front.

The first time she found her way up here; the visit was short lived. The guards were posted up in front of the entrance way that was, of course, sculpted to be Roth's big dumb head opening wide to eat the customers. And she was so sure that they were watching her for a while, following every twitch, every detail, and probably wondering why she was doing nothing but wondering around the main event.

She took to the second outing with more determination. Anarka let her borrow some Liberty advertisements so she could pose as just another profit seeker directing attention to the restaurant alongside Brussel; the downside of this plan was that part of the advertisement included doing a humiliating little dance that Brussel kept insisting she do to 'ease the tension'.

Jagged was not invited along for the recon missions, because if there was one thing the raging rock star was not, it was subtle.

"Find anything?" Brussel stretched out beside her, happily munching on some lizard, burned completely black, on a stick.

Marinette let out a quiet sigh, lowering her makeshift newspaper shield just enough to glance at Brussel. "Nothing useful yet. Security's tight, and I can't get close without raising suspicion. I need a way in that doesn't involve brute force."

Brussel hummed, taking another bite of her lizard skewer. "You ever consider joining the entertainment staff? That place is crawling with performers."

Marinette scrunched her nose. "I don't exactly have a circus act ready to go."

"Could've fooled me with that dance."

Marinette huffed, ignoring Brussel's smirk, and sat back against the rickety café chair, tapping a finger against the table. "Okay, okay. Let's think this through. The main entrance is out—too many guards, and they're checking everyone. I don't exactly look rich and important enough to be a part of their usual clientele."

Brussel nodded sagely, chewing.

"There's a loading dock around the back," Marinette continued, eyes narrowing. "Could sneak in with the deliveries, but I'd have to fit in a crate, and knowing my luck, I'd end up in a shipment of live snakes. Or something cursed, like—like antique dolls that whisper in the night."

Brussel raised an eyebrow. "That's a specific fear."

"I've been through things, Brussel."

"Clearly."

Marinette groaned and ran a hand through her hair. "Okay, fine, no crates. Maybe the ventilation shafts—classic spy move! But… no. Roth is rich. He probably has fans with laser grids or something ridiculous. And I don't feel like getting diced into bite-sized pieces."

Brussel made a slicing motion with her fingers. "Chop chop."

"Not helping," Marinette deadpanned before leaning forward again. "What about disguises? I could be a janitor! Or—no, no, wait. A catering staff member! Nobody ever questions the people carrying trays of tiny food."

"You'd probably get fired in five seconds."

Marinette gasped. "How dare you. I am perfectly capable of carrying—okay, fine, I'd drop the trays." She waved her hands. "But! What if I was a really confident janitor? Like, I just walked in, clipboard in hand, muttering about 'schedule discrepancies' and 'overtime pay.'"

Brussel snorted. "You think they pay their janitors overtime?"

"Okay, good point. But what if I—wait. What if I dress up as an eccentric millionaire? Roth loves networking, right? I could swan in with a fake accent, demand the most expensive wine, and talk about my many, many yachts—"

Brussel leaned in. "How many yachts?"

Marinette waved a hand. "At least six. No, seven. Seven feels excessive. And I'd be mysterious! I'd wear sunglasses indoors and only speak in cryptic riddles."

Brussel sighed, patting Marinette's arm. "You need sleep."

Marinette groaned, slamming her forehead onto the table. "I need an actual plan before I-" With an undignified squeak, Marinette ripped the newspaper back up to cover her face, only registering Brussel jumping in surprise before she disappeared behind the paper.

"Do you think he saw us?"

"Human!" 96's finger waved over the edge of her vision, mocking, and stupid, and annoying and- How did she keep running into these assholes?! "I need you to settle something for me."

"God damn it…" Marinette hissed under her breath.

"What was that?"

"I said-" Marinette let the scratch puberty-stricken boy voice escape her in a terrible rasp, pulling her newspaper down ever so slightly to let her eyes peer over the borders. Surprisingly enough, she only found 96 before her, is ever fateful twin nowhere in sight. "W-What can I do for you, Mister Knight Guy? Who I've never met in my life."

"I just hoped that you could tell me why the chicken crosses the road."

Marinette's eyes narrowed, a sigh already building in her throat. "Huh?"

96 stroked his chin with a firm nod, seemingly taking Marinette's confusion as her sharing his difficulty with the subject. "One of your fellow humans told me this riddle and no matter how much I ponder it, I just don't have the foggiest idea of what it could mean."

"Oh, it's one of those philosophical questions I'm sure." She groaned, desperately looking to Brussel for support, only to find the girl innocently whistling and looking the other way.

"A Philly-off-ecle?" And now the knight was leaning closer, staring through her fake stache and wig combo and making no notes of the familiar girl sweating under his gaze. "Is that like those frozen treats the men in suits keep melting on my head?"

"No, it means…" Marinette found herself blank for a minute. Where was she going with this? "It means there's no real answer. It's an answer… Everyone makes for themselves." The words kept coming and a sour look overtook her face, cringing at the sound of her own voice. "The chicken is… Like you. And the road is what's stopping you from getting what you want. So… Why would you cross the road?"

96 tilted his head, hands coming up to fiddle with the air, fingers parting in vague gestures of chickens and roads. "…I don't get it."

"Uh, like…" A sharp intake of breath to stall for time until Marinette rested her hand on the back of her head. "What do you want in life?"

"Want?" He tapped his chrome dome. "Ah, to serve our great mother!"

She could have just left it there, the sentiknight was simple enough to be warded off with simple answers. But there was something about that giddy optimism in the creature's voice, that raptured attention he paid to her word, that made her feel just a little less aimless for a moment. Like she hadn't been wasting her time getting the barest essentials of the information she wanted.

Clearing her throat, she crossed one leg over the other. The newspaper went down, there was no point in a shield by this point, either he could recognise her or not; nothing was gonna change it. "Is that really what you want?"

He was still for the moment. Marinette imagined big eyes blinking in confusion. "It's my one and only reason for existing, is it not?"

Marinette shook her head. "If it's mandatory, it isn't a want, it's just what you do."

"Oh." His shoulders deflated, a new anxiousness taking root. "How do I find my 'want'?"

Her lips opened, but no words came out, just the sudden striking question of what the hell she was doing. She closed her lips as well as her body in general, turning away from the knight to stare at the cracks in the brickwork. "T-There's no set way, okay?" She eventually squeaked. "You just know it."

The sound of his armour creaking brought forth the image of his head swaying back and forth like a door on a loose hinge. "What is your 'want', human?"

"Oh, me?" Her voice tumbled out in huffs, hating how easily she found herself under the microscope with such a simple question. "I mean, I have a lot of wants. But, sure, uh…"

She wanted to save her friends.

She wanted to make everything right.

She wanted to stop Lila.

But were those wants? She was a superhero, stopping the villain was her job, a necessity. And when the villain's plan interfered in her own life to such a degree, fighting against it would be her action no matter who she was, it was a matter of self-preservation. They were mandatory, it was… What she did, what she had to do no matter what.

She wanted to make her parents proud.

She wanted to be a famous fashion designer.

She wanted to honour Tikki.

She wanted Adrien to find happiness.

She wanted him to be happy with her.

Huh.

What happened to wants that weren't compatible? What if Adrien could only find happiness outside of her? What if anything he found with her was fake? Even if she put everything right, even if she undid all the damage, even if she saved all of their reputations, could the scars she left on her relationship with him ever allow him to be close to her in any way that wasn't performative and polite?

"I guess, what I want most of all, is… Is…"

Her fingers curled into a fist. Would she be able to accept that? Or would she keep trying to fix it?

"There's a boy I love very dearly, and who I've hurt." She sighed, finding her gaze drooping to her feet. "I want to help him find happiness, whatever that looks like."

She had to believe that she'd respect it, that she'd support his happiness even if it doesn't include her, because she loves him for more than what he does for her.

"You love him?"

It sounded so accusatory when he said it, as if the act was some great crime. Then again, it probably was to a sentimonster who was designed to just be some convenient enforcer with no ambitions beyond serving their creator.

The thought made Marinette's brow knit together, turning around to scrutinize the knight before her. She was used to thinking of sentimonsters like robots they were a body with little to no thoughts and a single programmed function driving them. Adrien and Felix were different because they were created specifically to be human, that's why they had sentience, how they became people despite their origins.

But these knights weren't made to be people, they were made to be tools. Tools that were capable of enough thought to act independently, but still tools. Marinette doubted that Lila intended for them to be curious, or emotional, or hold much of a conversation on philosophy. She doubted that Chaplin was ever intended to become animalistic or capable of being domesticated.

Optidrone was probably what Lila was going for in constructing her soldiers, a tool that has the basic AI to fulfil its function, that held no emotion or opinion, just an order it needed to follow. It erased all potential ethical questions and awkwardness of creating life to serve as your personal meat shields when they were functionally just toy soldiers. Marinette imagined that Chaplin and the knights would be quite similar to Optidrone when they were first created, before they were sent out into the world. The Knights were stuck being Roth's special flunkies, and Chaplin was abandoned, giving both of them time to… Well, develop.

Marinette found herself reaching out to softly graze her finger over the '96' engraving on the chest plate, looking almost fond. "It's like the connection between you and your brother. You love him, don't you? You'd do anything to see him happy, wouldn't you?"

95 and 96 were odd, they were goofy, they were dangerous, but most importantly; if it wasn't for their strange powers you'd easily be able to mistake them for just regular humans in a costume. Humans who were raised to be killers with little understanding of anything else.

Did that make it better or worse to fight them? Did it change anything? Marinette didn't know yet. At the end of the day, they were the guys who were gonna come closest to ripping her head off.

It was hard not to wonder if, given time, all the other sentimonsters she fought could have developed into more. If the only thing saving her from being a murderer was Shadowmoth and Mayura never had a sentimonster that lasted longer than a fight.

That was probably what Gabriel used to justify the difference between those sentimonster, between Sentibug, that he treated as simple tools to be disposed of and Adrien. At least, she hoped so, because she didn't want to think of a world where he included his own son when laughing at her for feeling any sentimentality over a sentimonster.

"I do enjoy when he is happy." 96 mused, looking curiously down at her wondering finger. "But… Why would you hurt the one you love?"

At that, Marinette could only offer a weak smile. "…I don't know. I just don't know." She shrugged. "I guess that's my chicken I need to question."

Brussel decided to pipe up now of all times, her fingers vaguely gesturing towards the sentimonster's stomach. "What's with the graffiti?"

A new addition had been made to 95's armour, a word, 'Dummy', painted across his stomach in a bright green colour that looked sickly on his soft blue colour scheme.

"Oh, this?" There was an instant drop in 96's tone, his fingers dropping to the word, scratching across the surface in some vain effort to wipe it away. He angled his body away, trying and failing to hide it from their judgemental eyes. "This is the ultimate mark of shame. Boss Roth saw to it that me and my brother were punished for our failures."

His hand moved down to his side, highlighting a dark, faded spot that he easily brushed away just by pressing down on it. "He tried poking us with hot sticks, but we are not allergic to sticks like you humans are."

96 continued by crouching down, arms wrapping around him to cover the wretched word. The stain he could not clean off quite yet. "I cannot read, but I am assured that this is quite a dirty, but fitting, word for a failure such as me." His head came back, casting blank stares of rage and guilt over anyone who was close enough to notice. "It makes everyone laugh at me and throw foul things at my head whenever I pass. 95 was devastated with his."

Once more, the absent brother was mentioned. Though 96 had made no such allusions, Marinette was starting to worry that 95 had gotten a more permanent punishment. "Where is your brother?"

"He is in the toilet."

There was a pause for Marinette to process the answer.

"…Like he's using the-" She stopped herself, shook her head and asked herself why she even bothered to pretend there was a more reasonable answer. "He's literally in the toilet, of course. Why?"

"Because Boss Roth said that is where pieces of crap belong."

Marinette winced. She couldn't deny that, as much as she was happy to have beaten the two knights, there was a smidge of guilt at how much her victory had probably gotten them yelled at and torn apart. And there was something unnerving about clearly living creatures being branded like they were a bathroom stall at a petrol station.

