A/N: You know, this story is like a weird mesh of Divergent and whatever concept I had in my brain when I first wrote this. Like I can see a lot of things that were influenced by my teenage-mind reading the Divergent Trilogy. Anyone who's a fellow Divergent fan I am so sorry because the influence is still there! Fingers crossed I don't kill anyone major in the process. ALSO Fourth Wing influences have also managed to sneak in. Guess my weakness is YA fiction.

Anyway, this time round I've decided to try and slow the pacing down. A lot of reviewers from the original story did suggest as much (and they were SO right). As a result, world-building is gonna be a much bigger thing in this version. Be prepared to have a lot more niche moments showcasing life under Monarch's rule and how exactly the system works in the Moth-run world.

I'm gonna stop myself from spilling EVERYTHING out in this A/N. Till next time lovelies,

Drama :D

Chapter One: Wonderful Day

Watching the sun rise always feels like having a little piece of home with me. Standing on my balcony, almost on top of the world, I can always find solace when I stare down at the early morning Parisian streets below. Everything would begin to rise from its slumber, traffic growing in number on the pretty paved streets, and shopfronts opening up in order to welcome the influx of rush hour customers. Soldiers dressed in the muted purple and navy blue of the Moth and Peacock army would parade around the streets, swapping their posts or going to grab a meal from the barracks. Families would leave homes and children would head to school.

Early morning in Paris can be a beautiful thing. Watching as the human world comes to life, pulsed and breathed and thrummed with the blood of routine, can be just as fascinating as cracking a complex puzzle.

Every morning I come up here to watch it all, to play the part of a distant observer who has never known what it's like to actually take part. Even after spending fourteen years on French soil, I still don't feel like I'm part of it all. With the magic running through my veins, I symbolize the very thing that their leader fights against.

Releasing a satisfied sigh, I allow myself to breathe in the lovely aroma of my grandfather's freshly baked goods. Part of the reason why I wake up this early is because of that aroma - it reminds me of home, the bakery my mother and father had owned on that island. Though years have passed since then, the scent would always take me back there; it's like being a child again, prepared to wreck havoc in the marketplace once more. Back then I had always felt like I had something to belong to.

"Good morning, Paris!" Grinning up at the sun, now in its first position, I deliver my daily greeting, "Today is going to be wonderful!"

Turning on my heel, I slip back into my bedroom. Every morning, after watching the sun rise, I would get out my book and read the mandatory chapter that my grandma has set. Every day is a new lesson, generated in the cryptic language of the Ladybugs and reliant on me learning the previous day's spells. Often, whenever I get particularly bored, I go over previous pages, trying to figure out some of the spells that I just haven't cracked yet.

Magic, though, doesn't come easily. At times I don't even want to face the book, terrified of seeing the village once more, a hollow pile of ash burned to the ground. Other times I'm thankful because of it; it's because my mother left me with the book that I do know a small amount of magic. Those tiny pieces of knowledge connect me to my past. But I still haven't reached my Peak - the set limit that would determine my adulthood rank.

Normally, an eighteen-year-old Ladybug (mainly female as the bloodline rarely carries to males), would be able to use her magic to an ability that's stronger than that of a child. But I still haven't reached my Peak and puberty doesn't seem to really be my strength either. My grandma has told me that once I've reached my Peak I would catch up. My mother had been a late bloomer too, tiny even after she had achieved her own Peak.

"You're just like your mother, Marinette," She had smiled fondly at me on my eighteenth birthday, my face captured between both of her powdery hands, "Just remember to keep reading that book of yours and practicing your magic skills."

Exactly one week has passed since then and I'm not really looking forward to today. Today is the day when I find out my role in society. Since Monarch had taken over France, people are sorted into groups: Trades are for the average person, like bakers and mechanics and shop owners; Surrogacy are people chosen specially to produce healthy children for training; Militants serve the Moth and Peacock clans, enforcing order; Medics are the only thing that remain the same, serving the country to protect the sick and injured.

After today, my next few years will be dedicated to one of those future roles. Throughout my time here, none of them have ever really appealed to me - but if I had to choose, I would always say Medic. Medics continue to spread good in this world and they are treated rather well by the tyrants we call a government. Surrogacy is considered the worst option: if you fail to produce a child after eighteen months, you're turned into an Akuma.

Akumas never are ideal. Dangerous and outcast from wider society, they are complete slaves to Monarch and his army. They are his greatest line of defence, his ultimate weapon against those who choose to defy his rule. Only those who openly defy The Moth are given the punishment of becoming an Akuma. Once they're turned, they're stripped of all sense of freewill and individual thought. They become another soldier in Monarch's mindless, obeying army.

