Archive of Our Own ^beta

It is, in fact, pure luck that Chat Noir got to the site first.

It’s usually Ladybug who always arrives with fanfare and triumph, scarlet red flashing, pigtails swinging like black flags raised in victory. By the time Chat Noir comes, the Akuma usually already have two dents in its armour and Ladybug is already two steps into her multi-procedural complicated plan of taking this week’s Villain-of-the-Week down.

Except, this time, Adrien happens to be working in a studio just two block away from that shopping centre. He was sitting before a camera, in Gabriel’s latest Spring-Summer junior collection, smiling at the photographer squinting at his viewfinder, when the rumble of destruction and the shockwave of impact nearly throws him off his chair.

His photographer’s, Vincenzo’s, silver Alliance ring wails, not a second later, purple light flying in a hologram above the projector to display that ominous butterfly visor.

“Akuma Alert, Akuma Alert! There is an Akumanisation happening nearby! Please take cover and seek appropriate shelter.”

Vincenzo’s eyes bulges. “It’s at Les Olympiades!” he cries. “That’s only two blocks from here!”

Adrien kneels up from where he had caught himself by clinging onto the edges of the glossy white cube he had been sitting on.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he announces, to no one’s care. The entire studio is in a panic now, interns yelling to each other as they run across corridors to pull down metal shutters over the windows, models shrieking as they duck inside changing closets. Two months ago, another Akuma attack would’ve been an event to roll one’s eyes at. No one would’ve bothered to look up from their phones, let alone raise the City of Paris-mandated door and window shields. Vincenzo would’ve allowed Adrien to go to the bathroom, but would’ve tapped his feet for the entire twenty minutes-too-long it would’ve taken Chat Noir to defeat the Akuma and sneak back through the too-small clerestory window. Now, hysteria has enveloped Paris like nothing else. Monarque is this close to winning, and public opinion of Ladybug has never been as low as last night’s poll declares.

Ladybug will have to work hard to gain back Paris’ trust and faith. Ladybug and Chat Noir, and Step One of regaining their previous confidence is by performing their usual work to its upmost perfection.  Give the citizens no chance to doubt them. Meaning: arrive to the site of the Akuma on time, defeat the Akuma as quickly as possible, and make sure no one is hurt in the process. Maybe stay for a photo-op or two, afterward.

This sensible and try-and-tested plan is ruined the moment Chat Noir lands on the roof of an apartment block overlooking Les Olympiades. 

Chinatown on a weekday morning working at the height of retail bustling; restaurants are open, art stores are flourished with customers, medicine shops sell dried sea cucumbers and powdered female ginseng by the packet-full. This serene tableau of commercialism is ruined by the presence of a barrel-chested man wearing brown mesh and a dark angled helmet, flowy cape flapping as he leaps about the place – already engaged in battle with a dove-skinned figure in slimming sapphire robes and a lanky vixen in an enchanting mix of sunset-lavender and tangerine-orange.

“What the fuck is going on?” Chat Noir asks to himself, a little too loudly.

All three of the figures below him look up.

Chat Noir is standing at the edge of a seventeen stories-tall apartment block, with the owl-themed Akuma directly below him on the roof of a supermarket. Félix is just across, perched on the canopy of a store opposite like the bird he pretends to be, and Lila is adjacent, standing upon a lamppost on the streets in heeled boots.

Forced to make a decision, before anyone could speak, the Akuma is certainly opening his mouth to begin an exuberant speech, Chat Noir raises his right hand and fires a smoking black bolt of lightning off his gauntlet straight towards Félix.

Félix’s eyes widens, the effect made all the more startling with the fuchsia-bright irises he now sports, and leaps from the canopy just as it bursts into dust behind him.

“Chat Noir!” he blurts out, skidding to safety on the roof of a building perpendicular. “Wait, listen! I need to talk to Ladybug–”

“You can talk to her after I’ve removed your head,” Chat Noir growls, then decides that is too violent. “Or your Miraculous,” he corrects, as Félix looks vaguely repulsed. Don’t worry, Chat Noir isn’t that savage. “Your Miraculous, you can talk to her after I’ve removed your Miraculous.”

Chat Noir leaps, gravity pounding at his back and wind blowing in his face. His blond fringe blasts from his forehead and his cheeks prickles with the tiniest sensation of cold – before he twirls in mid-air, Bâton in hand, to use his momentum as a slamming bludgeon down upon the Akuma. Chat Noir misses. The Akuma flees from the offending site at the last micro-second with the gracefulness of an escaping hummingbird, leaving Chat Noir to crack concrete and explode a section of empty terracotta roof tiles instead.

Chat Noir stands, right arm burning with the ferocity of his strike, glaring at the Akuma. It looks familiar. Chat Noir isn’t imagining it, he has seen that battle armour before, the gold owl crest, those accusing eyes…

“Principal Damoclès?” he calls.

Damoclès’ scowl darkens. “I am no longer that weak and insignificant man!” he thunders. “Playing at make-believe, playing the fool! I am–” He raises his cape up behind him with both hands. “–the Grand Ducaark!” 

“The Grand Duck?” Chat Noir asks, as the gust of wind fired at Damoclés’ back sends him tumbling, boots over cape off the roof and onto the ground. “Catchy name.”

“I am the Grand Duc!”

Félix is holding his Fan behind Grand Duc, blades still splayed from his attack. It is just a harmless elemental gust, nothing but pressurised air. But Chat Noir has seen Mayura fire stiletto blades out of her Fan with the same manoeuvre. Félix lands on the roof across Chat Noir, taking Grand Duc’s place, and Chat Noir lazily raises his right arm in warning as he comes closer.

“Listen,” Félix says, earnestly and lowly, fan folded up in his palm, both hands up. “I don’t want to fight with you – I need your help, I need Ladybug’s help.”

“Really?” Chat Noir asks. “You think you deserve her help after the shit you pulled?”

Félix growls. “I regret it,” he says, now close enough for Chat Noir to roundhouse kick him if needed. The suits of the Butterfly and the Peafowl are always so formal, so uptight. Gowns and heels and suits and ties rather than functional laced boots, tight military jackets, and leather gloves. Can Félix even lift his leg above his waist? Then again, spooled booties never stopped Mayura from kicking Chat Noir’s ass when necessary, and even when dressed up to the nines in his derby shoes, Papillon had given Ladybug a run for her money. Plus, this is Félix they’re talking about. Martial arts champion who has shown Adrien that fencing eminence means naught when it comes to a good old-fashioned street brawl. “I did what I had to survive. You would’ve made the same decision if you were in my place.”

“Hand twelve magical jewels with the power equivalent of half-a-dozen nuclear bombs each to a manic?” Chat Noir retorts. “Not likely.” Then he pauses. “Why did you hand them to Papillombre?” he asks. And why is Félix coming to Chat Noir for Ladybug’s help now? Aren’t Félix and Monarque working together in the first place? How did Adrien’s ridiculously prodigious and prestigious cousin fall in with such a bad crowd anyway, in another country, additionally? “Why not keep them for yourself? You’ll have all the power you want.”

“That’s not it,” Félix says. “I’m not some sort of lackey for Papillon, Papillombre – whatever the fuck he’s calling himself now–”

“Monarque.”

“Shut up,” says Félix. “I needed to make a trade–”

“Boys,” calls a impish, sing-song voice, jerking both Chat Noir and Félix’s heads up, just in time to see a razor-edged grappling hook hurtling towards them. “Ten o’clock.”

Chat Noir shoves Félix on instinct, feeling the boy gasp at the force of his palms, and the two of them tumble in opposite directions just as the grappling hook plunges right through where they had been standing a moment ago, to stab through solid limestone and brick as if it is nothing but butter.