96's shoulders shuddered, his voice coming out as a sad whimper. "It won't be long until word reaches Mother of our failures, and she decides to recycle us."

"You… Uh… Shouldn't be so hard on yourself." It was pure instinct that drew her forward. Even if she was sort of warming up to the knights, no logic in Marinette's mind would approve of her embracing 96 in a hug. "I'm sure you guys did your best. And your best is all any mom wants from you."

It was the worst hug of all time. Despite the look of clay and his ability to mould himself, the sentimonster was all stiff points and odd angles. It was like hugging a wooden box. It didn't help that she could feel him staring down at her in complete befuddlement, trying to understand what sort of alien gesture that the weird human creature was committing.

"You really think so?" He asked slowly.

Marinette pulled back and, ignoring the sting of his elbow digging into her shoulder, smiled up at him. "You know," She began softly. "I think all those guys and Roth are just jealous of you."

It only took a moment of contemplation for the knight's entire demeanour to shift, springing into standing tall and thumping his fist against his chest. "…Well, there is a lot to envy." He reached down to pat Marinette on the head as she pulled away. "You have given me much to think about, human. I must thank you."

"Oh, it was no problem." Marinette fell back into laughing nervously, inching back behind the cover of the table.

"I will leave now, but make no mistake, my dazzling memory will never let go of you and your fancy words!" He waved at her enthusiastically as he backed away. He was so invested in waving that he dedicated very little focus to where he was going, quite easily knocking over several people in his path before disappearing into the crowd.

And with him gone, that empty feeling returned. A voice in her head asked Marinette how she could do so much for the enemy, but nothing for the people she was actually trying to save.

She felt so useless out here, a spectator with no influence on what happened inside. There was enough information on hand to make her feel like there was more she should be doing, but little enough that nothing seemed to go anywhere. A plethora of access keys sat in her pocket, but she'd yet to get close enough to use any of them.

Alec's maps didn't even include where they kept prisoners, that wasn't any part of his former job there. The most they had on that front was a rough direction, that there was a shaft that directly connected the staging area where Roth recorded to the prison area, allowed him to get rid of bad contestants fast.

The rest of her information was hopeful assumptions based on slim evidence. Like she knew that Juleka still had the snake miraculous on her when they were captured, but there'd been no stir of activity or announcement of Roth getting such a powerful tool, and Roth wouldn't be informed enough to know that the dull, silver bracelet was a camouflaged miraculous. Of course, if Lila still had it then they'd have escaped by now, so the best case scenario was that Roth didn't know it's value, but had still confiscated it.

Cynically, there was still enough of a chance to worry. And an even bigger chance that Roth was awaiting the arrival of Lila to hand off his new prisoners and that this whole ordeal would become an even bigger disaster.

Pulling the newspaper tight against her face, hiding her strained eyes behind a headline, she could only bite back a frustrated roar that would surely make her look crazy. Above all else, she'd settle for knowing that they were okay. It would be enough simply to have some sort of idea on Gabriel and Juleka's status. What were they going through while Marinette lounged around in safety?

One thing was for sure, she needed to get inside; and the moustache was not going to get her past the front door.

---

"Are you seriously still messing about with that book?"

Gabriel restrained himself to a twitch, his pen coming to a halt in the middle recounting a laundry chute he'd glimpsed in passing through a door during one of his sessions. Juleka had made it a habit of only interjecting to either restate the obvious or to tell him to give up; it made her quite the annoying roommate.

He let out a sharp sigh. It was the only human contact this girl allowed herself to have these days, any response at all should be considered charitable on his part. "I'd love to hear a better suggestion on how to spend my time than writing down vital information for our escape."

There was Nathalie again, leaning against the bars, looking in on his feeble state with nothing but barely restrained disgust. "Maybe if you spoke less like one of Roth's men, she'd want to speak to you more."

Gabriel bristled at this, telling himself that he spoke with far more dictation and elegance than the toadies who could barely string coherent sentences together that weren't just the same threats and barbaric jabs at his frame.

Nathalie didn't always appear in his mind's eye, but she tended to appear more frequently whenever he was giving Juleka grief. Perhaps it was his mind's way of reminding him how far he's fallen. In his prime, he didn't need this many words to deal with an uncooperative nuisance, even if they weren't employed by him just a cold glare and a scolding remark was enough to make everyone around him know not to waste their breath.

That was why the phantom Nathalie remained on the other side of the bars, always out of reach. Because he knew he'd never be that man who wielded such simple strength, the man she fell in love with, ever again.

He ripped his eyes away from the beauty of Nathalie's visage, too aware of how easy it was to stare, and found Juleka peering over to him, her eyes narrowed in apprehension.

"You're not writing anything." She spat.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Yes, I suppose all these big words must look like nonsense to someone as uncurious and small minded as you."

Juleka squinted at the notebook, then back up at him. "What big words? There's nothing there."

"Well…" He hummed, pressing the pen to his lips. "The musings at the top of the page probably stop you right out of the gate with 'viability of the laundry chute'. Do you know what that means?"

"Oh, for fu-" Juleka shook her head. "You know what? Never mind, you're crazy. I don't know why I even bothered."

Gabriel's tongue lashed out to add that wet, smug edge to his petulant response. "Because, despite your best efforts, sulking in a corner is about as mentally stimulating as a lecture on how cardboard boxes are put together."

"You wanna know something? You're so much easier to talk to when you're asleep."

Gabriel scoffed. "I don't talk in my sleep."

"Wanna bet?" Juleka had that flicker of evil dance across her eyes, an opportunity to push Gabriel off balance for once. "So, I just imagined all those times you called out for Adrien or 'Nathalie' to come and kiss you good night?"

Gabriel's face twisted into something ugly, his lip curling like he'd just bitten into a rotten fruit. "That is slander."

Juleka smirked, leaning back against the cold stone wall. "Oh yeah? Sue me."

He pointedly turned back to his notebook, his grip on the pen tightening. "I refuse to engage in childish provocations."

"Mmhm," Juleka hummed, dragging her nails over the rough surface of the wall. "But you do admit to talking in your sleep."

Gabriel tensed. "I admit to no such thing."

"Oh, sure. Just like you don't mutter about stock portfolios and fabric swatches in your nightmares."

The flicker of alarm in his eyes was worth every second of captivity.

"You—" He exhaled sharply, cutting himself off before he could dig the hole deeper. Instead, he straightened his posture, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in his prison-issued shirt. "You should focus on our current predicament, not juvenile attempts at mockery."

She didn't grin when she found a satisfying dagger to drive into him, Gabriel didn't think smiles came easily to her, but there was a certain satisfaction to her glare. "What? Does the mighty, big bad Hawkmoth have a sensitive spot he doesn't want poked at?" Her fingers came up to press under her lips, humming. "Mhm, Nathalie's your girlfriend, right? Or should I say used to be?"

Gabriel straightened up, his lips curling and a bitter taste on his tongue. "She's none of your concern."

"Right. Right. The proper 'big word' is like… Mistress or something." Juleka snapped her fingers. "Oh, now I remember. She's the one who took care of your child because you were too much of a deadbeat to be a father."

"I was there for my son." Gabriel growled, restraining himself from raising his voice into a roar. "I wasn't good at it, I never said the right things, but I was there every damn day. I didn't abandon him."

He could hear Nathalie scoffing. Oh yes, he may have been a shit parent in every other aspect, but at least he stayed in the same house and occasionally traded words.

Surely that made him better than his own father. At least when Gabriel wasn't available, it was because he was funding Adrien's secured life, or trying desperately to bring back the mother Adrien needed more than him. It was because he wouldn't abandon his wife and act like she didn't matter.

Striving to ignore his inner critic, he turned up his sneer, crossing his arms and meeting Juleka's glare head on. "Or are you just projecting your own daddy issues onto me now?"

Juleka, for once, didn't miss a beat. "Jagged Stone is still a better father than you." The way her voice curled to a higher, slightly nasally, but still self-assured pitch. The way her elbow cocked into a v and let her hand fall straight. Under the flushed pink lighting it was almost like he was being insulted by Reflekta. "Everybody who's ever talked to Adrien knows that."

She made sure to add in a whisper. "And that's all before we even knew you were an actual terrorist on the side."

Juleka leaned in just slightly, her voice dropping low. "You want to talk about abandonment? Fine. My dad showed up too late, but at least he showed up." She jabbed a finger at him. "You? You had everything. A son who worshiped the ground you walked on, a woman who loved you enough to throw away her own life for you, a business, an empire, superpowers. And what have you accomplished?"

Everything. He had everything. Everything he could only dream about as a boy. Everything except security. He had enough to brag, enough to look like he could own the entire world, but never enough to be ignorant to how much he had to lose. Everything didn't mean comfort, nor did it keep him content, all it meant was that he always had to be prepared to protect it, to add more blood to his hands to keep Adrien, Emilie and Nathalie afloat.

"That's enough." He croaked.

There was a bitter chuckle. "I just don't get it, you had literally everything going for you and somehow, we got here. You got the happy ending that most people only dream of, but you can't be anything more than a sad old man who still cries in his sleep."

Everything hadn't been enough to save him from his night terrors. Everything hadn't been enough to save Emilie from his mistakes. Everything hadn't been enough to save Nathalie from putting on the peacock to save his worthless hide. Everything hadn't been enough to save Adrien from him.

Everything didn't save history from repeating.

"I said-"

"Gabbi… My little Gabbi…"

As Gabriel, as Hawkmoth, as Monarch… As Gabbi.

"I mean, what kind of a man in his… What are you? 40? 50?"

"You lied to me. You said you'd save me."

He was still there, again and again, on his knees by the side of a loved one, begging for the world to take him instead.

"You hate me, don't you?"

"Drop it-"

"I bet you wanted this to happen. You did this to me, didn't you?"

He had everything, all the power in the world, and he still couldn't save them.

"Way too old to still be calling out for your mommy."

"You're so ungrateful and greedy. Maybe your father was right about you."

"I don't need Hawkmoth's strength to snap your neck." He snapped. "You do know that, don't you?"

All of Juleka's momentum drained from her face in an instant. "W-What?"

He rose from his seat on the bed, his full height creating a daunting shadow that easily consumed Juleka's form. "It just amuses me to no end how easily you idiots seem to forget that, without super powers, I'm still a relatively well put together man." He leaned over, spreading that sneer to stretch from ear to ear. "You call me all these sweetly sinister things, look at me like I'm a rabid beast with a muzzle, yet… Yet you're so comfortable poking at me like you're safe."

Sweat fingers combed at his hair, pinching the individual threads like a stress ball. "I'm literally your only chance at getting out of here alive, and all I ask for is either a contribution or, at least, some silence. I mean, honestly. Who are you useful to unblemished? Who's going to stop me if I decide to lunge for your face right now and test my knuckles against your eyes? Roth's men won't care, they'll probably encourage it."

He took a slow step forward, and Juleka's body tensed, every muscle coiling as if preparing to strike. Then, Gabriel laughed. Low, cruel, knowing. He shook his head, shoulders relaxing as he straightened up, that same smug amusement returning to his face.

"Look at you." He said mockingly. "Trembling like I've already done it." He gestured toward her, waving a dismissive hand. "I'll tell you right now, little girl, there's a lot you don't know about me. Most importantly, you don't know how many bodies there are behind me, or how few reasons I have left to live."

His arm uncoiled, bringing his fingers uncomfortably close to her face, inches away from grabbing her. "You can go off on every insult you can think up. Hell, you'll probably find the ones that actually cut me deep, and yes, I'll be graceful enough to admit that my mother is one of those weak points." Two fingers pushed outwards, pressing against her throat so pointedly that they might as well have been a knife. "But remember: the moment that your expectation of me becomes truth is the moment you die."

Juleka hesitated, her fear pushing down against the comment she wanted to make, but to her credit, she still managed to make it. "That must really suck, huh?" She croaked, her eyes desperately trying to avoid looking at him before her confidence could crumble. "Having someone get inside your head and take advantage of your emotional distress."

