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Marinette Dupain-Cheng was ready in every practical sense for the first day of eleventh grade. In terms of willingness, however, it was a different story.
“Marinette!” Sabine Cheng called from the floor below. “You’re going to be late for school!”
Grumbling, the teen covered her head with her pink-stained pillow, which had fallen victim to her latest dye job.
“Dad will show up to your class with macarons if you don’t get a move on!” her mother said when her initial attempt to rouse Marinette failed.
“Don’t you dare!” Marinette bolted upright into a sitting position, spurred by the threat of embarrassment.
“Well?” Sabine inquired.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” her daughter yelled.
Marinette stomped down the stairs that led from the loft containing her bed to the main part of her room. She reluctantly went about the business of preparing for the day ahead: brushing her teeth and washing her face; gathering up her dark hair, leaving pink bangs covering one eye; thickly applying eyeliner and mascara, black of course, and a dusting of gunmetal gray eyeshadow; slipping into her prepicked outfit for the day ahead (ripped tights, black miniskirt and combat boots, magenta top with thin straps, secondhand jacket of charcoal denim she’d embroidered flowers on the back of, and fingerless fishnet gloves); and grabbing a croissant between her teeth as she fled out the door with her raspberry colored bag over her shoulder.
Scowling at anyone who met her gaze, Marinette dragged her feet across the street and through Francoise Dupont High School. Goth Juleka Couffaine nodded at her on the front steps, before turning back to talk to her preppy pink girlfriend. Shy Marc Anciel waved at her from where they were crouching behind the courtyard stairs. And one annoying Chloe Bourgeois curled her glossy lips from where she sat at the second row of desks in their classroom.
“Still in trashy-nette mode this year?” she asked Marinette.
Marinette rolled her eyes, long used to Chloe’s subpar barbs, and walked past her to the back of the room. She dropped her bag onto the aisle seat next to her, leaning her chair back and kicking her legs up onto her desk as she turned to stare out the window to her right. The bell rang, and her classmates who’d yet to enter the classroom shuffled in. Rose and Juleka, not wanting to be separated, sat in front at the only desk with two seats available. Nino, the last to show, was immediately followed in by Ms. Bustier, who cleared her throat.
“Why don’t you sit up front this year, Nino?” she asked, in a tone that indicated that it wasn’t a suggestion.
Nino glanced longingly at Ivan and Nathaniel, who were both sitting alone and towards the back, before sliding into the only available space, a front desk occupied by a new girl.
Their teacher pulled out an attendance sheet, and said “Adrien? Adrien Agreste?”
A moment of silence.
Then the door swung open, revealing a blond guy with longish hair brushed and gelled to one side, black lips pulled into a frown.
“You must be Adrien,” Ms. Bustier said. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time, but from now on, please strive to come on time.”
Adrien made a noncommittal sound, stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets of his unzipped sweatshirt.
“Marinette?” Ms. Bustier looked up at the girl. “Why don’t you clear the chair next to you, hmm?”
“Whatever,” Marinette said, giving her bag a quick yank and letting it fall to the floor with a dull thud.
She gritted her teeth as the new kid settled in the seat beside her, and Ms. Bustier resumed roll call.
“I’d apologize,” he muttered. “But you’re one of the only tolerable looking people here.”
“Eh,” Marinette waved him off, not looking at him. “It could be worse.”
“True,” Adrien smirked slightly. “I could’ve ended up next to Chloe.”
“You know her?” she asked, thawing slightly at his apparent dislike of the blonde.
“Childhood acquaintances,” he said. “To say that she disapproves of my life decisions is an understatement.”
“I’ll be honest,” she said. “That was one of the best things you could’ve said to warm me up to you.”
“Marinette, Adrien?” Ms. Bustier interrupted them. “Keep the conversations for after class, please.”
They simultaneously rolled their eyes, Marinette propping her head up on her elbow as Adrien rested his head on the desk, and she proceeded to zone out the teacher’s welcoming spiel.
- - - - - - -
A pair of spotted red earrings rested beneath a folded paper in a velvet-lined mahogany box, which once had been situated in the desk drawer of one ailing Mei Cheng. The note within the jewelry box was unsigned, and the package in which the earrings traveled had no return address. In the time it would take one Marinette Dupain Cheng to return to her home for lunch, it would be placed innocuously on the desk in her room.
