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“It’s an insult, I tell you!”
Marinette walked into class to the sight of Chloe pacing wildly, fists clenched at her sides and voice raised in outrage. She eased past the angry blonde, toward Alya, who had her phone out, recording the drama.
“I mean, what? The world calling Paris ‘Akumaville’ now? It’s ridiculous, utterly ridiculous!”
Huh? Marinette blinked; this was a new one on her. Granted, maybe it was deserved these days, but it still wasn’t something anyone had said around her.
“It’s not ‘the world’, Chloe; it’s just one stupid celebrity saying it on that American tabloid show, and them running with it.” Adrien was trying to calm Chloe down, although it didn’t look like he was succeeding all that much. “And only because of rumors he was filming a movie here-“
“And he is. Coming to Paris, that is, not filming some trashy movie. And staying at Daddy’s hotel- he’s already booked the room- arriving next month, and staying five weeks.” Chloe stamped her foot. “As if he shouldn’t be tossed out on his ear for insulting this city!”
“That won’t work,” Alix pointed out, hanging over the desk. “If he gets tossed out, he’ll probably get mad and akumatized, and the tabloids will eat it up.”
“Just ignore it, Chloe,” Adrien was still trying to calm the blonde.
“Nah, he’s a comedian. If you ignore it, he’ll just be louder and more obnoxious, and someone else will probably be akumatized.” Kim sounded like an authority on that.
Marinette tapped her fingers on the desk. “What we really need is some way to let him know to watch what he says.”
“Preferably without getting him or anyone else a black butterfly,” Nino added.
The wheels began to turn in Marinette’s brain. “Hey Alya- how’s that online akuma support group coming?”
Alya blinked at the change in topic. “Okay, I guess- the chat rooms are up, and I got some therapists and volunteers to mediate the discussions. What I need to do now is find a way to make it self-supporting; the trickle of donations from the link on the Ladyblog aren’t going to cut it.” She sighed. “Why?”
“Just an idea,” Marinette shrugged, a small smirk playing around her face. “What if we do this?”
Three weeks later, Mr. Tyrone Stamford, the famous comedian, set foot in Paris.
This wasn’t really his kind of town. His kind of town was one that could take a joke, thank you very much. The mayor might also be the proprietor of this (admittedly nicer than he usually got) hotel, but he had already made his disdain for the funnyman plain. No one here got it - that laughing about situations was the only way to make them better .
That dumb Akumaville remark, for example. He’d caught so much flak online for it that his publicist wanted him to issue an apology. As if anyone was supposed to take that seriously . (Although it was true. Which is what made it funny.)
He’d gotten settled in his room, and had headed out for a quick bite- the hotel restaurant was very much not to his taste. All in all, he’d been left alone by the people in Paris. He appreciated that- a lot of people didn’t know how to behave around celebrity. On the other hand, he’d received more than one dirty look from a few of the passersby. Oh well. More people who couldn’t take a joke.
Tyrone entered the hotel, and startled at the sound of a loud gathering in the lobby. Curious, he looked over.
Wait, was that a banner? And all the people here, dressed in T-shirts? Both the banner and the shirts had an odd logo on them- a purple butterfly on a neon-green background, with a black-spotted red circle-and-slash over it. And they both had a slogan, too- in French and English.
“ Welcome to Akumaville! ”
Okay, now he had to find out what was going on.
He moseyed over to the group, who were chatting amiably in small clusters as they moved into the ballroom. No one paid him any mind as he followed the crowd in. And it was a crowd; although the ballroom wasn’t small, it was already quite full, and more people were coming in.
“Hello,” came a voice from behind. Tyrone jumped; how had the kid gotten that close? Wait, this kid looked awfully familiar…
He shook off the odd feeling of recognition. “Hey there, uh...”
“Adrien,” the young man supplied smoothly. “Adrien Agreste.”
Oh, yeah, the model . This was the son of Gabriel Agreste, world –renowned fashion designer and businessman. Tyrone thought the brand was overpriced for streetwear, to be honest, although he did have a piece or two from last year’s collection. (They were gifts, just gifts; he’d never buy anything that over-the-top for himself. Really, his girl should know better than to try to stuff him into high fashion.) Strange, letting your son be the face of your brand, but then, Tyrone wasn’t Gabriel. “Oh. So, how’s Daddy?”
A flicker of something flashed in Adrien’s eyes, but his easy smile didn’t shift at all. “Fine, last I saw. But you’re not here to discuss my personal life, are you, M. Stanford?”
“Nope. In town for some extra scenes from our new film. Most of it was shot on a set, but some outdoor stuff needs to be on location.” Tyrone shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t have time for more interesting things- like whatever’s going on here. What’s all this about?”
Adrien clasped his hands behind his back. “A little get- together. Most of these people are here because they were involved in akuma attacks.”
“Wait- all these people have become a supervillain?” There must have been a few hundred people in the ballroom.
“About half of them. The majority of the former akumas aren’t here,” Adrien said calmly, which gave Tyrone a chill up his spine. More than a hundred people- and this wasn’t all of them? “The rest are people who were affected by the attacks. Some have anxiety or PTSD from what they remember. A lot of them died in collapsed buildings, or flood, or fires.”
Tyrone paled under his tan. He hadn’t known… the media made the akuma attacks look like a joke. A bumbling villain defeated by superpowered teens. It sounded more like a cartoon plot than an actual threat.
But this…this wasn’t a joke.
Adrien turned that megawatt smile back on Tyrone. “Thanks to Ladybug, none of that was permanent. But it doesn’t keep them from remembering. And the former akumas often suffer from guilt and trauma too. By now, most everyone in Paris either is or knows someone involved in an attack.”
The comedian felt sick. No wonder Parisians weren’t amused by his crack about their city. He wouldn’t have been either, if his town had these kind of problems and someone else made fun of it. That apology was starting to seem like…a really good idea.
A black-haired girl in a waitress uniform had come up beside Adrien while Tyrone was lost in thought. Her blue eyes sparkled as she held up a tray of cookies. “Can I offer you something, sir?”
“No, thank you.” In fact, lunch was threatening to make a reappearance.
Her face softened, and she shifted her tray to one hand, putting her other hand on his arm. Adrien did the same on his other side. “We’re not trying to make you feel bad, M. Stamford. The politicians and media work hard to keep akumas from affecting Paris’ tourism trade. You couldn’t have known how an ordinary citizen would feel.”
“Besides, we have to thank you,” Adrien added. “Your remark gave Marinette here,” he gestured at the waitress, who blushed, “the idea for the name of the new online support site. ‘Akumaville’ will go online in a week; she made the logo for the T-shirts and had the idea for the fundraiser.”
“A nonprofit to benefit victims, yeah?” Tyrone was starting to feel a bit better. Maybe his joke had been in poor taste- but it looked like these kids had found a way to make things better despite that.
And maybe he could help in other ways, too. “Well, let me know where to donate. I’ll send it out on my social media.” He gave the kids a smile. “It’s the least I can do.”
The two kids beamed, and Tyrone plucked a cookie off the tray. “Now,” the comedian continued, “What’s the name of the idiot behind all this again? Hawkbutt? Catchy name for a power-mad coward.”
Adrien had to catch the tray before Marinette dropped it in her laughter…though to be honest, he was laughing just as hard. Tyrone moved further into the ballroom. Maybe his joke had been in bad taste- but he was determined to make the best of it.