Chapter Text
Gasping, Lance barged into the parlor. Out of commitment – or for his cardio (as he would later excuse it) – he’d run there while still in his shorts. Meanwhile, Faang fumbled out of his pocket and into the air, swaying slightly. “I think I’m gonna be–scratch that, I am sick,” he said, rubbing his temples.
“Hold on…” Lance began, then spent a long, generous moment catching his breath. “Kwamis can get sick?”
Faang frowned and crossed his arms. “What happened, Lance?”
“Well, uh… I got us to Fu’s? Went a bit too fast, maybe?” He evaded.
The kwami sighed. He grabbed the collar of Lance’s T-shirt and stared at him. “You ran away,” he reminded him. “You didn't change clothes, and your backpack is still in your locker. So, what happened?”
The question echoed inside Lance’s mind, but he dodged it – partly because he was still out of breath, but mostly because he had forgotten the reason a few streets back. “Faang, don’t… everything is fine. I still have my phone, my keys, and the gloves. I’ll ask Juleka to bring the rest with her, and we’ll pick it up later. Hopefully.”
Lance sensed Faang mulling over his words and hoped he’d let it rest – now wasn't the time to delve into the inner workings of his psyche. When Faang landed back in his pocket, he sighed gratefully. Then, he knocked on the main room’s door.
“One moment, please!” answered Fu.
Not wanting to be mistaken for a potential client, Lance cupped a hand around the side of his mouth and whispered. “Sir, it's me and Fa–”
“Lance and… Fatima, yes! I'm with a patron–“ A chill shot down Lance’s spine. “I’ll be with you shortly!”
His body recoiled away from the door, and he stumbled back into one of the chairs lining the walls. He sat stunned into silence, his cheeks relentlessly burning.
Minutes later, a middle-aged man exited the room. Lance’s gaze ascended the tailored suit and landed on bleached white teeth. He had seen him somewhere before.
“Enchanté.” The man offered his hand, a golden watch strapped around his wrist. “Forgive me if I am wrong, but aren’t you Marguerite's grandson?”
The mention of Grand-mère’s name left him in a quiet state of panic. As far as he knew, the man could be a disgruntled constituent with a bone to pick or maybe just another politician.
He does look the part.
Realizing he’d left the man hanging, Lance hurried to shake his hand. “Yes, monsieur. I’m Lance,” he said, wincing as multiple rings squeezed his fingers, then sighing as they released him.
“Hmm, and I take it you don’t recognize me?” The man prodded, flashing a campaign smile that ought to be on a billboard plastered next to a name. What name?. Then, he had it, and his smile soured instantly.
“Gérard Lellouche. You’re running against Grand-mère for party leader, right?”
“I should hope so!” he quipped, followed by an overly cheerful guffaw that stretched his whole face. “And playing to win! Wouldn’t want to have to find myself a new PR team for the next election.”
“I've read your campaign agenda.” Somehow, his simple comment had turned into an accusation. “You say you fight for workers while supporting motions that would take funding from programs in lower-income areas and put it into business subsidies.”
The features on Gérard's face hardened. The mirth in his voice vanished like a forgotten memory. “Life's not that simple, Lance. People need jobs to put food on the table. But there are no jobs if there are no businesses to hire them due to budgetary constraints. That's where I come in. When businesses succeed, we all succeed. I help the workers help themselves.”
Why not just help workers directly? A wayward thought he knew better than to say out loud. Because the workers aren't the ones paying him! He didn't dare, however, air out more defaming claims. A shouting match before Fu's lesson probably wouldn't be a good look for him.
“What about the people relying on their RSA payments to cover their bills? They might go hungry or lose the roof over their heads," explained Lance.
“You really are her grandson,” Gérard chuckled as he swept a hand over his greasy hair, his mirth resurging. “There’s something you’ve yet to understand, Kid. In politics, when you want to help one group of people, you'll be seen as the bad guy by the rest. You can’t please everybody. You'll get it when you're older.”
Lance nodded to end the conversation, yet he couldn't help but think about how dangerous that mindset was.
Seeming content to conclude their conversation, Gérard pocketed his hands and bid Lance adieu, wishing him and Fatima – who, Lance hastily explained, was in the bathroom – a pleasant afternoon before he left.