Gabriel scoffed. "If you were testing my nerves as part of some actual plan, I'd be impressed."

"Come on, Big G, you shouldn't be so hard on the poor girl." He barely had time to react to the voice before Vincent's hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back into the bars. "After all, she has to deal with you all the time."

Sherman's bald head peered over Vincent's shoulder. "Though I gotta admit, I'm curious what she did to get a real reaction from you." He laughed, reaching inside to cup Gabriel's cheek. "We usually gotta work you real hard to get your teeth bared."

"Startling that this young girl does such a better job than you, isn't it?" Gabriel found it in himself to grin; a few seconds before rough fingers dug into the back of his head and slammed him into a head on collision with the bars.

When he was released from their hold his body couldn't help but succumb to gravity, slipping away and sinking to the floor. However, as he fell, he was just cognisant enough to rush fiddling with his fingers to try and conceal the notebook. Thankfully, he landed on his stomach, allowing himself to hide the book under him.

"Hey, what was that?" Not so thankfully, Vincent saw enough to know that Gabriel was hiding something.

Gabriel groaned from the floor, adjusting slightly to keep the notebook beneath him, but Vincent wasn't the kind of guy to let that slide. He heard the creak of the cell door being slid open and suddenly the cell felt a lot more claustrophobic.

"Look at you," Vincent sneered, crouching down just out of reach. "All high and mighty a second ago, and now you're playing dead. You hiding something, G?"

Sherman was already circling behind him, the bored weight of his boot pressing against Gabriel's spine. Not enough to crush, but enough to remind him that resistance was a bad idea. "Come on, old man," Sherman mused. "Don't make us get rough. Or… do. I'm feeling flexible today."

As Sherman's weight shifted off him, he forced his arm to drag beneath his chest, fingers twitching toward the edge of the mattress. Slowly, carefully, he pushed the notebook underneath, letting the thin, stained sheets drape over it like a burial shroud.

By the time he stilled, Vincent's boot connected with his ribs. Not a kick, just a nudge. A warning.

"You're awful quiet, G," Vincent mused, his voice rich with amusement. "That's not like you."

Gabriel clenched his teeth, willing himself to breathe through the ache in his side. He wasn't stupid enough to fight back. Not here. Not now.

It didn't matter. Vincent was never satisfied.

Before Gabriel could so much as blink, Vincent's hands seized his collar and wrenched him upward. He was dragged out of the cell in one brutal motion, his feet scraping against the floor, his shoulder slamming into the iron bars on the way out. The air barely had time to settle before he was airborne, flung across the room like trash.

His back collided with the concrete floor. A sharp crack split through his skull—his vision blurred, a ringing noise drowning out the static buzz of the lights above.

"Jesus," Sherman chuckled, following Vincent at a leisurely pace. "You trying to kill him before we even get started?"

Vincent scoffed, shaking out his hands. "Relax. He's not that fragile. Right, G?"

Gabriel spat iron onto the floor and lifted his head just enough to glare.

Wrong answer.

Sherman's boot found his ribs, hard enough to earn a rasping gasp from Gabriel's throat. Not hard enough to break anything. Not yet.

"You're a stubborn bastard," Sherman said, grinning down at him. "You'd think all that time in here would've knocked that out of you."

Vincent crouched beside Gabriel's face, his hand slapping none too gently against his cheek. "So," he said. "Wanna tell me what you were hiding back there?"

Gabriel gave a slow blink. "Go to hell."

A fist met his stomach.

His breath left him in a soundless choke, his body curling in on itself as his vision flickered in and out.

"Real original," Vincent sighed, shaking out his fist. "Come on, Gabbi. I'll give you one more shot."

Gabriel sucked in a slow breath through his nose. Shook his head.

Vincent grabbed him by the hair and yanked him upright, forcing their gazes to meet.

"You really think you're in a position to play the tough guy?" Vincent asked, voice low, almost amused. "I mean, look at you. You're not some big-shot supervillain anymore. You're not even a businessman. You're just some washed-up loser getting kicked around like a stray dog. And I'm trying to be nice here. I really am."

Gabriel gave him nothing.

Vincent clicked his tongue, disappointed.

And then the fists came.

Blows rained down, first to his gut, then his ribs, then his jaw, snapping his head back against the floor. Sherman got in on it, laughing as he landed a strike against Gabriel's cheekbone. Blood dribbled from his mouth, something hot and bitter pooling behind his teeth.

He didn't fight back.

Fighting back would mean giving them something to enjoy.

And he refused.

"It's just a stupid book!"

Juleka, on the other hand, was oh so fucking willing, wasn't she? He was yanked around to face her with her pathetic, hateful gaze as she held up his god damn note book up for everyone to see. The gall, the absolute audacity of this rat to practically sign their death warrants by throwing away everything he worked on to help their escape.

Why was everyone so difficult?

Why was everyone so stupid?

No wonder he remained a villain for so long. How the hell do you last as a hero when everyone around you refuses to exercise the most basic common sense and continually gets in the way of you saving them?

"What is wrong with you people!?" Gabriel found himself screaming out at the girl, causing the two goons to break out in laughter.

"Is that what all this is about?" Vincent leaned over to examine the book from the other side of the bar, leaving Gabriel in Sherman's hands, only capable of grimacing as he listened to that bitch turn the pages and lay it all bare. "All over some diary. I can't believe it."

Sherman whistled, pulling Gabriel close and ruffling his hair. "Give us the highlights, Vince. Anything juicy in there?"

Vincent scoffed. "All I see is proof that our friend over here is seriously cracked. All that drama for nothing."

Gabriel seethed, his pulse a steady drumbeat of rage beneath his bruised skin. He could barely focus past the dull throb in his ribs, past the way Juleka held his lifeline like it was nothing more than a meaningless collection of scribbles.

It wasn't meaningless.

It was their only fucking way out.

He was being patient, he was being useful, he was going to save them. And she was ruining it. She was throwing it away. Why? Why? WHY? Would she really be content to rot away under Roth's care, and get both her father and Marinette killed, just to spite him?

Gabriel barely had a second to brace himself before Sherman tossed him back into the cell like a sack of garbage. His shoulder hit the floor first, jarring through his already battered body, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of a pained grunt. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose and clenched his jaw as the two goons chuckled.

"Man, I don't think I've ever seen him this riled up before," Sherman said, cracking his knuckles. "It's kinda cute, don't you think?"

Vincent snorted, tossing the notebook back onto the floor of the cell like it was worthless. "Oh yeah. Adorable. Let's give him some time to cool off before we come back and play some more."

Gabriel didn't move, didn't so much as twitch as their laughter faded down the hall. He lay there, breath steady, waiting. One, two, three seconds passed before the heavy door slammed shut, leaving only the dim pink glow of the overhead light and the steady drip of a leaking pipe.

Juleka sighed, stepping over him without a second glance. "The word you're looking for is—"

Gabriel lunged.

She barely had time to register his movement before his hands wrapped around her throat and drove her back against the wall. The metal bars rattled with the force, her head knocking against them with a dull thud.

"You insufferable, brainless little—" Gabriel snarled, fingers tightening. His whole body trembled, not from exhaustion, not from pain, but from sheer, boiling fury. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

Juleka's hands shot up, clawing at his wrists, but he was stronger—lean, wiry, and absolutely livid. A feral, desperate anger fuelled him, and she could see it in his eyes: he wasn't just pissed off. He was unhinged.

"That was our way out." He spat. "Our only way out, and you—" His grip tightened, a silent threat vibrating through his arms. "You threw it away like a goddamn toy!"

Juleka wheezed, her nails digging into his skin. "I—saved—you." She rasped.

"I'm starting to wonder if Bertrum was truly the only traitor in our midst." Words muddied together in spit and bile as he continued, dragging her up the wall until her legs were left to dangle helplessly. "Maybe Roth had a good back up rat to isolate me, to try and make me relax. I thought Roth's dogs left you alone simply because of how boring you are, but that's not it, is it?"

"Please—Let—Me—Go."

Her nails scratched his wrist in violent strikes, digging deep enough to leave bright red marks that would sting him long after, but his grip was absolute. He stared into her eyes, his mouth bearing his teeth like a hungry, ravenous animal thriving at it's first meal in years.

"You want to break me open? You want to violate what little I have left? You'll have to be better than this. Do you know what indignities I've endured just to stand before you today?"

He waited for the bite, that inevitable growl as desperation gave way to her true colours. He wanted her to scream at him, to hit him, to fight back enough to charge that indignant spark in him. Show him how putrid she really was when the niceties were stripped away, the akuma he'd empowered within her so many times, all those nasty little thoughts that she'd let drive herself to harming friends and family alike just to satisfy as Reflekta.

"Come on, spit it out already. Let me have it. I know you got it in you, you miserable little-"

There was no strength, no fire, no beast. In his grip, there was only a little girl, her body going limp and tears streaking down her face, staring into what could be her last moments at the hands of a mad man. She whimpered pleas for him to stop, with nothing he could contrive into deception or arrogance.

The only monster revealed to him was the one reflected into her tear-stained eyes, the man who so easily became a beast, who showed his true colours the moment it got difficult. She saw Gabriel Agreste, the creature that hid under Hawkmoth's mask. Not the supervillain, just the real villain.

When his grip loosened, her survival instincts kicked in. She moved fast, using the wall as leverage to drive her knee up into his gut. It wasn't a perfect strike, but it was enough to jolt him, enough to make his grip loosen. She shoved forward, twisting his arms away, and gasped in a breath as she staggered free.

Gabriel stumbled back a step, chest heaving, his expression a volatile storm of emotions.

Juleka coughed, rubbing her throat, before fixing him with a look of pure, unfiltered disgust. "The pen- Ack- The pen was broken." He made no response, he just stood there, motionless until she threw the notebook at his head.

It hit the ground with a loud clatter, the pen rolling out from it's pages. Just as Juleka said, the tip of the pen was snapped off, all the ink inside long since gone.

And the pages?

The pages were blank. The air from the fall fluttered them all the way back to the first page in quick succession; they were all blank.

"You weren't writing anything, you bastard. That's why they were laughing about it!"

"No… No, that doesn't make any sense." He dropped to his knees, everything shaking as he reached for the book. Only, he stopped just short of grabbing it, terrified of making it all real. Instead, he pulled his hand back and turned to Juleka. "You're lying. You're trying to trick me."

He shifted forward, but Juleka stumbled back, dropping down against the wall and feeling under herself until her fingers wrapped around something. Fumbling she may be, but soon enough she held a knife, a small switchblade Gabriel remembered hanging out of Vincent's pocket, out towards him. "Y-You come near me again, I-I'll fucking kill you."

Instinctively, Gabriel found himself moving away, though his eyes remained on the book as if that was what was threatening him. He moved until he hit the wall, tumbling back onto his mattress. "Stop trying to confuse me!"

Gabriel's breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, his chest heaving like a caged animal. His mind reeled, spiraling between the white-hot fury gripping his limbs and the chilling horror of the blank pages before him.

No. No, that wasn't possible. He had written in that notebook—hadn't he? He had spent weeks detailing their escape, carving out every contingency, planning down to the second how they would slip from Roth's grasp.

"I-If I was really working for that p-p-p-p-p-pig, you'd be dead." She stammered, but her voice was resolute beneath the tremor. "I swear you God, you'd be dead."

Gabriel stared at her, at the trembling knife in her hand, at the bruises forming along her throat.

He had done that.

A slow, creeping sickness curled in his stomach, something bitter and festering that made him want to retch. His fingers curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms.

What the hell is happening to me?

The cell was too quiet. The walls, too close. The world itself felt like it was folding in, pressing down on him with a weight he couldn't escape. He couldn't tell if it was the aftermath of the fight, the exhaustion, or something much worse sinking into his bones.

The plan was gone. The pages were blank. His mind was unravelling.

It had to be a lie; it just couldn't be true. They could break his body, they could turn the world against him, they could destroy his senses and damn his soul; but his mind was unbreakable. If he lost that too… What would be left?

