Chapter Text
A pitch-black darkness claims its territory, obscuring in a harmless visage the roads of delirium.
All perfectly fit for the king with the crown of dust.
A stained-glass-looking sky filled with appealing stars welcomes our protagonist to the everlasting nightmare he has painted. Thus, Adrien develops envy of the night sky.
Its beautiful splendor ignites its capabilities to behold this excessive revolution of liberty.
He rubs his eyes for a splendid introspection. The most beautiful spectacle he has ever witnessed since the cataclysm wolfed down the entirety of life on Earth.
This subsequent event brought imbalance and imperfection to the cosmic rule of soil and flesh.
And the loss of Ouroboros was a clear sign of stifling sorrow, wretched against his will -the incantation of evil lurking around his pity.
Awaken from its slumber, vitality flows to the scarlet fluid deep beneath his skin, and an abnormal absence of pain dooms the reverie feline.
A new paradox has burst amid his reason -the felicity of living and the depravation of dying.
Viewing from a rooftop, Adrien contemplates the majesty of annihilation.
It's midnight, yet Chat Blanc shines to dispel the vorpal monster and illuminates its way toward seclusion.
The narcoleptic cat –the last survivor to trek among the Wasteland, hops down to the ground and lands in the ethereal roads of his crafted pandemonium.
He created a moor where clemency rains in a downward spiral.
However, there are still hours left before dawn.
A solemn hymn orchestrated for the king of dust accommodates Adrien and strays with him.
The awful sound of pristine silence piercing him deep inside reminds him that Decay is an uncomfortable guest who places what he has lost between ashes and memories.
He now mourned the outcomes of his conclusion. A world free of lies but so much full of reality.
It all began a week ago when he -and his partner and lover, Ladybug, hunted down his nemesis, Hawk Moth.
He was wearing his persona, Chat Noir, a valiant superhero who would chase down those who dared to do evil.
In the final hour, trapped and with nowhere to run, Hawk Moth unmasked himself and revealed his identity: Gabriel Agreste in disguise.
An akumatized butterfly flew toward Adrien, and his metamorphosis placed between the realization that the evil he tried to destroy was always his father.
Gabriel granted him a brush, a perfect tool for painting his ideal fate; a monumental power wears a gigantic responsibility.
But, the sound of misfortune deafens him with insecurity -he gave him the power to destroy everything with one flick.
It disrupts his ruminations, an eraser of the past and a poison for the future.
And then, Hawk Moth -mocking at his will, enslaved him to choose between the love of his life and his father.
Adrien meant to end all the evil with one movement or the rewarded acknowledgment he chased after his birthright.
However, he chooses none.
A division of his autonomy spawned in a fraction of a second, propelling with god-like powers -for it was impossible to warn of the consequences of this choice.
And then Chat Noir turned into Chat-Blanc, a complete turnaround of its natural color made true at all costs.
But, whatever the outcome, he would regret profoundly.
He let his feelings weave the future of unrelenting ruination, entrapping him in his innermost purgatory.
A white explosion occurred, the essence of devastation miscalculated at unawareness.
And the world was its canvas. A biblical tempest rained down everywhere at once -eradicating the air and purging life apart.
Under the weight of the paintbrush that swept the world apart, no one could ever have escaped -culminating in the end of the universal cycle of life and rebirth.
The trumpets of the apocalypse play a requiem for the world.
Adrien, the erudite of the chaos, printed its masterpiece among dust and composure - and heaven was not ready for the extinction of hopes and dreams.
After the diluvium, a white haze covered the air with quietness and clinical impassivity - the last remaining entity that plagued the entire city.
When Adrien opened his eyes, he instantly realized his mistake.
He was at the epicenter of the cataclysm, and the aspects of love and hatred were still motionless, staring at him.
Judging and complaining about weak gestures -so easy to break.
The effects of producing a cataclysm swapped humanity, animals, and trees inside- all turned into effigies made of skinless, senseless decorations.
All of them were posing in mortuary portraits of their last second alive -incapable of knowing what stroked at them.
And the world was ready for the imminent collapse of civilization: for Death does not ride a pale horse -but wears a wimpy tail and a vacuous smile.
After the collapse, Adrien felt the burden of boredom driving via his blood like anesthesia.