Lila giggles. She has squatted down now, heels balanced delicately on the limited space of the streetlamp, a hand on her cheek, her Flute comfortably balanced in her lap as she watches them.

“That’s what you get for not paying attention!” she sings.

Chat Noir points his Bâton at her. “And what the Hell are you doing here?” he roars. “Don’t you have enough? You’re the actual Fox Miraculous Holder now, congratulations! Now, fuck off and die somewhere else!”

Lila pouts. “So rude,” she says, standing up in one smooth motion like a rising waterfall. The tall lavender, orange-capped points of her ears twitch as if reading the air. The plate of her Flute is pressed to her lips. “And here I am, trying to help.”

“Help yourself,” Félix snarls. Chat Noir is internally relieved to see Félix looking just as irritated by Lila as he is. So they aren’t working together, small mercies. “I caught her hiding like the coward she is while I engaged Grand Duc. My powers forced her out–” A click of Félix’s fingers, producing mist-blue sparks. “–but she’s still skulking around, the scavenger! Hoping to pick on the remains of the hunt!”

“You’re here to try and steal another Miraculous?” Chat Noir spits. “Tough luck. You can pry mine off my dead body.”

“As alluring as that sounds,” Lila says. “I’m not actually here for you, you arrogant little boy. There are some things more important.”

“Like?”

“ME!” Grand Duc roars, and Chat Noir ducks and flips away as Grand Duc’s fists come swinging. “How dare you ignore me while I am standing right here! Am I a joke to you? A farce? Need I remind you, whelp, that I am the Grand Duc!”

Chat Noir catches the next strike, and rams his knee into Grand Duc’s chin hard enough for his jawbones to mash together with a sharp clack. Disoriented, Grand Duc makes a clumsy grab for Chat Noir’s head, only to receive a vicious blow to the cheek in retaliation.

“Chat Noir, watch out!” Grand Duc has fetched a trio of throwing stars from his handy utility belt, and Chat Noir tenses. But before they could be thrown, Félix steps forward and slaps his Fan on Grand Duc’s forearm, forcing him to drop the projectiles. Twisting, Grand Duc switches targets from Chat Noir to Félix, attempting to punch him in the face. But with a smart side-step, Félix pilots around the hook, and uses Grand Duc’s off-balance momentum to send him sprawling with a kick to the back.

“Why are you helping me?” Chat Noir asks through gritted teeth, claws rasping on his Bâton as he watches Grand Duc struggle back to his feet. Félix is at his side, and for some reason, despite recent history, the presence of his dearest friend-cousin-archenemy-only family who truly understood him, feels as natural as ever. “If you’re trying to convince me that you’re now a good guy, it’s not working.”

Félix blows out his cheeks in frustration. “It’s that simple to you, is it?” he says. “Good and evil? Might it ever occur to you that some things are just that – things?”

“Come back when you’ve found a excuse for leaving two million people stranded in a death sentence!”

“Mirage!”

“Oh, great,” Chat Noir roars. “Now she’s here!”

Lila giggles, leaping into the fray. And it’ll be so easy for Chat Noir to reach over, grab her delicate waist  and snap it in half, rip the Fox Pendant right off her skinny neck, if not for the army of Volpinas swirling over him now. As unbreakable as a tidal wave and as thick as a locust swarm. Each bearing the  same mischievous twinkling violet eyes and bedazzled outfit, the smug smirk which whispers I know what you don’t. Everything that is important is what I know which you don’t.

“Catch me if you can!” Lila cries. “Watch out, chouette!”

“What?” Grand Duc roars, trying to break free from the fox-orange swarm, but his image is soon dragged under like a great steam ship being swallowed by unforgiving waves.

Chat Noir, impulsively, reaches to his right, to try and grab onto Félix to keep him at this side, keep him safe, but Félix has vanished, swallowed into the horde similarly. Chat Noir yells. With a great swing of his Bâton, manages to dissipate three illusions, but more simply oozes in to take their place. Another swing only produces the same result, and another. Chat Noir stops. He has been down this road before, he’ll only be wasting his strength. 

A slender hand tipped with resin claws, much smaller than his own, knavishly attempts to creep down his bicep, towards his Ring, and Chat Noir Cataclysms in that direction without even looking.

Who to take down first, who’s the biggest threat here?

Félix might help them win this war, if he’s subdued and taken into custody. Chat Noir can make him spit out the name of Monarque, the location of the Kwami, the coordinates of every Miraculous in Paris. Going after Félix would be the smart thing to do in the long-term – but is Chat Noir being clouded by his personal biases? Is he chasing after Félix not out of heroic duty, but a personal selfish yearning to have the person that’s most important to him, the family that he has lost, back at his side? Is Chat Noir pursuing Félix to understand why Félix would do this, betray Ladybug who trusted him, betray Paris, turn his back on a city that Adrien has drilled into Félix’s ears means the world to him?

Then there’s Grand Duc. The obvious choice, another hapless victim whose motivations and rightful anger and distress is twisted into some malicious tool by Monarque’s ill powers. Fighting the Akuma and freeing the person behind the masked face is Ladybug and Chat Noir’s primary duty, even if the fighting has been getting repetitive, even if Monsieur Damoclès has been Akumatised enough times that it’s probably just a regular Tuesday for him at this point.

And, finally, there’s Lila. A thorn by Adrien’s side since the day she came. Delightful and charismatic, sure, sweet and exciting, the same way shooting yourself with a Russian rouletted-gun is exciting. Starting out as the deceptively naïve and bumbling new girl, hypnotising the entire school with her deep Italian accent – and then revealing that, not only is the accent fake, so is her personality, moral alignment, and everything else she has advertised. Lila Rossi, if that is even her real name, is an enigma wrapped in a paradox wrapped in one of those Sunday morning crosswords where Adrien’s answers never matches up with the definitions, and, threat-level speaking, she’s low on the chart. She has the Fox Miraculous, who cares? What is she going to do with it? Make someone walk off a cliff? But on the personal grudge-level: Chat Noir cannot wait to swat this particularly noisy fly.

Who to choose, who to go to first?

Chat Noir’s brain is whirling, as he ducks under multiple arms, dispels multiple illusions of the never-ending stream, dodging and batting away hands that scrapped for his Miraculous. Losing patience, Chat Noir punches the next Volpina that comes beaming up to him, breaking that adorable round button nose and twisting that perfect heart-shaped face into an Uzumaki spiral, before the illusion vanishes. The Volpina that comes to take her sister’s place isn’t smiling anymore, dark burgundy lipstick twisted in an ugly scowl, and Chat Noir wonders just how much of a hive mind all these illusions have. Can Lila see through the eyes of each of her clones?

Chat Noir places one end of his Bâton against the concrete floor, and, resting a combat boot heel on the other, ricochets himself into the air. Balanced perfectly, Chat Noir halts the elevation of his weapon when he is a good seven metres above the battlefield. There, Félix is, pushed to the other side of the courtyard, looking inflamed as hellfire, slashing though several of the illusions with his Fan. He’s trying to make his way forward, presumably to find himself back at Chat Noir’s side, but each step of progress he makes is lead into a labyrinth turn-around by the Volpinas surrounding him.

Speaking of Volpina, Chat Noir can’t see the real thing. The clones that had gathered at the foot of his Bâton are hovering around it, incensed by it, but unable to touch the metal unless they want to see themselves non-existent. There is no anomaly in action between them, no particularly uniqueness  belonging to a singular copy that’ll allow Chat Noir to spy who’s the real thing. Unless – Chat Noir raises his nose and sniffs the air. Then, his gaze lowers and his eyes narrow.

