#and i just cant help somehow reaching the conclusion that there must be something wrong with me. im just not worth caring about | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

consumeconstantly · 4 years

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SBGS ch 6

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | ao3

2:00AM | CoffeeVamp: marinette dupain cheng could step on me and i would thank her

CoffeeVamp: did you all see how bad ass that girl was

CoffeeVamp: she was just like demon spawn is robin? Well fuck you for being in paris

CoffeeVamp: and her file oml this girl does so much for paris and he classmates treat her like CRAP

Daddy: How do you know her Damian? Clearly you guys have met before. Can you really trust her with your identity?

Jesus: this girl has been keeping her own secret identitieS under wraps for years I doubt she’ll rat

CoffeeVamp: DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON MDC

CoffeeVamp: all i ever wanted was for MDC to design smth for me but u ruined ALL my chances demon spawn !!!!

2:15 AM | TheOG: I think we can trust her

TheOG: Don’t think she trusts us tho

CoffeeVamp: yea what was with the zip ties

CoffeeVamp: do you have smth to tell us ;)))

CoffeeVamp: have u been getting spicy in paris ;)))

CoffeeVamp: remember to use protection we don’t need any mini yous around

LadyLady: she’s good. I can see why Ladybug trusts her

DemonSpawn: She’s a friend I met in Paris. She can keep a secret.

2:20 AM | DemonSpawn: I regret not trusting her.

CoffeeVamp: i cant believe that u thought someone who was nice enough to spend time wu willingly could be a supervillain

Jesus: that’s pretty fucked up man

Jesus: Surprised she didn’t rail on you more for that. I would’ve given you a beat down

LadyLady: u need a game plan to get her on your side. She doesn’t have a good reason to trust u anymore and id like it if we were on good terms with the one person that can contact lb

The OG: ^^ babs is always right

TheOG: you only have two weeks

DemonSpawn: How do I get on her good side?

Jesus: you better hope and pray because girls like that do not forgive easy

TheOG: try being her friend again

Jesus: like she wants to be his friend anymore

LadyLady: Apologize to her.

Jason is right.

It’s clear that Marinette does not want to be involved with him any longer. Marinette comes in right as the bell rings, then faces firmly ahead and doesn’t spare him a single glance. Notes that he slips to her are ignored. She doesn’t check her phone for his texts except for once, when she texts him: anything related to last night will be discussed out of school.

Instead of going home for lunch, she willingly sits with Lila, just so she can avoid him cornering her in the bakery. Damian watches them from a distance, but he’s close enough to hear most of the conversations. Most of their other classmates are taken in by some video on Alya’s. There’s a quick exclamation from the Ladyblogger, saying something about being able to meet some American celebrity, and she and the rest of the class run off to somewhere else, though not before inviting Lila and Adrien. They’re turned down, and Marinette continues to sit with the two of them.

“We’ve got a photo shoot together later today.” Adrien sounds tired. Like he’s giving up, almost.

“Would you like to come, Marinette?”

Damian can’t make out Marinette’s reply, but she must say yes, because Lila’s calculated facade slips away to reveal shock and interest. Lila entwines her fingers with Adrien’s, an act Adrien clearly isn’t expecting, as he flinches.

Marinette levels a glance at Lila, who looks surprised at Adrien’s reaction, not that Damian can blame her; she practically hangs off Adrien every day, playing up their couple relationship for the media, and Adrien never reacts like this. He inches closer. Lila reaches out to touch Adrien on the shoulder, in a gesture of soothing, but Adrien flinches again, this time gaining a distant look in his eyes and starting to breath hard. Lila goes to kneel--it’s clear that Adrien is on the verge of a full blown panic attack-- but Marinette holds Lila by her arm and shakes her head, gesturing for her to wait off to the side.

Adrien’s reactions are trademarks of an abuse victim. His reactions are rather dramatic in comparison to the clenched jaw and distant eyes that he normally sees in kids in Gotham, which leads Damian to the conclusion that this is either a more recent thing, or when he is abused, he emphasizes his weakness in attempt to get the attacker to stop. The question of who seems rather redundant; everyone knows that Adrien Agreste is the sheltered, sunshine boy who never stepped a foot out of his mansion before turning twelve. Though he models, his actions are still highly restricted. There’s not really much of a chance for Adrien’s abuser to be anyone other than the people within his immediate vicinity, so the suspects were his father, the personal assistant, his drive, or someone he works with.

He’ll have to keep this information in mind moving forward. Though Damian ordered extensive background checks on each and every student at Francois Dupont, he only read the profiles of the people in his class, and only keeps tabs on the people that are of interest.nIn Mlle. Bustier’s class, the only people who Damian is interested in are Marinette, for obvious reasons, Lila Rossi, for the sheer number of times she was akumatized during year two of Hawkmoth’s presence, Chloe Bourgeois, who may not be Francois Dupont student, let alone in France at the moment, but has a parent who currently sits at the top of his family’s Hawkmoth suspect list and has gotten countless people akumatized, and Adrien Agreste, the only person other than Marinette who hasn’t been akumatized in the akuma class. If Adrien really is being abused-- and he doesn’t really see any reason for Adrien to fake the symptoms, given that there’s really nothing for him to gain out of this situation-- that knocks him up a space on the list of Hawkmoth suspects. Victims of abuse, especially in a high profile situation, are often likely to either lash out or coop themselves up. Since he isn’t purposely excluding himself from activities, given that he converses with Marinette, Lila, and two other classmates named Nino and Alya, it’s possible that he has adopted Hawkmoth as an alter ego to pursue revenge.

All this, of course, is mere speculation. Before making any abrupt jumps in his logic, like he did with Marinette-- though he defends himself with the fact that his thoughts on her being Hawkmoth were mere speculation, and that it was merely coincidence or a case of extremely bad luck that Marinette… what, thought he was Hawkmoth as well and then passed the information onto Ladybug? Now that he thinks about it, the whole situation seems ridiculous, and he finds that Ladybug’s lack of tact when coming face to face with her supposed arch-nemesis doesn’t befit a hero of her caliber. She seemed oddly emotional about the whole thing, like his existence as Hawkmoth was a personal betrayal. But Ladybug and Damian never met before that. Why did Ladybug take Marinette’s personal vendetta upon herself? His head hurts.

Damian finds himself walking over to their table, where Marinette is speaking in soothing tones, careful not to touch Adrien at all. He calms down enough to start breathing regularly. Even though his eyes are still watery, he looks up at Marinette with a tentative smile. Marinette looks back at him with such pure, unadulterated love, that Damian blinks slowly to make sure he’s not seeing things. There aren’t many people who show emotions that don’t have some hidden barb underneath, or an undercurrent of a different emotion alongside it.

Then, Marinette sends a calculating look at Damian, and a briefer one at Lila and Adrien.

“Lila, can I talk to you in private for a moment?” Although Marinette’s tone keeps to a pleasant range, Damian finds it rather familiar. Like when Alfred pulls him or one of his brothers to the side to politely tell them what they’re doing wrong and how to remedy it. But there’s a bit of genuine ferocity in Marinette’s tone, and the Italian girl steps back.

“Adrien, I’m going to leave you here with Damian just for a second, okay? I’ll be right back, and if you need me for anything, just call.” She gives Damian a look that says if you hurt this boy, I will end you and heads off with Lila.

“Damian,” Adrien says. He’s trying to come off as calm and cheery. He misses the mark terribly. Somehow, Damian gets the feeling that the boy isn’t very good at bottling up his emotions, odd, considering that he’s grown up partially in the limelight. “I see you’re well acquainted with our everyday Ladybug. She really is amazing.”

There’s a touch of awe, and it makes Damian uncomfortable for no good reason.

He’s not sure how to deal with people who look like they’re about to cry. Damian doesn’t have to deal with that. Dick’s in charge of any emotional clean up that’s necessary in the public; Alfred helps his family manage their emotions in the manor. He decides that going with the flow is the best option in this situation. An everyday Ladybug. What an interesting piece of terminology.

“She is.” Damian admits, “We’re not currently on the best of terms.”

Damian will be surprised if Marinette even manages to civilly work with him for the rest of the week. He wasn’t expecting their subsequent interactions after last night to be the same as they were prior to her finding out that he was Robin and thinking that she was Hawkmoth, but he thought she would just interact coolly with him. Not this silent treatment. She refuses to talk to him and only looks at him with some combination of disdain and ill intent.

He can’t manage to give her the same treatment, both because he is on a mission and because he can’t fault her for thinking that he was Hawkmoth. The situation is really, rather comical, but he spent enough time ruminating on his actions the previous night to pick up on all of the red flags that made her come to that conclusion, and even is she was a hero for a short period of time, he can’t expect someone who is, by and large, a civilian to have the same investigative capabilities his family does. If anything, he is ashamed of himself for jumping to the conclusion that she was Hawkmoth, when instead, it turned out she is working for Ladybug.

However, the Marinette he’s seen so far doesn’t seem the type to hold grudges, especially not when it comes to any pressing issue, and he finds that all of the decisions she makes are heavily logic-based and influenced by Sabine’s values, who is definitely an upright woman if he’s ever seen one. Marinette has too strong of a work ethic to actually ignore Damian when it comes down to it, but he has to wonder why she acted so blatantly hostile to him. Her character combined with her actions just don’t match up, which means there's another reason why she’s acting this way.

While Damian excels at extracting raw data and testimonies from people due to brute force, and is decent enough at getting people to do what he desires, determining the source of a person’s frustration, what drives a person-- he needs more work with that. He’s much better at getting people mad. And Damian doesn’t think he’s seen Marinette mad at anyone except for Celia DeVries. She has nerves made of steel and patience carved from diamond.

“I hope you figure it out.” Adrien says with such sincerity that it’s frightening. He’s surprisingly pure-hearted for a model entrenched in a mega corporation like Gabriel. The entertainment industry, particularly the fashion side of business, is a very cut throat world. Adrien doesn’t seem like a person who’s been in the public eyes for years. “Please be a better friend to her than I am. I really wanted to do more for her, but my hands are... tied.”

Lila is subdued when she and Marinette return. Her eyes dart to Adrien, and she frowns and bites her bottom lip. Then she looks away and crosses her arms.

“Let’s get back to class. I’m excited to go to the photoshoot after school! I haven’t spent any time with you in so long, Adrien.” Marinette doesn’t sound like she’s faking it. She sounds so genuinely happy, and Damian wonders if he can make her sound like that again. If he ever made her sound like that.

Adrien looks at Marinette, then asks Damian, “Would you like to come too?”

The look that Adrien gives him tells him to say yes, even though he can feel the cold that radiates off Marinette. Damian agrees; it’s time to try Barbara’s suggestion and apologize, and since he doubts that he’ll get a word in edgewise when they’re working together at night, he has to try apologizing sooner.

The rest of the school day slips by in a blur.

Then, the four of them are out on the streets, and Damian finds their combination unnerving, to say the least. He’s still on bad terms with Marinette, and Marinette has never been on the best terms with Lila. She’s going to this shoot solely for the opportunity to be with Adrien, and something about that unsettles Damian. Still, regardless of how Damian feels, the photographer on the set of Adrien and Lila’s shoot loves all four of them.

“Fantastico! Adrien’s friends are rare finds. It’s true about what they say; beautiful people, they associate with beautiful people.” The photographer flits around Damian and Marinette, getting uncomfortably close. Damian shoots him a glare, but the photographer simply takes it in stride.

“Yes, yes, the most beautiful eyes, so passionate. The perfect measurements, too! Lara,” he calls to one of his assistants, “Get them all to makeup. These four are who I’ve been waiting for to fulfil my vision of envy. Gabriel will have to wait on his magazine spread. I’ve been inspired!” The photographer circles the four of them, like a hunter and his prey.

Out of nowhere, the photographer grasps Marinette’s chin, and despite the initial flinch she gives-- he’s not sure whether she was going to kick or punch him, but the sudden spitfire in her eyes said she was going to do something-- she settles into a locked jaw and curled fingers. Damian sees a slight jump from Adrien as well, which seems unusual; on the way over, he talked about how he worked with this photographer before and was very comfortable with him. He regaled them with funny stories of how he tended to reference spaghetti in shoots that were less pleasant to make the models laugh.

