A/N: Hey readers new and old! I'm doing yet ANOTHER rewrite of an old work because I'm dissatisfied with the wasted potential of the original. So yeah, War of the Miraculous is getting a rewrite (and a title change). Yep, The Cry of The Ladybug is a rewrite.

In this universe, Kwamis are the champions of each magic clan. It gets explained in later chapters but I thought I'd mention it early on to avoid confusion. There's a WHOLE lot of lore and world-building in this fic honestly.

On a separate note, I kind of deleted the original version of this prologue... We'll never know the true magic of it because I deleted it and had to rewrite it. This will literally never live up to the tone and perfection of the original, it had the angst, the little bit of fluff, the DAMN introduction of internal conflict. It was just so... PERFECT! Rip original prologue 29/07/2024. It will be so dearly missed.

Feel free to drop any thoughts about this chapter or the fic in general. Different opinions and tastes are always welcome.

Till next time,

Drama :D

Prologue: The Bombing of Paradise

I was always said to have been a tiny baby. Whenever I ask about my parents, what they were like and who they were beyond my memories, my grandparents would always say that I look the most like my mother. Same face, same curve of a smile, the slim and petite build: some of her surviving pictures confirm their speculations. We are very similar. But instead of inheriting her slate grey eyes, I have blue ones - the result of my father.

There isn't much that I remember about my parents, nor about my life before I came to Paris. All I know is that the place that I come from, the Isle of the Ladybugs, was once a beautiful and lively community, fresh and warm and green.

Clear skies would always stretch overhead. Sweet, fragrant flowers would blossom and bloom between the large emerald leaves of the bushes and trees. Colour was everywhere. Buzzing and humming and thrumming, life used to be everywhere on that isle.

Huge plants used to sprout on the island's shores, producing ample food for the population, as well as sources for medicine. Thriving, there used to be a very passionate and welcoming trading centre, focused within the maze-like stalls of the world-famous marketplace. People from all over the globe would travel to the Isle just to explore its marketplace, get a glimpse of its everyday treasures. As a child, I would spot travellers very often, accept the strange sweets and trinkets they would gift me and other Ladybug children.

Growing up on the Isle, I spent most of my days exploring the village. Other children would also run around in the background, all of us dressed in bright red with traces of black dotted onto the material. Chasing each other around the marketplace, the scents of sugar and spices lingering in the humid air as we ran through stone archways, is a key memory of mine. The only memories that lay above those are the ones of the stories, the village elders who used magic and told us of its purposes.

Huddled in a circle, all of us children would pile into a dome-shaped building built into the village's central gardens. All eyes would be fixed onto the latest storyteller of the day, dressed in red and black, and joyfully retelling a piece of our history - a story that links to the very culture that we have. In their hands would be a book - a book of spells - and they would tease us nosy children, tell us that one day, when we were old enough, we would know its contents.

Only, that day never came for many.

Like any other day, my final memories of that place are stained with happiness. That morning I had played my usual game of tag, bumping into a fruit vendor who frequently gifted me a handful of her best strawberries. Ruffling my hair, her wrinkled face had smiled so sweetly at me; she had told me that she would see me once the market had closed up. There was apparently something important she needed to discuss with my mother.

Young, carefree, I had brushed the news aside. Even when the day turned into evening, the golden sun setting and shadowy dusk stretching over the sky, I remember humming as I sat at the kitchen table, kicking my legs rhythmically while my mother prepared some soup. As she stirred at the thick liquid in the pot, she told me a story, a story about our clan's miraculous and its current champion: Tikki.

Time and time again, I had been told of our champion (their given title 'Kwami'), the strongest of the Ladybugs and the one trusted enough to wear the miraculous - our most precious treasure. More than anything, Tikki was the one who had to protect us; she was our only defence against any threats to the Isle. Idolised, worshiped, she was like a living god, a legend that walked upon our shores, blessing babies and meeting diplomats from other states and nations.

But where was Tikki when we had needed her most? When she really needed to be there for us, to protect us, where was she? Why had she done nothing when she could have saved us all?

That night, when the alarms rang through the Isle, all of my memories turn into a distorted blur. Rushed out of bed, confused and tired and frightened, I remember my mother dressing me in strange clothes that I had never seen before. Hand in hand, we had walked down the familiar streets, turned and twisted and ran towards the tiny harbour that was nestled within the rocky coves of the southern coast.

Choppy, the sea had been restless as we piled into a small boat, watched the island grow tinier and tinier with every passing second. Looking back at the Isle for a final time, my tiny fingers clinging to the railing of the boat's sides, I had watched as it was engulfed whole by a giant purple flame. Screams filled the air and a deafening boom rocked the sea. Emerging from the dark smoke, ingrained into my brain, was the symbol of the attackers: The Moth. Monarch.