There – looks may be one thing, but Lila hasn’t mastered the illusion of scent yet. Only one Volpina has a dark, spicy fragrance of pink pepper and irises, and it’s the one creeping closer and closer to Grand Duc, the Akuma flailing like a sticky-taped cat in the eye of a cyclone of Volpinas. The purple butterfly visor is activated over his eyes, and Chat Noir wonders what insidious secrets or clever manoeuvres Monarque is feeding his latest puppet. Does Monarque cares only for the Ring Chat Noir is currently wearing on his fourth finger? – The pair of Earrings on their way? Or does he wants to see this vexatious fox crushed for betraying and backstabbing him, the same way Ladybug wants to see her macerated for being a general nuisance? Félix didn’t like her either, within ten minutes of meeting her. Lila has a way of getting under everyone’s skins, it seems.

Chat Noir chuckles to himself, then his smile fades. No, humour will not help. A laugh may be fun to enjoy, but when the laugh ends, the battle with all its obstacles will still be here.

Who to go for first? Who’s the biggest threat?

Chat Noir weighs the righteousness of saving Grand Duc versus the vital significance of capturing Félix versus the pure pleasure of finally apprehending Lila.

Which one will gain them the most brownie points, which option will the public approbate of the most, which path will raise Ladybug’s approving ratings?

Chat Noir winces, pressing the back of two fingers to his forehead. PR relations are a nightmare to him. There’s a reason why Adrien isn’t more involved in the administrative side of the Gabriel business, he’s much better at, and things are much easier, when all he has to do is stand on the other side of a camera and smile.

Speaking of Earrings on their way to Les Olympiades –

Chat Noir leans forward to rap his knuckles against the cover of his Bâton’s communicator. The metal slides back, and it’s two easy taps with claw-ripped fingers for the call screen to be pulled up.

“Chaton?”

“Where are you?” he asks. “I’ve got no idea what to do here.”

“What do you mean?” He can hear her panting, the whip of the wind, the flutter of her clear, limpid wings. Chat Noir looks to the horizons, but he couldn’t see Ladybug approaching anywhere. Is she far away? Hidden behind a building? Chat Noir cranes his head to try and peer around the tall apartment complex behind him, but has to stop lest he breaks his equilibrium. “The Akuma is there, isn’t it? Just keep it busy until I get there!”

“The ballroom has uninvited guests.”

“What the heck does that mean?”

“Félix,” Chat Noir says flatly. “And Lila are here. Both of them.”

Ladybug is silent. Chat Noir can feel her simmering anger through the phone channel.

“Keep them all busy,” she finally orders, voice as dark and cold as a glacier. “I’m on my way, I’ll be there soon.”

The call clicks off. The Bâton’s metal cover slides back into place. Chat Noir contemplates the battlefield below him once again.

Well, if Ladybug’s on her way now, Chat Noir can afford to be a little reckless.

“Cataclysm!”

Lila, the real one, looks up in sharp alarm as Chat Noir retracts his elongated Bâton with a snap, leaping down from his high ground to crash onto the floor with impressive oomph. The wind generated from his landing blows the initial wave of Volpinas near him away, most of the illusions dissipating as they are twisted back. Chat Noir’s darkness-charged right palm slamming onto the floor dispels most of their remaining sisters. The floor cracks beneath him, giving away until underground pipes and tunnels prevent its complete collapse. Chat Noir dusts his hand off as he stands up from the centre of a spider-webbed crater, groundwater bubbling through the cracks in the concrete. The courtyard is mostly barren now, a shockingly empty sight after the orange mayhem that infested it just a second ago. Lila has stumbled back, almost off her feet, face white in shock. Only two Volpina illusions remain, both of them far away from Chat Noir, flickering at the edges. Grand Duc spins around to face Chat Noir, hand going to the gun at his belt, and Félix has straightened up, his hood half off his head.

“The Lady has spoken!” Chat Noir announces. “You’re all under arrest. Come quietly and I’ll take mercy upon your persons.”

Lila growls. Chat Noir is pleased to see that the amount of magic she expedited has taken quite an effect on her. Her legs are shoulder-width apart, as if she could not remain standing in any other way, and her chest is rapidly rising and falling beneath the frothiness of her snow-white cravat.

“Oh, fuck you, asshole!” Lila snarls, and raises the plate of her Flute to her lips again.

“Don’t do that,” Chat Noir says, even as an army of Volpinas explode to life around him once again. “Seriously, that might drain your life force–”

He startles as something yanks on the back of his jacket. Reacting quickly, Chat Noir falls into the tug, using the motion to flip himself around and kick his offender in the shoulder. It is a Volpina clone, who has managed to sneak behind him.

Chat Noir is perturbed in his shock for a moment. Physical illusions? Lila can’t manage synthetic scents, but she managed a fully-fledged physical illusion in the two months since she stole the Fox Miraculous? Even Rena Rouge can barely conjure a shakeable hand, after months of Ladybug’s careful and personalised guidance, but with no mentor or shepherd, Lila has somehow mastered advanced Miraculous magic on her own?

Chat Noir’s consternation must’ve shown on his face. Lila, the real one, grins.

“Like what you see?” she crows. “Plenty more where that comes from!”

“How dare you all ignore me!” Grand Duc bellows, charging towards Chat Noir with his hands out. “I will not stand to be dismissed!”

The three Volpinas in his path are all dispelled as Grand Duc plunges through them. Chat Noir barely has the time to raise his Bâton in defence, before – oof – Grand Duc slams into him with the aggression of a quarterback during the game’s final sprint.

Chat Noir manages to block the first punch, parry the second, and is rewarded with a truly agonising blow to the mid-section for his efforts.

“Chat Noir!” Félix cries. “Hold on–”

“Stay out of this!” Chat Noir wheezes. Ladybug would have his head if she know Chat Noir is accepting the help of villains. “I can–” Chat Noir throws Grand Duc over his shoulder, and kicks him while he’s down for good measure. “–handle this on my own!”

“Sure you can.”

And Chat Noir stumbles forward before catching himself on his knees as a truly cumbersome weight attaches herself to his back like a limpet to a ship’s hull, the fragrance of pink pepper and iris perfume now overwhelming his nostrils.

“I’m counting on your useless heroics,” Lila Rossi hisses into his ear, the waft of her hot breath on his skin. Her nails scrabble for a handhold on his leather jacket, but the material is too tough to penetrate. Her legs wrap around his waist, and Chat Noir rotates in a foolish circle, trying to shake her off.

“Oh, you – accursed little spider-monkey!” he growls. “Off, off!”

“I’ll take your eyes out first!” she shrieks, reaching for his mask next. Chat Noir squeezes his eyes shut as her hands prod at the eye-holes. “I’ll show you who’s a real hero–”

“What are you two doing?” Félix yells in exasperation. In the glimpse between one rotation and the next, Chat Noir sees him running towards them. “Cut that out! There’s still a villain here–”

“You’re still under arrest!” Chat Noir yells at him, pointing a finger. “Stay out of this! Criminals cannot aid in law enforcement–”

“Why are you being so stubborn?” Félix demands. “Can’t you see–”

“Yee-HAW!” With a sonorous cry truly deserving of a off-brand cowgirl, Lila wrenches Chat Noir back by his collar until he’s stumbling away from Félix, flailing like a frog trying to stand in a glass bowl. “And the winner of this battle is–” Chat Noir gasps as her forearm snakes around his windpipe, pressing until his vision is flashing with a dull cerulean tint. Lila’s other hand goes for his Ring, finally managing to wrap itself around the single digit. “–me–”

Lila shrieks as Chat Noir twists sharply in the other direction. She had been clinging entirely to his right side, her legs had lost their vice-like grip in her sureness of her victory. Taking advantage of the unwise oversight, Chat Noir uses his weight, grabs onto her shoulder, and throws Lila down, hard.