So far there's no cure for those who become Akumas. At least, to public knowledge.

Hidden within my book, right at the back, I've found a chapter about the Ladybug miraculous and its Akuma-healing abilities. Whoever wears those earrings can reverse the damage Monarch has dealt, can heal the broken world once more. But only the champion of our clan has the miraculous - and for us that's Tikki. The same Tikki who had been missing when Monarch raided the island, bombing us into history, never to be seen or heard of again.

Even so, whenever I read about the miraculous, a weird tingle always travels down my spine. Sometimes, I rub at my own earrings, the plain silver studs that my mother had gifted me for my first birthday. If I had the miraculous, then I would have been able to purify the Akumas. If I had been Tikki than I would have remained, would have fought back against Monarch and his army in order to protect my people.

But I'm not Tikki. I would never be the champion, the one destined to protect the entire clan. Our miraculous is probably lost to the sands of time.

"Marinette," Popping up through my trapdoor, my grandma smiles softly as she finds me reading. She's always loved seeing me embracing my history, my culture. My grandfather, her complete opposite, has always abhorred it. More than anything else, he's always drilling the dangers of magic and its uses into my head. "You need to get ready for your final exam."

"That's today, isn't it?" Groaning, I slam the book shut. I know it's today and my grandma already knows that I do. So, instead of setting into a lecture, she laughs as she heads back down the stairs, her wide grin fading from the square cut of my trapdoor as she closes it behind herself.

Getting ready for the exam is like preparing for an execution. After showering, getting dressed and brushing out my hair, I can't help but feel anxious as I gnaw at the fresh toast my grandma has prepared for me. Since today is meant to be something special, I've decided to wear something different from usual: a black skirt that I've designed with the emblem of a flower. Daisies. A fresh start. A new life. As soon as I enter the bakery, the change is noted.

"You're going to smash that exam, my egg!" Brightly, my grandma beams from behind the counter, handing a customer their change and a receipt. For an old lady, she is definitely spry, still wearing her old leather jacket and her snow white hair clipped short. "Show them what you're capable of, Marinetta!"

"Make us proud, Marinette," My grandfather, for once, has made an appearance. Dusted with flour and sugar, standing in the doorway between the bakery kitchen and shopfront, he delivers me a slight smile as he adjusts his thick-framed glasses. Old-fashioned, traditional, proud: he likes his glasses just like how he likes himself. "You are a Dupain. I know you are capable of that."

Humming as I nod, I accept their tokens of good luck and leave the bakery with a less heavy feeling in my gut. Today is going to be life-changing. Today is also going to be wonderful - just like I've told the rising sun. Daises mean new beginnings and today would mark my first step into true adulthood.

My first step into actually having a real life here.

Gulping, I can't help but feel daunted by the looming stature of the testing facility. This day is one that many people my age anticipate, discussing and gossiping and whispering about how they would score in the final exam. At school it's been all anyone can ever talk about after graduation, everyone discussing how they might try to get a military job - or even aim for a highly sought after Trade like weapons manufacturing.

Disillusioned by my past, I'm not so excited when it comes to the final exam. This is a process made to root out those with magic in their blood. Monarch has always made that clear, stating that every child under his rule must go through the examination - no exceptions. Many people in previous years have been exposed, shot dead or taken captive as soon as they had woken up.

One example is Fei Wu, a girl who had tried to stage a coupe just one year ago. Every news outlet had been quick to report on the event. Thousands of images had popped up of the teen, wide-eyed and frazzled as she was dragged away in handcuffs. Around her neck had been an ability-suppressant collar, made specially for rogue magic users. After her arrest, Fei was never heard from again; the next day she had popped up as an Akuma, patrolling the southern border of the city.

Taking in a deep breath, I attempt to calm myself as I stand in the lengthy line of eighteen-year-olds waiting for their turn. What happened to Fei wouldn't happen to me; unlike Fei, I have never tried to break the law. But, even so, my mind can't help but fill with dreaded anxiety after dreaded anxiety. As a magic user, I'm prominent and easy to detect to the well-trained eye. Even if I am well-behaved, Monarch would still have me put under his control. It doesn't matter who I am.

Every ten minutes the line of waiting teens shifts forward and my window of opportunity gets shorter. With each finished exam, there's an array of faces. Some of my peers would emerge from the testing rooms with wide grins. Others would fiercely rub at watery eyes, attempting to stifle their sobs. Half an hour, three rounds of six different faces, is the amount of wait time I'm awarded before being called forward.

