Plagg’s Day Out 6: A Tale of 12 Souls
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The akuma had eight hands.
Eight.
“What the fresh hell is this?” Queen Bee screamed. “Seriously! What is this?”
“A spider?” Ladybug looked distinctly uncomfortable. “A lady spider riding a tiger. Holding...things? I’m confused.”
The akuma was indeed holding things. And was also riding a tiger. And her powers were seemingly completely random.
“I am Karma!” The woman screamed. “And I will show you divinity!”
“If that is seriously a lady spider riding a tiger, I’m just gonna go ahead and nope on outta here.” Rena Rouge muttered from next to Chat.
“Karma?” Chat frowned. Eight hands...riding a tiger… He felt like he should know this, but he was completely distracted by the effects of this akuma. Some people fell to their knees, or prostrated themselves, and started fervently praying. some dropped and started meditating. Some people simply acted happy. Others started babbling. The rest just dropped. In fact, the tiger seemed to be the only normal thing - it’s claws were tearing things to shreds as the akuma rampaged.
“This is not ‘karma’,” Chat muttered, “this is chaos.”
Nodding, Rena lifted her flute. A few notes produced copied of the group, including the missing Jade Turtle. The copies leapt into the fray, distracting the akuma while trying not to get hit.
“Bee, Chat, start relocating casualties.” Ladybug ordered. “Especially the wanderers - they’re completely oblivious to the danger. Rena, keep up the diversions - see if you can lure her away from Chat and Bee. Help me look for the item, it has to be-”
Chat didn’t stick around to listen to more: he knew the drill. Grounding his baton, he dropped in, grabbing a man who was wandering too close to the tiger’s slashing claws.
“Hello friend!” The man beamed as Chat landed next to him. “What a lovely day! Are you well? I hope you’re doing well!”
“I’m great. Could you do me a favor and head that way?” Chat smiled at him as he pointed away from the akuma’s current path. “And maybe take a few others with you?”
“I would love to help you.” The man beamed. “And make some new friends! Oh yes, friends are wonderful.”
As the man turned to leave, Chat reached down, hauling up one of the people and leapt away.
“Hey!” The lady squawked indignantly. “You interrupted me!”
“Do you really think this is the time for that?” Chat asked her.
“Nothing should interrupt your daily devotions.” The woman frowned at him severely. “How dare you ignore the tenants of the faith?”
Chat set her down in a side alley. “Well then, continue here, where it’s safer.”
The woman fell to her knees, hands clasped in front of her.
Rinse, repeat. People praying had to be forcibly moved, cheerful ones were happy enough to leave on their own (though they could get distracted when they met new “friends” and got to chatting). The unconscious ones Chat simply moved to a safer location, and arranged them as comfortably as he quickly could.
“My Lady!” Chat called, landing at her flank as her yo-yo spun. Ladybug didn’t even spare him a glance, though her lips quirked at the sound of his voice. “Have you found the item?”
“We think so.” Ladybug said. “Necklace.”
Chat studied the akuma, who was wearing a myriad of jewelry. “I see it: thin chain, gold, small pendant?”
“Yes.” Ladybug moved, stepping in front of him to block an arrow that came shooting towards them. “Rena’s got distractions running, but she seems to have caught onto us and mostly ignores them.”
“Where is Rena?” Chat frowned. Rena was relatively new - only a few months in, and had a tendency to try to jump into the middle of the fray, despite only having a flute as a weapon.
“She went high.” Ladybug said. “She’s calling out casualties to Bee while we wait for JT to show up.”
“His shield would be rather useful.” Chat said ruefully, baton snapping out to knock aside another arrow. “Do we know what her powers are?”
“Not really.” Ladybug shook her head. “The general idea is ‘don’t let her touch you.’”
“Sound advice.” Chat laughed. “So, good old Plan T, then?”
“Plan T it is.” Ladybug grinned at him fiercely, automatically switching her yo-yo to the other side as he stepped up next to her. Returning her grin, he leapt forward.
And this was where he belonged. Beside his Lady was where Chat felt the most peace, no matter the situation. It may have been because it had only been the two of them for so long, but Chat never worked as seamlessly with the other heroes as he did Ladybug.
It had actually been quite the learning curve for both of them, back when Queen Bee had joined the team. He’d thought the lack of dynamic was because Bee was naturally bossy and assertive, almost short-tempered in a lot of cases. They just hadn’t clicked: the teamwork took honest effort and there had been a lot more talking (and arguing) than there had ever been between him and Ladybug. Chat had thought it just a matter of different personalities, but even after Bee had integrated into their team and they’d reestablished their equilibrium, working with her was never as smooth as working with Ladybug.