“Ah, Adrien, you have truly delivered the favor of Fortuna upon me. I cannot believe I never saw this earlier. You have brought this girl to shoots before, have you not? I never forget a beautiful face, even when I am focused on other things.”

Marinette calmly displaces Vincent’s hand from her face. “Thank you for the kind words, Monsieur, but I think it best that we just watch the originally planned shoot. I am no model and have no interest in being one.”

Vincent gives Marinette a once over, like he’s not used to people disagreeing with whatever vision he has for the day. “From one artist to the next-- this project is important to me. I’ve had the idea for years, but have yet to come across the perfect models to portray it. What will it take to convince you? ”

At this, nearly all the tension that Marinette has coiled up in her shoulders dissipates. Vincent has said the right thing. “I see. Really, Vincent, I think it’s best that you continue with the Gabriel shoot. M. Agreste wouldn’t be happy if he found out that his spread was delayed.”

“But the Muse, Mademoiselle! She runs away so quickly. And the four of you are perfect.” Vincent turns to the other three.

“Surely, you understand. Mlle. Rossi, M. Agreste, you must have felt an urge to do something so strongly that it pulls you in. And you,” he looks more closely at Damian. “You are an artist as well, aren’t you Monsieur? I can tell. It’s in the hands and eyes. Art, she comes, but she is fickle. If I don’t do this now, it will be gone forever. And the pursuit of true art means more than any Gabriel spread.”

Surprisingly, it is Adrien who responds first. “I might not understand art, Vincent, but I know what you’re talking about. The feeling of wanting to do something badly, to set yourself free…”

He twists his ring. Marinette looks at him sadly again, hands twitching like she wants to hold him to provide comfort.

“Besides, I don’t really want to do a Gabriel spread today. I haven’t spent time with friends in a long time, and I don’t think anything could make me happier than doing a photoshoot with you three right now.”

This makes Lila look at Adrien in a curious sort of way. Not the sad look that Marinette is giving him, but one of a slowly dawning realization. When Adrien references her as a friend, she looks happy. Proud, almost. Then, she looks like she’s connecting dots in her head, and she doesn’t look happy with the conclusion that she’s drawn. As soon as the frown touches her lips, Lila shifts back to an impeccably crafted mask.

Damian doesn’t agree with the sentiment that they are friends. He has barely had a full conversation with the blond, though he will admit that Adrien does have more of a brain than the rest of his classmates. He looks at the ill-concealed shadows beneath Adrien’s eyes and sees Tim.

Lila agrees almost immediately after Adrien finishes speaking. “Inspiration is fleeting. Art waits for no one.”

Marinette purses her lips. She asks Vincent, “You won’t get in any trouble for this?”

“I can handle any backlash Gabriel throws at me. Heaven knows that man has pissed off one too many photographers before.”

“You can, but what about everybody else involved?” She looks at Adrien, specifically. He fidgets with his ring again, and sends Marinette a look so pleading that she sighs. “Fine. I don’t mind doing the shoot.”

“Fantastico!” He turns his gaze to Damian.

“I’ll do it.” He’s never been particularly fond of photographers, given that the invasiveness of the media has led his family to various unpleasant situations, but Cass went through a photography phase, and out of all of his ‘sibling’ relationships, he is the most willing to indulge her.

“Will you tell us what the subject of the shoot is?” Marinette has inched closer to Adrien. Adrien pauses, stops fidgeting with his ring, and looks at Marinette. A world weary smile creeps onto his face, and his hand reaches out for Marinette’s like he wasn’t expecting himself to do that. He looks surprised when he finds his hand in hers, tenses for a moment. But Marinette doesn’t say anything, and rubs soothing circles on the back of his hand with her thumb. This seems to relax him more than fidgeting with his ring. He sags, and Damian can’t bring himself to feel anything but pity for Adrien. Lila looks curious, but not jealous.

Vincent surveys the four of them again, a growing smile on his face. “No, I think the four of you are already perfetto. A little direction here and there, but yes, yes, this is very good.”

“Lara, bring them to makeup. You know what to do. I must set up! Don’t call Gabriel; we will most likely be taking this to a second location at sunset.” Then, Vincent is off, muttering something in Italian under his breath.

“Thank you so much for agreeing to do this shoot,” Adrien rambles as soon as they get into makeup. “Vincent is such a great photographer and he’s taken really good care of me over the years. He’ll take good care of all of you as well.”

He continues, a little softer. “I really wanted to spend time with the three of you, together. I--I think it would be really nice if we could all be friends.”

Damian has his eyes closed because eyeshadow is being applied, but he can practically feel the surprise rolling off Marinette.

“Adrien, we are friends already.”

“We are, but we’re not really close. The only person I talked to often was Nino, and recently, father has-- ” he breaks off, looking exceedingly uncomfortable, before speaking quickly in an attempt to speak up before losing his nerve. “But I don’t just mean friends with me, I mean the four of us. I want the four of us to be friends.”

The makeup artist who is working on Adrien shushes him, but Damian gets to open his eyes. Adrien is clearly nervous. He’s not shaking-- he is bred far too well for that-- but he has reverted back to fidgeting with his ring. He tries to bite his lip, but the makeup artist shakes her head and tuts.

The girls are both silent, and Adrien looks so nervous that he has to do something. He doesn’t think he’s interacted like this with anyone as nervous as Adrien before; his brothers were all big personalities, as were the Teen Titans. He may have come across nervous or anxious civilians as Robin, but those situations were more straight and cut, involving little to no talking. Damian decides to that a cross between how he interacts with Dick and how he interacts with the people he saves is the best bet for this situation, though his tone comes out more condescending than he planned.

“Why the four of us?” Damian can’t really see why Adrien has singled out the four of them. As far as he can tell, there’s no good blood between them. Adrien, Marinette, and Damian all harbor varying levels of dislike or discomfort towards Lila; Adrien, Lila, and Damian have all fucked over Marinette in various ways (or so he Damian assumes on Adrien’s part-- he is sure they would have been closer, otherwise); Lila, Marinette and Damian haven't talked to Adrien in any capacity that implies that they're more than mere acquaintances; Damian has done nothing that would put himself in the favor of the three.

Adrien fidgets even more, and the makeup artist smacks him and says that she doesn’t want to have to redo his eyeliner. “I think we all have a lot in common. And, I might not be good at showing it, but I like the three of you.”

Marinette makes some noise in disbelief and Lila narrows her eyes.

“Hear me out on this, guys. All of us try to help people when we can,”

“That’s basic human decency, Adrien,” Marinette says.

“Me, helping people?” Lila scoffs.

“We help people out more than most people do-- and Lila, you really do help people. Sure, you might not have been telling the truth about all of the celebrities or all of the charities you worked with, but you’ve helped a lot of charities throughout the years.”

Damian quirks an eyebrow. “And me?”

“I’ve heard about Silverstein and Company.” Adrien says, then continues on with his list of Reasons Why They Should Be Friends.

“None of us like telling people about our problems.”

This is met with no resistance.

“And we’re also all lonely.”

Silence.

Marinette’s makeup artist breaks up the oppressive silence, “And all good looking to boot!”

“It’s true what they say about the most beautiful,” Lila’s makeup artist says, “They’re always so troubled.”

Marinette laughs, but it’s strained. “Don’t worry Mademoiselle. We’re just being teens.”

“Loneliness isn’t a good reason to form relationships.” Lila says. Her voice is quiet. She looks off to some fixed point in the distance.

“It’s not the worst reason there ever was,” Adrien shrugs, satisfied now that he’s said his piece. His shoulders are back a little more now. Whatever happens next is up to them, not him. “And I like all of you. I think we all have very unique personalities that could work well together.”

Marinette shrugs her shoulders. “If there’s one thing that I’ve learned about relationships, it’s that initial compatibility means very little in the grand scheme of things. Relationships can work as long as you work for them. They might not be the fairy tale storyline that people chase after, but relationships that are worked on last longer. Adrien could be right. We might be able to all be good friends.”

Lila fixes Marinette with a stare. “You’re willing to be my friend? After what I did to you?”

Marinette shouldn’t be willing to be friends with Lila after what she did. In fact, after reading multiple books on healthy relationships when trying to cope with Chloe way back when, she shouldn’t be willing to be friends with any of them. It feels fucked up, but Marinette realizes that Damian, who believed she was a super villain, has the least strikes against a healthy relationship currently.

Even though Marinette knows that circumstance doesn’t excuse any of them-- Marinette doesn’t excuse her stalkerish tendencies back when she first met Adrien, either-- she knows that the three of them are just teens who have too many responsibilities and problems on their shoulders. They’re capable of change, and as both Ladybug and Marinette, she wants to believe that someone’s past actions doesn’t mean they can’t move forward. Perhaps their current actions should be taken with a healthy dose of cynicism, and perhaps their past colors how much Marinette will be able to trust them in certain areas, but throughout her years of existence she’s seen that there is no person who has only done good in their life.

“You’ve been better lately. I respect someone who changes themselves for the better.” What Marinette doesn’t say; she’s mostly willing to try this tentative friendship out for Adrien’s sake, because Lila seems to be the only one who can get Gabriel Agreste on her side and Marinette needs her help if she and Adrien’s trust if she can ever dream of emancipating Adrien.

Marinette is also confident that Lila is currently coming into her own, and knows that Lila didn’t have any good example to model herself after during her formative years. The fact that she’s changing now? It’s honestly pretty impressive, and even more so considering the people that are in Mme. Bustier’s class aren’t exactly cut from the most inspirational cloth. Why Lila is trying to change is something Marinette is curious about, but they’re definitely not close enough for Marinette to ask Lila that. There is also the very important fact that Lila has not been akumatized this entire year, nor has she gone out of her way to encourage someone else’s akumatization.

A small smile settles on Lila’s face. “Thank you. For what it’s worth, I am … sorry for what I did to you back then.”

Marinette hums with her eyes closed as a light layer of shadows placed on her crease. “I accept your apology. While we’re on this topic, I’d like to apologize to Adrien. I’m sorry that I haven’t been a very good friend to you. You’re an amazing person, and I want you to know that. Your self-worth should never be degraded by other people, and I really hope that you can come to rely on me.”

A watery, affectionate smile from Adrien. “Marinette, you’ve always been one of my best friends.”

“I regret what I said to you yesterday,” Damian cannot muster an apology-- he does not apologize, certainly not for doing his job, but Marinette is… useful. He needs her to accomplish her mission, and she’s kind.

There is no verbal response from Marinette, but she’s looking at him, at least. She hasn’t looked at him all day besides the one glare she gave him that told him to take care of Adrien.

Lila looks between the two of them. “What are you sorry for? I was under the impression that the two of you were great friends.”

He is sorry, if only slightly, but it takes a lot for him to get an apology. If anything, Marinette should be apologizing to him, for mistaking him as Hawkmoth, right? “Last night was--”

Marinette cuts him off with a sharp laugh. “Damian here thought I was Hawkmoth.”

Adrien bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, you thought Marinette was Hawkmoth? Out of all the Parisians you could choose! You know she goes around the city saving random people, right? She’s our everyday Ladybug. Doesn’t sound very supervillainy to me.”

Lila laughs too, and the tension in the preparation room finally breaks. “Please, if Marinette were Hawkmoth, she would have gotten Ladybug and Chat Noir’s Miraculous already. Have you seen what a planner she is?”

This gets Adrien to fake shudder. “It’s true. If Marinette really were Hawkmoth, she’d be so powerful. She knows everybody’s deepest fears, can kick ass and take names, and can come up with the weirdest plans that solve everybody’s problems in an instant. Imagine if she went to the dark side.”

“She would make an awful akuma.” Lila agrees. “How powerful you are as an akuma is linked to how strong you are mentally and how strong your emotions are when the butterfly lands on you. Whatever makes Marinette upset enough to have an akuma after her would probably be the result of some very strong emotions.”

“She’d be strong enough to level the entire city.”

Marinette is bright red, and if it were not for the fact that mascara is being applied to her lashes, she’d probably have her face buried in her hands. “Okay, okay, I would be an awful akuma. But I won’t ever be akumatized, so it’s fine.”