"Marinette Dupain," I can't help but wince at the absence of my mother's surname - a precaution to keep me safe. My father's family have never been known magic users. "Please head to room three."

Following the given instructions, I depart from the queue and head to the room with a white door and a violet number three painted onto it. As soon as I open it, my eyes are attacked by the brightness of the walls, stunning and sharp thanks to the overwhelming amount of white in the room. Standing there, waiting for me, is the test administrator, a man with a bald head and thick black eyebrows that arch over his sharp eyes.

"Please stand in the centre of the room," His voice has an accent, something distinctly not French. As he speaks to me he remains at the small screen by his side, leaning on his wooden staff, "I do apologise for the harsh lighting but it is necessary."

Nodding, I decide not to use words because I would only say something stupid. Nerves tend to affect my words. So, instead, I force my body to move to the middle of the room, reminding myself to breathe every thirty seconds as well as to blink every five.

During classes we had been educated on how the final exams would probably go. After queuing up for our turn, we would be led into an empty room, alone with our administrator and with only the simulation machine within the room. Different scenarios would be projected into real life for us, each of them assessing our ability in decision-making, and our suitability for each different role our society has.

In previous years, countless different situations have been used in the final exams. Only two years ago did they use the Bombing of Paradise - the official name for the destruction of the Ladybugs and their island - to root out those unsuitable for a military role. Last year they used dying children for the medical role, seeing what each person would choose when faced with the decision to save one life or to save five others.

Every year's round of projections are different. Every year's projections are based on real life.

As I stand there, sweat gathering on my brow and lip being chewed through anxiety, I hope that the Bombing of Paradise won't be used once more. If that is the case, then I would end up dead, caught red-handed with my status as a Ladybug.

"Are you ready to begin?" The administrator has looked to me, raising one of his comically large eyebrows. They must have been a replacement for his lack of hair.

"Yes," Is all I could say, staring back at him. Right in the eye. Only those who lack confidence, those who want to show how scared they truly are, don't share eye contact. That lesson is one of the first my grandma has ever taught me: eye contact means that you have nothing to hide, nothing to fear. As long as I act like I'm just like anyone else, I would get away with being a typical, eighteen-year-old in Paris.

Not quivering under my stare, the administrator nods, "Very well."

Some sort of weird noise then fills the air, hurting my ears and making me wince as the white room around me begins to distort. Popping with colours, the blank tiles begin to change, filling with a smoky pallor and bright sparks of orange. Chugging mechanical sounds cut through the air, whirring and buzzing and booming, quickly replacing the uncomfortable first noise. All around me people are running, bumping into me with harsh shoulders and cold, metal weapons.

As the stinging stench of fire scorches my lungs, I register exactly where I am. This is a battlefield. Filled with yelling soldiers, live gunfire and advanced machines, this place is one where death is a common occurrence and injury is three times as likely.

Groaning beside me is a solider with a familiar-looking face - although I don't exactly remember them. One shaking hand clutches at their stomach and a limp one fixes onto their gun. Paleness creeps into the edges of their face, suggesting fatigue along with the gallons of sweat they seem to shed. Dark blue material gives away their status as a Peacock soldier, one that serves the greater Moth army and therefore Monarch himself in his conquest to rule the world.

"You've gotta kill the leader," Their words shaky and weak, the solider presses their weapon into my hands. Heavy. Cold. Cruel. Guns have never been something I have liked or admired; in my hands they feel even more wrong. "Forget about me."

Frowning at the soldier's words, I shake my head, push back the gun, "But we're a team."

"I'm injured and weak," Expanding on their reasoning, they also shake their head. None of us flinch as a landmine goes off, sending a powerful tremor across the ground we both stand on, "I will only slow you down."

So that's what Monarch trains his army to follow. If you are injured and weak, then you would do your country justice by simply dying in the line of duty. Resources would be wasted in trying to save one life; the Medics could deal with those left alive once the battle is fought and won, hours after the blood has turned cold and the soldiers' bodies pale. Only the strong would survive. Only the strong could survive.

Bile rises in my throat. I want to throw up.

"No," Firmly, I push the gun aside once more, removing the soldier's hand from their stomach. Bold and boisterous, crimson stains the skin of their palm, running through the creases and staining the fabric of their uniform. Somewhere, beneath all the padded uniform, they have been shot. Clearly no-one's had the thought to treat it until now. "I'm going to make sure you're ok."

Holding onto the edge of my skirt, I rip off a strip of fabric. Then, tightly, I wind the strip around their wound, exactly how I remember from the one time we had first studied emergency first aid skills. By the time I'm finished, my hands are both red, stained with the soldier's blood. But I don't care. Instead I pick up the discarded gun and hold it firmly within my hands. Right now, I don't know what I will do with it, but I know it will get me far enough.