Gabriel turned away from Juleka, curling in on himself as he lay down on the cold, unforgiving mattress. He refused to cry. He refused to let himself shatter any more than he already had. He refused to act like he was the one who had just been attacked, threatened and strangled. His breathing slowed, controlled, forced into something steady despite the rawness in his throat and the tremble in his fingers.

Juleka didn't say anything. He could still hear her, though—the uneven rhythm of her breath, the slight scrape of her shifting against the wall, still clutching the knife like she expected him to spring at her again.

His eyes flickered toward the outside of the cell, the space where she had stood so often before. Where she had stood.

But there was nothing.

For the first time in days, he couldn't see Phantom Nathalie.

A fresh wave of hollowness washed over him. He swallowed, pressing his face into the thin pillow, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"You were right." He admitted. "I am crazy."

Juleka's breathing hitched, but she said nothing.

"I keep seeing Nathalie." He continued, his voice distant, hollow. "She's been here this whole time. But now she's gone." His throat constricted, but he pushed through it. "Because I know she would hate what's left of me."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain. Then, cautiously, hesitantly, Juleka spoke. "...What was she to you?"

Gabriel closed his eyes. For a moment, he debated whether to answer. Whether to let Juleka pry that last piece of himself open.

But what did it matter anymore?

"Nathalie." He said slowly, deliberately, "Nathalie was a woman who loved me at my worst."

He let the words settle between them, let them weigh him down like stones.

A bitter smile curled at his lips, barely there.

"Naturally, I would have ended up killing her too." He added, quiet and scathing. "If Marinette hadn't saved her."

---

The plan was expertly bribe the guards with some delicious baked delights that were laced with an obscene amount of laxatives, wait for them to desperately break away from their post to sate the new cramp in their stomachs, and slip inside before anyone could replace them.

In reality, Marinette tripped over the curb, sent the entire dish flying through the air. The dish then knocked an old sign off its perch, smashing some poor passer-by over the head. In his dizzy state, he stumbled into someone's trolly and caused it to be knocked into the street and in front of a car. That car swerved to avoid the sudden obstacle and crashed through the Roth gift shop window.

Which, of course, ended up knocking over a shelf, that landed on one side of a board, the resulting force of which catapulted the pack of hot sauce out of the shop to smash over the guards' heads and leave their eyes burning as the hot sauce leaked into their eyes.

Bum rushing the front door wasn't the most glamourous course of action, but it worked.

The confusion was an effective cover, letting her dart all the way down the hallway, past the stairs, to the wait staff's locker room and hide herself in one of the showers. Naturally, her current attire would stand out, it wasn't exactly high-end sleazy casino material. Fortunately for her, there was a reason the waiters had a changing room.

Since the establishment was named after Roth's own akumatizations, it wasn't that shocking that the entire place was themed around akumas. Even knowing the theme going in, Marinette still felt her breath hitch the moment she passed through those double doors into the main floor and was faced with pale imitations of all her past foes.

Outside of Roth's thugs, every other working man and woman were dressed to be akumatized. Stormy Weather without the black spiral patterns down her pigtails was manning the reception. Further in the grand dome-shaped room, where one half dipped down into a lower area with a dance floor and the other half rose high to incorporate tables and statues, Marinette passed between a scrawny looking Mime and a towering version of Silencer grumbling about the lack of tips.

The entire room was built around a golden fountain as the centrepiece, a massive one built in the image of Molak inside his impenetrable safe. In front of it, a pretty accurate, albeit slight smaller, animatronic copy of Glaciator encouraged people to sample his golden ice cream.

And then there was… Okay, Marinette didn't know who decided that slutty Mr. Pigeon needed to be a thing, or that there needed to be more than one, but she knew she needed eye bleach stat.

Unfortunately, for the sake of the mission, she had to suck it up and stay in character, hoisting a tray of drinks and table numbers over her shoulder. Marinette supposed that there was a dramatic irony in her current attire: here she was, stuck in Lila's nightmare Paris, manipulating her way through life – and the only outfit she could snag from the locker room was Volpina.

Marinette kept her head down, letting the fox mask and the dim lighting of the casino work in her favour. She weaved through the tables, her grip tightening on the tray as she fought back the sheer disgust of being wrapped in this.

Lila's colours. Lila's name. Lila's legacy.

The fabric clung to her skin like an insult. It took everything in her not to rip the Volpina disguise off right then and there.

Instead, she focused on her surroundings. The sheer scale of the operation was nauseating. The way it had been described to her before, she thought it was just an expensive club, but in actuality it was a full-on casino. This was a shrine. A mockery. A grotesque little amusement park built on the bones of every akuma she and Chat had fought, like some twisted victory parade.

Marinette passed a roulette table where the dealer was dressed as Dark Cupid, dealing out red and black chips shaped like arrows. A gangly guy in a Gamer 2.0 jacket hooted as he won big, throwing an arm around his companion—a woman with hair done up in twin drills, her outfit unmistakably Queen Banana.

Marinette shifted her tray, scanning the upper floor. She gathered the layout well enough—the VIP sections were up top, rooms cordoned off for Roth's trusted associates, high-rollers, and maybe even prisoners.

Gabriel and Juleka were here somewhere. The waitress uniform allowed her to blend in, but it would only grant her so much room to sniff about without raising suspicion. For now, she needed to focus her investigation on getting answers from the guards. They were drunk, proud and eager to puff out their chest; perfect opportunity for letting slip information about a new high priority prisoner.

Though, that also meant that they were drunk, proud and eager to puff out their chest; the most insufferable sort of people to talk to. And considering who their boss is, Marinette knew full well that they were bound to be skeevy and despicable to boot.

But she sucked in her breath, gritted her teeth, and reminded herself who she was doing this for. She could handle some brain dead comments and punchable faces for the sake of saving lives.

Fortunately, she didn't come stumbling in here without direction. She had a target in mind that both Alec and Anarka mentioned – she found him quickly, lounging up by the big stain-glass window overlooking the rest of New Roth, knocking back some drinks with the rest of his buddies.

Vincent Verner, sometimes called Vince or Vinnie – a top-end enforcer for Roth, handles 'persuasion' operations along side his partner in crime, Sherman. Before the Breach and becoming Roth's personal flunky, the highlight of Vincent's life was getting his arm snapped in half by Viperion after the bastard was caught violently harassing Juleka and Rose.

According to Anarka, if anyone knew about Roth's prisons, it would be him. And if anyone was enough of a dumb braggart to tell a silly little waitress about them, it would be him.

Marinette moved carefully, balancing the tray on her palm as she navigated through the floor. The clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation filled the air, blending into the pulsing music from the dance floor below. She kept her expression neutral, her gaze focused only on her target.

Marinette took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and approached.

She knew exactly the kind of waitress these guys liked—flirty, flighty, and just dumb enough to be overlooked. It was annoying, but it was an act she could pull off with ease. Wasn't any worse than some of the times she pretended to be a waitress as part of her schemes… That may or may not have been about getting close to Adrien. All she had to do was spit out a valley girl accent, let her eyes droop all lost and doe-eyed, and say everything like it was a question.

Since she was dressed as Volpina, she liked to think she was subtly mocking Lila the entire time, and that thought made it easier to pull off.

As she reached their table, she let her tray dip slightly, feigning inexperience. "Evening, gentlemen." She said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hope you're all enjoying the house special."

Vincent barely glanced at her at first, too busy throwing back his drink. But when she set a fresh round of shots in front of him, he took notice. His gaze slid up and down her frame, lingering on the Volpina uniform before his grin widened; for the sake of her stomach, he seemed more amused than leering. Like he was looking at a dog trying to wear clothes.

"Well, look at that." He mused, swirling his glass. "New girl, huh?"

Marinette forced a giggle, adjusting her tray. "Fresh off the floor." She said. "Still figuring things out."

A barrel-chested, bull-necked man with a permanent scowl—Sherman, she presumed—snorted. "Hope you've got a strong stomach, sweetheart. This ain't one of those fancy cafés uptown."

"Oh, I don't mind a little danger." She replied smoothly, twirling a loose strand of hair around her finger. "Keeps things interesting."

Vincent laughed, spitting his drink across the table. "Don't let Roth hear that, or he'll throw you into one of his survival segments."

"I'll keep that in mind, Mister." Marinette let the end of every sentence curve upwards in pitch. Innocently, she pressed her finger against her chin and cocked her head back. "Huh, where is the big man anyway? I thought he'd be the main event."

She expected a big throne that Roth would sit atop, pushed high on a lavish platform to look down at all the ants nipping at his feet. She expected his presence to be unmistakable and inescapable, breaking up the room every five minutes to go on a monologue about how great he is. She expected a lot from the man who plastered his face on everything down to the plates.

Sherman scoffed, biting off a piece of stake from his fork. "You'd think so, he's just the type."

Vincent drew his finger from side to side, swiping a fresh glass from Marinette's tray. "But Roth never comes down here. He only ever goes to his office or the recording stage." He knocked it back with a satisfied, rough groan. "You won't see him outside of the TV, I can tell you that."

A pause for Sherman to swallow before he beat his chest proudly. "'Course, we see him all the time when we're handling business for him."

Smoothly, Marinette dropped onto the edge of the table next to Vincent, her hands clasped together to really sell that innocent awe. "Wow, you guys must be big and important if you get to work for the big boss directly."

A fun skill Marinette had picked up over her years of being a lushing, embarrassed mess, was being able to blush on command. That, combined with her half-lidded stare made Vincent look extra bashful as he combed back his hair. "I mean, I don't wanna say that the entire operation would fall apart without us, but…"

"I do wanna say it." Sherman grunted, pointing his fork at her. "We're basically the top dogs around here, girlie."

And the top braggers. Marinette mused with an innocent smile, clasping her cheek and forcing out a high-pitched gasp that would make Chloe feel insulted. "That's amazing, I didn't know I was talking to celebrities." She squealed. "What sort of things do you do for Mr. Roth?"

Vincent idly tapped his fingers against the table, counting down the list. "We manage the palace, Roth's stars." He leaned in closer, dropping to a scandalous whisper. "And, of course, all the troublemakers."

"Troublemakers?" Marinette gasped, laying on that whimsical wheeze on thick. "You mean like…" A pin could be heard dropping between her dramatic pauses. "Bad guys?"

"Real bad guys." Vincent nodded with a teasing grin. "Don't think I can say more than that…"

"You can't? Not even for me?"

He tipped his glass toward her. "What's it worth to you, Sweetheart?"

Marinette feigned a pout. "Oh, come on." She coaxed. "A girl's just trying to learn the ropes. You wouldn't leave me in the dark, would you?"

Vincent smirked. "Well, since you asked so nicely..." He took another sip, then leaned in with a smug, knowing look. "Roth's got himself a high-value guest. Big-shot type. Real important."

Marinette tilted her head, eyes wide with false curiosity. "Ooh, sounds mysterious."

"You have no idea." He grinned. "We're talking a real scum of the earth type, the worst bastard in recent history, and we have him at our mercy."

That had to be Gabriel. No way anyone other than Hawkmoth as going to be considered a VIP prisoner. Juleka wasn't mentioned, but she wouldn't be the main event to scum like Roth, just an accessory.

Marinette pretended to fan herself, leaning over Vincent and holding his gaze. "Is he d-d-d-dangerous?"

"Used to be, but don't you worry, we got him under control." It took all her will power not to grimace when Vincent gave her knee a reassuring pat. "Don't we, Sherman?"

"Practically wrapped around our knuckles." Sherman chuckled, his low pitch and the way he cracked his freshly bruised and bloodied knuckles added a haunting reverb in Marinette's head. "'Course, it took some persuading and some personal time, but we sorted him out."

Marinette giggled, drawing a slow circle along the table's edge with her fingertip. "You sorted him out?" She repeated, letting just enough fascination creep into her voice. "That sounds gruesome."

Vincent grinned, enjoying the attention. "More like satisfying."

Sherman leaned in with a smirk. "We broke him. Plain and simple." He stretched his fingers, the joints popping audibly. "Man came in all high and mighty. Didn't take long before he was real eager to behave."