I don't remember sleeping after that. I don't remember crying either. At some point, the sea turned into a road, and a road turned into a car, and car turned into Paris. Stood outside of a strange building I had never seen before, my mother held my hand tightly as she pressed a strange button on an item she called a 'buzzer'.

"We're going to stay with your grandparents for a while, Marinette," Keeping me close, something hopeful sparking in her steely eyes, she'd almost whispered the words, "We'll figure out the rest from there."

Once the door had opened and my grandparents had ushered us inside, it only became more confusing for me. Wrapping me up in a giant hug, my grandma - who I'd only met a handful of times at that point - was smothering me with affection and kisses. Much more gruff and stern, eyeing us with suspicion, my grandfather remained to the side-lines. He said little more than a curt welcome and gave no more than short grunts and nods.

Eventually, I was tucked into bed. Dressed in more strange clothes, a familiar book placed into my hands, my mother was acting strange. In my memories, her face is no longer clear at this point; her face always changes, has a new nose or fuzzy eyes or a distorted mouth. Even with the rare glimpses I get from her pictures, I don't truly remember what she looks like. These days it's too risky to even think about having them out in the open.

"Marinette," Squeezing my hand in hers, my mother always sounds somewhat sad at this point. Like she was fighting some kind of battle in her heart. "You're going to stay here for a while, with your grandparents," She nodded toward the heavy book, "And while that happens I want you to look after this book for me, read through it and memorize everything it holds, everything it wishes to teach you about us and our people's history."

"It's ok, mama," Catching the tears that had formed in her eyes, wiping them with my tiny hands, I'd placed a kiss on her forehead, "I will do my best to read it. I won't let you down."

"I know, you won't," Closing her eyes, holding me close, it had felt like my mother was absorbing me for the last time as she hugged me. Breathing in the moment, savouring the sensation of holding her only child in her arms, my mother must have been thankful that we'd both managed to escape the Isle unscathed. In her heart, she must have been relieved that I had a chance to be safe and well and happy - unchanged by this war.

"She needs her mother," Rough, disapproving, my grandfather had only stared at the both of us from his post at the door. Both of his burly arms were crossed over his chest. "Nothing can replace that."

"I know," Voice rough with tears, my mother had turned back to look at him, "But what else can I do?"

Nothing. There was nothing else she could really do. If so, in that moment, I believe someone would have said something - offered anything other than this cruel reality.

Heavy silence filled the room as my mother turned away from my grandfather, her face softening as she smiled at me and ran a gentle hand through my hair, "I'll be here in the morning, Buginette. Sleep."

And, so tired and worn to the bone from that day's events, I closed my eyes and fell asleep. Faded, frayed at the edges, that moment is the last time that I ever saw my mother in person, got to hold her close and tell her how much I would miss and love her. That moment is the last time in which I haven't felt so alone, so disconnected, from everyone around me. The last in which I knew that I would have someone to rely on.

Now there are no other Ladybugs. Wiped out, destroyed by The Moth, they are all scattered or buried under the very ground that grew their prized plants. Bombed out, nothing but desolate stone and ash, the Isle of Ladybugs is nothing more than a hollow reminder of how much power Monarch holds. Using magic is prohibited unless you work for The Moth; being a Ladybug is a crime that cannot be defended in any way.

All of my life, I have been taught to hate what I am. As each clan fell, crushed under the influence of Monarch and his army, I've seen first-hand how futile it is to fight against his regime. After the Bombing of Paradise - the destruction of my childhood - every other miraculous clan has gone into hiding. Only Peacocks remains out in the open, subdued and virtually slaves to The Moth's regime after the defeat of their Kwami.

Magic brings nothing but trouble. Being a Ladybug is nothing more than a curse. Tikki has proven that much - running away and never revealing herself to the public ever since the Isle's destruction. To my knowledge, I am the only survivor of the Isle; only I know of the downfall of the Ladybugs and that is a heavy burden to bear. One I would have dropped if my mother had not made me promise to continue reading her book.

Alone. Magic has done nothing but make me feel alone in this world. Stripping me of my home, my family, my... normality. Sometimes I wish that magic simply didn't exist. Sometimes I wish that I had never been taught to use it at all.

Because every time I do, every time I use a spell or think about my long-lost life, I feel myself wanting to shrivel up and cry, to cry and cry and cry. My grandma calls it 'emotional therapy'; my grandfather calls it a 'trouble-making nuisance'. Either way, I know one thing about this curse of mine, the one thing that stops me from ever living a normal life: how could anyone know of the pain that magic has caused me?