Lila gasps, breath knocked out of her, unable to recover in time to stop Chat Noir from fisting both his hands into her jacket, yank her body off the floor, and slamming her down again, with brute force that cracks the concrete around her.

“Jesus!” Chat Noir hears someone cry – Félix or a nameless spectator, he’s too enraged to tell.

Chat Noir slams Lila down again, and one more time for good measure, before hauling her up and throwing her halfway across the courtyard. 

“Don’t touch,” he snarls, holding one hand out for his Bâton to rattle and fly across thin air to meet his palm, “the Ring.” 

Lila coughs. There’s no blood, but frothing saliva escapes her lips too quickly for her fingers to catch the drip. She shakingly forces herself onto her elbows, trying to stand and failing. Trying to scramble back from Chat Noir’s stalking approach and failing as her arms give out behind her.

“You can fuck with the hair, you can fuck with the suit.” Lila tries to reach for her Flute, and Chat Noir stomps his boot down the middle, breaking the instrument into clean halves. Lila’s eyes widen as the shattered pieces roll away. “But you don’t–” Chat Noir grabs onto Lila’s cravat and yanks her towards him. “–fuck with the Ring.”

Lila snarls, faux bravery. Her fear is evident in the quiver of her pupils. 

“You’re a monster,” she spits.

“Believe it or not, that means nothing coming from you.”

“Oh, for Goodness’ Sake!” Félix yells. “Guys, look out – villain!”

Chat Noir turns his head in the direction of Félix’s bellow. Grand Duc is standing just a couple of metres away, pointing his grappling gun at him and Lila. Grand Duc’s finger upon the trigger twitches, then fires. Chat Noir holds a clawed hand out, ready to catch whatever it is, sure that it would be another grappling hook, an owl-themed projectile of some kind.

Instead, towards him pours out of the barrel a bullet of pink glitter. Whimsical and ethereal, floating right through the gaps of his fingers to pause right under this nose. Chat Noir wastes his last precious few seconds staring at it like an idiot. His last thoughts were: Wait, this looks familiar–, before the Cadeau blows up.

“Cataclysm!”

“Mirage!”

And some generic Peafowl mumble from Argos because: 1) he’s not the kind of protagonist to shriek his battle techniques out loud, and 2) he doesn’t like creating Sentibeings.

Monarque lies in a crumpled heap before the three heroes, the dark aubergine of his suit further shadowed by the dimness of the chamber they’re in. The last flashes of their magic, the blackness of Chat Noir’s destruction, Volpina’s tangerine illusions, the sapphire sparkles of Argos’ creations, melt away in the aftermath of their victory. Chat Noir can’t remember how they all got here, in this dome-like hall of steel and eerie aqua lights, he can’t even put a name to what this place is – all he knows, all he needs to know, is that they won. And no further thinking is requested beyond that.

“Now,” Volpina grins, stalking forward daintily to stand right above the weakly stirring man. His Canne-Épée broken at his side, his normally austere and unruffled appearance ruined by the chaos of battle and the unsophistication of his loss. “Let’s see who you really are.”

She yanks off his cowl unceremoniously, and Chat Noir gasps, Argos raises an eyebrow at the man beneath.

“No way,” Chat Noir breathes. “It’s [REDACTED]?”

“Who would’ve thought?” Argos says.

Volpina crows in triumph. “I always knew [REDACTED] was suspicious,” she says, turning to her teammates. “How many times have I insisted we investigate him? And how many times was I turned down because I ‘don’t have enough proof’?”

Argos rolls his eyes as Chat Noir laughs softly.

“Fine,” Chat Noir says. “I’m sorry we underestimated you.”

“Don’t apologise for me,” Argos snarks. “This was all pure coincidence. You didn’t suspect [REDACTED] because you had adequate evidence, you just had a hunch. And a hunch is not enough to waste our manpower on.”

“Whatever,” Volpina says. “You’re just jealous.” She tosses Monarque’s cowl to Chat Noir as he comes forward. “Gattino thinks I’m right.”

“You always are,” Chat Noir muses, turning the cowl that had obstructed his path for so long in his hands, staring down at the face that had terrorised Paris for far longer than he should’ve. [REDACTED] doesn’t have the aura of the mysterious, unstoppable villain he had been hiding behind for years anymore, all he looks now is old, and miserable, and mundanely human. It’s anti-climatic, there’s no cantharis or any sensation of conquest Chat Noir feels. There’s not even the satisfaction of completing a task. Because this is a task that should’ve never existed in the first place. This is not a crime that Paris should’ve had to endure. Chat Noir feels the same banal accomplishment as he would’ve getting out of bed in the morning.

“…Adrien?” Argos asks softly.

Chat Noirs sighs as the first sirens wail outside the house. The local police has finally arrived. He throws the cowl back at Volpina who catches it thoughtfully before bending down to pluck the Butterfly Miraculous easily from [REDACTED]’s chest. He turns the little amethyst jewel and their four lily-petal wings over in his hand as the last of [REDACTED]’s disguise boils away. 

“Guard him,” Chat Noir orders as he turns away, going to greet the cops. “Finally, it’s over.”

Gabriel Agreste looks down at the document before him, and then stares up at Adrien and Lila sitting across in uncomfortable acrylic roller chairs.

Adrien in a handsome set of tweed brown suit and polished dress shoes, one ankle balanced on the other knee, Lila with her long hair tied up by a silk floral handkerchief, body enclosed in a bright coral and tangerine minidress.

Gabriel Agreste’s studio office at the Gabriel flagship store on the Champs-Élysées is cold and large, with only the presence of a single plain frosted-glass desk making the emptiness seem even more hollow then it already does. The room looks no different from the interior design of the Agreste Mansion halfway across Paris. The desk’s surface lacks any trinkets, the only decorations available are  the black-and-white framed sketches hung on the walls.

“I don’t understand,” Gabriel says, and Lila is pleased to note that he looks nervous. “…what is this?”

“I have no further desire to work as a Gabriel ambassador,” Adrien states, quietly and calmly. The same words are typed up in final print, on the first page of the stack of papers Lila had thrown on Gabriel’s desk the moment she entered the office. “I am handing in my resignation, and I am taking all rights and legal ownership of the photos, endorsements, and product sponsorship made in my name and image for the years I have worked at Gabriel.”

“You can’t do that,” Gabriel says, and of course that’s the first thing he says. “You signed a contract–”

“Nuh-uh-uh,” Lila tuts, with great smugness. “Really, Monsieur Gabriel, for someone like you, I thought you’ll be much better versed in publicity laws. Adrien was a minor when he signed those so-called contracts. Twelve years old, to be exact. Your contract, in fact, Monsieur Gabriel, means jackshit.” Lila tosses her free-hanging bangs over her shoulder as Gabriel looks about to object, cheeks reddening, mouth opening to fire some illogical argument. “You have no legal right to continue commercialising Adrien’s likeness, and, in fact, I think it’s high time you pay some severe recompensation for all his years of unsettled labour. Were you ever paid, Adrien?”

“No,” Adrien says stoutly.

“You were given an allowance–”

“It’s actually very natural for children to receive allowances from their parents, Monsieur Gabriel,” Lila says. “Did you ever explicitly state that those were his wages? No? Then I don’t think they count. And I can hardly believe that two thousand euros a month would make up for all the cost of Adrien’s work, does it? We’re done here.”

Lila stands up, and Adrien does too. She holds her hand out, he takes it.