"I'm going to get you some help."

After that, I'm exposing myself to the open battlefield, jumping out from the cover of what I now know to be an upturned truck. Gunfire crackles all around me as I run, soldiers and civilians falling left, right and centre with every passing minute. Part of me wants to check on every victim, to turn back and tend to their injuries. More logical and calculated, the other part resists; she wants to end this battle - its suffering - for good.

Mindlessly, my feet pull me toward the town centre, framed by crumbling buildings and pushing through groups of fleeing people. Part of me knows that the leader of the opposition will be there; too much of me knows that I'm going to kill them, end this part of the simulation before too many other lives end up getting cut short.

Being taught and raised to value life, taking a life has always seemed like a life-changing thing to me. Watching as the life bleeds out of someone, leaves their eyes a dull pair of spheres instead of bright orbs of vitality, has always seemed like something meaningful. Many say that their first kill changes them. Countless soldiers sob openly in the streets, recalling the times where they had been ordered to burn down entire settlements. Killing is never fun. But, in war, it's necessary.

To end suffering sometimes you have to kill one influential person.

"Surrender yourself, girl," Sneering and cruel, the enemy looks nothing like what I remember other magic users to be. Surrounded by captured soldiers, indulging in expensive goods while the battle raged on, the leader of the opposition seems like a slimy, no-good sleaze. Not human. Not a person at all. How could someone be human when they are all bad?

As soon as I arrive, I notice how artificial this entire place is. Gold and jewels and countless other treasures are stacked and stored to the ceiling. Women dressed in skimpy clothing had paraded around, simply gasping as I storm through, gun in hand and ready to negotiate. In the middle of it all is the leader, fat and smirking and smoking a rolled cigar. If anything, the leader of this organisation looks more dragon than human - and not the good kind either.

Is this a mirror to what Monarch is really like? Does he project his true self onto the enemy?

With that question in mind, I have no problem pulling the trigger. Watching the blood fall from the man who is now dissipating into smoke is like watching water fall from a waterfall. Even after he's faded - everything else remains, including the blood. But then it starts to glow a sickly violet shade of light.

More ringing fills the air now - an echo of the first noise that had triggered the first projection. Once a room cluttered with treasures and luxury and weapons, is now a room filled with toys and pastel colours and a baby's crib. Bright white butterflies are painted onto the lilac walls, almost flying, it appears, as they swirl in intricate patterns. Gradually, they lead to the crib tucked in the corner, a new sound emerging from its walls.

Crying. Wailing, droning crying that I easily recognise as being from a baby. Frowning, I drop the gun still in my hands and approach the wailing crib. When I peek over the edge, I find exactly what I've expected: a baby. Pink face, tiny eyes scrunched and even tinier fists balled, the delicate thing is throwing a fit within its crib. Dark hair sprouts in small tufts from its head, almost the exact same shade as mine.

"Well..." In that moment, I think of my mother - how she used to soothe me - as I scoop the baby up from its crib. Is this what it was like for her? When I was born did she see herself or my father? Did she see them both?

As I stare at the baby, begin to move my arms from side to side, I can't help but wonder what it had been like for my parents. All the while, the baby fusses, wriggles and squirms. At first, it takes some getting used to, adjusting to a strange sort of rhythm that both soothes them but also doesn't hurt your arms. But soon the simulation baby calms, its wails reduced to sniffling as it buries its head within the crook of my neck. Hiccups escape them every once in a while, bouncing their shoulders.

Babies aren't a new thing for me - not since I'd began babysitting Manon. Part of the beauty of being the local baker's granddaughter is that I'm trusted to look after people's children, especially for quick errands or an emergency event. Over the years, I've learned how to navigate being around small children. Some people my age, unfortunately, have never had the chance to learn how.

Yet, in this moment, I feel like I'm absorbing it through a new lens. Looking after other people's children isn't like looking after your own. Being responsible for someone else's child doesn't have the same gravity as being responsible for your own.

What would it be like to lose all that? To lose a child?

Quiet sniffling fills the room as I let my thoughts sink in, tiny nails clutching at the fabric of my shirt. All of the butterflies on the wall are peeling off, flapping into the air and hovering around. Slowly but surely, the room is warping once more. Toys melt into metal equipment. Furniture bends and stretches into curtains, boxes and uniform chairs. One by one, the butterflies land on the walls, making them bloom with bright white paint. Both of my cheeks feel cold, wet.

"We have to make a decision."