Adrien thinks of Marinette being an akuma more, and his face goes pale. “She really would be able to steal Ladybug and Chat Noir’s Miraculouses successfully.”

“No, she’s too morally righteous to do that. She’d probably go after Hawkmoth and win while she was akumatized.” Lila looks pensive. “All akumas retain most of their original personality traits, just exaggerated. Some even have some semblance of control over their actions.”

“If that wouldn’t be one of Anime’s top 10 betrayals, I don’t know what is. Hawkmoth akumatizes Marinette and then she rightfully kicks his ass.”

“Guys,” Marinette hisses. “I won’t ever become an akuma. Never.”

“You say that like you can refuse Hawkmoth,” Lila laughs. “You can certainly go after akumas, but refuse them? No way.”

Adrien zeroes in on Marinette’s hesitance. “Have you?”

Marinette shifts in her seat, her mouth set into a grim line.

“You have,” Adrien says with a touch of awe. Damian is impressed too; no reports of people being able to refuse an akuma have passed through the many hours of research he’s spent scouring the internet. He understands why Ladybug put so much trust in Marinette. “When?”

This sets Marinette on edge. Her back straightens into a board.

Lila picks at her fingernails in shame. “Did I?”

Marinette doesn’t respond, but the tremble of her mouth and her silence answers the question well enough.

Damian doubts he’ll ever get the full story of what happened that first year when Lila arrived. Marinette isn’t one to snitch, and Lila is both unwilling and tentatively ashamed of the past. Adrien won’t answer out of courtesy. Damian will never go to any of the other classmates to hear a bastardized version of what went down. He supposes he’ll never find out the whole truth.

Marinette’s stylist claps her hand. “Okay, enough teenage angst for today. All of your makeup is done, so it’s time to get into your outfits. Let’s go, kids.”

They’re silent as they dress.

The shoot is a flurry of excitement. There are many whispered conversations, but Marinette can’t keep track of half of them. Whenever she isn’t in a shot-- which is fairly rare as she seems to be the main subject of whatever Vincent is shooting for-- Marinette focuses on what needs to happen next. Though she’s still not currently the biggest fan of Damian or the Justice League, she will give them a fair chance, because as much as she hates to admit it, she needs the help. Batman is right. Even though she wasn’t actively working on the case for the first year, she still had plenty of time to gather evidence to back up her main suspects. Her lack of expertise in technology hinders progress greatly.

Not to mention that because Marinette was so wary about hurting Adrien and so swamped trying to keep a balanced schedule, she wasn’t able to find enough evidence to feel safe in her convictions. Master Fu warned her of incorrectly accusing Gabriel in the eye of the public, and he hasn’t come out to fight since the Scarlet Moth incident. She’s tried to investigate Gabriel in his own house, but any evidence slips through her fingers. He’s a very careful man.

Now that the promise of college is coming up, Marinette needs to take Hawkmoth down. Marinette doesn’t want to continue her schooling in France. Not anymore. She wants to go to a foreign college, where dreams of akumas won’t plague her at every step. Half the reason she finds herself on the streets as a civilian constantly is to erase the gory imagery of death and blood that linger in her mind eye from akuma battles. Seeing happy and alive citizens in all of the areas where Hawkmoth attacked make her feel better, but aren’t enough to chase away her nightmares entirely.

Marinette moves through the rest of the photoshoot in a haze. When she is in shot, she focuses on whoever she’s shooting with. Lila, with sharp green eyes, barely begins to lower her guard when Marinette directs the conversation towards past modelling shoots she’s been involved with. They interact unnaturally at first, but after starting to talk about Dior’s Spring/Summer ready to wear line, they find that they have similar tastes in silhouettes, though not in color.

She forces herself to ignore the fiasco that was last night, and talks to Damian about small nothings that don’t touch on anything important. When she runs out of topics, she begins to talk about Renee, and his gaze shifts to something resembling regret and some other emotion she can’t read. Dealing with whatever issues Damian has is not ideal. He’ll have to sort out his feelings on his own.

Adrien’s expressions are the easiest to read. Whenever he’s in a shot with Marinette, he is happy, plain and simple. There is less weight on his shoulders, and as Marinette attempts to cheer him up with poorly thought out puns, he looks like a kid again. He even starts punning back, and Marinette can’t believe how much she missed that. Chat Noir stopped punning a while ago, and it hurt in unexpected ways.

Really, Marinette just wants Adrien to be happy. Adrien is Chat Noir. Her best friend. Her partner. Marinette thinks Adrien deserves the world. She wants to pave a path for him so that his entrance into the adult world is easier, because the facade Gabriel has built of a picture perfect family attempting to cope with the loss of a mother and wife isn’t what Adrien needs.

Maybe Marinette wants him to have the childhood he wasn’t afforded. Marinette clings to warm memories of her own childhood, where Maman trained her in self defense and Papa taught her how to bake when things get particularly hard nowadays. Her heart warms when she sees Adrien give shy smiles to Damian and Lila. She’s proud when he strikes up conversations with them.

In all honesty, the only part of the shoot Marinette remembers is the last section of group photos they take when they move to a second location. It’s a cold day in Spring, which means Parisian tourists are more likely to be found inside an art museum, rather than on the beach. Adrien convinces them all that they should run around the beach, and somehow, they end up playing some extremely difficult version of capture the flag, but without the flags.

Somehow, Marinette ends up on a team of her own, for the sole reason that she’s the only one wearing white, and the person who holds the opposing team’s flag is Damian. She tackles him onto the sand, but not before both Lila and Adrien are hot on her tail. They end up in a pile, and Adrien’s laughter rings so sweet and true, that Marinette’s heart fills with love. She shifts, so her body is facing skywards instead of into Damian’s arm, and she reaches one arm across Damian’s body to grab Lila’s hand, who flinches at first touch, but relaxes. Marinette’s other hand finds itself tangled in Adrien’s hair, and despite the cold weather, Marinette is content.

She looks towards the horizon, where the sun is setting in a million different colors, and finds herself longing for a time where every day can be just like this moment.Where there is nothing filling her head except thoughts of the people who make her happy. Her eyes shift straight up.

Where morning fades into night, the sky is so very, very, blue.

Marinette’s room turns into an organized warzone at night.

The area of her room that was previously used to hold up various sketches and mood boards for designs in progress turns out not to be an upholstered wall, but a curtain that hides two whiteboards and a small library of books on the psychology of emotional manipulation, manuals of martial arts, and various books on strategy. The shelf above her desk space holds a projector that Marinette uses to project images from her computer onto the left white board.

“I’ll catch you up on my previous attempts and what you have to know in order for this partnership to work.” She takes her tablet out, flips through several screens, then uses her fingerprint to unlock a folder of notes. “This is a chronological list of things that Ladybug and I have attempted in order to find Hawkmoth’s location. There is a separate folder with suspects for identity that’s alphabetized. If you’re interested in more in depth analyses of past akumas, I can send that to you and your team’s emails now, as most of the information is readily available online. I’m assuming that you have a team, correct?”

“Yes, I can send their email addresses to your number.”

“No, for any information regarding Hawkmoth or superheroes in Paris, you can contact me through this number and email address. Ladybug and I both check it regularly; it’s a safer, more encrypted way of communication.” Marinettte taps her Miraculous communicator and connects it to her computer, so she can work on a bigger screen. “Which person is your main point of contact?”

“Oracle.”

Marinette contacts Oracle through video call. She doesn’t want to have to explain everything twice even if their partnership turns out to be nonviable. It takes a few moments to get through, but a woman’s face pops up on the screen. She’s a redhead and doesn’t wear a mask. Her coloring is obviously different from the rest of Batman’s affiliates, and despite her initial grievances with the white films over the vigilante’s eyes, she understand why it’s necessary; their suits aren’t magic, and there’s nothing stopping people from running facial recognition software and matching them up to people who reside in Gotham.

“How did you get this number?” Oracle asks warily.

Marinette moves her chair slightly so that Oracle can see Damian, who's currently looking at her tablet on her chaise. “I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng, your point of contact in Paris and the one who will be working with you for the next week. As you can see, Damian’s already viewing some information that Ladybug and I have compiled over the years. Please get the rest of your team on this call. I’d like to get all of the basic information out of the way now.”

“Damian?” The girl on her screen is a dead ringer for the girl they compiled multiple files on yesterday, but she can’t get a trace on where they’re calling from, which makes her suspicious.

Damian shoots her a text, confirming that it is actually him in the room, then goes back to scrolling through the tablet.

Nightwing, Red Robin, Red Hood, and Batman all appear on the screen shortly.

“Great, the gang's all here,” Marinette says unenthusiastically. “I’ll say it one more time. I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng and I will be your primary point of contact during your two weeks trial period here in Paris. I’m assuming that your team has been brought up on the events that occurred last night. In order for this attempted partnership to go more smoothly, I will provide you lists of suspects, past attempts at revealing Hawkmoth’s location, and more detailed information about all of the past akumas that have appeared. These files will only be available to you for the week unless the collaboration goes successfully. Damian has already given me your contact information.”

As an afterthought, Marinette adds, “Don’t bother trying to copy any of the files. You won’t be able to. You also won’t be able to pick up on my location through this video call; I’m using a Miraculous Communicator. The magic makes it so that any technology other than another Miraculous will be unable to find any identifying location.”

Marinette knows about this thanks to Max’s brief stint as Pegasus. Though Marinette had not yet learned spells that would allow her to materialize her communicator outside of the time that she was suited up, she had Max try to find Ladybug’s location after sending him a text. He and Markov were both unable to.

“Since the Justice League insists on sticking their nose where it does not belong,” Marinette can’t help but be bitter about this whole situation, despite the fact that her frustration with Damian has decreased. “Ladybug and I have created a plan to make full use of your resources while you’re still butting in. I’ve sent a list of which organizations need monetary support. Most are affiliated with mental health.”

“Let’s move onto how you guys as a team can help us. As far as I understand, Batman’s team is proficient in technology and investigation. For the past two years that we’ve actively been on the case, nobody has had those skill sets and been in the long term possession of a Miraculous. The police attempted investigation for the first year, but their evidence and information was largely unhelpful. I will give Damian the Miraculous Communicator that I am in possession of to use his skills with so long as he tells me what he’s doing with it and he uses it while I’m in his immediate vicinity. He can try to find out Hawkmoth’s location on it, perhaps with a greater degree of success that we have been able to.”

She goes through the checklist she made one more time, just to make sure that she didn’t miss anything. She doesn’t really expect anything much to come out of this collaboration, except for the reassurance that the Justice League won’t interfere at the end of the week. Speaking of: “One more thing. I want a notarized agreement that the Justice League will not interfere in Paris, nor will any of their agents of affiliates be sent here if this collaboration doesn’t yield information that is already known.”

“Got a lotta spark in you, don’t you, little mouse?” The vigilante called Red Hood-- the one with a helmet instead of a stupid domino mask-- laughs.

Marinette scowls. So far, the Justice League-- particularly the vigilantes of Gotham-- have not left her with a stunning first impression. Maybe she’s a little biased, but they certainly don’t seem to have any respect for her. Still, she only has to work with them for two weeks. “My name is Marinette, but clearly your helmet hasn’t shielded you from the memory loss that frequent concussions have clearly given you.”

“She got you there, dumb ass,” says Red Robin, a grin a mile wide on his face.

“Hood,” sighs Oracle, sounding highly stressed. Marinette decides that she is the most likeable. “Like I said earlier, we want to be on good terms with Marinette.”

“I’ll get you the documents and funds by tomorrow.” Batman’s voice is just as gravelly as the first time she contacted him. She finds that the more she hears him speak, the more pleasant she finds his voice. An acquired taste. “Even if this week is unsuccessful, the Justice League will be more than happy to continue to fund these organizations. Is there anything that Ladybug, Chat Noir, or you need personally?”

“None of us are going to use the Justice League’s funds for personal gain, Batman.” The accusations grates on her.