With no striving for a better future here in this land of murdered dreams, where zero changes occur, and the world relapses the omnipresent white haze.
The accommodation of its subliminal emotions occasionally manifests in mania and sanity equal to its substance, corroding its senses and starving him.
"Hey! Who are you anyway?!"
He pauses; with frontiers so futile to explore, Adrien has been wandering through the streets of New Paris.
As dead as time, he developed the habit of sleepwalking -an abstract thesis, he might imply.
He finds his way to a supermarket in the middle of the city, full of dust-dwellers that lurk in the stores like zombies.
The demolition hammer didn't tear it apart enough to crumble on its weight, and a still-life rainbow painted over the walls remains almost intact.
Lifeless statutes plague the streets -speechless to its premature fate.
Congregating in the old tower around uncountable forms of shapeless shadows, they creep like rats on the draining.
People of all ages fill the gaps in empty spaces and gather around their new homes.
"I mean, what is your name?"
Unrecognizable warriors of bleakness march on frozen ground; their faces are blurry, and he cannot recall any familiar pattern.
"Do I know you ? You certainly know me ."
"It's me, Adrien Agreste , you know."
Hopeless vagabonds of fortune retort with indifference, their faces mock in a terrorizing retreat.
"I'm Gabriel's brand supermodel and son."
"Are you not chasing after me ? Everyone does it anyway."
He waits for a proper response; however, he realizes nothing he ever tries will work; they will never talk to him again.
"Oh no, I think that white cat and Hawk Moth might have done this to you!"
A subliminal woe covers the environment of the supermarket, arriving at a heavy, cold cloud.
"I -I don't know who you are!! Where are my friends ? Plagg!! Chloe!!"
His voice rises to the sun, and a virgin intensity of sorrow claims his throne of dust.
"Oh, no, I'm alone; no one can hear me ."
Despair clusters toward his eyelids -and rains of sour meet the ground.
An exasperating pain oppresses his chest.
Paris has become the necropolis of their fellow citizens -and a whirlwind of intrusive thoughts swallows with pulsing tranquility.
"I do not think I could live like this any longer."
And the soldiers of dust, pointing toward him, bow down to their grandiose king.
Amid desperation, the vivid serenity of a nostalgic lullaby resonates within his reach, bringing him memories of when he was younger and softer.
Chat Blanc raises his chin, looking for the singer in question; however, the sound is nowhere to be found.
Everything comes from his mind, a utopian place that delivers the exercise of peace.
A watercolor painting of his mother born from his culling, a warm hug closes around his body; a radiant horizon draws a favorable resolution of his reflections.
"Mother, alleviate me ."
In his moments of clarity, vivid images of his old friends trigger his conflict into a kaleidoscopic consciousness –a golden race cures the rusted blister of his past.
Like thunder in the stormy night, a flash of flashing lightning suddenly crashes, resonating within its tempesting martyrdom, and memories playback of what should be buried and forgotten.
Images of Plagg, Marinette, his father, and Nathalie convolute in a sort of parade, a movie-like remembrance sculpting his imagination.
"It is true, you are still alive -under the vault of my mind, you are safe."
The gratification of knowing he has not lost everything evokes a discrete grin –Adrien has found in his unfortunate solitude that he has not reached the level of isolation he thought.
"I can talk to you with no almost effort."
All the valuable things he holds in the depths of his heart should be the testament for his most beloved ones –a compilation of all the good and bad he lived through his life forever in display.
"I hold deep in my lungs the air to spell your names again."
Adrien propels with smashing success and stands on his feet with crisping bravery.
"Excuse me."
He realizes he cannot stay longer in distress.
He needs something to entertain himself, or he will be stabbed again by this vile phantasm.
Adrien steps forward, walking through thousands of bloodless soldiers.
However, boarding the train of thought, he struggles to speak for himself.
A myriad of singers reverberates within its head.
They're pointing out where to go, where to rest, and where to fail.
What is wrong with me ? Why cannot I think straight??
He lacks the strength to separate the voices that buzz the walls of his soul.
What should I do now? Why is it so hard this time??
A conflicting cry for survival implodes; an easy lullaby of rest explodes within his heart.
Echoes of a metaphor that fights for control of its host buries the layer of resoluteness that pushes him uneasy.
Two cats are fighting against his desires, deeply hidden within his chest.