As soon as the nurse beside me speaks, I notice that the warmth of the baby in my arms is replaced with the stiffness of a clipboard. Around my neck is a stethoscope, cool and flexible against my skin as I stare ahead at the hospital bed in front of me.

Bandages are adorned all over, wrapped neatly and intricately around almost every square inch of the person's body. Raspy, whistling breathing rattles from their lungs, synced with the beep and wheeze of the respirator machine and heart monitor. When they open their eyes, glassy brown ones, I notice that on their arms - elevated to maintain blood flow - there are countless signatures, a colourful rainbow of names.

"We need to free up beds for the incoming soldiers," Bringing me back to reality, the nurse is speaking once more. Both of her hands are twisted together. "It's been determined that this patient has low odds of recovery. The extent of the burns they received was simply too great."

"But what about everyone who's waiting for them?" Letting my gaze flicker to the patient, their eyes which seem to lock with mine, I ask my question, "What would we say? Would we... lie to them?"

"It's the only way to keep things running smoothly," Releasing a sigh, the nurse frowns as she peers at me, as if I'm missing an important detail, "Monarch himself has instructed that we maintain free beds. Members of the military get first priority, no matter what kind of injury. It has been this way for many, many years."

Sloshing in my stomach, tugging at my heart, I feel nausea once more. Disgust. Here, someone who has suffered burns - horrible, life-altering burns - is being discarded because a soldier is seen as more important. Someone who's loved, who has family and friends waiting for them, is going to be essentially left to die because Monarch needs the available spots to treat soldiers with minor wounds and injuries.

"Unless it's life-threatening," I begin to speak up, clutching the clipboard tightly in my hands, "We won't give up this bed for a soldier. This person needs it more than any soldier suffering from a sprained ankle will."

For a moment, the nurse doesn't say anything. Looking at me sceptically, as if I have just spoken a foreign language or revealed a second head, she tilts her head slightly and blinks slowly. Then, giving a little nod, she lets out a sigh as she walks toward the door, getting ready to deliver my message.

"Very well," Hiding her smile, she pulls open the door, the walls around it beginning to peel as she does, "I'll let the higher ups know."

Once she closes the door, that's it. All calm ends and I'm launched into chaos once more.

Akuma attacks are never pleasant. Waking up from my final exam, faced with an Akuma attack, is one of my worst nightmares come true.

During my exam, something just has to burst into the building, causing panic and leading to all administrators cutting the simulations short. During my exam, something just has to go wrong. Why wouldn't it go wrong? That's usually how my life goes, after all.

Screams are filling the air, powerful and scattered and panic-stricken, as dozens of people begin to run away, flocking through the massive, gawking hole made in the wall beside me. The administrator for my exam, the bald man with the eyebrows, had simply given me a final look before taking off himself, fading into the crowd of teenagers and adults alike. For normal citizens of the city - someone I'm supposed to be - my role is to run away. Rogue Akumas are something the military deal with.

Yet, instead of following the crowd, I remain in the empty testing room, examining my surroundings. One large, gaping hole; a crowd of people sprinting away from the main part of the building; a trail of blood smeared across the white tiling of the wall: all signs point toward this Akuma being one of a serious threat. No doubt it's a level three - a past magic user that Hawkmoth has captured and claimed as his own.

Following the blood trail, I make my way out of the room, easily fitting through the blown-out doorway. Electrical sparks crackle the air as I walk through the main hall, panels and beams hanging from the ceiling at odd angles. Few and far between, some people cower under upturned furniture, shivering as they refuse to move and instead stare away, avert their gaze from the Akuma currently feasting away on what must have been human flesh.

One part of what Monarch doesn't tell the general public about Akumas is that he makes them into monsters. Akumas, pumped with magic but with no means to sustain it, need something to provide it. Humans are a key source - even those who are not known as magic users. Magic flows through every human's veins, minute in those without a magic bloodline and gigantic in those who do have one.

When they are first turned, Akumas are known to be dangerous weapons. Roguish and uncontrollable, most of the magic-using clans agreed on the universal ban of using Akumas for military gain. Such methods were simply too dangerous for the newly-formed world. Ladybugs had been the ones to enforce that ban, purifying the Akumas before they grew hungry and gained an almost insatiable appetite for human flesh.

But Ladybugs don't exist anymore. Akumas have become dangerous threats; out of control ones can kill entire villages before Monarch sends his army to sedate and destroy them.

"I can smell you," Human, not monstrous like I had thought, the Akuma speaks in a smooth and elegant voice. Turning to face me, blood speckled on their cheeks, they smile as they suck the remaining blood from their fingertips. Shimmering, gemlike, the droplets looks like tiny rubies as they dribble in the low light, slip down their chin. "Yes, I thought it was something divine."