- - - - - - -
Adrien fiddled with his rings, twisting them around his fingers, the nails of which were painted black. It was recess, and the other new kid was butting heads with Chloe. Abruptly, his deskmate sighed and stood up.
“You coming?” she asked him.
Adrien wordlessly followed her as yelling started up behind him. They silently made their way to the area behind the school building, hidden from prying eyes and the noise of the street. Adrien retrieved his tobacco, filters, rolling paper, and lighter from the pocket of his cargo pants.
“You smoke?” he asked as he placed a filter on the edge of the paper and began lining the rest with tobacco.
“Nope,” Marinette said.
“Good,” Adrien said, beginning to roll the cigarette. “It’s a filthy habit. Not that I’m telling you what to do.”
“As if you could,” she snorted.
She watched as he licked the edge of the rolling paper and sealed it shut. He placed the cigarette between his lips, inhaling as he flicked his lighter on, igniting its tip. The edge of the cigarette burned an ember orange, and seconds later the irritation of smoke hit his lungs. He took hold of the cigarette with two fingers, lowering it from his mouth and exhaling slowly, a thin stream of gray curling through the air. He closed his eyes as nicotine hit his bloodstream.
“How’d you get addicted?” Marinette asked.
“Co-workers,” Adrien responded, trying not to think about those days. “From before I quit my job.”
“Job?” she asked.
“You heard of Gabriel Agreste?”
“He used to be my favorite designer,” Marinette said. “When I was younger. Why?”
Then something seemed to click.
“You’re the ex-model son?” she said. “How’d you wind up here?”
“I refused to cooperate with my tutors,” Adrien shrugged. “No more homeschooling for me. Then Chloe convinced my father that she could be a ‘positive influence’ and that this school is ‘an environment suited to reminding me of better days’, and voila! I’m enrolled. They think my new attitude is just my way of coping with my mother’s coma, but believe me, it was a long time coming.”
“They didn’t count on me when they sent you here,” Marinette said. “If you stick around, prepare to be further corrupted by yours truly.”
“It would be an honor,” Adrien said.
- - - - - - -
A ring once in the possession of Amelie Graham de Vanily was tucked into a high quality envelope of creamy paper, and subjected to the unpredictability of a delivery service. The envelope was unmarked, but for a single name scribbled on the front, belonging to the very individual whose room it wound up in. Between Adrien Agreste’s departure from his house and his return during the lunch period, someone would have put the envelope on his pillow, leaving no other trace of human presence behind.
- - - - - - -
“The fuck is this?” Marinette said, dropping the now plain black earrings she’d picked up, which had been red moments before.
“I’m Tikki,” squeaked the crimson being who’d appeared in a blinding light and was now floating in front of her. “I’m the kwami of creation. You should read the note.”
Marinette looked at the paper she’d set aside, which had come in the jewelry box alongside the earrings, and unfolded it.
Miraculous are jewels that channel the power of the gods bound to them, it read. There once was an organization of guardians dedicated to watching over them and preventing their use, but they are long gone, destroyed under mysterious circumstances. Over the years, the lone survivor traveled the world, distributing the surviving miraculous among those he trusted. Now their descendants possess these jewels, some hiding theirs behind maximum security, some unknowingly thinking theirs an heirloom trinket not to be touched. For better or for worse, most of the miraculous have made their way to Paris.
These are the earrings of the ladybug. They grant the powers of life, creation, and good fortune. Their counterpart, the ring of the black cat, is making its own way to Paris as I write this. Its wielder could make a useful ally.
Spots on - but choose wisely.
There was no signature at the end.
“Is this some kind of trick?” Marinette asked.
“Want to try it out?” Tikki asked.
Marinette put on the earrings.
“Now what?” she said. “I don’t feel any different.”
“You haven’t said the transformation phrase,” the kwami said, eyeing the note. “And I am forbidden to speak it.”
“Spots on?” Marinette asked.
A flash of light and a rush of warmth left her gasping, as overwhelming power flowed through her veins. Turning to look in the mirror, she saw a suit of red-spotted-black and black-spotted-red hugging her body, while a domino mask covered her eyes. A yoyo hung at her hip, and the dyed streaks in her hair had darkened to the color of blood.
Marinette watched as the matte burgundy lips of her reflection mirrored her smile.