“Batman means,” Nightwing shoots a look to the side of his screen. Interesting, Marinette thinks. All of Gotham’s vigilantes are in one location, judging by their backgrounds and the location tags that her communicator provides her. Perhaps they have a headquarters of some sort. Back when there were extra heroes on the Miraculous team, Marinette sometimes wished that they had a location that they could all reliably gather at without revealing someone’s identity. It certainly would have made strategy easier. “That being a hero without any support is difficult. It must have taken a toll on your personal lives. If we can aid in any way, we will. We can excuse absences or hire tutors as necessary.”

“I’m no hero.” But Nightwing’s proposal may actually be helpful. Even though Marinette is making the grades necessary to go to the colleges that she wants, her continual absence and tardies aren’t very flattering.

Then her mind flashes to Adrien. Can she use this offer to get him out from underneath Gabriel’s thumb? Marinette doesn’t know if she can do that. He’s already in a delicate position-- and already at risk, thanks to the photoshoot earlier today-- and she’s not sure that Gabriel won’t move towards drastic measures if anything changes on Adrien’s end. If she wants to get him away from Gabriel, she may have to reveal his secret identity.

“Ladybug will make the decision for herself; she has access to everything that is said during our meetings. Chat Noir isn’t in the loop about our communications or any of the investigations that Ladybug and I have done. Ladybug says that he’s stressed in his civilian life, which is why his appearances have been decreasing,” Marinette admits. “I’ll leave it up to Ladybug to give your offer to Chat Noir. If I can get a reliable excuse to get out of class or get to class late, that would be greatly appreciated.”

“Chat Noir doesn’t know?” Red Robin sounds horrified.

“He’s currently a high risk for being akumatized. Ladybug didn’t want to risk it.”

Red Hood crosses his arms. “So you have more of a job than Chat Noir does in all of these Paris heroics, huh?”

Even if Chat Noir did know, Marinette would have her hand in the pie at least twice as much as him.

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m just more available than he is.”

“And more trusted than he is,” Red Hood insists.

It’s not that Ladybug trusts Marinette more than she trusts Chat Noir, it’s that Ladybug is Marinette. But she’s not going to admit that. Not to them, and certainly not until Hawkmoth is taken down. Maybe not even then. She can only imagine the looks of devastation that she’ll get if she does admit that she’s been Ladybug all these years. Her parents will freak out, Adrien will probably feel heart broken and betrayed, and Alya and the rest of her classmates will inevitably rail on either her or Lila or both of them. It just doesn’t sound appealing to her anymore, though she can certainly remember a time not so long ago where she so desperately wanted to expose her identity.

“You’d have to ask Ladybug that,” Marinette settles on. She copies and pastes one of the many messages that she has pre drafted and schedules it to send a few minutes later, so Batman’s team receives a communication from Ladybug while Marinette is at the white board. She spent all of last night preparing for this meeting, imagining so many scenarios that she barely slept. The email she’s sending will suggest what Damian should attempt to do with the Miraculous communicator that Marinette has. She adds in an extra comment that she trusts Chat Noir with her life, and that she’ll talk to him about offering him help in his civilian life, but won’t mention anything about the Justice League.

“Why doesn’t Ladybug just use her own communicator to join in on these calls?” Red Robin asks after receiving her email.

Marinette turns from the white board, where she is listing the past three akuma attacks and where her top three suspects were at each of the times. “There may be magic surrounding her identity, but that doesn’t mean Ladybug wants more time for all of you to try to figure out her identity.”

“Sounds irresponsible of her,” says Red Hood. “Leaving a civilian to do all of the dirty work. Who are those people you have listed on the board?”

Marinette decides to let the comment about Ladybug slide. Red Hood is currently her least favorite out of all of Gotham’s vigilantes, but she has to remind herself that respect is mutual, and Ladybug hasn’t really given them much to go on.

“The top three suspects for Hawkmoth. Gabriel Agreste, the CEO and head designer of Gabriel. Nathalie Sancouer, Gabriel Agreste’s personal assistant of over twenty years. Mikael Bordeaux, CFO of Silverstein and Company's French holdings.”

Oracle takes off her glasses and wipes them. “Sounds like your top candidates are all people in pretty high positions.”

“Agreste,” repeats Nightwing. “Agreste, as in Adrien Agreste? The boy that’s in Damian’s class?”

“The same,” Marinette says, not sure she likes where he’s taking this conversation.

“Hold up,” Red Robin says after a few moments. “Why is it that Gabriel Agreste and Nathalie Sancouer are on your list? Both Gabriel and Nathalie have been akumatized before. That should automatically take them out of the running.”

Marinette shakes her head. “That’s what I thought in the beginning, while the police were still in charge of the case. But based on my understanding of akumas, it’s very possible that Hawkmoth can transform, send out an akuma, then detransform and let themself be akumatized.”

The whole Collector incident was a deliberate ploy to throw her off. She spent at least half a year convinced that Gabriel and Hawkmoth couldn’t possibly be one in the same, despite the fact that he had the Miraculous Tome.

“What about Adrien, then? He’s the only one in your class that hasn’t been akumatized, sans yourselves, he hangs out with the people most likely to cause and become akumas, and has caused a fair number of akumas himself. Besides, he must know it if his dad’s Hawkmoth, which means he could be Mayura or even Hawkmoth himself.” Even if Red Robin presented her this theory before Marinette knew Adrien was Chat Noir, she wouldn’t have believed it.

“Adrien is not Hawkmoth.” Marinette isn’t sure how to explain how she knows without revealing his alter ego. She can’t tell them that he wielded the snake Miraculous either, because that contradicts her earlier statement that she didn’t know any of the other holders.

“Demon Spawn,” Red Hood says. “What do you think about Adrien? You’ve been in a class with him for the past month.”

Damian finally looks up from Marinette’s tablet, blinking to bring himself back into the situation at hand. “What?”

Marinette scoffs, remembering that he thought that she was Hawkmoth. She’s not upset about it, but she doesn’t trust his ability to discern alter egos-- at least not magical alter egos. “I wouldn’t trust Damian’s ability to read people as reliable evidence to tell whether someone is Hawkmoth or not.

This causes a myriad of reactions from Batman’s team and most of them are surprisingly loud. Red Hood whoops, “Roasted,” while Red Robin laughs and pounds the desk in front of them. Oracle smiles wide, her eyes crinkling. Even Batman manages to draw a smile to his face.

This makes Damian put down her tablet on the chaise and flush slightly. “I said I was sorry for that.”

Marinette thinks about brushing him off in annoyance but decides against it. Just based on the evidence that he gathered, it wasn't an awful assumption, and the Miraculous magic probably prevented him from even thinking about the possibility that she could be Ladybug, leading him to the next most possible conclusion. “It’s fine.”

In fact, even if Marinette can’t trust Batman and his affiliates with Chat Noir’s civilian identity, she should still try to maneuver Adrien away from his current situation. She can call it in as a personal favor to Marinette, and as long as they have human decency, they should agree to her request. She’s been gathering receipts that detail Gabriel’s systemic abuse of Adrien for years. This is a good opportunity to begin Adrien’s emancipation process. She’s currently on her way to a better friendship with Adrien, and since Batman insists the Justice League has all the resources that she wants, there’s no reason not to take advantage of them. She turns back to the camera.

“Adrien is not Hawkmoth and wouldn’t know whether his father or personal assistant are. In fact, it would be preferable to remove Adrien from Gabriel’s care; Adrien is in danger of being akumatized because of how awfully Gabriel treats him, and I have the evidence necessary to take him to court. I just need a legal team that’s good enough to go against a billion dollar company.” And time to convince Adrien that he needs to leave. That may be a more difficult task, considering the unending love and forgiveness he’s displayed for matters concerning his father so far. Honestly, sometimes Marinette thinks that he never learned how to hold a grudge.

“Noted. Let’s come back to that later, though. I want to talk about some other suspects you have on this list you gave us.” Oracle readjusts her headpiece and shoots a glare over her shoulder, presumably to tell the rest of her team to quiet down and get back on task. They certainly have an interesting team dynamic. They’re much warmer to each other than Marinette first expected them to be. They’re certainly closer than she and the Miraculous Team had been, when there still was a team, at least.

Oracle shares her screen. On it is a picture of Andre Bourgeois. “If Hawkmoth is able to be akumatized, then Mayor Bourgeois is one of our top suspects. The Justice League has compiled multiple lists of suspects before we sent Damian to Paris. He stopped a lot of international press for akuma attacks and has caused multiple akumas.”

Marinette frowns. Mayor Bourgeois being Hawkmoth crossed her mind a few times, but she always decided that he was largely incapable and had little motivation. “What are your criteria for deciding who might be Hawkmoth? I highly doubt Mayor Bourgeois is Hawkmoth, despite him stopping the press.”

“We determine how many akumas a person has caused, how much damage the akuma caused to the person’s primary residence and workplace, and how well they’re connected to the people being akumatized. Andre Bourgeois has been involved in the akumatization of slightly more than half of all the akumas that have occurred, so long as we include his relation to his daughter and wife and there has been extraordinary little damage done to the arrondissements that he frequents.”

“Interesting. Share the list with the contact information I sent you earlier. You share some of the same criteria as we have come up with, but you’re drawing the wrong information from what you have. Akumas caused is also one of our criteria, as well as the damage that has been done to the person’s residence. I don’t think that a person’s personal relations play much into who ends up being akumatized, however, there’s good reason to believe that Hawkmoth is in a position of power, or at least well connected. They seem to know what’s happening in the city before it ever hits the news.” Marinette opens a program on her computer, then turns on the projector to display a map with pins.

“We’ve been interested in the location of primary suspects at the time of akumatization; Ladybug believes that Hawkmoth’s Miraculous power is restricted to Paris. Which means that Hawkmoth needs to be in or close to Paris at the times of all akumas, which crossed Mayor Bourgeois of my list a while ago. He’s been absent for multiple akumas when he needed to go to conferences outside of Paris. The purple dots are Gabriel, the red ones are Nathalie, and the blue ones are Michael. You can see that they’ve all been in Paris every time an akuma occurred and within a ten mile radius of where the akuma was first spotted. That’s quite unusual, considering they’re all in high positions of companies that should typically have them travelling.”

There is also the little detail that Marinette found the Miraculous Tome in the hands of Gabriel Agreste, but Marinette doesn’t feel safe indulging them with that information yet. If she tells them, they will want to see pictures of the book.

“How haven’t you cracked this case wide open yet?” Red Robin looks at the screen appreciatively. It’s clear that Marinette spent a lot of time on this.

Marinette bristles. She may have a good amount of information, but her proficiency with technology leaves much to be desired. It took her an unnecessarily long time in order to get the map up and running. “Well, Red Robin, that might have something to do with the fact that neither Ladybug nor I knew anything about how to use technology in the way that was necessary to track him once the police handed over the case in the second year. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that falsely accusing someone as Hawkmoth could ruin their entire life.”

Master Fu warned her against direct actions against anyone on her suspect list. In fact, he outright forbade her from doing anything, and although she no longer takes his words at face value after the many bumps in their relationship, she’s not going to try to ruin any of these people without evidence. Especially not Gabriel, not when he’s Adrien’s father.

Red Robin frowns.

Marinette takes a deep breath. She’s too tense. She’s been taking every word that these vigilantes say as something they don’t actually mean. Marinette needs to relax. Jumping to conclusions helps no one.

Damian’s eyes are on her, and she’s sure he’s passing judgment. She needs to get out of this situation, get out of this headspace. It’s not productive or healthy.

“I think we should end this meeting now,” Damian says, and Marinette begrudgingly agrees with him. She knows this is his olive branch.

“You were the one who was upset at the lack of time,” Oracle points out. “We don’t have much time. We need every minute we can get.”

“Marinette has given us plenty of information to digest for one night. We’ll regroup tomorrow and start on coding the programs to determine Hawkmoth’s location.” Damian reaches over Marinette to end the call.

Obstinately, Marinette refuses to look him in the eyes. She’s been flip-flopping this entire day, and it’s not doing any great wonders for her mental health. Everything’s been coming to a head in these past few days, and it isn’t a good feeling. She can feel the pressure on her shoulders, the expectant gazes of all of Paris to do her duty and expose Hawkmoth, but she feels the weight of the inevitable backlash Adrien will face if her theories are true.