“You can find all the details there,” Lila says, fluttering her fingers dismissively over the document. “You have two weeks to agree to our terms and conditions, which I think are very fair, but if you want to argue–” Lila shrugs. “No sweat off our back. It’ll be so much fun to watch you humiliate yourself in court, because both you and I know, Monsieur Gabriel, that you have absolutely no case. And we’ll sue you for that too, just a precautionary warning. Bye now, loser. Hope the next time we meet, you’ll have  much more sense. Ciao!”

“Adrien!” Gabriel roars, just as the two of them has made their way to the door, Adrien’s hand just shy of twisting the knob. He turns back to see Gabriel utterly enraged. He had shoved the document off his desk to where it lay as a distressed heap on the floor. The white hair at Gabriel’s temples are coming free of their pomade. His nose is bronzed. “Are you seriously going to allow this to happen? Walk off with this – this – harpy–” Lila gasps dramatically before giggling, topaz-flaked nails held over her lips. It seems she found the insult a compliment. “–tear apart our family, turn your back on the company–”

“I have no love for the company,” Adrien says. “I worked for it because I was forced to. And I hold no love for you. I was born into this household out of fate only. A fate I intend to break. Goodbye, père. I hope we don’t meet again for a long, long time.”

They leave.

Lila wraps her arm around Adrien’s bicep, sighing as she lays her hand on his shoulder. Adrien keeps his gaze stoically forward, unflinching as Gabriel employees dodge out of their path. Behind them, they could hear Gabriel’s scream of fury as several breakable objects in his office are ruined beyond repair. It would’ve have made Adrien flinch once, it still makes Adrien flinch, especially at the particularly painful-sounding shatter of something glass. But where once it would’ve made Adrien fearful, it only irritates Adrien now.

His father is a pathetically small man. Adrien is appalled by how long it took for him to discover that. 

“We are not doing that,” Adrien says, frowning.

Lila pouts, Chloé pouts as well. The combined image is unappealing, traumatising, and vaguely threatening.

“Why nnottt?” Lila whines, tugging at his arm. “It’ll be so much fun!”

“Yeah,” Chloé says, tugging at his other arm. “I cannot wait to see Marinette Dupain-Trash’s face when we all pull up in a Cadillac limousine, wearing the most amazing outfit they could only dream of–”

“I’m gonna wear Versace,” Lila announces. “There’s this amazing new La Vacanza butterfly gown–”

“Ew.” Chloé makes a face. “Butterfly?”

“Trust me, it’s real cute,” Lila says. “And Papillon doesn’t own the butterfly image, in fact, I think it’s time we reclaim it–”

“I’m not going to the Formal,” Adrien says.

Both girls stare at him.

“What?” Lila says.

“Why?” Chloé says.

“Because I don’t want to,” Adrien says irritably, pulling his arm out of Chloé’s hold. For such a slight girl, she has a hardy grip. Adrien’s shoulder socket feels loose. “What’s the point? We already said our goodbyes at graduation–”

“Graduation is for the losers’ parents to applaud their loser children!” Chloé says. “The Formal is the only thing that makes end-of-year worth it! It’s going to be a shitty party, don’t get me wrong, with DJ Nimrod providing whatever trash music he produces and the shitty treats Dupain-Cheng’s parents can scrap up, but we’re not there to ‘have fun’, we’re there to rub our success in their faces!” Chloé throws her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. “Because – there they are, having to wait for university placements or apprenticeships, or whatever low-paying career they want to call them back – and here we all are!” Chloé throws her arms out, indicating herself, Lila, Adrien, and Félix, all sitting around a glass coffee table in the living room of Chloé’s penthouse suite. Opulent Chinese orchids diffusing in the air, a view that literally cost a million euros outside the balcony, a splendid evening supper of spicy lamb skewers, Tasmanian sashimi sushi, and chargrilled tropical salad before them. “Rich and famous already! And we’re still teenagers – we’ve made it in life so soon, and we reserve all rights to live it!”

Félix snorts over the book he is reading, that he hasn’t taken his eyes off since he came into Chloé’s apartment, but Adrien doubts anyone noticed apart from him.

“I still don’t want to go–” Adrien begins, and thinks of an excuse, quick. “I probably have work on that day–”

“No, you don’t,” Lila says. “I checked, and I made sure Céline–” Adrien’s new, very loyal and very ferocious agent. “–kept that day free. She thinks you should go as well, she thinks you’re working too much.”

Adrien scowls. Damn, Céline.

“Please?” Chloé whines. “For me?”

Adrien sighs heavily. “I don’t–”

“Will you go if Félix goes?” Lila asks, eyes twinkling. The solution comes to her mind fast. Adrien might agree to an uncomfortable social situation if there’s buffer.

“I’m not going,” Félix intones.

“It’ll be fun,” Lila reassures. “There’s going to be live music–”

“Trashy live music,” Chloé mutters.

“–some decent food, it’s held on top of the Eiffel Tower! That’ll be a tick off your Parisian bucket list.”

“I have no such thing.”

“You can meet Adrien’s classmates.”

“Why on Earth would I want to do that?”

“You don’t want to meet the people Adrien’s been talking about for the past few years?” Lila asks, and Adrien rolls his eyes as Félix pauses, considering. “See if Rose is really so annoying in person? If Mylène is as wimpy as the stories foretold?”

“Rose is a lovely girl,” Adrien interjects. “And Mylène has been making leaps in her self-confidence–”

“Shush, tesoro,” Lila says, shoving her hand in Adrien’s face. “The adults are talking.”

Félix, to Adrien’s extreme disgust, looks as if he’s actually considering it. “There won’t be any chances to talk to them face-to-face after that night…” he muses.

“Exactly!” Chloé says, latching on. “I’ll give you the whole grand tour, we’ll have so much fun!”

“Fine,” Félix says, shrugging. He throws aside his book, Crime and Punishment lands in an unhappy heap, and picks up a lamb skewer. “I have nothing better to do anyway. I’ll go.”

“Seriously?” Adrien demands.

“Go, Adrien,” Félix says. “You know you’ll only regret it if you avoid it.”

“Right?” Chloé says. “And, once again, follow my vision! – All of us, rolling up in a white Cadillac limousine, wearing the hottest of the season–”

“Thank you, thank you!” Lila Rossi beams, tears in her eyes. Appropriately pretty and emotional enough, but not enough to ruin her mascara and carefully applied glitter eyeshadow. The crown of Lila’s head is decorated with a ruby-encrusted and gold Dolce & Gabbana headband, and her slim waist and ample bosom cleverly wrapped in floor-length purple sequin fabric. “Goodbye!” She blows a kiss to the adoring and cheering crowd. “And, once again, grazie infinite!”

Adrien greets his fiancée with a hug that dips into a Hollywood-worthy kiss in the backstage. Behind the curtains of the 2XXX Shorty Awards, hidden among the shadows and the bustle of the behind-the-scenes crew, Adrien wraps one hand around Lila’s shoulders, the other buried in her hair. Held in the cradle of his arms, completely trusting and reliant on his strength to protect and support her, Lila melts into the kiss, laying a hand on Adrien’s cheek.

He pulls away first.

“I’m so happy,” Lila whispers, gazing into his eyes. “There’s – there’s literally no way life can get any more perfect.” 

Adrien smiles as they right themselves up. An assistant standing off to the side blushes shyly as Adrien turns to her, and she hands him the explosion of English roses, carnations, and chrysanthemums she had been holding before dipping her chin and moving on, melting into the caliginosity.

“For you,” Adrien says, awarding the colourful bouquet to Lila who accepts it with awe. “From Alessandra.”