Entering the main room, Lance came across Master Fu, being dwarfed by the rolled-up massage mat he was carrying. “A little help goes a long way,” he grunted.
Lance briefly mused on his wise words until he realized it was a call for help and sprang into action. Together, they carried it across the room and laid it next to a chest of drawers.
As Lance straightened up, he struck his head. “Ow!” He groaned, rubbing the sore spot on his scalp as he searched for the culprit.
He quickly found it: A gramophone and its bronze horn perched atop the chest. It resembled the one Grand-mère had, except it looked much older and surprisingly better kept.
Master Fu chuckled, “I brought it out for our lesson today.” Then he reached for the gramophone’s case.
At the base of the gramophone, a pair of golden dragons held a metal plate with their mouths; their eyes emitted a weak yellow glow that switched to blood-red as Fu pressed them. In an instant, their jaws dropped, and the plate fell, revealing two rows of buttons.
“No way, is that a keypad?” Lance asked, seeing Master Fu’s spry fingers inserting the combination. “How old is that thing?”
Instead of answering, Fu instructed him to focus his attention on the box.
The gramophone spun to its side and popped open, revealing a larger version of the box that his gloves had come in. This box had more of an octagonal shape and various drawers along its body that Lance spotted as it rose into view.
“This is the Mother Box,” Master Fu explained, cradling it in his arms while Lance tuned into its deep, hypnotic hum. “It once contained nineteen of the mightiest miraculous.” He took great care in placing it down in the center of the room, and he beckoned Lance to join him. “Four of its jewels, however, are now absent. Hawk Moth possesses the Butterfly, and our new heroes, the Ladybug and the Black Cat.”
Lance approached the box cautiously and sat down. Then, something in his mind clicked. “But that's only three? Also, I don’t see a tiger drawer. Is it somewhere else?”
Master Fu nodded, seemingly anticipating his questions. “The Peacock was lost alongside the Butterfly. As for the missing compartment…” he trailed off, directing his gaze at an empty spot in the wood. “A tale for another time.”
“Right.” Lance looked down at the crimson circle with a pattern of wavy red lines covering the lid. “Faang’s box had the same symbol on it. Is it the Order’s?”
A brief silence followed before Master Fu answered. His downcast eyes raised a myriad of questions. “Yes, it is.”
Fu’s mournful tone held Lance back from probing any further. Instead, he recast his focus on the box. “May I?” he asked, his hand hovering over it.
With a short nod from Fu, he opened the lid.
A rainbow of colors immediately burst forth, zipping and twirling around them. Lance’s jaw dropped as the beam split into a shower of tiny comets, all arching back down towards the box. From the fading light emerged a menagerie of kwamis: a sea-green snake with a piercing stare, a sly fox with a twitching tail, and even a miniature dragon with shimmering scales. Each resembled a different fantastical creature, from a singing sunbird to a mischievous monkey and a buzzing bee.
The dog clapped its tiny stubs as it jumped up and down. ”Don't tell me! You’re my new holder!”
Lance frowned. “Uh, no, I–”
“Barkk, don't be silly,” The pig said. “I see a huge imagination in him. Perfect for me.”
“Thank you, but–”
“With me, you’ll achieve perfect balance over your body and mind.” The koi fish offered, swimming in the air. “In exchange, all I ask is for a packet of ‘sea snacks.’”
The kwamis oohed in unison. “Snacks!”
Amidst the cacophony of high-pitched voices vying for his attention, a warm plea cut through the din. “Everyone, please settle down.”
Between the squawking rooster and bellowing ox hovered a fluffy white bunny. Her ears, easily the length of her body, perked up in focus while her eyes, bathed in a rich, vibrant blue, had a calming effect on him. “I'm sure Lance would love to talk with all of us, but he needs time to answer.”
Faang phased through his chest with a roar, hushing the room as the other kwamis drew back. “And he's my holder. So keep your paws, claws, talons, and fins off him!”
Rendered speechless, Lance watched as the unfazed bunny met Faang’s gaze. Suddenly, she pounced, clasping her tiny arms around his neck in a tight hug. “Wild Berry!”
Lance broke into laughter. “Wild Berry!?”
“F-fluff!” stammered Faang in protest, losing his wits for once. “Don’t call me that in front of my holder. You’ll embarrass me!”
The kwamis uttered a united “aww” and then huddled up to talk at a much more respectable volume. Soon, a light gray rat with swaying whiskers and tail broke off from the group and approached Lance.