Can they sense the magic within me? Just by sense of smell alone can this Akuma tell that I'm a Ladybug, someone with enough magic in their veins to sate their eternal hunger?

Perhaps. From they way their laughter grows, gleeful and jolly as they rise to a stand and kick away the discarded body, I can only assume that much. Sense of smell alone makes it obvious to an Akuma that I was born with high levels of magic. Rumbling from their stomach, a low, ominous noise makes it even more clear that my presence in this room has only made their desire for human flesh increase tenfold.

"Gotcha!"

There's no time to react. Rapidly, my wrist is seized by the Akuma, almost shattered under the pressure as they examine my features. Recoiling, I can't help but cringe away as they lean closer towards me, the acrid stench of blood and bile reaching my nose in a disgusting cocktail of sour, putrid scents. Pathetic and pitiful, my reaction seems to please the Akuma, its smile growing as their violet eyes flicker to mine.

"Yes, you'd make a tasty meal," Inhaling deeply, they almost hum as their eyes roll. More tightly, their hand clamps around my wrist, pulling it closer to their sharp, shiny teeth, "But a little sample won't do much harm."

Squeezing my eyes shut, I can't help what happens next. Bright, warm, overwhelming, something shoots out of me like an internalized scream becoming a real scream in the air. Maybe it is a scream, because my throat feels dry and my eyes are stinging with tears. But when I open my eyes, feel the intense pressure on my wrist lighten, I realise that I have done something much worse than scream; I have just used magic.

Wide-eyed, the Akuma is frozen as they stand in front of me. Breathless, I'm also rooted to the spot as I watch - with them - as a single white butterfly emerges from their watch, fluttering into the shadowed air. Up and up and up it goes. One little white dash of hope against a sea of murky shadow.

In that moment, everything within me comes to an abrupt halt: I have just purified an Akuma; I have just proven, in public, that I am a magic-user, a member of the thought-to-be-exterminated Ladybugs.

And what makes it worse is when the Akuma crumples to the ground, quickly fading into nothingness as a sharp ringing noise pierces my ears and my brain forces me to wake up again once more.

"Come out, Ladybug!" Ringing in the air, I hear a muted shout from behind the door.

Blinding, overpowering, the light flooding the testing room hurts my eyes. Nevertheless, kicked into fight or flight mode, I push back the pain and blink rapidly, trying to dispel any tears. Silent, the administrator to my final exam stands beside the weird machine, their face fixed with a pensive expression that looks almost scholarly. Their eyes are focused on me, wiping at my eyes and trying to combat the dull throbbing in my skull.

Confusion is the first thing I feel. Confusion at what's just happened. Confusion at where I currently am. Confusion with... so many different things. Nevertheless, as I glance at the man, stare at his tall frame leaning against his equally large cane, I couldn't help but feel slightly less lost and alone. Even if I am completely confused, derailed from reality, I'm glad that right now, at least, I have someone with me.

"They're after you," Those are the first words he says to me, his big eyebrows dropping to hover over his eyes, "And when they do find you, you will end up dead."

Both of us know that. Even as I shakily regain my senses, back away from the pounding door, I'm aware of the fact that my life is currently in danger. If I don't act fast, if I don't find a way to escape, then I will end up dead. That is a certainty.

"So what do I do?" Soft, almost childlike, I sound terrified as I stare at the man with watery eyes, "I don't... I can't- "

Not saying a word, the man nods toward a vent. Small, inconspicuous, it's located nearby the machine and blends in with the smooth surface of the walls of the room. Even though he does not speak, I know what the administrator is trying to convey to me. There are no windows, doors or even alternative pathways for me to take if I want to escape; my only hope is the tiny grate hidden in the corner of the room.

Nodding at the man, thanking him for his generosity, I make my way to the grate. I don't really like small spaces - they remind me of being trapped - but right now I have little choice. Pulling the grate off the wall, I get down flat on my belly and pull myself inside the dark interior of the wall. Beneath my knees, smooth flooring morphs into cool metal, groaning slightly from the weight of my body moving along its surface.

"I wish you luck, Ladybug," Behind me I hear the man speak once more, something like rattling echoing with his voice. He must be fixing the grate back on, giving me a head-start and lending me time to escape. "You are a sign that this world still has hope left."

Not long after his words, banging and pounding footsteps thunder along the vents. Guns go off and voices shout. The man mutters something about me disappearing and I hear the crackle of some kind of radio. No doubt the people who have come to collect me - soldiers for Monarch - are not pleased with the news of my escape. They'll probably put the entire building on lockdown in an attempt to keep me contained and imprisoned.

