Chapter Text
A brisk October wind whips the flags that fly over the cemetery gates into a frenzy. It howls throughout the barren trees that stab through the ground like the restless fingers of the deceased. The place is deserted, lonely. Dead. No one roams the overgrown paths looking for loved ones, except for a lone figure. The first thing that you notice is the moonlight glinting off of his jade bracelet. It’s shaped like a turtle and looks to be a little tourist trinket, but the reverent way that the man rubs at it says otherwise. It’s treasured, valued beyond reason. It must have emotional ties to the ones he’s visiting, you think.
The figure turns, almost as if he’d heard you. “I’ve been waiting for you.” His voice is rusty with disuse, and you start to turn to walk away, to give him some space to grieve, but he continues, “Could you let an old man ramble for a minute?” It’s intriguing, you think, and maybe you can stay, just for a moment, but it’s getting late and cold. So you reply, “Sure, but maybe somewhere a little warmer?” The old man shakes his head. “I like to tell my stories with the characters surrounding me. Have you noticed where you are?” “Sure,” you reply. “I’m in Cimetière de Héros. In Paris.” He nods. “Right. And do you know of Paris’ old heroes, Coccinelle, and Chat Noir?” His voice breaks a little on the ‘noir’. “Have you heard of the desperate Papillon, and how they gave everything to defeat his army of akumas? Have you heard of the brave and flirtatious Rena Rouge, the loyal Queen Bee, and the camera-shy Paon?” There’s an expectant pause, then, “Have you heard of the Age of Heroes?”
You shake your head, a little confused. To be honest, they sound familiar, but you can’t place their names. He moves to a bench and sits, and you sit beside him. “They don’t tell your stories anymore,” the man whispers to the two graves that lay in front of him. “It’s a shame. You don’t deserve to be forgotten. After all of the times that you two saved Paris, they don’t even remember you.” You lean past the reminiscent old man a little, trying to see the names. The first one proclaims, “Marinette Dupain-Cheng, a loyal friend and wonderful hero.” Under her name lies a quote that states, “And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then you shall truly dance.” Under that, the birth and death dates are listed. The second one states simply, “Adrien Agreste, well-loved hero, and friend.” Under the name are the birth and death dates, and a quote that reads, “A true hero isn’t measured by the strength of his body, but by the strength of his heart.” You notice that the death dates are the same: June 22, 2017, and you shudder.
“They were the first,” the man sighs. Your confusion must show on your face because he hastens to explain. “The first heroes, I mean. Coccinelle and Chat Noir. Everyone loved them in the beginning. Until one day, something went dreadfully wrong. They were hated then.” A glimmer of recognition niggles at the back of your mind. ‘PAPILLON DEFEATED, PARIS IN SHAMBLES!’ the headline had screamed. Another had solemnly proclaimed, ‘MILLIONS PRONOUNCED DEAD AFTER THE BATTLE OF THE CENTURY.’ Your mind is suddenly flooded with terrible memories of the news stories. Burned, skeletal buildings, thrusting up jaggedly from the ground like they had been thrown there by angry gods. People lying on the ground, broken. You remember gliding, it seemed, through it all, shocked, confused. Confused by how a fellow human being, one that had a child, could have done this, all this damage. The date was June 22, 2017.
“But,” you hesitate, not sure how to continue the sentence, not even sure what you had been about to say. The old man waits, a patient look etched on his withered face. You finally figure out what you were about to say, and ask, “But what about Coccinelle’s Lucky Charm? Shouldn’t that have put it all right again?” He sighs a sad, lonely sigh. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, “We should begin where everything begins. The beginning.” There’s a flash of dark green light, and a fairy-like creature appears out of nowhere. “Good evening,” he says to you, but his eyes rest worriedly on the old man. “Master, you shouldn’t be out in this cold.” “Quiet, Wyazz. I’ll be fine,” he rebukes, then says to you, “You know of Kwamis, yes?” You nod; everyone knows about Kwamis. “Well, Marinette received hers around, oh I’d say in lycée around 3ème. Same with Adrien. Adrien and I, we were thick as thieves. Marinette had Alya. Alya and I never knew where they went; we only knew that they were never akumatized. And we knew that Marinette had a huge thing for Adrien. It was obvious to everyone except for him.” “Wait,” you interrupt, and you immediately apologize when he gives you a look, “Sorry, but are you Nino Lahiffe?” A slight grin flashes across his face. “That’s me,” he confirms. Then he continues, “Alya and I eventually started dating each other, though we had our fights. She was always a fan. Of Coccinelle, I mean. That’s almost all we fought about. Her running after the danger like she was invincible.”