“I’m Mullo,” she said. “I represent the concept of Expansion. When you blow on a balloon or think of galaxies parting away from each other – that's me!”
The horse tossed her mane back and followed suit. “You may address me as Kaalki. Mount of Kings and kwami of migration.”
The introductions continued: Xuppu, Trixx, Sass, Longg, until finally, it was Fluff’s turn.
“I assume Faang has already told you about me.” She winked at him, and his shy smile all but confirmed it. “Lance, I… I’ve waited a long time to meet you.”
Lance leaned forward, a question mark etched onto his face. “You have?”
He wondered what “a long time” meant for a kwami supposedly older than the earth itself. Additionally, was time viewed the same way by them, or was the concept incompatible with their lifespan?
Faang flew to Fluff’s side and directed his gaze at Lance. “I’ve told you how she sensed Hawk Moth, ‘a big evil,’ coming. But that also applies to a great good, like you.”
His ears heard Faang, the electrical signals transforming into human words, but his brain rejected them outright.
Him? A great good? It was a flattering comment, yet so far off the mark that it stung like a cruel joke.
“Please don't say that,” he begged Faang, evading their stares as he continued. “I… I don’t doubt that I can help. I want to, and I will. But don’t call me that, or we’ll both be disappointed.”
Again, silence reigned. One that crept up his knees and spine like a spider slowly weaving its web. Then, a cough snapped his focus to Master Fu and Pollen, the bumblebee in his hand.
“I disagree, Lance,” Fu said. Their glares clashed, newfound doubt warring against old wisdom, and Lance caved first. He switched the leg he was standing on and looked away.
“It is not the bee’s one action that defines the hive’s future.” Fu extended his hand, and Pollen jumped to Lance’s shoulder – her drone proved soothing. “It’s the sum of its work, day after day, that contributes to its prosperity or ruin,” he continued. “Do not judge your impact on the world until there is one. And for that, all you must do is try.”
With a ball of impulsive responses bobbing in his throat, Lance nodded and swallowed them all down. Fu’s speech, whether enriched by the life he had led or based on some secret Order scriptures, held nuggets of truth, even if the knot in his stomach disagreed.
“You won’t be alone,” Fluff said as she and Faang landed on his free shoulder. “My holder will join you when the time is right.”
Join me, he thought. “Aren’t I the one doing the ‘joining’? Also, why would I get a partner?”
The hovering kwamis exchanged glances, making him feel blind and ignorant, as if the answer was right in front of him and he still couldn't see it. Then, Faang spoke: “Creation and Destruction are a balanced pair, and one shouldn't be active without the other…” A collective hum agreed with him. ”But mine and Fluff’s holders are different. They can work alone, but they thrive together!”
Another drop of kwami wisdom left him humming and mulling. A partnership meant a person to rely on, grow close with, see hurt, and perhaps lose. With Ladybug and Chat Noir, it would be a team effort; meanwhile, a partner brought heaps of responsibility and trust he would dread to tread on. “And when’s the right time?” he asked Fluff. “Or is there like some rule about talking about the future too much?“
She responded with a soft smile; he had already answered his question.
=*^*=
Juliette's gaze was fixed on the ground as she trudged through the streets, drawing occasional glances from passersby. She held onto the tail of her hijab, tracing her thumb up and down its delicate fabric, searching for a fiber of faith in its countless threads. The tapping of her shoes against the pavement had transformed deliberate steps into a rhythmic pattern, offering a brief respite to her troubled mind.
Soon, she arrived at church.
The chime of the afternoon bells signaled the start of service as she climbed the outside steps. Her knees ached in memory of the level path to her local mosque, yet she welcomed the distraction.
At the entrance, dark suits and darker expressions awaited her: family, friends, and so many others whose lives he had changed. With nothing to say to dull their grief, Juliette kept walking.
Through the towering doors, a red carpet stretched across the aisle to the altar and casket; beside it, the priest talked with her father in hushed tones.
Papa.