"Inside of me, there are two cats. Weaving my unraveled mind and molding off my loose soul."
"One of them is white, insane, and joyful at times, and the other is black, filled with melancholy and blistering emotions."
"Both live inside me, and both speak to me."
"They are fighting to overcome this physical body but share a kindred fate."
"Both of them are separated but share one face."
Suddenly, a heavy feeling of desperation starts to run through his veins.
"The white is pulling the strings, controlling my movement wherever I step."
"The black is deep within my soul, trapped in the cascade of anguish that he fears to overcome but holding all the memories I carry with me."
A cold enigma of uncertainty comparable with melting ice burns the white cat alone.
"And me, their puppet to control; wherever I regain consciousness is a treat to my sanity."
In the middle of his crisis, the faces of mourning ghosts encircle the unforgiven man, all pointing their fingers toward him.
The agonizing begging of reality that leashes to destiny spoke heavily to its ears, and the fear of his future worries to the core.
"I would kill to know what they intend to do with me -I hope not to disappoint them with my rebellious acts of ignorance."
He stops again; in the middle of the supermarket, a dim light eradiates from above, barely coming from the sky.
Sweating in tons, he tightly embraces himself.
"If both are I, but both want to control me;
What am I?"
Rapidly, he realizes he's alone again.
Swinging his neck left and right, over and over.
Looking for a mirror, he replaces his pain with apprehension.
However, he found dozens of broken faces, all made from dust, gazing at him, looking at his soul.
Mute to aiding him, limbless to reach him.
And hundreds of more await for him.
No one he recognizes, no one to ask for help.
He sighs.
Adrien has lost himself in nameless rivers of dust.
Adrien finally could find an exit.
Now, he grounds again in the middle of an unknown street.
An unspoken mantle of weakness leads his legs off, falling to the ground with his knees supporting him.
The vividness of this situation overwhelms his nerves.
The brutal maw of unrelenting lowliness eats him alive.
The dreamed prophecy of salvation has broken into the sand, and the withered flowers of love longing on -life itself has become a limbo awakened discomfort.
The eclipsed soul of Adrien mercilessly plagues a swarm of nuisance in his spirit –and the ritual of sacrifice solemnly focuses on his hands.
"If I erase myself from existence, I would take this misery out of me!"
With a snap, a sphere of light prestidigitates from his right hand: a specular, omnidirectional emanation of pure magic that would obliterate anything that dares to touch.
Adrien gripes his palm into a claw, closing the distance toward his chest.
His heart beats like a battery ram; however, a desperate cry is heard -from within.
The lonely traveler stops because the noise is too similar to ignore—it sounds like a cat loudly meowing -traversing his nerves.
A breath of comfort comes from his lungs; an esoteric dissociation arrives like a butterfly with liminal wings and loses its grip.
The cataclysm evaporates off the windless stream and leaves a white palm naked to inflict any danger.
"What am I doing? I cannot end like this."
A multitude of groans that lead to prayers for salvation confesses their desire.
He knows he has something to do: a task requested by his master.
"That's right! Ladybugs' miraculous must be somewhere;
I have to find it and give it to Hawk Moth!!!"
A spark of hope is portrayed in the face of Chat Blanc: an entertaining hunt for close prey blazes the blood red.
"That's my end goal, isn't it?!"
The king of New Paris does not know where to begin; long, dust-full streets fill the spaces for the racing of oblivion.
Now, Adrien minds the aspects of his psyche and is either in the mood or in the condition to track his prey down.
"Come on, guys! We have a pretty Ladybug to find!!"
As he debates with their cats, a brilliant idea comes to mind.
"I've got it! If I find Ladybug, I can ask her to bring all the people back to life!!!"
"I can save them all!!!"
A euphoric laugh comes out of his mouth -an everlasting lie he told himself to press the happy button.
The power of creation could pull the strings of destiny back at nature and erase the swipe of this scourge, and finally, he could be with his friends again.
Destiny would not mend the pain he has suffered -but could heal the wounds he opened to the planet.
Dawn is falling to the sky, arriving at dusk.
Adrien contemplates the view of the clear sky between the white fog, a beautiful allure able to distance from this gloom.
And the hope of killing this disease would nurture him again, even at the cost of his freedom, even at the expense of his duality.