Curdling at the thought, my gut bunches uncomfortably as I shuffle down the vents. If I want to escape this place with as little issue as possible, then I need to get out of here quickly. That man's sacrifice would not be in vain - not when he has placed so much hope in my survival. So I continue to crawl along the vents, keeping quiet and listening out for soldiers with every fork in my path. Every time I hear a strange noise, a heavy groan from the metal vents, my heart spikes with fear.

Eventually, I do make it outside. By the time I've found a path that connects to outside the building, it's sunset. But that's good; no-one will see me putting on my disguise. Letting my hair out, so it would be harder to recognise me from behind, I cast a simple spell. Within seconds, my hair becomes a deep honey blonde, my eyes also changed to a deep oak brown. Bridgette Bianchi: a disguise I've used so often that she has her own ID.

Hopefully, if I'm lucky, I'll be able to get home without anyone asking who I am. Otherwise I might end up spending the night in one of the city's many prisons.

Holding my purse close to me, I walk through the streets with an anxious edge. Now that Monarch knows about a Ladybug being present, the entire city is probably preparing to get put into a high-level lockdown. With sunset being present, it wouldn't be long before searches would start through the homes of most citizens. Identifying and eliminating the Ladybug would be the first thing on Monarch's agenda.

Sighing, I can't help but feel tired at the thought of it all as I round a street corner. Up ahead, I can spot the bakery at the other end of the street, its lights still on. No-one would be buying anything right now, the evening set in and my grandparents never being the type to stay open until late. Part of me has the niggling feeling that they are aware of what's going on; my grandfather always does tune into the local radio.

Taking in a deep breath, I stop outside of the apartment entrance instead of the main bakery. Whenever I'm Bridgette, this is the way I would take; Marinette takes the bakery entrance because Marinette lives here. After a few minutes, my grandfather is at the door, a stern look fixed into his eyes as he frowns at me.

"Hello distant grandniece of mine," Not at all looking happy, his entire face conveys the disappointment he feels towards the mess I've made. He definitely knows what's happened. "How is your mother doing?"

"Just fine," Ignoring the shiver in my spine, I try my best to imitate a heavy foreign accent. Italian, to be specific, because my grandma's family are from there. "I just wanted to check up on you since I'm in Paris for a few weeks."

Not saying anything else, my grandfather turns away from the door, expecting me to follow and shut it behind me. Which I do. While we head up the stairs, passing the neighbours who live downstairs, I remain silent. Mostly, it's because I'm preparing myself for the biggest scolding of a lifetime - from both of my very overprotective and concerned grandparents. If my grandfather doesn't look happy, then my grandma is definitely a million times worse.

Magic, the dangers that come with it, have always been their biggest warnings. All of my rules, my curfews and restrictions have been built around avoiding my exposure.

"What were you thinking?!" Running up to me to examine my face, my grandma is hysterical as soon as I walk through the door. Redness rims her olive green eyes as her crimson lips spread into a deep frown, "You've just put yourself on the military's most wanted list, my egg. Monarch has people hunting for you as we speak."

"I know," Sighing, I ignore the way my heart and eyes sting from her words. How every nerve within me wants to flinch. Not even a minute after getting inside the apartment and they're both already ripping into me, going for the kill and leaving no surviving tissue. "I didn't mean for it to happen."

"That doesn't matter!" Shaking her head, my grandma tsks as she pulls away from me. Hundreds of thoughts and worries are probably plaguing her right now, each and every one revolving around my death, imprisonment or enslavement. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? Monarch would do anything - anything - to have his hands on a live Ladybug! You've more or less delivered yourself to him on a silver platter."

"I suggest you keep it down, Gina," My grandfather frowns, now sipping at a cup of tea. Perched at the kitchen counter, newspaper in hand, his anger is the quiet kind, the pensive kind, as he flicks from page to page, "We don't want the neighbours knowing," Both of his sharp eyes glance at the windows, the floors, "They might rat us out."

"You're right," For once, my grandma agrees with him, more or less melting into the couch cushions as she sits back down. Pulling a face at her ex-husband, she sticks out her tongue, "Unfortunately."

Ignoring my grandma's comment, my grandfather simply turns his attention to me, "I'm assuming that Bridgette will be staying for a few days?"

"For the foreseeable future it seems," Collapsing beside my grandma, I begin to massage my temples. Stress is already setting into my system. Intensely. Holding up the spell is going to be a huge mental strain - I can feel it gathering and pooling in my bones. "I'll say that I've come to stay for a while because my mother's died. You and grandma are the only family I have left. I had nowhere else to go but here."