“Oh – really?” Lila cries. “Aw, she didn’t have to!”

“She feels bad for missing this.”

“She shouldn’t, it’s the thought that counts. Hold on, hold these, I gotta send–”

Adrien holds the bouquet while Lila supports her glass, whale-tail trophy in one hand, both of them leaning tight to each other and maintaining their smiles, as Lila snaps a selfie.

“There,” Lila says. Adrien carries both the trophy and the bouquet as they begin walking out through the corridors. Lila’s hands are busy typing her text message. “Ci vediamo presto…vi amo…ciao!” With a click, Lila’s digital affection is on its way to her mother.

Adrien had attended the awards as Lila’s, special guest and nominee’s, plus-one, although he was given exceptional permission and had been watching the entire ceremony from the wings of the stage. The most popular Instagrammer on this side of the European hemisphere Lila may be, an influencer is nothing compared to a celebrity, especially one that had been nominated for three César Awards in this year’s categories and has a guaranteed Tony waiting for him in Manhattan next month. Adrien doesn’t want to ruin Lila’s spotlight, this is her night, after all.

“Pizza and wine?” Lila suggests.

“Chlo wants us to fly back to Paris,” Adrien replies. “She threw a viewing party in your honour, one that has turned into an after-party.”

Lila groans. “I don’t want to talk to her weird government friends,” she complains. “Why does she have to invite them everywhere?”

Adrien presses a kiss onto the crown of Lila’s head. “They’re your weird government friends too,” he reminds her. “You have to play along with them.” 

He takes her hand in his and Lila grumbles, intertwining fingers. 

Outside the venue, the moon is high in the sky, despite it only being eight o’clock, illuminating concrete pavement and steel signposts in silvery moonlight, casting the hood of their pulling-up Mercedes with an argent glow. 

“Come on,” Adrien says. “Let’s go.” Lila smiles despite herself, sliding into the seat as Adrien opens the door, juggling her bouquet. “Better to get it over and done with.”

Maldives is quiet at this time of the year. In the distance, Adrien can see the twinkling cyan and amber lights of the mega-city, his hearing long-attuned by his superhero powers allowing him to pick up the faded car horns and bustle of night markets. Hard to believe water so clean and clear can exist around a metropolis so busy. 

In their private JW Morrison resort, all the lights are off. The only illumination comes from the multiple blank tealights Lila has lit around the kitchen and living room. Adrien sits on the striped couch against the open picture window, leaned upon his arms on the back of the furniture, watching the dark rolling waters, the aureate glimmer of the houses of their neighbours. The shallows slap against the posts of their resort’s foundation, the fragrance of salt and sand and algae thick in the atmosphere. Adrien doesn’t know what kind of black magic the company casted to virtually rid the air of mosquitoes, but he takes full advantage of it.

Trixx, the fiery little orange thing they are, is completely demolishing the exotic fruit platter on the timber coffee table. Starting with the great big globes of garnet grapes, moving onto the milky white chunks of custard apple. Plagg could never be dissuaded from their beloved cheese mistress, but even they can be convinced to give a thick, stinking wedge of durian or a vibrant piece of dragonfruit a moment of their time.

Lila comes into the living room, freshly showered, wearing a linen wrap-around dress, walking in brown braided-leather slides. Her hair, which would have once taken ages to properly dry – a mammoth of a task involving several towels and a high-powered advanced hair-drying machine – is now curling its edges around her jaw, the longest strands just shy of brushing her shoulder.

She looks miserable, as she had been for most of the vacation and the weeks before that, even though she had been trying to hide it. But although Lila is an accomplished deceiver, her acting skills were never that up to par. There’s always an element of exaggeration in her shoulders and expressions that makes her mask easily to recognise. Adrien hasn’t mentioned Lila’s recent mood, sure that she would either resolve it on her own or come to him when the time is right. But has the time hit a month? Adrien is starting to get impatient, and a little irritated that their rare moment of peace and indulgence is clouded over by this mysterious temperament.

Plagg looks up at Adrien’s shift in mood, and appears as if they’re considering leaving the room. But, after a beat, as Lila shuffles over to sit by Adrien’s side on the couch, shrugs and turns back to the fruit.

Adrien reaches out to brush a strand of Lila’s hair that had been hiding her face behind her ear.

She looks at him for the movement.

“What’s wrong?” Adrien asks.

Lila stares for a moment more, before breathing out a soft laugh. “Never could hide anything from you, could I?”

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

A silence. Lila’s hands clasp protectively over her abdomen and her brow furrows down towards her lap.

“I don’t want to make this your issue,” she confesses.

“Every issue of yours is mine,” Adrien replies. “Whether you like it or not.” On the fourth finger of his right hand, lays his silver Signet Ring below his second knuckle. Heavy and unembellished, a timeless and classy piece. Stacked above it, a hammered gold band that is not perfectly round but crafted with love and hand-measured to fit around his bone. Two rings Adrien never takes off. He raises his hand to show them to Lila. “That’s what this means.”

Lila wears a similar gold ring around her vena amoris finger, a tad more well made than its counterpart. Delicate plated gold with a filigree pattern and a single white diamond planted in the centre, because Lila loves her gems, and a personally inscripted quote on the interior: Tu et Nul Autre.

Lila smiles down at it sadly.

“…I’m pregnant,” she says.

Adrien freezes.

“See,” she says. “I knew you’d freak out.”

“He’s not freaking out, he’s just taking some time to adjust to the shock,” Plagg says.

Adrien snaps out of his stupor. “You knew?” he says accusingly.

“The moment it happened,” Plagg says.

“We can sense things like that,” Trixx follows. “Human souls are so – loud.”

Lila stands up to leave to room, her face turned away, and Adrien snags onto her hand before she can escape.

“Sit down,” he snaps. “This conversation isn’t over yet.”

Lila sits down, but she still wouldn’t look at him. Head hanging to hide her eyes behind her signature fringe. 

Adrien places one of his hands on her cheek and leave it there, not forcing her face up. His other hand, after a momentary shiver and a silent request for permission – Lila flinches but does nothing else – gently rests on the curve of her waist.

“…why didn’t you tell me?”

Lila shrugs angrily, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t know,” she says, voice thick. “Because it’s stupid. Because – I don’t know if I want the baby, but you definitely will–”

“I do,” Adrien says, and Lila winces. “But it’s not about what I want. …I would’ve supported you, Lila. In any decision you make.”

“…really?”

“Really,” Adrien promises, placing both hands under her jaw and tilting her chin up, finally looking into those stunning olive-green eyes. Lila looks scared and tired and vulnerable, like the young girl she hasn’t been for so long, and Adrien leans forward to press a kiss onto her nose. “Because at the end of the day, this is all

Chat Noir’s head slams onto the ground.

“Wake up!” Argos roars. “Get up, both of you!”

Disoriented and way off his calibre, Chat Noir’s head is spinning, the world around him moving at a speed simultaneously too fast and too slow. Félix’s cry is a distorted snarl making it way through several sound barriers to reach Chat Noir’s hearing as a barely-distinguishable mumble. Chat Noir’s cheek is pressed against the floor, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push back the confusion and nausea and dizziness swelling inside his cranium, before pressing his palms against the ground to lift himself up.

A thump in front of him, and Chat Noir startles, looking up. A limb that was previously resting on his shoulder had fallen with his shift. A fingerless black glove protruding from a lavender sleeve, tiny little resin claws curved over the fingertips.

Balancing on one elbow, Chat Noir reaches forward to take that hand in his, squeezing reassuringly. He doesn’t know what’s going on, he still can’t think properly without bright flashes thundering in his head, but as long as he can protect Lila, as long as she’s safe, everything else can come after, they’ll figure it out, they always will–

Chat Noir looks up. 