You interrupt again, shooting him another apologetic look. “How do you know the story, if you weren’t there?” He chuckles. “I wondered when we would get to that question. I got the story from Mari the day before the attack. I already had Wyazz at that point, and I knew that I would need to pass it on. Her story, I mean. Their story. It deserves to be heard by someone who’ll pass it on. You’re a journalist, are you not?” You nod, and he continues. “You were the one to cover the final attack. You have the trust of the people of Paris. You can bring them back, help them live on in their stories.” You stand, not really sure how to respond. You can’t tell him that you only write the tabloid articles now, that no one really believes anything that you write. That the coverage of the final attack was your last real piece in years.
The old man-Nino- reads your expression with a small, wry grin twisting his lips. “Yes, I know that you’re a tabloid writer now. That doesn’t matter. Even if no one believes you, they should at least remember those who saved their parents and grandparents.”
Nino shifts his weight to a more comfortable position on the stone and looks at you expectantly. You sit back down, reluctantly, still not positive that you’re going to write the story for him, but his grin makes it a little easier to decide.
“You know the date of the final battle, the fatal one for everyone but me. The others weren’t so lucky as to escape, but Hawkmoth didn’t know that I possessed a Kwami. It was a mistake that later cost him his life.” A flicker of long-repressed anger twists his features into a black mask, but it’s gone so fast, you’re not sure if it was real. So you shake it off and focus on the story. “The day it all started was January 16, 2017. It was a bitterly cold night, but when does the weather ever stop evil? Hawkmoth sent an Akuma out at about 3:00 in the morning. No one was ready, not even our beloved heroes.” There’s a pause, then Nino nods at Wyazz as if he’s made some sort of decision. “You don’t mind if we take a trip back in time, do you? It would probably be better for the storyline.” After a nod from you, and with a whoosh of green light, the two of you disappear into the void of time.
The first thing you see is a young girl with dark hair pulled into twin tails rush past you screeching about being late for… something. You turn to Nino, confusion etched on your face. “No,” he replies to your unasked question. “No one can see us. My power is much like Dumbledore’s Pensive; you are able to see and not be seen.” “Wicked,” you murmur, and Nino shoots you a little grin. “I would have to agree,” he says, a chuckle lacing his voice. “Follow me.”
The two of you walk the streets of Paris until you hear civilians screaming. You whip around to stare at Nino in horror, but he only chuckles. “Don't worry,” he says. “This is their first Akuma. There weren’t any casualties.” “Stoneheart?” you whisper, and Nino nods. Just then, you glimpse Chat Noir vaulting towards the pandemonium, and you can’t help yourself. “Can you make me visible to these people?” you ask frantically. He nods, but trepidation lines his features. “Will you?” you prod, and he sighs and waves his hand.
As soon as you’re sure that you’re visible (you don’t need to be mistaken for an Akuma), you sprint after Chat. He’s only a teenager, you think. He shouldn’t be doing this. He’s too young to die as he did. “Chat!” You scream his name, hoping against hope that he hears you over all the commotion. And, against all odds, he does. He lands hard in front of you, panting for breath, hands on his knees. Too young, rings through your head again, and you shoot towards him, not knowing what exactly what you’re going to do, but knowing that he’s not going to survive Hawkmoth.
Your hands land awkwardly on his chest, and your face goes red. “Are you hurt?” he asks, always the hero, never thinking of the danger to himself. “You need to go,” you pant out, eyes wide with panic.
“Why? Why would I need to go?” His chartreuse eyes are wide and puzzled. “Be-because. You’re too young to be doing this; you’re only fifteen!” Your voice cracks with emotions that you can’t quite explain, but you keep going. “You- you could die .”
Chat Noir laughs, a carefree, devil-may-care laugh. “Me? Please, I’ll be fine! My Lady has my back. I trust her.” You can’t help but notice how soft Chat’s voice gets when he talks of Ladybug, even having only met her a few minutes ago. Just then, you notice that his gloved fingers are wrapped around your wrists, holding you up, and you pull gently away.
“You shouldn’t rely on her so much,” you whisper, trying to avoid another voice crack, and his eyes darken.
“How could you say that about her? Ladybug won’t let anyone down.”
“How do you know?”
“Because,” Chat replies. “I have faith in her, and so does all of Paris.”