Chapter Text
The bullpen of The Parisian Daily smelled permanently of stale espresso, burnt toast from the breakroom toaster that someone always set to 'cremate,' and the distinct, lingering scent of desperation.
Alya Césaire loved it. Mostly.
Today, however, she was sweating through her favorite plaid shirt. She stood at the head of a sleek, glass-topped conference table, tapping her sneaker rhythmically against the carpet. At the other end sat Monsieur Jean-Pierre Vandel, the editor-in-chief. He was a very severe looking man with a stern unibrow and large circular glasses. Vandel stared at Alya over the rim of his reading glasses. He didn't look impressed. He didn't look angry either. He looked like he was waiting for a reason to go back to his crossword puzzle.
"Let me get this straight, Césaire," Vandel said, his voice a gravelly baritone that belonged on a noir film narration. "You want me to hand over the prime digital real estate of our Sunday lifestyle section, dedicate a massive chunk of our marketing budget, and pull five thousand euros out of the company safe... for people to complain on the internet?"
"Not complain, Monsieur. Process," Alya corrected smoothly, throwing her hands out in a grand gesture. Behind her, a digital projector flashed a slide that read: THE PARISIAN PODCAST INITIATIVE: VOICES OF THE RECOVERY. "Look at the data. For three years, Paris was under siege. We had a guy who turned people into giant ice cream cones because they got dumped. We had a baby—a literal infant—destroying the Louvre because he didn't get his pacifier. We survived it, sure. Ladybug fixed the buildings. But she didn't fix the collective panic attack we've been having for the last twelve months."
Vandel shifted in his leather chair, the leather groaning in protest. "The reign of Hawk Moth is over. Gabriel Agreste is awaiting trial in a maximum-security facility, and his son is... wherever rich traumatized teenagers go to wallow in self pity. The city wants to move on, Césaire. They want fashion weeks. They want football matches. They don't want to look back."
"That’s exactly why they do want it," Alya countered, leaning against the table, her eyes flashing with the journalistic fire that had built the Ladyblog. "People are exhausted from pretending everything is fine. The morale in this city is through the floor. The cafes are emptier, the metro is quieter. Why? Because everyone is waiting for the other shoe to drop. We need a release valve. If we host a city-wide podcast contest, we give Paris a voice. The best, most resonant perspective wins the five thousand euros. It’s interactive, it’s therapeutic, and most importantly for the board..." She paused for dramatic effect. "...it will drive our web traffic through the stratosphere."
Vandel’s left eyebrow twitched. Traffic. The magic word.
"And what kind of 'perspectives' are we expecting?" Vandel asked, tapping his fountain pen against a legal pad. "Three hundred episodes of Xavier Ramier explaining the psychological depth of his twenty-fourth pigeon-themed mental breakdown?"
Alya couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped her. "Honestly? Probably. But that’s the beauty of it! It’s the dark comedy of it all. We laugh so we don't cry. We get the baker down the street talking about how hard it is to knead dough when you're terrified a butterfly is going to fly through the window because you burned a croissant. We get the students. We get the elders. We give Paris a microphone."
Vandel fell silent. He looked at the slide on the wall, then down at his legal pad. The clock on the wall ticked agonizingly. Alya held her breath, her fingers curling into her palms. If he rejected this, her internship was basically relegated to fetching oat-milk lattes for the senior editors until graduation.
Finally, Vandel sighed, a sound like a deflating tire.
"Five thousand euros," he muttered. "The board is going to choke on their croissants."
Alya’s heart did a backflip. "Is that a...?"
"It’s a maybe-if-you-don't-screw-it-up," Vandel snapped, pointing his pen at her. "I’ll approve the budget for the grand prize. But you manage it. You filter the submissions. If someone uploads a manifesto about how Hawk Moth 'had some good points,' I’m firing you into the sun. Clear?"
"Crystal, Monsieur Vandel! You won't regret this!"
"I already regret it," Vandel grumbled, waving his hand to dismiss her. "Go. Write up the press release. Get the submission portal live by midnight. And Césaire?"
Alya stopped at the glass door, her hand on the handle. "Yes?"
"Make sure it’s entertaining. If all I hear is just a bunch of people crying into their microphones for twenty minutes, I’m pulling the plug."
"Oh, don't worry," Alya smiled, a brilliant, scheming grin spreading across her face. "Paris knows how to put on a show."
Ten minutes later, Alya was practically vibrating as she burst out of the office building and onto the bustling Parisian sidewalk. She immediately pulled out her phone and hit speed dial.
"Marinette!" Alya yelled into the receiver the second the call connected, ignoring the startled look of a passing pedestrian. "Get Nino. We’re meeting at the Dupain-Cheng bakery in ten minutes. I just secured five grand, and we are about to cure the post-war depression of this entire city."
.x.
The bell above the bakery door jangled with a frantic, aggressive energy that could only mean one thing: Alya Césaire had arrived, and she was armed with an idea.
Marinette, who had been carefully piping pink buttercream roses onto a batch of cupcakes, stiffened. She slowly lowered the pastry bag and looked up.
There Alya stood in the doorway, practically radiating a physical aura of ambition. She had That Look. It was the exact same expression she used to get right before dragging Marinette into an alleyway to spy on a supervillain, or before organizing a thirty-step tactical mission to get Adrien to look at a text message. It was a look that spelled absolute, unadulterated chaos for anyone in a five-mile radius.
"Marinette!" Alya marched straight to the counter, slamming her hands down on the glass. "Clear your schedule. Clear your life. The world is changing today."