"If that's what you think is best, then we will go along with it," My grandfather nods, seeming pleased with my plan. Twinkling his eyes, twitching his lip, he looks as if he wants to smile at me, beam with hidden pride. Adjusting his newspaper, he adds quietly, "Although you will have to talk with that stupid accent all of the time."

"And that's perfectly fine," Testing out the accent once more, I grin as my grandfather grumbles something beneath his breath. His complete opposite, my grandma is beaming with open pride as I continue confidently, "Now I'm going to go to sleep. Goodnight."

Deciding that I wouldn't be able to stomach anything, I get up from the couch and make my way towards the small set of steps leading up to my attic room. Even though I'm uncharacteristically quiet, none of my grandparents make an attempt to stop me. Not even my grandma, who usually could sense when something is sitting on my mind. Both of them leave me to my own devices, my own ways of coping with my silly mistakes.

Maybe that's why I end up pulling out the book. Sitting on the floor, cross-legged and changed out of my everyday clothes, I find myself staring at the worn cover of the only possession I have left from my mother. Little objects remain from my old life. Little of anything remains from the Isle of Ladybugs. But this book, filled with my people's history and knowledge, carries much more weight than anything else I could ever own.

Sometimes, even though it pains me to relive that night, I would think back to the Isle. In my mind, in a world where Hawkmoth had not declared war, a world in which there was still peace, I see an Isle that had prospered and developed as the years went on by. My mother would have taught me how to hone my magic; I would have reached my Peak and decided to focus on becoming a teacher, passing down the knowledge I held within me to others. Families would grow into newer generations. My childhood friends would still be alive.

Monarch's lust for power has taken everything from me. If none of this had happened, I would have been fully trained. If none of this had happened, I would have still had my mother. I would have still had my home.

Now, all that I have left of it all is fantasies and past memories. Folly and fancy. Nothing but empty thoughts and dreams.

All I have left of my mother is a single book and my own splotchy memories. Since we can't keep any pictures around, I don't even have access to those. My mother's face, one that so many who knew her always likened to mine, is one that I'm slowly forgetting. Fading at the edges, twisting her steel grey eyes into spheres instead of almonds, my own mind is gradually erasing her presence. Gradually removing her memory.

Constantly, my grandma would tell me about how selfless and wise my mother had been. Whenever she was needed, my mother would always be ready, always be available with a plan to help solve a problem. My mother always knew what to do. Above all else, I remember her solving any little problem I came to her with, whether it was about having a soggy sock or a small mishap I had caused in the market.

Now, so many years into the future, it isn't any different; I have messed up royally and my mother would have known what to do. But now that she's gone, now that I can't access her guidance, I - her own daughter - don't know what to do.

And so I keep staring at the book, trying to harness her presence, trying to feel like my mother is still there with me. Nothing ends up coming.

Instead, releasing a tired sigh, I pick up the sturdy book and return it to its secret compartment inside my closet. Too tired to even think about anything else, I slip into bed and pull my blankets over my body, wanting this all to be a horrid dream that I would eventually wake up from. Only, this isn't all a dream. Monarch rules the world. I am a fugitive. My mother is gone - and she wouldn't be coming back.

More than anything, I miss my mother, miss the ways in which she made me feel less lonely. Sometimes, when she sensed the overwhelming loneliness, my grandma would share stories about her.

"They used to play together all the time," She would say, a smile on her face as she thought back to a distant time. A different time. "Then we moved back to Paris once I was better. Your father, though, decided to stay and get married. Then you know what happened..."

Yes. I remember what happened well. One day my father had fallen sick, wasting away to a disease that even the Ladybugs couldn't heal with their abilities. No-one had told me at the time that it wasn't a true sickness; I had learned that after coming to Paris, after my grandfather had decided I was old enough to know the truth. Even so, I remembered crying the night that my father died - unaware that he wasn't ever going to wake up but aware that he was no longer there.

Just like tonight, it had rained when my father died. In that moment - a grieving child with a broken heart - I had told everyone around me that the raindrops were my tears. Tonight, it seems, they are my tears once again.

Turning over in bed, I face the wall and try to ignore the stinging sensation in my eyes. Alone. I have always been alone and now it is no different. So, as I wallow in my sadness, let reality sink in, I watch the moonlight leave patterns on the wall until I feel my eyes grow heavy. Then, seamlessly, I slip away into a world of dreams, a world where Monarch and his army simply doesn't exist. A world in which I could see my mother again, held safely in her loving arms.