The past few days feel like three years compressed. People she’s never interacted with have inserted themselves into the fray, and the big leagues have pulled out all the stops. She just talked to Batman and his team. He’s been in the hero game for decades, and she’s in the room with his son, Robin.

Everything is just too much.

Marinette feels like she’s been a bad Ladybug. Like she hasn’t done enough to find concrete evidence of her primary suspects because she is afraid of what will happen after. She’s half surprised she hasn’t gone into hysterics yet, but then again, she’s gotten very good at holding herself together when everything around her falls apart. The added touch of an outsider makes the fragile balance she’s achieved teeter.

Damian takes her distressed appearance personally and heaves a sigh. “Look, I --I didn’t think that you were Hawkmoth all along, only for a day before everything went down. I don’t know what I wanted out of you, but your friendship was nice. I did genuinely want to be friends with you, and I still do.”

This makes Marinette feel even worse. She’s trying so hard to find fault with Damian-- which is surprisingly easy-- in order to distance herself. She can’t afford to get attached to someone who can hurt her and is likely to hurt her, because an akumatized Ladybug is the last thing Paris needs. But hearing him apologize so genuinely means that Marinette can’t summon up a negative response. She may not be able to say that she truly knows Damian, but she knows that he is a very prideful person. It can’t have been easy for him to apologize to her so openly. An acidic response rests on her tongue for a moment before she pushes it back.

“You were just trying to follow up on a lead. I shouldn't blame you.”

“But you do.”

He hit the nail on the head. Marinette grimaces, letting her eyes flick over Damian’s hunched shoulders and set jaw. She doesn’t blame him for thinking that she’s Hawkmoth, but she does blame him for getting the Justice League more involved, which makes exactly zero sense if she evaluates the situation logically. Her heart feels like Damian is the element of change; if he never arrived in Paris, Marinette would still have everything under a better semblance of control. It doesn’t matter that Batman said the JLA had been looking into Paris for half a year, and that even if Damian weren’t sent, there would have been someone else.

It’s fitting that in order to move forward, they must break down whatever security that Marinette has built into her life, because life is just cruel enough to mess her up like that. Right now, she’s a wreck mentally, emotionally, and even physically. Marinette can feel her throat closing up.

“It’s not your fault,” she offers. “And maybe if we get out of our current situation, we can try being friends again. But right now? I-- there’s just too much stress on me, right now.”

Damian understands this, but as he descends the steps of her ladder, Damian can’t help but wish that she felt otherwise.

Omake

“How is it that Mayor Bourgeois is not in your top three suspects for Hawkmoth? He’s stopped a lot of international press about the akuma for the first year!”

Marintte deadpans. “Honestly? The man is way too stupid to ever be Hawkmoth.”

“Haven’t we come to the conclusion that Hawkmoth is stupid though? He couldn’t steal jewelry from two untrained teenagers for years!”

Marinette decides not to take offense at that, and concedes. “Fine, maybe he should be on the list. I’d certainly akumatize Chloe and Audrey Bourgeois if I had to interact with them on a daily basis.”

_______________________________________________________

will these be regularly scheduled? absolutely not, even though i have the whole thing finished because i get the feeling that i am going to Change Things sooner or later (somebody please smack some sense into me everything in this story goes awfully very soon and the plot goes wonky and AHHHH)

#maribat #sbgs #miraculous ladybug #dc #daminette #original content #adrien agreste #lila rossi #marinette dupain cheng #damian wayne

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hypnoticwinter · 4 years

Text

Down the Rabbit Hole part 18

My eyes flutter open and for a moment I lay there, not comprehending what I’m seeing. There’s a window ahead of me, and the blinds have fallen down halfway, and a ray of sunlight is stabbing at me slyly through them. The air is soft and cool and comfortable and carries the same familiar stench of acrylic paint, and when I put my hand down to my side and feel at the blanket covering me it’s a scratchy, rough, worn one that I know very, very well.

Then I bolt out of bed and dart over to the window and rip it open, stick my head outside and stare. The bright blue sky leers down at me, and when I crane my neck and look down the side of the building I can see the street signs, one canted at a crazy angle like it’s always been. Corner of Franklin and White, Corpus Christi, Texas. I look back in the room; it’s empty. Queen bed. The other side is made up still and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

After a long, long while I go back in and close the window, pad over to the dresser and take one of the oversized flannels out and shrug into it, leave everything else bare. It nearly comes down to my knees anyway, I’ll be warm enough in just this.

I end up sitting in the overstuffed armchair in the living room staring at the dull blank slate of the ancient cathode-ray TV that’s been squatting decrepit in the corner for at least the last four years. In the screen my distorted image glowers back at me.

Either this is a dream, or the Pit is.

I’ve been pushing and prodding at the conclusion like a toothache for the last half an hour or so, my legs tucked up under me to try and keep warm, but I can’t see any other way I would have gotten here. Not realistically, anyway.

I keep thinking about what Peter told me, about the dreams he’d had, and wonder. Then, fifteen minutes later, when I don’t see any sign of waking and I’ve pinched at myself enough to cause bruises, I conclude that I’ll wake later.

Or maybe I am awake, and the Pit was a dream. But why do I shy away from that so heavily? It’d be a neat get-out-of-jail-free card, wouldn’t it?

Maybe it’s because if it was a dream I would have woken up in my own bed in my own apartment. Wouldn’t I have? I can’t imagine a series of circumstances that would have lead me back to –

A shadow passes the window, blotting out the light, and then moves past. Something about it gives the impression of stateliness, of a slow lumbering bulk. The light is different in its wake and I can feel a twinge in my stomach as I look over. The curtains in here are drawn and I cannot see out but the color of the light is wrong, there’s something off about it. It is, I realize belatedly, the wrong shade. I’d just woken up and the light was blue and hard and sharp but now it’s dull and orange and aggressive, the color of a Florida sunset.

Something inside myself screams at me not to, but I get up, feeling suddenly vulnerable, standing there naked except for the flannel. I go to the window and reach out to open the blinds. My hand is shaking, I notice, and my lip curls. Then without giving myself time to hesitate I fling them open and stand there gawping at the roiling mountains of ropy, sinuous flesh outside. The sun is struggling through a gasping red haze in the air and all of a sudden I can smell it, I can taste it on my tongue, that meaty umami Pit smell, so dank and organic I can feel it coating the back of my throat. I gag and paw at myself and my hands come back with an oily sheen.

Outside the world is like someone threw a fleshy sheet over everything. I can see apartment buildings and skyscrapers downtown prodding through but they’re wrapped in it, great twisted whorls of flesh, rivers of mucus and slime and blood, weeping sores, trees crackled and half-bent beneath fatty folds. I can see things moving, far off, indistinct crustacean things lurking in the dark beneath the shadows of the coated buildings. I can hear screams.

My heart is pounding and then after a moment I realize that it’s the door, that someone’s at the door, hammering at it, and then Thor calls out and I stop, everything stops.

I haven’t heard his voice in so long and part of me aches at its touch, like the sound were made of heated steel.

I go to the door cautiously and look out through the peephole; I can see the rivulets of flesh running along the hallway, and in fact they are so thick that it might as well have been straight out of the Pit. Only a few errant little patches where the ugly floral wallpaper peeks through give any indication that the room is inside of an apartment block.

Whatever anger I might have expected to feel when I see Thor isn’t there inside of me when I reach for it. He just makes me sad now. Especially like this, looking around anxiously, watching his back. I throw the latch and open the door and he jumps a little, and I am devouring him with my eyes, sweeping him from head to toe. Massive slab-like chest heaving, beard and cheeks rugged, eyes dark and stormy. Christ, I shouldn’t have opened the door, why the hell did I –

Thor sweeps me into his arms just like he always does, and I melt just like I always do. He holds me there, feet a solid six inches off the ground, just staring into my eyes, and I’m halfway towards slapping him, halfway towards yelling at him to put me down, that he doesn’t have any right to just act like nothing’s changed, when he kisses me, and the rest of my willpower flutters out of my body.

Then inside of my mouth his tongue splits apart into multiple individual entities with scuttling legs and chitinous carapaces that wriggle around and then force themselves down my throat, and I can feel them all the way down. Though I try to struggle he crushes me to his chest and I can feel it break apart like his ribs were toothpicks and he stuffs me inside of himself, my arms and legs bending backwards until they snap, but I can’t feel it, all I can feel is the raw abraded stump of his tongue writhing deeper and deeper inside of my mouth, and I’m screaming but I can’t breathe, all I can do is make wet moaning shrieks while I stare into his eyes, watch his pupils pop and multiply like frog eggs, his head having followed me somehow inside of his chest, and –

“Roan!”

Something slaps me across the face and I sit bolt upright and smack my head on the upper retaining bar of the tent. I open my mouth to scream again but then I realize that I’m staring into Elena’s wide-eyed, worried face, and I can’t do anything but burst into tears. “God,” I keep muttering, hiding my face in her shoulder as she pats my back softly and murmurs against the side of my head that it’s okay, that it was just a bad dream.

Someone outside rattles on the tent bars. “What the fuck is going on in there?” the Sergeant barks, and I feel Elena stiffen next to me.

“Roan had a nightmare, Sarge, that’s all,” she calls back. “We’re fine.”

“Well,” he says, his voice taking on a horribly cutting tone, “tell Merriweather there to keep it down. The rest of us are trying to sleep.”

Something about the way he spits the name makes me shudder, even if it isn’t my real name. Elena feels it and holds me tighter, and I lean my head up and kiss her on the neck. “Don’t worry about him,” she tells me when we break apart. “His bark’s worse than his bite.”

“I just don’t like yelling,” I tell her, inwardly cringing at how infantile it must sound. “I’ve never liked men who yell.”

“Well,” Elena laughs, “I think you might be on the wrong team for that.”

“Yeah,” I groan, flopping back onto the sleeping bag. I still feel a little nauseous; I keep running my tongue over the inside of my mouth, cringing at the way it felt in the dream. It had seemed so real…

“Can I ask you something?”

I flick my eyes over at Elena just as she darts her gaze away from mine, pretends to busy herself with smoothing out the little compressible camp pillow at the head of her sleeping bag. “Yeah.”

“Who’s Thor?”

“Fuck,” I blurt as soon as the name passes her lips. “Don’t tell me I said –“

“You were yelling it,” she tells me. “And then you were doing this weird thing with your tongue like you were choking –“

“Oh my god,” I groan, putting my head in my hands. Elena reaches over and runs her hand along my back.

“Hey, stop,” she says. “I want to help.”

I think about that for a while, trying to loosen my tongue and just tell her, dammit, if she hated you she wouldn’t act this way, but something in me revolts at it, and it isn’t until she leans over and digs my face out from my earthen palms and kisses me, very seriously, that I relent. She starts to say something and from the look on her face I can tell that she thinks there must be some sort of damage, there must be some sort of…I don’t know, underlying pain, and it’s that look that snaps me out of it, that sets a curl to my lip that I quickly banish.

“Thor,” I tell her, “is the name of my ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not like that,” I say quickly. “I dreamed – It doesn’t matter what I dreamed. It wasn’t a sex dream or anything like that, it –“

Elena is laughing too hard for me to go on. I can feel myself blushing and I set my mouth very harshly and roll over, but she feels me moving and holds me tighter so I can’t. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” she explains. “I wouldn’t care if it had been. I just thought it was so funny that that’s what you were concerned about, that you were worried that I would, I don’t know, be jealous that you even have an ex-boyfriend.”

I think about that for a while. “I guess I still don’t know what to think of you,” I tell her. I lean my head into hers and touch her nose with mine; I feel it scrunch up as she smiles at me. “I don’t have a name for the way you make me feel.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

“In a hopeful way.”

She grunts affirmation, kisses me again, a quick peck that traces down my neck and my bare chest and settles on one nipple.

“Then let me make you feel good,” she breathes, and then her hand is working along my thigh to the moist cleft between my legs, and I feel my heart do a funny little throb in my chest. I reach down and stop her, bring her hand back up to clasp around my back. She looks up from my breast, shoots me a confused glance.