Her vision began to cloud as murmurs of prayers reverberated throughout the hall, each a lament, gratitude, or heartfelt confession he couldn’t respond to, each reminding Juliette that her brother had–
She stopped, yet her body raged on. Her lungs ceded breath she couldn’t lend; her nerves rebelled as though she’d wronged them, twitching her fingers away from her hijab. Instinctively, Juliette pressed a hand to her chest to still her aching heart, yet it too repelled her touch. As a last resort, she willed her arms to grab the chain peeking out of her pocket, revealing a heart-shaped locket attached to its end. She wrapped it firmly between her hands and waited for a long moment.
Through will or miracle, Juliette regained control of her body, long enough to see how much farther the altar was.
No…
She had barely passed half of the hall before stopping.
She couldn’t do it. Not here, not now. Not when her faith was already at its breaking point and her body ready to crumble.
So, with her head down and locket in hand, Juliette fled towards the exit. Away from the ceremony, away from those asking God to save him, and from that cursed sight that tore out her heart.
She would return home. Louis would be in the kitchen burning her pans before apologizing and offering to buy her a new set, but she would refuse because she knew how much he loved cooking for them, and that was what mattered.
As she hurried towards the exit – towards Louis and home – a hand snatched her arm and pulled her down. “Ow!” she groaned, landing on the pew’s hardwood seat.
“Behave yourself!” her mother hissed, releasing her to face the front again. “What would your brother think?”
Juliette shook off the question before it settled. “Mama, I’m not staying.”
A flicker of emotion parted her mother’s lips, but nothing came of it.
“I don't–I can’t see him. It's too much, please.” Her convulsing throat strangled her pleas; they withered in the air between them.
Suddenly, a resounding boom sounded behind them, sending chills down her spine. When she looked back, another nerve-racking wave swept over her.
They closed the doors.
“Mama!” Her urgent, childlike cry drew eyes from other pews, their numbers mounting as she continued. Not that she had the strength to face them.
At last, her mother turned, weariness pulling on her wrinkles. “I give up, Juliette,” she muttered as if her panic was simply a ruse. So slick and cunning that it had fooled even her. “You win.”
Tears began streaming down Juliette’s flushed-red cheeks. They couldn't wash away the pain she felt cast upon her.
“I’ve tried to lead you back into the light for so long, but not even your brother’s–” Her mother winced and clamped a hand over her mouth. Then it fell, and she continued, “Go, and may God have mercy on your soul.”
Teetering on the brink of total collapse again, Juliette shot up to her feet as more heads turned to look. From the corner of her eye, she spotted a figure blurred by tears approaching, its curly, graying beard unmistakably her father’s.
Before he could close the distance, however, she took a step back, then another, and only with the third had she pulled herself away enough to turn around and run.
Once outside, Juliette finally fell apart.
She dropped to her knees as a deep, guttural sob erupted from within her. Clutching the locket tightly with both hands, she felt a soft weight on her knuckles before it squeezed between her fingers. A voice spoke as the world around her disappeared and a purple mask ran along the edges of her vision.
“Echo, I am Hawk Moth,“ he announced, every depressing thought of hers amplified by his cadence. “No one should ever suffer grief as you have. It is… inhumane. Accept my powers, and you will be able to reunite those separated by death.”
Seeing Louis again… the idea carried enough temptation on its own.
“In exchange, I only ask for Ladybug and Chat Noir’s miraculouses. A small price to pay for family, wouldn't you agree?”
=*^*=
After a small detour to Marinette’s place for some pastries and chatting – mostly just Alya gushing about her and Nino finally being a thing while Marinette shrieked in excitement – Alix followed Alya back home to start working on the Ladyblog. Yet hearing Alya go on and on about her and Nino’s planned date almost made her wish for another akuma.
Only when they reached the apartment’s door did Alya’s lovey-dovey talk sizzle out into a quiet “Oh” as she combed through her pockets, backpack, and even her glasses case for the keys.
Alix idled in the hallway, waiting for Alya’s classic groan of defeat – which usually led to her stepping in out of pity. And, as the “missed call” beep sounded from Alya’s phone on her tenth try, the cycle remained unbroken.
“Ugh, Nora’s not answering my calls,” she said, shoving her phone back into her pocket.
Without a word, Alix passed her and reached the door. Then she grabbed two paper clips from her backpack, unfolded the first, bent the second, and placed them inside the lock.
One click, two clicks, three…
Alya peered over Alix's shoulder. “What are – Alix, since when do you pick locks?”
“Since Professor Monlataing thought it smart to close the art room with all my stuff there. Now shush, let me focus.”