Marinette forced herself to keep smiling, even as her stomach twisted. Damn, she really was starting to worry about that man's safety, wasn't she?

Vincent leaned back with a smug grin, stretching his arms over the back of the booth. "Didn't take much. Guys like him? They're soft. They spend their whole lives standing behind real men, and when the world stops protecting them, they crumble."

Sherman chuckled, running a hand over his bald head. "Like a kicked-in door."

Vincent exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. "He's tricky, though. If you leave him alone too long, he starts getting ideas—thinks he can talk back, act like he's got some spine." He smirked. "Ya gotta keep him afraid, or he'll never learn."

Sherman scoffed. "Honestly, feels like a waste of effort." He cut off another chunk of steak, chewing lazily before gesturing with his fork. "Can't see what Roth gets out of keeping him alive. He's pathetic."

Vincent hummed in agreement. "Guy nearly got himself killed over a damn diary."

Sherman barked out a laugh. "Yeah! Dumb bastard took several shots to the stomach trying to keep it from us—only to find the damn thing was blank."

Vincent slapped the table, grinning. "You shoulda seen his face. He was on the verge of tears. I swear to God."

Sherman wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still chuckling. "Okay, okay, but that wasn't even the best part." He nudged Vincent with his elbow. "Tell her about the time we beat him so bad he started talking to himself."

Marinette stiffened but forced her fingers to relax against the tabletop. "Oh? What happened?"

Vincent laughed, tipping his chair back slightly. "So there he is, curled up in the corner of his cell, mumbling like a lunatic." He threw his hands up dramatically. "And then, outta nowhere, he starts crying—going, 'Naaaaathalie! Don't weave me!'"

The table erupted in laughter.

Marinette's stomach churned. Gabriel was a proud man, even when facing death head-on he clung to that pride, that shield around his heart. So many times, she'd gotten close to grazing his humanity, to exposing more to the walking corpse of a man that had become the only constant left in her life, and every time those brief seconds of exposure had been the greatest blows she'd ever dealt him. More painful than any beating or insult she laid at his feet.

These men bludgeoned him, locked him away and did God-knows-what to him to break him open, and spill out everything he held close. They did it with a smile on their face to an army of cheers for their name, like it was some kind of sport.

"How long do you think we have until he starts crying out for mommy?" Sherman snorted, tipping his chair back. "I'd give it a few more days."

Marinette's face cringed, but she masked it with a small giggle. Then, after a beat, she tilted her head, letting just the right amount of uncertainty creep into her voice. "Don't you… Don't you ever feel uncomfortable? Putting someone through all that?"

Vincent scoffed, swirling his drink before downing the rest in one go. "Babe, I don't think you get it." He leaned in, flashing her a lopsided grin. "This guy? He's real scum. Worst of the worst. A monster through and through."

Sherman nodded, stabbing his fork into a piece of steak. "Yeah, barely even human." He chewed for a moment, then pointed the fork at her. "If he had the chance, do you know what he'd do to a pretty little thing like you? Let me tell you—that wouldn't be pretty."

Marinette forced her grip on the tray to stay loose. "Oh…" She glanced down, shifting in place. "I guess… he deserves everything he gets."

Vincent smirked. "Exactly."

"But…" She hesitated, pressing a finger to her lips like she was thinking hard. "Isn't he still a person at the end of the day?"

"No, he isn't," Sherman said flatly, popping another piece of steak into his mouth.

Vincent laughed, shaking his head. "The best thing he can be is useful."

All at once she was back in the gallows under Paris, looking over a crowd of sharks with their teeth bared as she choked on her own blood. They didn't have any hesitation, they didn't have any sympathy, they had nothing but a desire to see her neck shatter from the hangman's rope.

The difference between the resistance and this table was the driving force. The people of Paris were angry, hungry for a righteous death for the monsters who hurt them and betrayed them. The likes of Vincent and Sherman weren't angry at Gabriel, not in that way, they hurt him because they enjoyed it, because breaking him in, watching such a proud man squirm, was a high for them.

At the end of the day, did that difference matter? They were both out for blood, they were both sadistic. Were monstrous desires just able to be sealed into a specific box, unable to taint the rest of the person, just because they were sparked by justified anger?

Was she different when she beat Gabriel to a bloody pulp with a metal bar, knowing full-well that it was only the satisfaction of his pain that pushed her to continue rather than any thought that beating him would help her?

If these weren't Roth's men, if they were softer looking, if they talked less like thugs, if they wore the face of a friend, would she be nodding along to their justification for Gabriel's suffering? Would her conscience remain clear and her stomach stable? Was her worry for Gabriel only rooted in the fact that she needed him, that there were worse people out there?

"O-Of course, that makes sense." Marinette fidgeted, ducking her head slightly. "I guess this is why I'm serving drinks, and you guys are doing the important stuff."

"Exactly," Sherman said with a satisfied grunt. "Think of it like a service—we do it so people like you don't have to do it."

Marinette smiled. "That's so noble of you."

They preened under the praise, grinning at each other like self-satisfied idiots.

She fought to keep her hands from shaking. A little too quickly she slid off the table, trying not to look too pale, too shaken. If she looked unconvinced, they'd get suspicious, they'd ask questions, and it was so suddenly hard to think.

"You're so noble, Mister." She giggled as she backed away, smoothing out her hair. "I still have tables to serve so-"

Her words were stolen by a hiss of pain, shooting up from her shoulder blades when her back collided with something white hot and sturdy, like burning metal. And, well, she wasn't far off when the fizzing noise reached her ear, followed by that unmistakable, grumbling voice.

"Watch where you're going." Meltdown growled, glowering down at her by the time she turned to face him. "Stupid brat."

Bertrum's melted corpse in the aftermath of what Meltdown did to him, it all came back to her like physical blow and immediately she fell down onto her back, scrambling away from the walking nuclear disaster. A paper-thin costume and a long brown wig were the only things between her and Meltdown recognising her identity.

She stared up as him, wide-eyed and sweating, both from nerves and from the pure heat he was expelling just standing there. His suit, the one that looked like a modified diving suit, had been repaired from his earlier 'meltdown', but steam still escaped the joint areas. He looked like he was constantly on the brink of an eruption.

She swallowed back bile as Meltdown's molten gaze bore into her. The heat coming off him was suffocating, sweat pricking at her scalp beneath the wig. Her skin stung where she'd brushed against him, even through the layers of fabric.

"Clumsy little thing, aren't you?" Vincent chuckled, clearly amused at the way she'd scrambled back like a spooked animal. "C'mon, Meltdown, don't fry our entertainment."

Meltdown scoffed, rolling his shoulders, releasing a fresh hiss of steam. "As long as she stays outta my way." His visor glowed a sickly green. "Don't got time for useless little girls."

She forced out a giggle, breathy and nervous, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like a flustered waitress as she scrambled to her feet. "Of course! S-Sorry about that, Mister."

Meltdown's fingers twitched at his sides, the reinforced gloves of his suit creaking slightly as heat distortion shimmered around him. His disgust was practically tangible, thickening the air like smog.

"Meltdown, chill it with the heat." Sherman grumbled, waving a hand in front of his face as if that would do anything to dispel the oppressive warmth. "You're scaring everybody."

"They should be scared." Meltdown muttered, flexing his fingers. "These cheap costumes… They mock me."

Vincent rolled his eyes. "No one's forcing you to be here, asshole."

"Roth is," Meltdown snapped. His head turned just enough for the glow of his visor to paint their table in a green haze. "He's wondering why you bastards aren't answering your radios."

Vincent and Sherman exchanged a look.

"You know our communications have been shoddy all week." Vincent said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. "Maintenance is still trying to fix the broadcasting station, but nothing they've used to plug up that truck-sized hole is holding up against the Thames."

Marinette didn't let that little detail escape her notice. A big hole in the broadcasting station? Now that sounded like a convenient entrance that would mostly be covered by button pushers and not armed thugs.

"Not my problem." Meltdown growled. He gestured past the stairs, past the dance floor, over to a small door that Marinette hadn't even noticed before that sat behind the fountain. Was that the way to the prison area? "Just get your asses moving. Roth wants you to bring up a prisoner."

"What, does Ga-" Vincent caught a glare from Sherman before he could blurt out Gabriel's entire name, offering Marinette an apprehensive look before clearing his throat. "Does G need a few more shower sessions?"

Shower sessions? Marinette felt her fingers curl into a fist, barely able to restrain her face against the cold wave of disgust that washed over her. She wanted to think that it was straightforward, that they were making a crack about Gabriel being a smelly bastard who needed to wash up more. But nothing she told herself stalled the dirty grime that covered those words, nor the fresh rush of protective rage that made her consider how quickly she could run if she drove Vincent's fork into his eye.

She was feeling protective, over Gabriel fucking Agreste. God damn it.

"No, this time he wants the girl." Meltdown shrugged, waving his hand through the air trying to waft away the steam clouds. "Something about a demonstration."

Juleka. Marinette's eyes widened in horror. He's talking about Juleka.

Marinette's gaze stayed locked on Meltdown, unblinking.

The heat rolling off of him was stifling, the air thick with the scent of scorched metal and whatever acrid chemicals kept his suit from melting into his own flesh. Did he even have flesh? Or was he just all liquid? He was standing right there, a man capable of reducing human bodies to heaps of blackened bone, and she should have moved—should have dipped her head, should have looked away, should have done something to keep from drawing his attention.

But she didn't.

And eventually, he noticed.

"What are you staring at?" Meltdown snapped, his distorted voice rattling through his helmet like static.

Sherman wiped his mouth with a napkin, laughing. "At your ugly mug, like everyone else."

The heat increased immediately, Meltdown's glow easy bouncing off the sweat streaming down the faces of anyone near by. "Don't test me!" He barked, but Vincent and Sherman showed nothing but annoyance.

Meltdown was the most dangerous person in the room, equipped to melt anyone into a puddle just by touching them, and everyone looked at him like he was just some ineffectual drunk crying about not getting another drink.

"You have to learn to relax, man." Vincent leaned closer to Marinette, jabbing his elbow into her back. "He's just a bit grumpy because a little girl got the best of him."

"I did nothing wrong!" The table shook, Meltdown's fists slamming down on top of it and knocking all the glasses over. "If those other malcontents and those blasted sentifreaks did their jobs right-"

Sherman howled with laughter, just managing to save his drink at the last second. "Those two really got you rattled, huh?"

Meltdown couldn't reach Sherman from there, but he could reach Marinette, rounding on her to aim his glare at. He pinned her down with his invisible stare, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out and grab her. "The TV host, I don't care about. He's a little spindly nothing who'd run away at the sight of me."

More heat, enough to make Marinette feel her skin scream, but she was rooted to the spot. His fury washed over the room, and for a moment Marinette wondered if some subconscious part of him saw through her disguise, or at least saw enough of a resemblance to the woman who angered him so that he was using her as a substitute. "But this powerless, little upstart has disrespected me at every turn. And I won't tolerate it! I won't. I won't. I WON'T."

His hands came up drawn together as fists clashing together. "When I get my hands on her- Oh hoohoohoo, when I get my hands on her." His voice dropped to a heaving laugh. "I'm gonna hold her tight and let her listen to every little vein that pops before her flesh starts to fall apart and-"

Vinent slapped him on the back of the head, directing him away from the table. "We get it, we get it. You're very nasty and scary, now move the fuck along."

Meltdown staggered forward a step, his fury redirected as he turned his head toward Vincent. "Do not touch me," he growled, voice distorted beneath the metallic rasp of his suit's speakers. The temperature spiked again, a wave of suffocating heat rolling outward like an impending explosion.

Marinette fought the urge to step back. She couldn't move too fast, couldn't react too sharply, not when every instinct in her body was telling her to run. Instead, she feigned a nervous giggle, ducking her head as if Vincent's casual dismissal had relieved some of the tension.

"Wow," she said, pitching her voice just right—sweet, impressed, with just a hint of teasing. "You are really scary, Mister Meltdown."