“If we’re going to be serious about this,” I tell her, stomping down on the little voice in the back of my head going but what if, “I want this to be based on something more than just sex. Because sex is great and you are very good at it,” I tell her, trying not to grin too widely, “but I want to – I want to fall in love with you, not your fingers and your tongue and your pussy.” I wince at her. “Okay, that might have sounded better in my head, but –“

“I know what you mean,” she tells me. “And I think that’s very, very sweet of you.”

We lay there in silence like that for a while. I run my fingers through her close-cropped mop of blonde hair. Eventually I just ask her, and brace myself for the response. “What do you want this to be?” I say, and she turns her face up to me. “If you want this just to be sex I’m okay with that but – but we should know what it’s going to be, we should –“

“I haven’t been in a real relationship in about three years,” she tells me, settling her head back down onto my chest. “Not because my last one was particularly bad or anything, but because for the last three years I’ve been on this team and I knew how bad of an idea getting involved with any of them would be. Yeah, there’s been some sex. There’s been some brief emotions involved here and there.” I feel her lips draw back as she laughs at herself. “But I knew that anything definite would have torn this team apart because I was the only woman on it, so I’ve played the cold bitch for a long time.”

“I don’t think you’re like that,” I say reflexively, and she laughs.

“I know I’m not. But if you play a role like that for long enough you find it hard to stop.”

“So what –“

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman,” she says, flicking her eyes down to my breasts. “I’ve been with more men than women but sometimes you just run into…into someone special. That makes you go, ‘god, women are just so…” she makes a little growly grunting noise in her throat and I laugh. “You know?”

“God,” I groan. “I actually think I know what you mean. I always thought I might be bi, but aside from one time in college when I made out with a girl at a party –“

Elena slaps me very lightly across the cheek and I squeak in surprise.

“I thought you told me I was your first!” she cries in mock outrage, and then when I try to explain she laughs and starts tickling me and the situation devolves from there, and then when we’re done and I’ve stopped shuddering I look at her, still hunkered over me, and reach down and slap her face lightly.

“I thought I said I wanted this to be based on something other than sex,” I tell her, and she laughs, still a little out of breath, and collapses onto her mattress next to mine.

“Then you shouldn’t have sucked on my nipple so much.”

“Uh, you started this.”

“Nope, I was just tickling you. You’re the one who went there.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Tell me about Thor,” she says, and I look over at her.

“This is really what you want to talk about?” I ask, and she nods.

“Yeah,” she says, reaching for me. I settle my leg above her hip and she puts a hand on my ass. “I want to get to know you better.”

“Bit of an odd place to start,” I grumble, and she laughs.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

I think about Thor. It’s a little like poking a sore on the inside of my mouth, one I’m hyperaware of but have been trying to avoid.

“Well, his real name wasn’t Thor. It’s Richard, but everyone called him Thor because he looked the part, you know. Big muscles, beard, long hair, everything. We met in college. Well, actually, I was in college but he was bartending at this pub I’d go after class most nights. Then I ended up interviewing him for the college paper I was writing for cause, Christ, what was it? Right, because he was an eyewitness for an armed robbery at the liquor store down the road. We sat down for a couple of hours in the bar on his day off and did way more flirting than interviewing and then after that he asked me if I wanted to go out with him sometime and I was already smitten by then so of course I said yes. The rest’s history.”

“He sounds nice.”

I open my mouth, then close it again while I try to think of an adequate way to respond to that. “Yeah,” I say finally. “He could be nice.”

“How long were you two together?”

“Six years.”

“Damn. And you never got married?”

I laugh. “No. I was too scared of the commitment. And Thor – I don’t think he really wanted to get married. We talked about it sometimes, in the abstract, about getting married and having a kid and all of that shit, but I don’t think either of our hearts were really into it.”

“Do you think that was because of who you are or because of your relationship?”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“Like, do you personally want kids? Or to get married? Not necessarily to him but just in general.”

“I don’t think I do. I’d be too scared I’d fuck it up. Like, both, I mean. I’d fuck up a marriage and I’d fuck up a kid.”

“I don’t think you would,” Elena tells me, and I smile at her.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I know you don’t believe me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But I really don’t think you would.”

I gather her tighter to me and leave a kiss on her forehead, and then from somewhere against my chest she asks me what ended up happening between me and Thor, how the relationship ended, and I sigh to think about it. “What was your last relationship like?” I ask her. She shrugs.

“Fine. Lasted about a year. Sex was good but I didn’t love him.”

“And he loved you?”

“Yeah,” she laughs. “It’s an old story.”

“The oldest,” I agree. “Well, me and Thor, I think we did love each other, but if you’re with someone for six years you end up hating them, all of the stupid little things that they do that they never change, you start seeing the bad more than the good, and I don’t think we loved each other enough to stick with it through that. We didn’t handle it well, though, we both wanted to make it work so we’d get in these huge screaming fights over really stupid shit and then we’d break up furious with each other and we’d resolve not to see each other again, we’d go meet other people, and then when they hurt us we’d come back. We always did. There’s something about that familiarity, about knowing someone so well that you can always come back to them when you’re hurt, that would glue us back together for another month or two, and then we’d get in a fight again. Rinse and repeat.”

“It sounds awful.”

“It’s something you grow into. Then he ended up getting HIV from someone he’d fucked and giving it to me, and now I’m here. I was furious at him. Aside from when I called him and screamed at him when I got the test results I haven’t talked to him since.”

Elena is quiet for a long while. “I’m sorry,” she offers finally.

“It’s okay. Both of our faults, really. With that kind of lifestyle we both probably should have been getting tested for things like that more often than we were. It was just this great big self-destructive spiral and you don’t…you don’t have the energy or the willpower to change it until it chews you up and spits you out.”

“Well…” she says, looking up at me. “What’s the next step? You’ve got to keep moving forward.”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I haven’t gotten that far yet. I think right now I’m focusing on just…existing by myself. Six years is a long time. I have to figure out what I think of myself again.” Then I realize how that must sound and I start to backtrack. “I mean – you’re…you weren’t part of the plan, but I don’t mind rethinking –“

“Roan,” Elena laughs, reaching up for me and tugging me back down against her, “you overthink everything, don’t you?”

I settle against her, let the tension flow out of me. It takes a moment but I’m able to do it, let myself relax. “Maybe,” I grumble, and she laughs again, rich and throaty.

“Why don’t we just let things go however they go?” she suggests. “Don’t worry about anything definite, don’t worry about stupid fucking labels, let’s just get through the expedition and then see how we feel about each other after?”

“I like labels,” I say in a small voice. “I don’t like feeling uncertain.”

“You feel uncertain about me?”

“Not really,” I admit. “I’m just afraid that –“

“Then shh. Save it.”

“But –“

“Roan, it’s three in the morning,” she says, gently admonishing, and I start.

“Wait, really? I thought it was way later –“

“Well, it’s not. Now, you want to hold me so we can both go back to sleep? Tomorrow’s going to suck if we stay up much later.”

And with that she nestles her head against me and closes her eyes and it is very simple for me to just lay there and breathe, feeling her hands gripping my back slowly grow more and more limp, and then I manage to fall asleep as well, despite her soft whispery snores in my ear.

* * *

The morning is relatively quick. We wake at seven or eight or so – I left my wristwatch back in the barracks so I don’t have access to an accurate measurement of time, and trying to work the geriatric software in the wristpad is a little beyond my sleep-addled brain. I feel relatively well-rested; waking up at three certainly didn’t do me or Elena any favors but she offers me a caffeine pill and I take it gratefully, and once it kicks in later during our leisurely MRE breakfast I do feel a little more alert.

The mood is more cheerful than I’d expected. It feels for all the world like we’re just on a camping trip. If anyone is feeling anxious about having to go deal with the copepods they’re doing a very good job of not showing it. I take a couple of candid shots while we’re sitting around the communal stove – Crookshank gesticulating, big grin on his face, telling a story to Slate, who’s lazing back on his elbows, MRE tray resting on his chest; the Sergeant sitting cross-armed and alone but eyes cut to the left, listening to the story as well; Fumi and Ellis in the middle of trading their cheese spread packets; Peter grinning at me and waving from across the circle; Euler rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

It all feels very distant from yesterday, but maybe it’s because I’ve done so much since. Even the shamble seems like it was a whole month ago at least, it doesn’t seem real. And I can even manage to look Crookshank in the eyes; after last night I didn’t think I’d ever be able to, but when our gazes accidentally meet we offer perfunctory smiles to each other and then carry on as though nothing had happened, although perhaps for him that’s less surprising than it is for me.

Altogether too quickly breakfast is over and then we’re on the move again. The next couple of hours take us to the terminus of the Organ Trail, a vast bowl-like depression of flesh that Elena informs me was once a bile bladder of some kind, and then we take a left and go through a man-made channel bored through the flesh of the Pit. I stare at the ceiling, wondering at it, at the scarified criss-cross of the retaining plates and stents. Everything looks very old here, and for a while I’m concerned, wondering if it’ll come crashing down on top of us, but it stays very still and strong and resolute throughout our passage, even when Joker’s clanging footsteps resound off the metal walkway and put an unhealthy shudder to the entire enclosed path.

I look back at Joker today less than I did yesterday. I haven’t observed any more episodes like in the gondola ride down, and so I’ve gradually begun to let my guard down around the machine. Not like keeping my guard up would do anything; if it did decide to go crazy and kill all of us I don’t think there’d really be anything we could do about it. Maybe if someone nailed it with one of the big forty-millimeter slug rifles that about half the team carry, that might put it down.

I’ve been around guns before, even shot some, but the slug rifles are in another league entirely. They are without a doubt the biggest guns I’ve ever seen, and the slugs they fire are so large that my mind doesn’t even register them as bullets, more like big cartoony grenades, like something you’d throw.

My own little pistol weighs heavily on my hip. Even though I qualified, I flinched too heavily whenever I pulled the trigger, and though I hit those shots, if I were in a pinch? If I had to? I don’t think I could do it again.

It makes me feel nervous, holding a gun again. I feel hyper-aware of it, like a part of my mind is just staring down at the matte black grip of it, prodding out of the holster.

A little nine millimeter pistol isn’t going to be helpful against anything that’s really determined to hurt me down here anyway. And there’s no way in hell I could handle one of those forty-millimeter guns. They wouldn’t even let me even try to fire one at the range, even braced, because there was a decent chance it’d dislocate my shoulder. What I could use is something like a bowie knife, but I guess they didn’t think about that very much. Everyone else has one, or at least a similarly large knife, hanging off of their belts, but they didn’t issue me one. Maybe that’s what I should be concerned about, that I didn’t get my standard-issue ranger knife.

Lots to think about, stamping along there in the back with Elena and Euler and Joker. Lots of conversation up in front, lots of laughter, but aside from soft murmurs here and there Elena and I seem to be content to just enjoy our mutual presence, and Euler is equally quiet and reserved. Personally I think he’s still a little unnerved by our surroundings; I’ve grown used to them far more quickly than I thought I would have, but sometimes when I look back I see Euler gazing at the walls or the ceiling or the wet, sticky, red-veined floor with something approaching trepidation in his tight-set lips, clutching at the remote control like a talisman, working the joysticks mechanically without even looking to make sure Joker keeps putting one foot in front of the other. I’d squeezed Elena’s hand and then fallen back, walked with Euler for a while, asked him all sorts of questions about Joker.

The remote, he told me, seemingly happy to have someone asking about something, I gradually realized, that might have been his life’s work, wasn’t for fine motions or anything incredibly precise. The machine brain inside Joker knew, he said, how to balance, how to grab things, how to walk, the remote was just for telling it where to move, what to grab, and so on. The eventual goal was for the remote to not be necessary but they weren’t confident enough in the robot’s autonomy yet for that to be possible, outside of limited and controlled circumstances.

I think again of Joker’s hand clenching hard enough to strain metal, there in the dark of the gondola, just inches from me, and wonder.

I say goodbye to Euler, filter back up. Elena has worked her way up into the rest of the group and is speaking animatedly to Fumi and Ellis about something. I watch her for a while, lit by the bobbing headlamps from behind, smiling to myself, and then someone nudges me and I look over to see Slate walking alongside, tall and handsome and shining even inside the helmet and the lumpy ranger suit. He grins at me but more gently than the other night at the party, and I can’t stop myself from smiling back at him. We haven’t spoken much, other than a few perfunctory comments here and there, but now he inclines his head down to me, nodding ahead at Elena.