Just a bit more pressure here… and boom, six clicks!
Turning the lock cracked the door open. Damm, she was good.
As Alix and Alya crossed the entrance hall towards the living room, a powerful bass-heavy beat blasted from Nora’s bedroom. Godawful EDM surged through the apartment not a second later, shaking the floor underneath them.
“Nora, I’m home!”
No response.
“Got Alix with me.”
The music soon stopped, and Alya’s older sister emerged from her room, a broad smile curling across her lips as she towered over them. “Should’ve started with that, little sis,” she said, bumping fists with Alix. “What’s up, Wheels?”
“Definitely your music volume,” Alix replied. She and Alya shared a laugh while Nora groaned.
After they had composed themselves, Alya turned to her sister. “By the way, Nora, we’re gonna be–”
“Sis, I told you a hundred times already to call me–”
“I remember.” Assured Alya, “Just do me a favor and wear those super expensive headphones I bought you. Alix and I need to work on a school project, but that ain't happening with a twenty-four-seven earthquake in our house.”
Nora frowned and crossed her arms. “Your profs are already bugging you with that? Damn, Lycée’s gotten a lot tougher since I left.”
Meanwhile, Alix was at a total loss. What “project” was Alya talking about? Then she swapped glances with Alya and immediately understood: they had both kept the Ladyblog a secret at home.
Once they were in her room, Alya headed for the laptop on her desk while Alix fetched the bean bag stuffed in the corner for herself.
“So, about this project…” teased Alix, sitting down next to Alya after dropping her backpack. “Are we working on it before or after our totally secret superhero blog?”
Alya let out a small chuckle. “Depends – do you wanna still be here when those headphones give out?”
“Hell no.”
Soon, the room’s chill ambiance was peppered with clicks, clacks, and the seemingly endless pings from Alya’s phone.
When Alix looked up, she noticed that Alya had opened up the calculator app on her laptop and was sprinting through a series of equations, most of which were pure gibberish.
“Let me guess: you’re figuring out how much you owe me for Stoneheart?” she asked, sinking into the bottom of her seat. Maybe one day she would come out the other side and into a normal world again…
Nah, she wasn't that lucky.
(...)
As Alix began dozing off, a kick to the bean bag jerked her wide awake. “W-what?”
“Get up. I wanna show you something,” replied Alya.
Alix groaned in protest, only rising after Alya wound up her knee for a second strike.
“So, do you remember how after we met up with Ivan and Mylène, those two arrived all worried about them, but then you–” Alya gasped. “Oh, my god. I completely forgot I talked to Ladybug! Sure, it was just a simple thank you, but still–”
“Alya – the point,” Alix demanded, ready to slump back into her seat.
Alya stopped her rambling with a sigh, but the gleam in her eye shone on. “Someone had to catch Ivan and Mylène, but it couldn't have been Ladybug or Chat.”
Alix furrowed her brow: that didn't make any kind of sense. The only people fast and strong enough to save them were wearing spandex that day; besides, she saw Chat Noir… or was it Ladybug?
(...)
Crap. Her memory of the figure was already foggy when Marinette asked her about it, and now even more so.
“Well, you got any evidence?” asked Alix, still mostly skeptical. “Or is this the part where you tell me how Hawk Moth is secretly a good guy?”
“Girl, I’m serious." Alya insisted. She then turned back to her laptop where a nameless folder and video file had appeared. “I'll show you. I got the smoking gun and everything.”
“Yeah, 'cause I haven't heard that one before.”
The video began with the Café de l'Homme terrace trashed and abandoned by its patrons; in the background, Stoneheart clung to the Eiffel Tower, fighting the two heroes while Mylène flailed helplessly in his hand.
Seeing this, Alix’s stomach wrapped itself in a tight knot. She tore her gaze away from the action and back to the café, but the knot didn't budge. Her mind wandered, remembering first Mylène’s blood-curdling screams during the attack, then her flinching at Alix's words earlier today.
Great, now she felt like a jerk for bringing it up: she made a mental note to message Mylène later and apologize.
A few minutes in, a deep-violet cocoon replaced Stoneheart and spat out Ivan and Mylène. They began hurtling down, grasping the rushing wind while Ladybug and Chat Noir scrambled to the edge of the roof. Just as Ladybug leaped into the air, the video froze.