He turned back to her with a sharp jerk, and for a second, she swore she saw a flicker of something—uncertainty, suspicion, or just the lingering embers of his previous rage. But he didn't say anything. Instead, he scoffed, muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and finally turned on his heel.

Vincent and Sherman barely paid him any mind as he stalked off, more interested in righting their spilled drinks than worrying about the walking nuclear hazard fuming in the middle of the dining hall.

Marinette exhaled slowly, forcing her fingers to unclench from the tray she'd nearly bent in half. "Um, excuse me, Mister Vince?"

"Yeah?"

"If your broadcasting equipment has been damaged all week, how has the Boss been broadcasting his amazing show?"

"That's a trade secret there." He paused, his eyes narrowed for the briefest of moment before the tension dissolved and he shot her a winning smile. "Rest assured, Roth's developed a few talents since everything went down."

---

The atmosphere was less than ideal. Gabriel figured that was what happened when you tried to strangle the only other person in the room. He remained on the mattress, face buried in the itchy, bumpy material that was close to tearing and giving him a face-full of the springs. It was better at looking at Juleka, even hours after he lost control, he knew that the bruise on her throat would shine as bright as it would fresh.

He should say he was sorry. He should ask her how she's feeling. He should show her that the monster within was born from anything other than his base nature. He said nothing, he curled up and turned his back on the problem he created and let her settle for knowing that, for now, the monster had already wet its appetite for pain.

Gabriel hated being alone, and yet he was just so damn good at showing everyone why he should be. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, as if not seeing it would make it go away.

It didn't. It never did.

The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. It eventually coaxed him to glance at her. If she hated him, if she spat at him, if she pressed her hands against her bruised throat and looked at him with something—disgust, anger, fear—he could deal with that. It was what he deserved.

But she didn't. She just sat there.

Watching. Waiting.

It made his skin crawl.

"You should be sleeping." He muttered; his voice raw.

"Yeah." Juleka's voice was hoarse, almost toneless. "So should you."

He let out a breath, curling in on himself just a little more. "I sleep just fine."

She made a soft noise, something like a scoff but without the strength behind it to be anything but tired.

Liar. It was there, unspoken but loud in the quiet.

He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "They'll come back to bother us soon." He said, his voice hollow. "You should rest while you can."

Juleka hummed. "I thought about that." She admitted. "But I figured… I should keep my eyes open. Just in case you decide you need to kill me this time."

His breath caught in his throat. He turned his head, meeting her gaze for the first time since the incident.

She wasn't afraid.

She wasn't angry.

She just… looked at him.

Like she was trying to figure him out.

Like she was looking for something in the mess that was him.

He didn't know what she saw, but he didn't think he liked it.

By this point, the sound of Vincent and Sherman's approach was so ingrained into Gabriel's brain that his ears easily recognised their footsteps, prompting his body to instinctively drag itself to it's feet and ready himself for whatever nonsense they wanted to put him through.

Vincent looked refreshed when he pulled himself up to the bars, stinking of alcohol and with drips of his last drink sticking to his chin. Though, both men seemed to have developed sweat stains on their journey back to the cell. "Hey there, G. How are you holding up? Still got a stomach ache?"

Sherman let out a whistle as he peered down at Juleka, who'd returned to her corner to hide. "Damn, what did you do to her?" He crouched down, eyes on the bruised throat no matter how much Juleka tried to hide it. "She's got quite the nice collar there."

Vincent shook his head, a knowing smile in tow. "Tsk, tsk, tsk; Gabriel. What are we gonna do with you?" He reached through the bars, lightly patting Gabriel on the cheek. "Just like I told that mousey waitress out there, the moment he got the chance, he started bruising a lady."

"You told that girl a lot of shit." Sherman grumbled, leaning back to look towards his partner.

"Hey, it got her interest, didn't it?" Vincent snapped back. "And don't act like you weren't talking her up too."

A click of the tongue, follow by the hiss of a groan withheld. "I'm just saying, she asked a lot of questions." Sherman's brows furrowed. "And I don't think Roth is gonna be happy if he finds out we told her about little Gabe here."

"I'm surprised that there's a woman alive who can stand either of you." Gabriel allowed himself to scoff, cocking his head to the side, away from Vincent's sweaty palm. "Did you hold her at gunpoint?"

Of course, he wasn't far enough away to avoid Vincent's backhand.

"I do love your sense of humour, Buddy Boy." Vincent laughed, but it was a strained one, enough to tell Gabriel that there was a slip in control for a second. It was the only satisfaction Gabriel was going to get here. "For your information, she came to us, was practically our biggest fan and wanted to know everything about us."

Gabriel started to sigh. Sounds way too curious for a waitress. He shook his head. Honestly, why would some waitress want to know the ins and outs of Roth's bloodier affairs? That's the type of curiosity that could get you killed, and I couldn't imagine some waitress being interested in hearing about pris-

His grip on the bars tightened, a weight setting down on his brow. Marinette. She's okay. And she came for Juleka. Could it be? Could he dare hope? Relief and fear battled it out on his heart, one side happy to know that she'd already managed to get inside the base and hadn't let their failed mission deter her, and the other seeing this only as a realization of his prediction that she'd pull some stupid stunt that would get her captured.

Sherman rolled his eyes. "I think she was just trying to get a tip, Vince."

If it was Marinette, he needed to get their minds off of her. The longer they thought about it, the higher the chance they'd catch on to anything suspicious.

He stepped closer to the bars, rolling his shoulders as if the conversation was already boring him. "I'm sure you'll tell me all about it on the way to—what is it today? The shower? The pit? Or maybe you'll take me out in public and parade me around like a trophy for a while."

Vincent grinned, shaking his head. "As much as I know you'd love all that, G, I gotta disappoint you."

Sherman cracked his knuckles, already turning toward the door. "We're not here for you."

Before Gabriel could register it, the door was yanked open and he was kicked back. Vincent slammed into him, pinning him to the wall with that wretched grin bearing into him. Sherman strode past him, laughing up a storm as Juleka tried to dart past him. He caught her by the shoulder with ease, tossing her down onto the floor.

"G-Get away from me!" She screamed, only managing to crawl a few inches before Sherman grabbed her by the ankle and yanked her back under him.

"They really squeal like pigs sometimes, don't they?" He howled, driving his foot into her side and flinging her against the bars.

"Stop it!" Gabriel tried to struggle against Vincent's grip. It was all in vain, of course, but he tried. "She's just a girl, have you no shame?!"

"Boss' orders." A knee to the stomach quickly ended Gabriel's resistance as Vincent's smug voice drew out every last word. "He wants her for something special, I hear."

Gabriel coughed, his stomach spasming in pain, but he barely registered it over the sound of Juleka gasping for breath. She was curled against the bars, arms shielding her head as Sherman crouched over her, his fingers curling into her hair to drag her back up.

"Now, now, none of that," Sherman cooed mockingly. "You'll want to be presentable for the Boss, won't you?"

Juleka lashed out, scratching at his arm, and Sherman only laughed. "Feisty. You sure this one's not a Keeper, Vince?"

Vincent scoffed, keeping Gabriel pinned. "Yeah, sure. You can ask Roth that after he's done with her."

Gabriel's pulse pounded in his ears. He could barely breathe, but his mind was racing. His breath caught as he saw the glint of steel in Juleka's shaking hands. He already knew what she was about to do. He could see it in her eyes—the sheer, unfiltered desperation.

And he also knew that it was a bad idea.

"Juleka, stay calm." He warned, his voice urgent. "Don't do anything—"

But it was too late. With a strangled cry, Juleka lunged. The switchblade she'd stolen from Vincent drove into Sherman's chest, sinking deep between his ribs. Sherman howled, stumbling back, clutching at the wound. Blood soaked his shirt. For a moment, just a moment, Gabriel thought it had worked.

Then Sherman snarled.

His fist connected with Juleka's face before she could even react. She crumpled like a ragdoll, the impact slamming her against the bars. The knife, her only weapon now exposed to their captors, clattered to the ground, useless.

Gabriel surged forward, but Vincent shoved him back, slamming him to the floor with a brutal kick to the ribs.

"Is that my knife?" Vincent's voice was sharp with disbelief and fury. He stomped over to Juleka, where her hand still weakly tried to reach out to the knife only for him to snatch it up. His expression twisted with rage. "This bitch pickpocketed me!"

He didn't hesitate. He kicked her in the stomach, hard enough to send her gasping for air. Gabriel was on his feet in an instant. He didn't care about the consequences—didn't care about the pain—he just needed to stop this.

He barrelled into Vincent, aiming to knock him off balance.

Vincent was faster. The switchblade came up in a flash, slashing white-hot pain across Gabriel's face, from his ear to his lips. The world lurched. Blood poured down his cheek. His vision blurred.

He staggered back, his hands flying to the wound, breath shuddering as the sting sank deep.

Vincent grinned; his teeth bared in savage amusement. "Gotta say, Gabe—" he twirled the knife between his fingers, flicking off the blood like it was nothing more than an inconvenience. "You're real fun to cut up."

From behind his fingers, Gabrial watched Sherman lock Juleka's arms behind her back as she whimpered helplessly. Why was this happening? She was supposed to be the safe one, the one they didn't care about. Why were they doing this now? Because they were bored? Was this Roth's punishment for refusing his offer?

With one hand covering his bloodied face, Gabriel must have looked quite the pathetic sight, but if he couldn't physically overpower the threat, then maybe he looked pathetic enough to bargain. "Come on, Vince, we both know I'm the better entertainment here. Roth will want me more than her." He couldn't hide how much his voice shook. "She's just some girl, I'm Hawkmoth, aren't I? Tell Roth that I've thought about his offer… I'm… I'm willing to talk, just let her go."

Vincent huffed, squeezing his features together in an overly dramatic impression of tearing up. His fingers closed around Gabriel's cheek, squeezing hard and shaking off his hand so that the full bloody face was exposed.

Gabriel gritted his teeth as Vincent's fingers dug into his already burning wound, forcing him to meet those cruel, mocking eyes. He could feel the warm blood still dripping down his face, pooling at the corner of his mouth. The coppery taste filled his senses, but he forced himself to focus.

"Baby, you know I'd love nothing more than to spend time with you, but Roth made the call, and his word is the only thing that matters." Vincent gave one last 'reassuring' pat before letting Gabriel go and slinking back past the cell door.

Gabriel forced himself to stay still. He had to stay still. If he fought now, if he lashed out, they'd just take it out on Juleka tenfold.

Soon the cell door slammed shut. Sherman waved at him from the other side. "Try not to miss us too much, Gabe."

Vincent blew him a kiss, dropped into a bow and made his exit. "Don't worry, if Roth wants us to rough her up a bit, I swear that with every beating," He crooned, smirking. "I'll be thinking of you."

---

It was a beautiful meal of succulent meats and A-class salads. Too bad Marinette couldn't keep it down. She'd be vomiting the past few meals of the day into Jagged's toilet for over an hour, barely managing to hold her hair back with her shaking hand as she gagged on the contents of her stomach again and again.

She gripped the edges of the toilet bowl, forehead pressed against her forearm as she gasped for breath. Her stomach had nothing left to give, but the nausea wouldn't let up. Their voices wouldn't leave her head, the faceless, monstrous masses cheerfully recounting Gabriel's torture, wrapping their arms around her and pulling her into such casual conversation, like she was their friend, like she was one of them.

The more she hurled, the more her vision blurred until colours distorted around the room, leaving her with vague shapes that served as nothing more than a headache. All she could focus on was her arm, picturing it red, washed with Gabriel's blood dripping all the way down to her finger tips.

A gentle knock rapped against the door. Jagged's voice echoed distantly from the other room, muffled by the pounding in Marinette's head. "You okay in there, Kiddo?"

She didn't know if she spoke loud enough for him to hear, just that she could barely make the effort of raising her head. "Yeah, this is… Healthy vomiting."

The screech of the unoiled handle being pulled down sounded so damn loud. Poking his head through the door, Jagged's voice came out clearer, which did her headache no favours. "Was the meat undercooked or something?"

Marinette shook her head, breathing into the toilet bowl. "No, I'm just sick of everything."