At a girl with the remains of dried spittle crusted around a corner of her lip, eyes wide. Her hair is the long and flamboyant length of her girlhood, her cheeks are too round and she hasn’t quite grown into her ears yet. Her lavender and sunset Fox suit is an old relic she had abandoned ages ago. Lila doesn’t fight as a superhero anymore, mostly, she just uses Trixx’s powers to test out dubious new make-up looks. 

This isn’t Adrien’s wife, who he had been married to for four years, travelling around the world with, discussing the possibility of parenthood with. This isn’t the girl who he had shared his deepest, darkest secrets with, who he cherished as much one human being can cherish another, this is – this is –

Lila Rossi the thief. The harlequin who stole the Fox Miraculous, and made everything worse for Paris. This is the deviant Chat Noir is supposed to hate, who he had sworn to take down as a member of Paris’ Miraculous Team, Ladybug’s second-in-command.

Lila stares back at him, with a gaze as befuddled and eyes probably just as clouded as Chat Noir’s own. Her eyes. Her eyes are still the same colour. The same olive-green Adrien has gazed into so many times, the shade he has memorised by the hex code–

“Adrien?” Lila whispers in naked shock.

None of it happened. It is all an illusion. Chat Noir wasted six years of his life – no, he didn’t waste anything, because none of that was real.

“You’re Adrien Agreste?” Lila stammers. “You?”

Chat Noir snaps out of it.

His body isn’t ready, but his mind has had quite enough. Gritting his teeth, he uses his Bâton to rise to his feet, ignoring his legs’ complaint that they’re not quite ready yet. The last of Cadeau’s pink magic has faded, although Chat Noir has to brush remaining pink sparkles off his bicep.

Argos is engaged in fierce battle with Grand Duc halfway around the courtyard, bird against bird, shine against matte, brilliant sapphire against dull brown. Argos had been the one to lure Grand Duc away, before Grand Duc could take advantage of the distraction his Cadeau has bought, Argos is the one who had kicked Chat Noir in the head, and, consequently, slammed him into Lila, waking both of them up from their florid daydream.

“Stay out of this!” Grand Duc roars as he heaves another swing at Argos. Argos ducks and slams his elbow into Grand Duc’s jaw, spinning gracefully over Grand Duc’s back to drag his Fan over his shoulders. Grand Duc’s cape shudders, the fabric rips with a great sound of shredding paper, and the entire garment falls to the floor with a heavy thump. But nothing else happens.

“Dammit!” Argos yells, and sees Chat Noir coming forward. He skids away from Grand Duc to stand at a safe distance. “I tried everything!” Argos tells Chat Noir, and Chat Noir can see that’s true. The front of Grand Duc’s armour has a chink in it, his grappling gun is broken into pieces lying a few metres away, and Argos has just rid Grand Duc of his most theatrical accessory. “The only thing left is–”

Chat Noir steps forward and punches Grand Duc in the face just as the Akuma had been saying something starting with: “Chat Noir, now come face your doom–”

Lila shrieks in alarm, covering her mouth with her hands, and Argos blinks in stupefaction.

“Akuma-fighting Tip Number 16,” Chat Noir says flatly as the Grand Duc’s cowl crumbles into dust, the villain bubbling away to unveil a confused Denis Damoclès, and the emerged electrified purple butterfly attempts to escape, fluttering upwards. Chat Noir catches it by the wing, feeling its weak, futile struggles. He thinks about crushing it, Cataclysm-ing it into nothingness, but it’s just an innocent little butterfly. Chat Noir wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if he rid an innocent creation over his own sorrows. “If the Akuma is superhero-themed, it’s almost always the mask.

“Oh,” Argos says.

“Wha – what’s going on?” Monsieur Damoclès babbles. He has fallen on his behind, and is looking around in great bewilderment at the triangle of power present. Chat Noir standing before him, Argos just a hop, skip, and a step away, and Lila who has finally risen to her feet behind. “You – this – Volpina? Argos? What are you two doing here?”

“Oh, it’s Volpina now, is it?” Lila snarks. “Not ‘misguided young lady’ anymore? Not ‘Miss Rossi’?”

Damoclès flushes. “You lost all right to talk to me like that the moment you decided to turn against Ladybug and betray Paris!” he thunders, before looking up at Chat Noir. “Chat Noir, what are you doing? Apprehend them!”

Chat Noir doesn’t move, still holding onto the struggling butterfly. His head is throbbing. Would this pain go away when Ladybug comes? Can she even heal anything without her Lucky Charm? Where the fuck is she anyway, why is she taking so long to come?

“Ad – Chat Noir,” Argos hastily corrects himself, stepping forward. “Are you – are you okay?”

Chat Noir looks at him. He knows. Lila does as well. Chat Noir points at Damoclès. “Did he see?” he asks.

“Did I see what?” Damoclés asks, flabbergasted.

“No,” Argos answers quickly. “I threw him away the moment the Cadeau activated. No one–” The courtyard is empty, free of any spectators, Chat Noir cannot hear any living creature, apart from the pigeons pecking on the rooftops, nearby. “–no one saw.”

Except the two people on this planet, right behind Monarque, who should definitely not know.

“…what’s going on?” Damoclès asks.

Lila steps forward. “Gattino,” she says, and the endearment makes Chat Noir sees red. His free hand clenches into a fist at his side. 

“Go,” he snaps harshly before Lila could finish her sentence. Argos startles. “Go, both of you, get out of here.”

“Go!” Damoclès proclaim. “What – what are you saying, Chat Noir? We can’t let them go! They’re high-profile–”

The sudden look in Chat Noir’s eyes make Damoclès’ jaw clamp up.

“Chat Noir,” Argos begins.

“GO!” Chat Noir screams, and Damoclès isn’t the only person to flinch. “Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind!”

Neither of them look content to leave. Chat Noir is just bracing himself for the next round of inane protest when the buzzing of wings sound in the distance. Argos and Lila turn up sharply to the sound, Chat Noir doesn’t need to. He know those pumps and flutters by heart, Ladybug is finally here.

“Let’s go!” Argos yells, and Lila nods. “Come on!” As Argos runs by Chat Noir, he pauses for a second, and Chat Noir thinks he’s going to hear some final – reassurance? Reprimand? Demand? But Argos leaves, a hand around Lila’s waist to support her – Chat Noir forgot she is still injured, by his hand, additionally. Gods, it is barely five minutes ago, but it feels like years – and the two of them vanishes into the streets, a duplicate illusion Lila weakly casts running in the opposite direction, just in case anyone feel like getting any pursuing ideas.

“Chaton!” Ladybug finally drops down onto the site of the former-battle, looking around wildly. No one is in the square, just herself, a mute Chat Noir holding onto a struggling butterfly, and Denis Damoclès still sitting on the floor. “What the – where are they? Where did Félix and Lila go?”

Chat Noir says nothing. He wonders if Damoclès would rat him out, but the principal says nothing either.

“Chaton?” Ladybug asks, coming up to him. “…are you okay? What happened?”

Chat Noir drags the Akuma he is holding to her, and Ladybug recoils. 

“Purify this first,” he says. “Duty first.”

“…alright,” Ladybug says. “Of course. No more evil-doing for you, little Akuma.”

Watching the sunset from the roof of the Tour Montparnasse is a view that never gets old. One of Chat Noir’s legs hang off the edge, while the other provides support for his arms and chin. The horizon is dyed burnt apricot, silvers of mauve, strips of deep azure. The clouds like cotton candy, their outlines tainted in the phoenix-coloured delight. The Sun is a slow red yolk, and although it burns Chat Noir’s eyes, he still keeps staring at it.