“Oh, come on!” Alix struck the desk, earning a laugh from Alya.
“Girl, I had the exact same reaction the first time I watched this,” she admitted. “But don’t worry, it’s not over just yet.”
Sure enough, the video sputtered back to life in its last few seconds to reveal a damning sight: Ladybug and Chat Noir diving through the air alone, frantically twisting and turning as they fell like they’d lost something… or someone.
(...)
There’s no way, was Alix’s first coherent thought. What if… they just fell out of view?
No, that didn't explain it. They were both caught before reaching the first floor; she would definitely remember it otherwise.
But that meant…
“Wait, how did you get this footage, again?” she asked, certain the café owner hadn’t just lent their recordings to a random teen.
A satisfied smirk crept across Alya’s face. “Does that mean you believe me now?”
“Not yet. Who's your source?”
Alya’s smirk left as quickly as it arrived. “It's uh… complicated,” she admitted as she closed the video and opened up the Ladyblog. ”I said people could send me their Stoneheart clips for me to post – with credit, of course – then I got an email with no name, no text, and this video attached. “I sent it to Max first in case of a virus or something, but it came back clean.”
Musing on Alya’s response, Alix thought back to the video, the whole thing still feeling sketchy as hell. “What about that corrupted bit?” she pointed out. “It cuts off at the worst possible time. That can't be just a coincidence.”
“Well, Max gave a ‘94.7 percent chance’ of it being caused by a bug in the recording software, and the teeny tiny rest was for potential tampering,” Alya recalled, moving her mouse cursor over to the ´New Post´ button. “But just think what news of a third hero will mean to people!”
With a small sigh, Alix tried to imagine that future – and quickly shook her head. “What happens when it turns out to be a doctored video, and we just gave everyone false hope? Heh, I bet Hawk Moth would love that.”
Alya’s shoulders shot up at the last part. Despite that, her cursor remained stubbornly in place.
And it was up to Alix to change that.
“Let’s do an investigation. A serious one,“ she declared, perching on the edge of Alya’s desk. “If we’re posting news, we need more to go off on than one sketchy video sent by who-knows-who.”
She frowned, a bolt of realization leaking into her speech. “Unless you want to turn this blog into a tabloid… which sounds like a waste to me.”
Instead of being disheartened by her comments, Alya beamed at her.
“Hey, what are you smiling like that for?” demanded Alix.
“Oh, nothing,” assured Alya, settling her expression into a small, resting smile. “You're absolutely right. Journalist standards come first.”
As Alix searched Alya’s words for sarcasm, Alya took a pen and notepad from her desk drawer and began writing. “We should start by sorting through all the clips I got sent. I mean, who knows, right? Maybe one of them can show us what happened up there.”
Alix nodded along, slowly adjusting to the shift in Alya’s tone.
“Interviews are also a must. The attack’s fresh on everyone’s mind and we’re gonna capitalize the hell out of that,” said Alya, fiddling with her pen as she grew excited. “That said, the last thing Mylène and Ivan need right now is to talk about Stoneheart…”
“Hmm, and the heroes are probably off the table too,” commented Alix. “Even if they agreed to an interview – which, good luck with that – they’d have no reason to fess up. I definitely wouldn't.”
Alya flipped up a page and continued her notes. “I’m sure I can work it out with them, but it’ll take some doing. Anyways, that makes Lance our only available witness…. You wouldn't mind interviewing him, right?”
The implication wasn't lost on Alix, and she nearly rolled her eyes. Had it been a few months ago, Alya would’ve paired her with Max, Kim, and maybe even Nathaniel if thinking back far enough. Regardless of the speculation, Alix's love life was no one else’s business, so she just shrugged.
“Great!”
Soon, the list started to take shape, prompting Alix to add her own suggestion: “How about we find out who sent that email today?”
Alya’s focus shifted from the notepad to her, skepticism plastered across her forehead in the shape of new wrinkles. Nothing Alix couldn't handle, of course.
“Just think about it for a sec,” said Alix. “Whoever sent that email knew the footage existed, got their hands on it, and was crazy enough to put their job on the line – or worse – just for you to see it.”
The realization hit Alya like a stone golem, her mouth left ajar. While it wasn't Alix’s main goal, the blog's impact must have finally hit her.