"Oh." Jagged paused. For a moment, she just listened to the sound of his foot tapping against the floor, contemplating. "So, soup isn't gonna help here?"

She almost laughed, but she couldn't summon the energy. Instead, she turned herself over and slid off the seat, falling to embrace the wall and, with great effort, wipe the evidence off her lips with her arm.

Jagged sighed, stepping inside and crouching down next to her. He didn't say anything—just watched as she leaned against the wall, her face pale, her breaths coming in shaky little gulps. They let the silence hold for a time, because Marinette didn't know what to say and Jagged definitely didn't know what to say. Like he said before, he didn't know how to have serious talks, and Marinette didn't feel like turning her feelings into a rock song any time soon.

Eventually, she found the courage to speak, finding an old memory of Chat Noir resurfacing. His face was distraught, looking at her terrified and guilt-ridden. Would he have the same expression if he could see how low she sat now?

"Once… Once Chat Noir hurt Hawkmoth real bad." She started, staring up at the ceiling with a dulled gaze. This was a personal truth, one that wasn't her own, but she figured if she didn't specify that it was the cataclysm on Monarch, then she wasn't betraying Chat Noir by talking about it. "And old Hawky brought it on himself, even took my lucky charm with him as he escaped, so I couldn't undo the damage."

Jagged didn't speak, he could tell when she wanted to vent, just the relief of filling the air and cooling herself down.

She felt her eyes lids close in thought. "Chat felt so, so guilty about it."

"At the time, I didn't get it." Marinette continued, holding her arms up, letting them sway unsteadily in front of her. "It was Hawkmoth, worst guy ever, personal tormentor of our lives, you know? Who cares if he gets hurt? We want to hurt him; we want to make him pay and save the day."

It was a sore spot. Looking back at her own response to Chat's pleas, she regretted how dismissive she sounded after all it was said and done, acting like it was a fleeting phase that Chat would get over. What kind of a hero was she? She didn't consider the man under Monarch's mask until she found out he was related to the boy she loved.

She pumped her arms back, fists forming and tightening along with the tension on her brow. "If we saw him dying on the street, we wouldn't stop to help him, we'd pick up the pace and turn him into roadkill."

Her arm flew out, swiping at the air where she imagined Gabriel smug, ugly face to be. "And when I first woke up, when I saw that bastard for the first time since I ruined my life to protect his reputation, I just went hog wild with the first blunt object I could find." Fingers tightened over the memory of her weapon, of how heavy it felt in her grip and how easy it was to let gravity drive it into Gabriel's flesh. The wet squelching of his head digging into the dirt, the crack of his bones, the low whine of his breath breaking through his caved in lips. It was all so fresh to her. "I was pounding him into the dirt, listening to him blubber out excuses and pleas, and… And…"

She threw her head back and laughed a bitter laugh, letting her voice rise into a high pitched, almost disbelieving wheeze. "I knew this all wasn't his plan. I wasn't beating him senseless because it accomplished anything, or because I thought I was stopping him from doing something, or I thought it would get me any answers."

Hands came together over her forehead, her tone still light, but no mirth could be found at her confession. "I did it because it felt good, because I loved hearing that rat bastard cry out in pain and beg for mercy."

The silence set in like a physical force taking root in her bones, leaving her hands limp and useless with just the power of her realization. She loved hurting him. She loved the pain. She had been… Sadistic. Just like the resistance members who tried to hang her from the gallows, who she'd described as animals, as savage.

"I never really thought about that moment, or Chat Noir's guilt, until today." She whimpered into her hands, already feeling the tears streak down her cheeks. "I listened to these rotten bastards brag about torturing Hawky, about making him vulnerable and violating him like… Like they weren't talking about another human being."

She imagined Chat Noir standing there during that reunion, looking down in abject horror as she beat his father within an inch of his life. Adrien would know full well what Hawkmoth was responsible for, he'd hate his father for everything, but even after everything Gabriel had done, Marinette knew that Adrien wouldn't support any of this.

"I just remember what Chat Noir said back then. 'Yeah, Hawkmoth's the bad guy, but under that mask is a person. And I hurt him real bad.'." She wept, slapping herself across the face. "And suddenly I'm looking at all these disgusting, reprehensible monsters before me and asking: Am I agreeing with them?"

Jagged watched her, his easygoing demeanor slipping further away as the weight of her words settled between them. He wasn't a guy built for deep talks, but he wasn't stupid either. He could see what this was doing to her.

Still, he didn't jump in right away. Didn't try to tell her she was wrong or comfort her with some empty rockstar wisdom. Instead, he just… sat there. Let her get it all out.

After a while, he let out a slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "Kid…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "That's some heavy shit."

Marinette huffed a weak, exhausted laugh. "Yeah."

Another pause. Then, Jagged leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Look, I ain't got some big, wise answer for you. I'm just some washed-up rocker with bad knees and a cool lizard. But what I do know is this—there's a difference between you and them."

She didn't say anything, just sniffled, her hands still covering her face.

Jagged tapped his fingers against his knee, frowning in thought. "Y'know, I used to get into fights all the time back in the day. Punched a producer once for talking shit about my band mates—real nasty brawl, blood everywhere, security had to drag me out by the collar." He gave a half-hearted smirk. "Thought it felt good too. Thought I was proving something."

Marinette peeked at him through her fingers.

He let out a humourless chuckle. "But after? I didn't feel strong. I felt like them. The jerks who used to beat on me when I was a kid for the stupidest crap. And I hated that." His voice softened. "That's what's happening to you, ain't it?"

Marinette swallowed hard, barely nodding.

Jagged sighed and reached out, ruffling her hair like she was one of his nieces. "Listen, you messed up. You let the rage take over. But that's not who you are, kiddo. The rage only become a part of your song if you add it to your sheet music."

Her lip trembled. "How do you know?"

"Because you're the one losing sleep over it. They wouldn't." He gave her a pointed look. "You got caught up in the music, but these guys? They were just waiting for an excuse, any excuse, to cut loose without a consequence."

He jabbed her gently with a fake punch to the shoulder. "They don't think about it, all they needed to know is that they'd be allowed to do it." Leaning back, he kicked his legs up to push against the wall. "Besides, he's not the same Gabe you beat bloody anymore, is he?"

"I don't know." The admission came out barely above a whisper.

"You put your faith in him before, didn't you?"

"We've established that the whole situation was a mistake."

Jagged tilted his head, his sharp, rockstar grin absent. "No, we know that you lying was a mistake. Putting your faith in him? That's a different issue, isn't it?"

Marinette frowned, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "What does it matter? The battle would have ended the same way anyway. What I did before he made his wish… None of it mattered."

Jagged shrugged. "Didn't it?" He leaned back, crossing his arms. "I guess that's one of those questions only you can answer."

"I guess," she muttered, not sure if she wanted to.

The weight in her chest didn't lift, but it shifted. Like something just slightly out of place, just noticeable enough to bother her.

She let out a slow breath. "Jagged, how are you so calm?"

Jagged wasn't looking at her anymore, his easy-going energy hardened into something cold and razor-sharp. His fingers drummed against his knee, not with his usual restless energy, but with a deliberate, practiced rhythm—like a slow, ticking countdown to something inevitable.

"Because I know that I'll be all fuelled up on rage when we finally go to kill the sons of bitches that dared to lay a finger on my daughter."

---

He was useless. Sitting in his cell, curled up in Juleka's corner, not a strategic thought or useful exercise in sight. He just sat there, waiting for someone else to decide his fate. What else could he do? No matter what he deluded himself to believe, the fact was that he was nothing but a delusional, pathetic old man desperately trying to cling to the nostalgia of his younger years.

No Juleka. No Marinette. No Nathalie. It was just him, alone with the putrid man he always was and the pathetic creature he'd become. All he was good for now, alone, beaten and unsure, was letting the tears break through.

It had been a long time since he'd last felt so utterly lost to the world. Even when Emilie passed and he was in pieces, he still had Nathalie to hold him together, he still had the hope of a brighter future. Not since the day his mother passed, cursing him with her dying breath, and his father moved on like they hadn't just lost the most important person in their lives.

He remembered his father musing about finding a nice garden to bury her in, not even considering getting her a coffin, just throwing her in a hole like she was lesser than a pet.

He remembered how her body hadn't even gone cold before his father started talking about giving away her stuff, how she'd be so happy to see how many people could be helped with her old things that they didn't need anymore.

He remembered his father comforting him, telling him how there was nothing that could be done and that this was always going to be her time, that not accepting it was selfish and greedy, that he needed to appreciate the life that he had. As if it was inevitable, as if that rat bastard didn't practically abandon his wife to her fate, as if there wasn't so much they could have done to save her if his father stopped giving everything away. Sure, let your wife, your fucking wife, rot away, but God forbid a random stranger doesn't get to take all the money Gabbi saved up for a doctor because 'they need it more than us'.

To this day, he could still feel the impact of his knuckles across his father's jaw. He could still see the body falling backwards down the stairs in his minds eye. He didn't check on his father, the man was dead to him anyway, he simply took his mother and fled into the night. Unfortunately, as far as he knew, his father still lived to this day.

Gabriel had wondered the streets of Paris that night with a corpse in his arms, and no one cared. He'd ended up tucked under the arch of a bridge, weeping into his mother's chest, hoping if he just pressed his ear close enough, he'd hear a heartbeat. Nothing came to comfort him, nobody came after him, he was well and truly lost to the world, alone with no one to look out for him.

He couldn't scrounge up enough money for a doctor, but he had enough money left for a grave.

As he curled in on himself, he couldn't help but lament that the only thing that had changed since that night was his clothes. Here he was, still powerless to do anything but deal with the aftermath of his failures, feel the cold kiss of a corpse tracing over his fingertips. When he died, who would be there to bury him? Would he even get a funeral?

The footsteps ended his torment early.

Gabriel shot to his feet the moment he heard footsteps approaching. His heart pounded in his chest, cold dread crawling up his spine. He'd expected—feared—the worst. Juleka had already been in bad shape before they dragged her out. The thought of what else they might have done to her in the time since made his stomach churn.

But when Vincent and Sherman shoved her back into the cell, he froze.

She was… fine.

Her bruises were gone. Her clothes were clean, as if they had never been stained with blood and grime in the first place. Even her hair, which had been tangled and dirty, fell smoothly over her shoulders. It was wrong.

The only thing out of place was her eyes.

They were empty. Hollow. The spark of fire, of resistance, of Juleka—gone.

She moved like a puppet on loose strings, making her way to her usual corner without a word. She slid down, pulled her knees to her chest, and started rocking back and forth, her arms wrapped around herself.

Gabriel swallowed, throat dry.

Vincent leaned against the bars, smirking like he knew exactly what was running through Gabriel's head.

"I'll be back soon," he said, almost mockingly. "You two should take this time to relax."

With that, he turned on his heel and left, Sherman following behind. The heavy clang of the door locking shut behind them rang through the silence.

Gabriel hesitated only a moment before he moved, crouching down in front of Juleka. She didn't acknowledge him, she just kept rocking, staring ahead at nothing. He reached out, hesitated, then finally placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

She flinched. Not a full-body recoil, not a panicked jerk—just a small, barely-there twitch. A subtle sign that, yes, she was still in there somewhere.

Gabriel exhaled sharply, pulling his hand away. Something was very, very wrong.

Gabriel swallowed, his fingers curling into his palms as he sat back on his heels. He had no idea how to handle this. He was never good at handling people, not when they were like this. Not when they were broken.

"…Juleka." He started carefully, voice quiet. "What did Roth do to you?"

She didn't respond at first. She just kept rocking; her vacant stare fixed on some unseen point beyond the walls of the cell. Then, slowly, her hand lifted.

Gabriel watched as she reached for her neck, dragging a single finger across her throat in a slow, deliberate motion. A gesture that made his blood turn to ice. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but she did it again. And again.

For minutes, she just kept tracing the invisible cut, the only sound in the room the faint rustle of fabric and the shallow rhythm of their breaths.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"He said…" Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "…He said he took away my pain."

Gabriel stiffened.