You’re going to kill yourself one day like that, kit, Chat Noir hears at the back of his head in that low, disapproving rasp. He ignores it.

“So,” says a sudden voice behind him, light-hearted and whimsical. Chat Noir can see her casually strolling up, as if she just happened to be passing by, as if she has all the time in the world. “…did you get in trouble?”

“Fuck off,” Chat Noir replies automatically. “I gave you one chance, you’re not getting another.”

“My God, you’re always so rude to me,” Lila says, Chat Noir can hear her shaking her head. “You kiss your mother with that mouth? Uh – no, sorry, that wasn’t on purpose, I swear.”

“Go away.”

“Make me,” she says, and Chat Noir does nothing.

A second later, Lila is by his side, sitting down, folding her long, bronze legs with an elegant thump, cocking her head to look sideways at him. 

Chat Noir ignores her.

“…sooo, do you want to talk about the elephant in the room?”

Chat Noir heaves a long-suffering sigh, and de-transforms. Lila startles as Adrien Agreste comes onto the scene. Blond hair mussed, wearing a brown leather jacket and indigo-blue jeans. Plagg swirls to a stop as the de-transformation light fades, and eyes between the two of them awkwardly.

“Cool,” they says. “I’m out.” They holds up a peace sign. “Call me when you want to get off the roof. See ya, kid.”

Adrien hasn’t even finished nodding before Plagg zooms away. 

Although looking deeply reluctant and uncomfortable, Lila de-transforms too, and Trixx exits with the same speed as Plagg, but more breezy than urgent, and their final farewell is a roguish wink Adrien doesn’t care to ponder the implications of. Lila sits there, long mahogany hair unbound, wearing a satin romper and short gladiator sandals.

“Why are you here, Lila?” Adrien asks.

“…you don’t want to talk about it?”

“I would like to pretend it never happened.”

“Well, I don’t,” Lila says, scowling. And Adrien is mutely surprised to see that Lila’s frustration and anguish seems – genuine. “We were married! We had a life together, we were talking about having a baby–”

“None of that was real,” Adrien cuts in. “It was only an illusion, made out of our – your deepest desires.”

“My deepest desires?” Lila says. “The Cadeau hit you first! You had more influence over the dream–”

“But living together?” Adrien says. “Getting married? That was entirely you. No offence, Lila, but I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole.”

Lila’s currant-coloured lips twists. “Where was Ladybug?”

“What?”

“Where was Ladybug in the vision?” Lila challenges. “All of Paris talks about what a great couple the two of you are, you and her are always going on about how no one can stand between you two and the safety of innocent citizens, blah blah blah, but I couldn’t help noticing that your first and foremost desire is, yes, defeating Monarque, but who helped you defeat Monarque? Who was there? Not Ladybug or any of her minions, certainly. It was me.” Lila points to herself. “Us.”

“Us?” Adrien repeats.

“Me and Félix.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Adrien says, dismayed. “Don’t tell me you two are hooking up now–”

“Ew! No!”

“I meant in the alliance sense.”

“We are forming an alliance,” Lila says, and Adrien groans, burying his face in his hands. “But that’s because our goals are one and the same! We both want the same thing, and we both care about the same person.” Lila reaches forward and grabs onto Adrien’s arm. “You, Adrien.”

Adrien shakes her off. “You don’t know anything about me,” he says, although something in his gut twists at the possibility, that Félix still cares about him, that not all of this is a ruse. “…what goal could the two of you possibly share?”

Lila draws herself up to her full height, sitting straight. There is something cold in her eyes as she looks at Adrien.

“We both know who Monarque’s true identity is,” she says.

Adrien stares at her. “What?” he says. “Are you serious? Who? Who is it?”

Lila’s lips purse. “Adrien,” she says. “Do you know why Ladybug wasn’t there in your vision of defeating Monarque?”

“Who cares about that?” Adrien says. He makes to stand up, but Lila is still sitting. And if Adrien does rise up, he’ll tower over her, it’ll look like he’s trying to intimidate her, and for some reason, Adrien doesn’t want to impart that image. Even though he is resisting the urge to shake Lila’s shoulders until she spills out every last thing she knows. Adrien remains in an awkward half-crouched, half-kneeling position. “Who’s Monarque?”

“You know,” Lila says. “You’ve known for a long time, you’re just denying yourself.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Adrien says, frustrated. “I don’t know, if I knew, don’t you think we would’ve won by now? Who is he?”

“He’s someone personal,” Lila says. “He’s someone who we all have personal contentions with, he’s someone that has wronged all of us! All of us, especially you, and we are the ones who deserve to take him down, not Ladybug!”

“This isn’t a joke!” Adrien says. “Alright? This isn’t the time for you to go off, do your personal revenging, two million lives and livelihoods is at stake! Don’t you know what this means? Monarque has all the Miraculous, his next strike could be our last–”

“No, not all of them,” Lila says, and nods to the Pendant hanging over her sternum. Chat Noir has seen Alya Césaire wear the Fox Miraculous in her civilian state, once. Then, it had looked almost exactly like its charged state, same small fishhook curve, same orange lacquer, mostly likely because Alya wasn’t acquainted enough with her Miraculous for it to mould with her personality and adopt a more unique and personal hidden form. But Lila’s Pendant is a gold-plated minimalist fox head with amethyst eyes, hanging from a black velvet choker. Even Adrien wouldn’t have been able to tell it is a Miraculous, unless he had known who is wearing it. “He doesn’t have this. He doesn’t have the Peafowl Brooch. He doesn’t have your Ring. He may have everything else, but unless he wants to die instantly, he’s still just one man.”

“…and there’s four of us,” Adrien says, brain working.

Lila scowls. “Three,” she says. “Ladybug is not part of the equation.”

“Why are you so antagonistic towards her?” Adrien says. “She’s an ally, she’s the only person who could Cure Akumas–”

“So can you!” Lila says. “You can Cure, Eradicate, I don’t know, but you can do everything she can!”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can – we can show you how! The Grimoire will be your guide.”

“You have the Grimoire?”

“The online version of it,” Lila says. “Félix nicked it from Ga – Monarque’s evil lair.”

Adrien stares at her. “Who is Monarque, Lila?” he asks.

Lila looks sad and serious. It’s not an expression that suits her. “Don’t fool yourself, Adrien,” she says. “You’ve developed the ability to sense nearby Miraculous Holders ages ago. You know who.”

“I don’t,” Adrien whispers. “I really don’t.”

“You do,” Lila says, and reaches into her pocket, dropping a little card into the air. It swings like a leaf, down down down, until Adrien catches it. He turns it over in his hand. A laminated business card for a hotel in Levallois, the embossed lettering and creamy white paper spells the comfort of the suite. 12 is written in hasty, looping numbers Adrien recognises as Félix’s handwriting. “That’s where we’re staying. Come find us when you’re ready. Don’t bring Ladybug.”

Adrien curls his hand around the card, crumbling the edges. “Félix was asking for her,” he says, dully. “At the fight.”

“He doesn’t want her anymore,” Lila says. “Now that he knows who you are.” Lila sighs. “We’re not going to throw your identity into the wind, okay?” she says. “Your secret is safe with us, really.” Lila gently rests her fingertips on Adrien’s shoulder. “This is our fight. Monarque, the man behind the mask, deserves to pay for what he did to us. To me, Félix, you. We’re all in this together, Adrien. We’ll see you soon, okay? Ciao.” And there is a light ghost of a grin on her face. “Hubby.”

Lila leaps off the roof. Adrien can just spy the orange glow of her transformation at the peripheral of his vision.