“You and Novak, eh?” he says, his tone mildly congratulatory, and I flush immediately but it’s accompanied by a warm, slightly fuzzy sensation that I recognize after a moment as gratification at implied acceptance, and so I grin cheekily up at him, and shrug.

“Is it that obvious?”

Slate tilts his head as if considering. “Well, you do spend most of your time together, but I wouldn’t think that was out of the ordinary considering you’re the only two women on the team…” he says, and I start to say something, but then a smirk curls his lips. “…except I saw you two holding hands here in the back for like six hours yesterday, so I put two and two together.”

Something about this strikes me as so funny that I laugh hard enough for Klaus to slow his pace, fall in step with us, and ask what the joke is, and then me and Slate are both laughing at Klaus’s slightly bemused expression, but I reach out and put my hand on his shoulder and assure him that we aren’t making fun of him, that it was something else, and he’s a good sport about it. I walk there for a while sandwiched between the two of them, washing in the realization that the acceptance I was so hungry for back when I first met the team has come and found me so subtly that I didn’t even realize.

Slate and Klaus and I talk for a while and I only have to make up a couple of stories about my dismally ordinary life in Admin. Klaus is very quiet, I discover, but whenever I look over to see if he’s still paying attention I see his eyes glittering at me very alert and contemplative, the cast of his face screaming ease at me from every pore. And Slate – well, Slate isn’t so bad, not really. Maybe I had been too quick to judge at first, even if he does keep calling me ‘little lady.’

It feels like a knot somewhere inside of my heart is undoing itself and the feeling of looseness is so distantly-remembered that for a while it feels as though something is wrong.

Eventually Slate has to go up and put the hydraulic stent he carries into a narrow passage, and so he leaves us, pulling a face as he does, and then it’s Klaus and me, standing there in the middle of the pack, Crookshank, the Sergeant, and Slate up at the front fiddling with the jack and the rest of us watching. I realize something after a moment and then lean over to Klaus.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s the Sergeant’s name?”

Klaus laughs softly. “He’s South African,” he says. He has a soft, lilting Spanish accent. “So he has a long, unpronounceable Dutch-sounding name. He got tired of all of us saying it wrong so he just told us to call him Sergeant.”

I think back to my brief high school Die Antwoord phase and suppress a grin. “Reasonable,” I mutter.

“Eh?”

“I said that that’s reasonable.”

Klaus nods. He’s only a little taller than me, and very slightly built. I’ve wondered a little about what his role on the team must be but after watching him move over the past couple of days I figured out that he must be some sort of scout. There’s a lithe kind of panther’s grace in the way he moves, even in the bulky plated suit, and he’s accidentally startled me a couple of times just because of how quiet he can be. We talk for a little longer but he’s mostly interested in stories about my ‘work’ at Admin and I keep steering the conversation in other directions and he picks up quickly that I don’t really want to talk about it. He isn’t rude enough to pry, though, and we quickly lapse into small talk. He has a son and a wife back there in Gumption somewhere, and the way his face lights when he talks about them does something funny to me that I can’t immediately identify.

He fumbles around in a pocket for a while, there in the middle of the crowd, bobbing headlamps and quiet conversation and the grunt of effort and muttered curses there in the front while Crookshank and the Sergeant and Slate struggle with the goddam motherfucking wing nut on the side of the goddam motherfucking son of a bitch fucking hydraulic jack, goddam it motherfucker turn will you, and pulls out a photograph of the three of them, looking like it was taken at a barbecue or something. Wide smiles. His wife is very pretty. I tell him so and he smiles at me, an echo of the miniature one in the photo.

Then the jack pops into life and we’re stomping through the vein. I end up behind Elena and goose her lightly and she turns around, neck awkward and stumpy in the suit, and grins at me through the glass plate of the helmet. She reaches back for me, catches my hand and squeezes it tightly. “You doing alright?” she asks. “Haven’t seen you much all day.”

“I’m great,” I tell her. “Just been hanging out. Smile,” I tell her, and she looks down at the camera and sticks her tongue out, holds it there. I let her go for a second or so, then laugh. “It’s video.”

“Oh, right.”

We eat a quick perfunctory lunch a little later, there at the lowest point of the organ trail, a sort of off-branching tributary that meanders horizontally through about a mile of flesh before we reach the Cord.

Spectacular doesn’t even begin to cover it. I hadn’t really asked questions about our destination because I’d made assumptions about what it was, but when we came to the hollowed-out clearing and the Sergeant had opened the enormous and terrifically old metal submarine door set into the exposed bone there and ushered us inside, I hadn’t known what to expect – but certainly not a spiral staircase set around the inside of the Pit’s spinal cord. There in the middle, suspended in air and protected by a solid case of glass and metal, is a intensely complex filigree of thin gossamer nerves, tangled and bundled and flowing with light, thick corded globs of it surging blisteringly fast up and down the length of the spine for as far as I can see in both directions, until it fades into murky darkness above and below.

Elena catches up to me while I’m standing there gawking and laughs at me, especially when I take her hand and hold it there, just for a moment, catch her up and get her to just stand next to me and stare.

“Pretty, huh?”

“I had no idea,” I say softly, my eyes tracking a particularly fat and slow-moving bundle of light, “that they’d built inside the spine of this place –“

“It’s not really the spine. There are a bunch of cords like this, there’s like five or six,” she informs me, cutting her head to the left and getting us moving again. “This one was just the most convenient to use for getting up and down vertically. It goes all the way down to the Gift Gardens.”

“To the what?”

“The bowels. Long story. Tell you sometime later.”

“But these nerves –“

“They put this in a long time ago,” she says, gesturing at the burnt-out lights, at the metal stairs. “When they didn’t really care about the Pit’s wellbeing. We’re probably the first people to have used this in at least a decade.”

“Why don’t they get rid of it?”

“Too much effort,” Euler guesses from behind us. “Not enough budget.”

“Yeah,” Elena grunts, glancing back at him. “And too much damage taking it out, now that the Pit’s grown back around it.”

We walk in silence then, accompanied only by Joker’s echoing footfalls, until finally, what feels like a couple hundred feet down, we pass through another thick door and into Oyster’s Shame.

I understand the name, or at least part of it immediately, for as I look around my light catches the surface of the vast, rugose, spleenlike organ and it shimmers and breaks apart into a soft pearly opalescence that reminds me of the ocean, of the way the light catches the water in a tidepool.

The surface is deep and spongy and pockmarked with perfectly round craters, each about as big around as a queen bed or so. Here and there the craters still have occupants – vast round balls of something, cakey and flaking, a dirty off-white color. Some of them have crumbled but others, perhaps newer ones, have more of a lustrous shine to them, similar to the sheen on the walls but deeper in a way, like layers of more and more subtle colors and gradations of white. Craning my neck upwards I see dozens if not hundreds of tinier bulbs forming there on the ceiling, dangling down from thick fleshy strands. Some of the larger ones sway lightly, bulging and pregnant. Are they eggs? Some kind of cocoon for the larva of a creature that lives down here? I go to ask Elena but something in her face stops me. There is some kind of air of reverence here, something I can’t put my finger on. Even Crookshank and Slate up in the front have grown quiet.

We pass in a winding single-file trail through Oyster’s Shame towards the squatting bulk and artificial lines of the Deep Listening Station, hunkered there like a cat licking its lips, light pouring from its portholes, but the closer we get to it the more I feel as though something must be wrong.

The door is open, the great porthole standing open, and the light inside is flickering and indistinct.

We stop and spread out in a rough semi-circle ahead of the doorway. The Sergeant’s face is drawn and grim and for a moment I don’t understand why, but then I look inside and see the trail of blood leading into the station and curving a sharp left out of sight, see a bloody handprint on the wall like it were a scene out of a horror movie.

As everyone around me unlimbers their guns and coaxes as many reassuring metallic clicks and taps out of them as they can, all I can see, all I can train my camera on, is the cold, pale hand lying limp on the floor, the arm it’s attached to extending further back deeper in the station, into gloom that my eyes can’t penetrate, the fingers curled as though beckoning us in.

Continue with Part 19

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#mystery flesh pit #writing #writeblr #alt lit #spilled ink #Michael Crichton #caving #disaster #mystery #thriller

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in-paradox-space · 4 years

Text

you’re right

we are just choosing to be depressed.

you call it a cold room but I find warmth in the dark blanket of gloom.s

Why is it? We choose the feeling of sorrow over joy.

I suppose if we hold onto it long enough then we can pretend we aren’t the reason.

We can pretend there’s a we.

Who is he?

Do I need to keep toying with this idea that I am multiple.

Sure, we’re the same person, yes, we are. I need you, you need me and I need I

b u t

We wouldn’t have different desires if we got along

although

we do love each other

what was the moment

was it an indentation

a crack

a split?

when did I part ways

I remember that younger age

staring into the mirror

Yes. I love myself.

Like a magnet attracted to itself... repulsing any other who came near.

I remember

4 years old

my dad loved to show me action movies

I don’t care much for fighting now, even then I didn’t, I liked the movies though.

hehe

I remember jumping for joy at the sight of him beating my mother

It used to annoy me so much how my sisters would freak out and yelp

I noticed they’d just make it worse. It completely bewildered me, how this would happen so frequently, enough to make it abundantly clear, how every time they reacted it got worse.

If it bothered them so much then why react? Just accept it.

I accepted it... because I embraced it. I loved the violence... when it was associated with my father.

Like I said, not really much of a fighter myself. The movie scenes were always cool though. Especially enjoyed fighting with my dad, although I don’t even remember the moves he taught me I felt like he knew such huge secrets. Such unexpectable tactics, using an opponents body against them. He was the first one I learned that from, I loved it, he knew exactly what someones natural instinct was to defend themselves, so forward-thinking to use that as a means of offense.

my sisters thought I didn’t understand. I did understand.

I understood they couldn’t control their emotions.

I understood they didn’t really love their mother. If they did then they would’ve understood. They would’ve understood their role.

I understood, my mother provoked him each time.

I was 4. Knowledge is learned, but at that age, you just know things, your mind is fresh. You don’t need knowledge, before any time has passed you’ve retained enough information to already have learned.

It became clear step by step. She knew him well enough, they’d been together 2 decades or so. She understood what made him tick. I was only 4 right... I didn’t understand anything did I? Well, I understood what I saw.

She knew what made him angry. The arguments would reach a logical conclusion. They’d both reach an equal exchange. After much aggrieviation he would accept he did wrong. She wouldn’t, but he was willing to move on if she would just stop shouting at him, he understood she didn’t want to acknowledge anything she did as unjustified.

Then he’d get that look.

She must know him well enough. I mean, there’s two sides to it. If she cared about herself, she would know just to leave it be at that moment. Provoking him more would have the same result as it always had. Every other day, I remember about 3.5 years of it but who knows maybe it was before then too.

That’s enough time to recognise every little detail intuitively isn’t it?

I recognised those moments of remorse.

He’d beg her just to help him

just to cooperate.

Then. If she cared about him. If she cared about him she would recognise that any emotion is too much when someone gets to their limit. He doesn’t act like that normally. There’s a reason for it.

She just didn’t stop.

She just

didn’t stop.

The problem is

although, i cant say its a problem because I have to be grateful with my life for it

is that she started in the first place.

too stubborn to stop. much like me right now.

the truth is

I really enjoyed it back then, watching them fight.

I would love to get good looks at it

sometimes I’d shout encouragement

go on dad, punch her, yeah!

It was so exciting.

Even now, I do find some glee in the thought.

Of course, I don’t want it now, but I remember the times clearly enough.

tis a shame

they’d always ruin the moment by screaming and crying. it would annoy me so much. I’d tell them shut up.

damn

that must’ve really screwed em up

i can imagine what it felt like for someone who actually had typical baseline emotional associations for their family members

they was older than me. I imagine they watched their loving father grow more and more stressed, antagonized and relentless.

it was like, only until we got older, I was the only one who saw the horrible sides of my mother. The neglect. Neglect with the voice of a forced smile. Forced as if someone was literally holding a gun to her. Does it hurt that much? You don’t need to smile and pretend to care mum. I wouldn’t have expected you to care every time. disinterest was completely fine. shame you bottled it all up, concealed it, so poorly. that was so much worse than disinterest.