Her fingers kept moving, dragging over the same patch of skin until it started turning red.

"I don't…" She inhaled sharply, then exhaled just as fast. Her lips pressed together before she spoke again, voice smaller than before. "He took the knife and… And nothing happened."

She kept on cutting and cutting with the imaginary knife in her hand, a scene of bloodshed and certain death playing in her eyes. Maybe she was just too shaken by her experience to explain what really happened, or maybe this 'clean' result was Roth's akuma power at work. An impression of pain without any of the mess.

Gabriel reached out, gently grasping her hand before her nails broke through the skin. Immediately, her head lurched back to face him, his reflection frightening in her watery eyes.

"You don't deserve this." He started to say. "It should-"

Her slap was weak, yet it still sent Gabriel's mind reeling for a minute, leaving his body frozen just staring in the direction of impact.

"Do you still think I'm a traitor now, asshole?" She spat.

Gabriel slowly turned back to face her, the sting of the slap still lingering more in his pride than his skin. Juleka glared at him, her body taut with rage, but there was no fire behind it—just exhaustion and something deeper, something hollow.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing at his jaw where she'd struck him. "No." His voice was flat, steady. "I don't."

Juleka scoffed, but the venom was weak, falling apart as she slumped further against the wall. Her hands curled into fists, resting on her knees as she stared down at the floor. He watched as she twitched—her fingers, her throat, her breath all shaking with something he couldn't name.

The cell door rattled open, breaking the tense silence. Vincent and Sherman strolled in, grinning like they were old friends dropping by for a casual visit.

"Damn, Jules," Vincent said, giving an exaggerated whistle as he looked her over. "Looking all smart and fancy now. And you—" He turned to Gabriel with mock offense. "Still look like a sack of shit."

Sherman chuckled, nudging Vincent with his elbow. "Guess we know which one of you made a better impression, huh?"

Gabriel's fingers curled into fists. "What did he do to her?"

Vincent just grinned. "Relax, he made her a sick CD."

"Yeah, she should be grateful," Sherman added, smirking. "Not many people get to see the boss without his makeup."

Juleka's breathing hitched. She shrank further into herself, her hands twitching towards her neck again. Gabriel didn't miss it. He turned back to the guards, fury burning beneath his skin.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Aw, c'mon, Gabe, don't look so grumpy," Vincent said, waving him off. "We're on a tight schedule. You both have somewhere to be."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Where?"

Sherman grabbed his wrist, yanking him up with little effort. Vincent did the same to Juleka, though she barely resisted, moving with the force instead of against it.

"But enough of that," Vincent continued, his tone almost sing-song. "We gotta make sure you're both squeaky clean."

"What?" Gabriel gritted his teeth. "Another meeting with Roth?"

"Nope." Sherman's grin widened.

Vincent clapped him on the back. "Get that smile ready, Gabe, because you're about to be on television!"

---

Marinette was still in the workshopping phase of her plan, but Jagged and Anarka thought it would do her some good to get out on the road for an hour or two. So, now she sat in the back of the Buggy, going through mess of paperwork she'd accumulated over hours of notes. It was nice that the truck had a convenient war table that folded out from the floor with some weird gizmo she didn't understand that kept the paper stuck to the surface like glue until she peeled them off.

They were on their way to pick up some supplies, apparently Jagged knew a guy who knew a guy who won a bet against another guy who killed another guy's chicken, and so on and so on. Supplies in general, but also just to see if Marinette needed anything for the operation. They'd also decided to still bar Marinette from driving despite her pleas that it was vital she learned anyway.

Honestly, Marinette found it hard to concentrate on the map Alec gave them, her thoughts broken up by the two up front breaking out into a laugh.

Anarka and Jagged were a loud bunch, living it up in the front seat as they argued over which song to play over the trip. You'd never be able to tell that they had such a messy break up or reunion, that one of them abandoned their kids to be raised without a father. You'd think they were just old friends getting a rise out of one another.

Marinette had to say; she was jealous. Could she ever hope for a future like that? Even if she saves the day, even if she somehow fixes everything, would there anything that could fix all that she's broken between her friends and family?

She couldn't imagine sitting in the same room as Alya, the person she trusted with everything, and being able to talk like they used to after all that Marinette had done. She couldn't imagine Adrien taking her in his arms ever again, or be able to stand her touch without burning up.

What was going to be left for her when all of this was over? She already knew it was the end of the line for Ladybug, but she didn't know if she was ready to give up Marinette too.

"You always had terrible taste, Anarka!" Jagged declared, shaking his head as a particularly aggressive guitar riff blared through the speakers.

"Ha! That's rich coming from you," Anarka shot back, adjusting the volume with a smirk. "Mister 'Let's put a screeching parrot in the background of every track'!"

"That was art!"

"That was a crime against music!"

Marinette let their playful banter wash over her, the warmth of it making her chest ache. For all the chaos and destruction that had overtaken their lives, Jagged and Anarka had somehow found a way to come back together—not as lovers, not even as family, but as two people who understood each other in ways no one else ever could.

Once again, she asked herself if that was even possible for her.

She tried to shake the thought, refocusing on the map Alec had given them, but the lines blurred together, her mind stuck in the past. It wasn't just Ladybug she was leaving behind—it was Marinette too, wasn't it? There was no coming back from what she'd done.

Even if they won, even if they pulled off some miracle and put an end to this nightmare, what then?

Alya wouldn't look at her the same way. Adrien wouldn't—couldn't—forgive her. Her parents, her classmates, Paris itself… They wouldn't get their Marinette back. Only whatever was left after the fight.

Well, it was only fair, she supposed. She brought about this hell with Gabriel, might as well be damned in it with him as well.

She found herself retrieving the Phantom Butterfly's disabled miraculous from her pocket, pressing the little badge into her palm and sighing. This was supposed to show her the way, it was supposed to do something to help them, but so far it just took up space in her pocket.

Her fingers closed around it, squeezing it tightly, hoping that by some miracle the pressure would wake up the kwami and brighten up her day. If she could just fix it, get it to activate, there was so much they could do with a working miraculous on her side. If only she knew what was stopping it from working, or what made Nooroo eventually appear before Gabriel.

Maybe Hawky was right, I should have let Juleka give me the snake miraculous. At least then I could be making myself more useful.

"Hey, kid."

Jagged's voice pulled her from her spiralling thoughts. She looked up, and in the rearview mirror, his sunglasses reflected her expression back at her—lost, tired, unsure.

"You good back there?" he asked, the usual teasing edge to his voice softer now.

Marinette swallowed, forcing a small smile. "Yeah," she lied. "Just thinking."

Anarka snorted. "Thinking too much'll kill ya, barnacle. Have some fun while ya can."

Jagged grinned, cranking up the music. "Yeah, listen to your old captain! Now, c'mon, we need a third vote—are we rockin' out to 'Sea Shanty Slam' or 'Parrot Punk Revival'?"

Marinette sighed, shaking her head, but she didn't protest when Jagged motioned for her to start pumping her fist into the air. Maybe they were right. Maybe, just for now, she could let herself breathe. At least until they reached their destination.

Marinette was halfway to picking a song when the sharp beep-beep-beep cut through the music, killing the moment instantly.

Anarka's grip on the wheel tightened, her knuckles turning white. "Bag, kid. It's the portable TV."

Marinette scrambled through the truck, clambering past the war table to reach the bag slumped against the back of the driver's seat. As she yanked it open, her fingers fumbled over the worn casing of the old portable television.

Jagged let out a humourless laugh, though there was nothing funny about it. "Guess that means Roth's got something to say."

Anarka muttered a curse under her breath.

Marinette didn't waste time. She flipped the switch, and the tiny screen buzzed to life, static crackling before the image snapped into focus. Pulling herself up by the two front seats, Marinette placed the tiny tv on the dashboard, letting all three lean in to watch as Anarka pulled over.

It was mostly darkness, the edges of a stage barely visible, but Marinette could make out figures on either side of the screen. Bob Roth, instead of setting up below the stage, had opted to place himself at the back this time around. A little booth had been set up to lord over the scene, like one you'd find in an opera house, where the three Bobs laid slumped over the railing, their eyes just empty spaces and their skin wrinkled like crushed laundry.

Offscreen, someone was heard clearing their throat. "Uh, I said… ACTION!"

The Bobs suddenly sprung to life, swelling up like balloons as the spotlight hit them. Skeletal Bob just flopped back in his seat, just a limp puppet. Gold Record rested his chin on the railing, still not looking fully awake. Regular Bob cracked his neck, lips unfurling with an odious laugh.

"Oh, is it show time already?" He called to the non-existent audience. "Sorry about the other Bobs slacking; the rehearsals for this were killer."

"Welcome, welcome, my darlings! Tonight's show is one for the ages, a true spectacle of redemption, reinvention, and retribution!" Regular Bob gestured grandly to the darkened stage below him, his rings catching the spotlight as he grinned wide enough to split his face in two. "A tragedy-turned-triumph, a story of sin and salvation! A revival!"

Gold Record Bob gave a slow, lazy clap. "Wow. Real deep."

Regular Bob ignored him. "But what's a show without its shining stars?"

The stage lights snapped on, flooding the screen with harsh, artificial white. On one side there was a wheel, painted with a giant bullseye on the front, and Juleka, spread eagle and bound by ropes, was stretched across it.

On the other side was Gabriel, done up in a crude recreation of his Hawkmoth costume. He was trapped in what looked like an old electric chair, his right hand strapped in with metal cords. His other hand? Well, his entire left arm was fed into a bulky metal contraction that had a glass side, a window to see his arm travel through the narrow confines to wrap his fingers around a lever on the other side.

Between them, was a small metal arm, holding a gun to Juleka's head.

Roth rubbed his hands together, a giddy, ferocious glee beaming from his eyes. "I know you're all excited and rearing to go, but before we begin, I've got one question…" The camera zoomed in on his crude smile. "Anyone here a fan of the Saw movies?"

---

Next Time - A Twisted Sort of Family:

"She told me you saved her life once." Adrien said simply, eyes narrowed, looking for any sort of reaction from Colt's synthetic face. "That's how you met."

Colt leaned back, a murmur of a laugh rising from his chest. "Is that how she tells it?"

Adrien tilted his head curiously, his sweaty palms pressed flat against the desk. "How would you tell it?"

Colt's knuckles twitched. He idly drummed them against the wooden surface, but of course the sound was like a war ballad. "That my reckless, emotional snap decision just so happened to secure her safety." He swivelled his chair around turn away from Adrien, arms crossed and foot tapping at the air. "You don't give people credit for the good of completely unintended side-effects."

Adrien didn't budge. He wanted answers, and he wasn't going to be undone by Colt's desire to run away from them. "Tell me your side of the story then."

They held the silence long enough, waiting for one another to buckle under the pressure that filled the air. In the end, it was the metal man who shied away from the heat.

"Fine, fine. Whatever you want, Kid." He loudly sighed, forcing himself up from his chair and stomping across the floor. "It's a good decade ago that I found myself in Italy on a… Personal endeavour."

"Sightseeing?"

He ended up by the window, gazing down into the frenzied work below their feet. "I was tracking down some lost property." Stroking his chin, he cast a side-eyed glance over to Adrien, internally debating how many labels still remained to stick to. After all, Adrien may still call him Chalot publicly, but at this point Colt had to know that Adrien was very aware of just who he was talking to. That Lila had spilled more than the plan.

"See, me and your father's old boss, he left a lot of crap lying around after his death. A lot of… Dangerous things." As Colt continued to talk, a mix of gruffness and hesitation, Adrien followed his gaze towards a small photo lying on the far side of the room. "I took it upon myself to hunt them down and destroy them, just to make sure that the past didn't come back to bite us all in the ass."

It was Kagami, Felix and Amilie on some sort of beach trip. The only justification that Chalot would have for such a picture would be that Kagami left it here for some reason, but Adrien knew damn well it was Colt that kept it.

Colt pressed his hand against the glass, letting his head bow and his shoulder sag. "I never would have thought the most dangerous thing he left behind was his granddaughter."