“They could’ve also just gotten it from someone else,” admitted Alix, smirking as Alya broke from her trance. “Either way, it’s worth checking the café. If we go now, they might still be open when we get there.”
Alya narrowed her eyes at Alix, likely pondering her brilliant idea. Then she leaned forward in her chair and continued scribbling on her notepad. “Alright, I'm in, but you'll take the lead since it was your idea. That means you’ll be the face of the Ladyblog while we’re there, so just ask the right questions and jot down whatever’s useful.”
“That's it?” wondered Alix. “No suggesting we break in at 3 am or have Max hack into their mainframe?” She shook her head and hopped off the desk. “Fame has changed you, Césaire.”
Alya replied with a half-hearted shrug. “Like it or not, those are part of the journalistic standards you wanted. Besides, if Plan A doesn't pan out, we could always–” A piercing din cut her off, taking over the room.
Alix blocked her ears on instinct, groaning while she looked for the source. She quickly noticed Alya’s laptop had a new window open with the words “Akuma Alert!” in large bold letters. Coincidentally, she became acutely aware of the lump in her throat.
The noise stopped with a click from Alya closing the window. She rushed straight to the Ladyblog tab on her browser – to hell with explanations, apparently – while Alix tried to rein in her breathing without being noticed.
After a pause, Alix asked, “What the hell was that?” and Alya finally bothered to face her.
“The Akuma Alert,” answered Alya, and when she realized Alix’s frown wasn't going anywhere, she clarified. “It picks up on the number of times the “New sightings” tag was recently used in the forums, and if it’s high enough, we get a ping to check it.”
Mental Images resurfaced of Stoneheart’s attack – images that Alix believed were thrown away and resolved – yet she did not flinch, just like then. “Well, what's the hold-up for? Is there one or not?”
Alya glanced at her screen again. The browser was stuck loading the forums, and refreshing the page did little to help. “Sorry, girl, no clue. The blog is taking forever to load for some reason.”
Undeterred, Alix grabbed her phone and scoured the front page of LinkUp for accounts of the attack.
The lump in her throat faded: she had found nothing. Then, she checked Quickflick and NetView to be sure, and when it became clear her search had turned up empty again, she released a pent-up sigh. “Your Akuma Alert was a false alarm. I'd get Max on it before it goes off again.”
“Uh, I think Inès would disagree with you, girl. And François. And Lucy. And Charlotte…”
Alix looked up from her phone. “Who the heck are you talking about–?”
That was when she saw it: The forums had finally loaded, and it was pure chaos; a continuous stream of frantic texts covered the page as far as Alya scrolled, with the earliest of its type uploaded just six minutes ago. In the top post, a woman mentioned hearing her dead mother whisper in her ear as she walked the streets near the Panthéon, while another post showed people lying on the steps of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. There was even a missing persons’ thread flooded with comments.
“Holy crap,” said Alix.
“Change of plans!” announced Alya, clicking on the akuma butterfly on her screen before rising and closing her laptop. “I just sent out the alert to all our fans, which means we have about five-ish minutes until the news stations pick it up and the police block off the area.”
Alix watched as Alya hurried around the room and gathered their things. Meanwhile, she mulled over the promise she had made to her brother…
“Alya, stop,” she eventually ordered as Alya reached for the door, walking up to her. “I gotta tell you something.”
“Can you do it on the way?” asked Alya as she gripped the handle.
Snapping Alya out of her zone always felt like pulling teeth. That time, however, Alix would give her no choice but to listen.
Alix rested her shoulder against the door and crossed her arms. “Nope.”
“Ugh, you’re killing me, girl,” whined Alya, yet she ultimately let go.
As a sign of goodwill, Alix backed off the door as well. “After Stoneheart, I tried to sneak back home, but Jalil caught me…” she revealed, attentive to Alya’s reaction. Alya stilled in turn. “Long story short, he knows where we were and what we were doing. My old man doesn't, but he will probably tell him if it happens again.”
After Alix spoke, a pause stretched out. Alya facepalmed and replied, “Girl, I swear you always have the worst possible timing for these things.”
Alix shrugged, holding a small, guilty smile.
“So does that mean you're sitting this one out?”
“I guess,” grumbled Alix. “Unless you know of a way for us to be there without… actually being there.”
Alya’s eyes shone with a dangerous glint. Well, more dangerous than usual. “It's gonna take a bit, but I may have an idea.”