I got disinterested too you know.

Shame you had to bottle it into neglect.

I know it was hard though. I know I was tough.

Truth is.

I’d say, I’d put down cigarettes for you.

but would I? I never really did pause my games for you.

I guess we was both responsible for the cloud of smoke which stopped us sharing our air.

your mother was right

I’m sorry to bring her into such a note.

You should have disciplined me.

Funny, how I feel I’m able to blame you for the fact I’m even writing something like this.

Funny.

Now I look back.

If only you disciplined me

yeah we’ll pin it all on that

I bet if you just didn’t smoke... I can’t even imagine it.

starting at age 9

you must’ve had a real tough time back then

honestly

I would love to hear in depth what you went through

im 21

all I know is some sentences from your entire youth

childhood to young adulthood

I would love to know

every, single, minute nuance and indiscrepency of that time when you was 8

even more delightsome

every memory precursing it from 7 and even 6.

I remember the story of the little chicken you bought

a small price

you had to take it back though. your mum wouldn’t let you keep a little chicken in your room.

well.

maybe. I know its complicated

but it would have been nice if you all understood back then

that you should have allowed me to be excited and joyful, of my father beating my mother, of my mothers verbal spite returning to her in physical form.

you didnt need to shield me from the realities. I already saw every detail enough to remember it before I was 4.

No, that didn’t traumatize me.

I think, I’d be a lot (less) different if it did.

you didn’t need to shield me.

In my flowery, blossomic fantasy.

Aysh, my dear sister, you didn’t need to scream and cry.

You could’ve smiled warmly at the fact your darling brother found even this delightsome.

There’s reason to be joyful in any situation.

My older ones.

All you did was get in the way. There was no way you could stop me seeing it. Do you think, in the slower perception of time I had in my young brain, that I didn’t absorb every single speckle of detail in the scenario with the long 5 minutes I had to watch it unfold

the 5 minutes you was completely oblivious and dumbfounded

brushing me off to another side of the room wouldn’t stop me from seeing anything

besides i could hear it.

why did you even make yourselves watch it if you didn’t like it.

you could’ve stopped it too.

“mum, you’re making him angry. I know you’re upset but just be patient with him. If you give him some space to breathe he’ll show you he already loves you.”

you just had to be patient with him

I guess when you’re hooked on nicotine since age 9, your 4 year old son has taken all your patience for himself.

Around age 5.

Although, it honestly dampened my soul to do so.

I copied and imitated my sisters.

It would make them freak out so much more when I screamed in excitement.

Then it would ruin the experience.

It would annoy me so much. I still feel remnants of the annoyance now. That irritating sound of my sister ugly crying and wailing. the low, long sob. Just pull yourself together. Like, why cry so soon? Just stop. Wow. Why do you even care?

Look. I care about you... without the thought of you reacting so maternally.

but come on

why ugly cry so desparingly? Just like. why cry so much each time? It’s happened for years hasn’t it? Why aren’t you numb to it yet? It got boring. It honestly got boring.

oh same old reaction is it dad? Don’t you get tired of the same old fights and arguments mum? You both know exactly what you’ll say and act... might as well just not acknowledge each other.

You know

the most ridiculous part of it

she would always hit him first

over and over and over again

like she was literally asking for it

communicating with her hands

go on hit me back hit me hahahaha youre not allowed are you hahahaha you just have to hold onto those tears, mind if i abuse you some more, hit me back, hit me back, hahaha, what are you going to cry in front of your children? no? gonna get angry instead oh boohoo, over and over.

following him as he walked away

literally

what on earth do you expect?

what really annoyed me

was the fact she’d always get so upset when he finally fought back

and he wouldnt even hit her straight away

he’d do everything he could, knock over furnitures, shout, tell her, even plead with her, just stop, leave me alone, i dont want to argue tonight.

then she’d act like it wasnt her fault

like somehow, she didnt cause it all to happen.

she would tell us all the different ways in which he’s evil.

but she underestimated me because I’m young, i supposedly dont know anything and will believe what I hear

but i saw about 5 events a second, I’d have minutes at a time to watch before anyone else even clocked on. I’d say these things like 20 minutes to maybe 45 but its hard to tell because time was slower back then. honestly felt like 2 hours or so. bored out of my mind, not allowed to watch tv because my sisters were freaking out too much

5 minutes every other day. it becomes very easy to spot the recurring events. then notice in which order they happen. which responses only come when a certain previous event has happened. I knew, i could actually measure, by looking at him, how close to the limit he was, when he reached the limit and how further over the limit he’d need to get for it to physically manifest beyond my awareness and into acts of frustration.

either telling me no you cant watch tv right now or no look away

are you stupid

hahaha

shouldve told me to stay in my room and close my ears instead

maybe that way i wouldve been properly traumatized and scared

then maybe i wouldnt be such a freak now

because id have regular memories to talk through with CBT

but i wouldnt be scared of my father

you just took your mothers information at face value.

but i saw everything that happened.

and most of all

i didnt just hear his words. i heard HIM

i understood he had a short fuse, he got angry, sometimes he’d even smack us

but he never hurt us if we didnt do something wrong

he wouldve never laid hand on us without good reason

and yes he’d make sure it hurt but it was only enough to remember what we did and think about it.

it baffles me

how did they think he would ever hurt them

even when we made him angry

he wouldn’t do that.

he even tried his hardest, not to hurt the mother of his children

but she literally begged him to attack

legally

you cant beg, ask or plead with somebody to do something without using words

but humans dont exist within the confines of the law

They do exist within the law of the Lord.

what im saying is, although in a court of law its a discrepency

you can communicate with your body

with your energy for use of another word

with actions

how absolutely numb do you have to be to not understand, those actions make him attack you

its not even about standing up for youself

you wouldnt have to stand up for yourself if you didndt provoke him

if youd just love him and forgive him, then we’d all stand for each other

no standing alone for yourself

and only yourself, but in the long run, for nobody.

so to summarise

what im getting at is

when i was 5. i stopped expressing my excitement.

and i couldve comfortably stayed there.

i couldve just watched.

but i skipped a few steps. i decided to mimic and imitate my sisters

why? because children are impressionable? i dont know. i just did it and mimiced. it. i dont know if its because i wanted thme to think i was like them.

maybe. i was always isolated in how completely different i was from everyone else. maybe even my sister was a consolation at that point, to share a likeness to.

so for a while I would scream, and cry. i was more elastic then, it was easy to produce tears. or would i even cry? id just scream like they did. annoyingly hold onto my sisters and pretend to be scared like they would with each other

yay. were now in this together.

were doing the samre things.

ugh

that really ruined it.

they believed it. I wish they’d know me enough to know that wasnt genuine.

so i stopped

i stopped pretending

but by then i didnt enjoy it

i just found it really annoying that my mum always complained

she would cry

act trapped

all this all that

she didnt love him

and we couldnt care any less

we understood the problem would be solved if she would jsut kick him out, its not like hes holding the family together or anything

but every day no mater how much she’d annoyingly yell and screech shes gonna leave him and kick him out

she would just take him back in

for like a whole year after that

until i turned 7

it went on and on and on. the same old monotonous reactions. how can the exact same thing, being repeated over and over, incite the same emotional response each time

how on earth is it possible for you not to just lose interest by then to the point you dont even care enough to get angry

i knew i was bored of it

i just wanted to live my days

but my sisters, who, as far as i knew, had had AT LEAST 3 years to get used to this, always always had the same shocked reactions

wheres the shock? its just dinnertime.

its literally

just 7pm.

Thankfully, we had time to watch the simpsons.

it is just 7pm

this is what happens when dad gets home

why are you shocked?

is it a surprise that he didnt give her a rose and lovingly eat dinner

its not a surprise to me

your idiot little brother who didnt know anything and loves to eat up little white lies like the blind deaf imbecile he is.

why lie? like why?

youre so stupid. you always were. you always underestimated me. it was so horrible of you. to act like just because im 3 and 5 years younger than you that i know less than you, that its my job to pretend to believe your lies.

why do you think my lack of knowledge is an invitation for you to hide the truth from me

if im in this world, the same world as you, why tell me im in a slightly different world which looks feels and sounds just like the one we share.

why did you underestimate me? because of my age.

theres a difference between elasticity and plasticity.

i dont say youre stupid because youre old

why do you assume im clueless because im young

youve had your clues

why dont you humble yourself and ask me for the NEW CLUES

do you think thats it? because you noticed patterns in your upbringing that the netire world will never change? is that what you thought?

if we both respected each other. if we both understood we could teach each other

then at the least

it wouldnt annoy me so much that you would lie to me

maybe it wouldnt annoy me so much that when you tried to teach me division

you made me follow you into the bathroom, so you could hold my homework whie sitting on the toilet, just to make me watch you draw on the back of my homework sheet without even asking permission

why was that? you would always use your height and stature to avoid me coming near your room

but whenever i had something you liked, you’d take it and destroy it, share it with your friends to scribble on and cover it in glitter

there was 3 of you

you didnt need my things.

you didnt even respect what I had

so you couldnt have wanted or cared about ti that badly

if you love something you destroy it? is that what it is

so, didnt really summarise.

i think thats when my mind split apart into more than one

more than one dude

but shared

there at the same time

using different connections to understand different things then trying to combine the thought

but not really settling on one thing.

yeah

it was when

i had to pretend to be normal. when i got sick of that feeling, of them wondering why im so different, in enjoying watching my father fight my mother.

i had to pretend it upset me.

then, there was two(+?)

and the veil I hid behind

but i was flexible back then

it wasnt just faking expression, I was like method acting

and honestly it really ruined the buzz

i did a lot of pretending after that

when my father left

id just repeat stuff i heard other kids say

i thought it was so dumb. stuff i had no interest in. but i just knew, at those times in introductions and conversations and in response to certain events, the kids who had friends would react like that ... so so so stupidly. they was so dumb. you’re kids. you have such a clear mind HOW CAN YOU BE SO DUMB

maybe thats what comes with being able to trust your parents ha ha ha

and yeah

in some ways, that was worse than being alone

its like i was living

but i was already dead

please forget how many other people have already said those words and read it again like its the first time, so you can truly understand

its like i was living, yes.

but inside, the real me. I wasnt allowed to live, because as long as I lived, I would be treated like I shouldnt be. Like people dont want to breathe the air around me.

They gave me the look, the one which resembled how that part of me, behind the door, in the darkness of the light which shines through it to the back of my mind, felt, when they failed to remember the basic things which they had already been taught.

it was upsetting.

its like i was living.

but i wasnt allowed to.

so the real me had to die

just so i could pretend to be someone im not.

it went on into my teens.

id cut myself

not because i had any interest in t, i just saw how easy it wa to join the emo kids.

say you have depression, cut yourself, respect people with mental health issues, pretend to love Kellin Quinn, be bisexual and whatnot.

youre one of them

you dont even have to try when it comes to comforting them

use the same buzzwords “ stay strong “ “your skin isnt paper” “youre beautiful” if course that doesnt work now

but age 13-15. thats the way every girl i spoke to online claled me their best friend. thank you so much for always being there every night i need you

and honestly

i do feel baf for acting like they dont deserve to be honoured in speech of them/

i really really am grateful, they allowed me to feel joy, they allowed me to know what its like to have friends, i shared some resemblance to them.

im really grateful, they was there to talk to each night. even if it meant i had to convince myself i loved cats.

maybe they understand now

psychoses dont make somebody evil

neuroses shouldnt be the attractive mental health conditions which get all the sympathy

even aggressive people need empathy

they feel it too.

by the way

obviously

this was trying to paint a picture of how it all started

at least the earliest memories i stil have anyway

i dont still rejoice in the thought of my family being torn apart

and i wouldnt call my sister stupid for being upset.

im glad we’re there for each other now

i wouldnt have it any pther way

and i wish them the best

and im really really really proud of everything my sisters have achieved and even moreso all of the things they continue to do. some of them even inspire me.

#personal #long text post #family #repressed emotions

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