- - - - - - -
A fan-shaped brooch, patterned like a peacock’s tail feathers, was locked up tight in a vault behind a portrait of a woman it had slowly leached the life out of. It was nestled between a book on Tibet and a leather-bound grimoire, kept in the hopes of a cure or solution becoming known. In his many attempts to decode the sacred text within the grimoire, Gabriel Agreste did his utmost when retrieving and returning the heavy book from and to the safe not to even brush the brooch with his fingertips, even as his eyes lingered on its cracked surface.
- - - - - - -
“I was ordered to deliver a message by the previous owner,” said the being that had introduced itself as Plagg after a brief explanation on magical jewelry. “You can counteract them if you wish, once you accept ownership.”
“What’s the message?” Adrien asked suspiciously while holding the ring in his hand, not yet putting it on.
“It goes, and I quote; As I speak, the counterpart to the black cat makes its way to Paris. As the ring grants dominion over death, destruction, and misfortune, the earrings grant parallel antithetical power. Together nigh unbeatable, opposed equally matched, it would behoove you to remain on the good side of any person wielding the ladybug miraculous. The miraculous as a whole are quite likely involved in the fate of Emilie Graham de Vanily. Claws out. ”
“Why Mother’s maiden name?” Adrien asked. “What does a coma have to do with magic? And what does claws out mean?”
“Try on the ring and you might just find out,” Plagg said, lazily flipping through the air. “I’m always down for a little revenge scheme.”
“Who said anything about vengeance?” Adrien asked. “Sounds like a lot of work to me.”
“Please,” Plagg said. “You reek of ennui and teenage rebellion. And you suspect that your mother’s fate did not occur naturally. You’re a textbook tragic backstory. You’ll uncover some conspiracy and beat the shit out of whoever crossed you.”
“That does sound tempting,” Adrien said. “I’ll take you for a trial run tonight, but I’m not cutting class-”
“You’ll learn,” Plagg said.
“-because the person who sits next to me is awesome,” Adrien said, shooting the kwami a look. “Also, I’ll be much more noticeable running amok in the daylight.”
“This just might turn out to be fun,” Plagg said with a sharp-toothed grin.
- - - - - - -
A dusty and bejeweled butterfly pin awaited those who would thoroughly search the small wooden chest it resided in, buried as it was beneath a tangle of cheap bangles and necklaces. Marlena Cesaire had found room for the chest in her second eldest’s suitcase, and promptly forgot about it in the hustle and bustle of the move to Paris. Alya Cesaire, upon her return from her first day at a new school, frustrated and irate due to a certain blonde, would begin the mindless task of detangling gold and silver chains, in the process brushing her hand against the pin.
- - - - - - -
Marinette ran across rooftops under the cover of night, practically invisible to those still out on the streets who bothered to look up, a streak of darkness against a blue-black sky. A few blocks ago, another figure had emerged from the shadows, running parallel to her. She jumped onto the roof of a church and waited.
“Hello,” someone rumbled softly in her ear.
She leapt away, twisting around to face the person who’d snuck up on her.
“Cat agility,” said the feral-looking punk in front of her. “My bad, Bug. Claw Noir at your service.”
She surveyed him warily.
“Now you go,” he said.
“You can call me Shadybug,” she decided. “You feel like collecting some miraculous, maybe hunting down a secretive old fogey?”
“I’m down,” he said, slinging his baton across his shoulders.
“Great,” Shadybug said. “This family, the Kubdels, have an ancient pocket watch in their possession. How does some breaking and entering sound?”
- - - - - - -
A bracelet composed of a simple flat bead on a knotted cord adorned the frail wrist of an old man. Wang Fu never took it off, wearing it to bed and to the shower, and never drew attention to it during his work hours as a masseur. Soon though, he would have to choose a successor to pass it, and his knowledge, onto before his age caught up to him.
- - - - - - -
Claw Noir wrapped an arm around the throat of the young man in his twenties who’d walked in on them climbing through the window.
“Don’t say a word,” he said.
“The security cams are recording,” he said shakily.
“Oh no, not the cameras,” Shadybug mocked. “Whatever shall we do?”
“He’s shaking,” Claw Noir said, with a crooked smile. “He’s terrified.”
“I have family,” his hostage said. “I have a father and a little sister who loves to skate-”
“Shut up,” Shadybug snapped.
“Please,” he whispered.
The duo’s snickers covered up the sound of a butterfly’s fluttering wings, and it sank, unnoticed, into Jalil Kubdel’s pendant.