Before Marinette could even swallow her sudden spike of anxiety, the bakery door jangled again. Nino slipped inside, his shoulders hunched, looking around like a man who had accidentally walked into a hostage situation. He caught Marinette’s eye and gave a subtle, terrified shake of his head.
"Dude," Nino muttered, sliding into a booth and pulling his red cap lower over his eyes. "I tried to slow her down. I really did. She walked past me on the street like a freight train. I think she broke the sound barrier near the Seine."
Alya was completely unperturbed by Nino's fear. She slid into the booth across from him, grabbing Marinette by the wrist and pulling her along into the seat next to her. "Nino is a doubter. A skeptic. A man of little faith. But you, Marinette? You’re going to see the vision."
"Alya, breathe," Marinette pleaded, raising her hands defensively. "What is going on? Did your boss finally give you a full-time job?"
"Better," Alya beamed, leaning in close and lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. "I just pitched a city-wide podcast contest to Monsieur Vandel. The Parisian Daily is backing it. Five. Thousand. Euros. Cash money. For the best podcast about surviving the Hawk Moth era."
Marinette blinked. The air in her lungs suddenly felt very heavy. The Hawk Moth era. It had been a year since Gabriel Agreste had been dragged away in handcuffs. A year since the butterflies stopped infesting the sky. And for a year, Marinette had been trying to pretend that her shoulders didn't ache from carrying the weight of the entire city on them.
"A podcast?" Marinette repeated, her voice a little smaller than she intended. "Like... talking? On the internet? About... him?"
"About everything!" Alya corrected, throwing her arms up. "The trauma, the property damage, the weirdness. Paris has been miserable for so long. Everyone is walking around like they’re waiting for a giant baby to stomp on their cars again. We need to vent!”
“But Alya, people are still pretty raw about the whole Agreste thing. Especially..." He trailed off, exchanging a worried look with Marinette.
They didn't have to say his name. Adrien.
"I know," Alya said, her tone softening just a fraction, though the entrepreneurial glint in her eye remained. "I know it’s tough. But that’s why we need it. I want the two of you to enter. Nino, you can do a show about the music scene after the apocalypse. And Marinette..." Alya grabbed both of Marinette’s hands, looking at her with pure, unyielding best-friend intensity. "You need this. You’ve been a ball of stress for twelve months. You design clothes until four in the morning, you drink too much espresso, and you look like a stiff breeze could knock you over. Talk into a microphone. Vent. Win five thousand euros!"
"No," Marinette said immediately, pulling her hands back. "No, no, no. Absolutely not. Alya, I can barely talk to a normal person on a good day without twisting my ankle or spilling soup on myself. You want me to broadcast my deepest, most chaotic thoughts to all of France? No way."
"Think about it!" Alya pushed, sliding out of the booth as her phone began to buzz with emails from the office. "The portal goes live at midnight. Just promise me you’ll think about it. I gotta go write the press release before Vandel changes his mind. Love you, bye!"
With a whirlwind of energy, Alya burst back out into the Parisian afternoon, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.
Nino looked at Marinette. "I’m probably going to do it," he admitted sheepishly. "Five grand is a lot of new vinyl, dudette."
"Traitor," Marinette groaned, burying her face in her hands.
Later that evening, the bakery was closed, and the sky outside Marinette’s bedroom window had turned a deep, bruised violet.
Marinette sat at her desk, her chin resting in her hands, staring blankly at her computer screen. The official website for The Parisian Daily had a giant, glowing banner across the top: THE PARISIAN PODCAST INITIATIVE: WHAT’S YOUR AKUMA STORY?
A small, crimson figure floated out from inside Marinette’s jacket, hovering right in front of her nose. Tikki looked at the screen, her large blue eyes full of gentle concern.
"Alya certainly knows how to shake things up," Tikki said softly, resting a tiny paw on Marinette’s cheek. "Are you alright, Marinette?"
"I don't know, Tikki," Marinette sighed, leaning back in her chair and staring up at the trapdoor leading to her roof. "Alya isn't wrong. The city is... stuck. I feel like everyone is holding their breath. And honestly? So am I. As Ladybug, I had to fix everything. Every smashed building, every broken street. But I couldn't fix how scared everyone was."
"You did the best you could, Marinette. You saved Paris."
"Then why does it feel like I left the job half-done?" Marinette looked back at the screen. The deadline for entering a podcast title was midnight. "Alya wants Marinette Dupain-Cheng to talk. But Marinette can't. Marinette has to be the normal, happy baker's daughter who makes pretty dresses. If I start talking about how terrifying it was to watch my friends get mind-controlled every week, I'll never stop crying."
Tikki flew down, landing gently on the edge of the keyboard. "But what about the person who actually saw it all? The one who carried the heaviest burden?"
Marinette froze. She looked at Tikki, then down at the little slot on the website that read: Host Name (Optional/Pseudonym Allowed).
"Alya said Paris needs a release valve," Marinette whispered, a strange, spark of adrenaline suddenly shooting through her veins. "They don't need to hear from a stressed-out fashion student. They need to hear from the person who was standing in the middle of the storm."
Slowly, her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She didn't type her own name. Instead, she registered a completely anonymous audio feed.
When it asked for the title of the podcast, she didn't even hesitate. Her fingers flew across the keys, typing out the words that had been bouncing around her head for a year.
The Bug Behind the Mask.
"If I'm going to do this, Tikki," Marinette said, a faint, determined smile finally breaking through her exhaustion, "I'm doing it as Ladybug. Paris wants to know what it was like? I'm going to tell them. Every single ridiculous, exhausting, terrifying second of it."