Then Jade Turtle had appeared. Jade was an easy-going man, and after having been forced to referee more than a few catfights between Ladybug and Queen Bee (watching two beautiful women wearing spandex claw and hiss at each other - sometimes literally - was not as sexy as the internet had led him to believe) Chat had been grateful for JT’s laid-back demeanor. Jade had been easy to get along with from the start: he listened, took orders, was slow to anger and quick to defend. His shield was a massive boon, and he had a terrific sense of humor. But even though Chat liked and respected Jade Turtle, and even though he was absurdly grateful to have another guy on the team, they’d never managed to move with that unthinking confidence as he and Ladybug did.
Still, they were a well-oiled machine. Once all the kinks were worked out, they all worked well together and knew their places. Patrols could be broken up, and Chat didn’t have to stress to get to an inconvenient akuma as quickly as possible - they now had backup. When Rena Rouge had shown up, it was almost second nature to make a space for her. And even though Chat enjoyed their patrols together, and appreciated her sly intelligence and edgy humor, there was still something missing.
He and Ladybug gravitated towards each other, almost extensions of each other. The moved together and fought together with an unthinking ease: he knew what she was thinking almost before she spoke, and she knew what he would do almost before he did it. Two halves of the same whole, or so he thought when he was waxing particularly romantic.
That’s because you are, now head in the game! Plagg snapped, directing his baton hand to knock aside a thrown javelin.
Yep. Sorry. Thanks. A whistling noise had Chat ducking, and grimacing as the javelin zipped past and back into Karma’s hand.
“Divine justice will be mine.” Karma’s voice was as angry as every other akuma’s but her face maintained the serene expression it had held since her appearance. Beneath her, the tiger roared.
“I don’t think this is the way to go about it.” Ladybug scolded, yo-yo deflecting a trident jab. “Chat, can you-”
“On it!” Chat used his baton to vult upwards, flipping over Ladybug’s yo-yo to land on the light post above and behind the akuma. He waited as Ladybug continued her verbal assault, letting the akuma forget about him as his partner herded her his way.
Grinning as she lined up underneath him, Chat let go, dropping down slightly behind the akuma, bouncing up and reaching for the glimmer of gold he could see between the strands of other jewelry decorating her neck.
Out of the corner of his eye, Chat saw her upper hand reaching back, one glowing finger coming towards him. He saw it, but it was too late - he had already committed to the move. Just as his fingertips brushed the glimmer of gold, her finger touched him, and everything went black.
Know thyself.
He’s on a beach. A pitiful excuse for a beach, it’s nothing like the sun kissed sands of his home. This shore is hard and rocky, sparse grasses giving way to thin and twisted trees. Idly, Theseus rubs his finger over the black ring on his thumb, now lit with it’s glowing green feline paw.
The ring had been a gift from a stranger. Theseus had thought a servant had left it on his table, or perhaps that an enemy had planted it as evidence against him. Yet, when he had opened the box, the strange creature that had presented itself to him had spoken of a quest, and a great destiny.
His outfit, form-fitting and pitch black, felt painfully out of place on arid plain. Sparse trees break up the landscape, but the trees are scraggly and twisted, and aren’t plentiful enough to be called a forest. A cold wind blew off of the ocean, ruffling his hair and sending loose brown locks tumbling into his face. Irritably, he shoved it back, wishing for a headband to contain them. His fingers scraped over the edge of his black mask.
“Are you sure we need to be here?” He asked nobody in particular.
It’s here. The creature, Plagg, answered. Theseus was decidedly not used to people speaking inside his head. Close. Keep a sharp eye.
Theseus rolled his eyes, not sure how anything could be hiding, unless it was in the sand or under a rock. Behind him, his crew muttered rebelliously - they were in Scythian territory, and the men were nervous.
“Could it be with the tribes?” One of them asked.
“Where are the tribes?” Another murmured.
“Well, if it’s ‘the queen’s golden girdle’” a third voice piped up irritably, “then it’s probably with the queen.”
“But which one? There’s hundreds of tribes! They’re nomads! How do we even know we’re in the right place?”
Danger tingled down his spine and Theseus spun, staff in hand and lashing out to knock aside the arrow that was headed for his comrade’s head.
Everyone gasped, scrambling for weapons and cover as people appeared, shimmering into existence like a mirage. A whistling noise had Theseus diving to the side, but he was too slow - something lashed out, wrapping around his ankles and sending him crashing to the ground.
They were surrounded: warriors sat astride the scruffy ponies the plains boasted, or were on foot, wrapped in heavy leathers and sand-colored furs. Stoic expressions on beardless faces, swords and bows were all drawn and pointed their way.
Theseus had eyes for none of them. A figure stood aloft in one of the scraggly trees, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed them. Scarlet leather blazed in the thin light, mottled with black furs and gleaming with touches of gold. Laughing, they stepped backwards off of the tree branch, and the rope around his ankles drug him forwards, continuing to reel him in long after his captor had landed on the ground, not stopping until Theseus was suspended upside down before her.
These were not beardless men, Theseus realized with a start - they were women. Long black braids hung down her shoulders and back, and blue eyes studied him with laughter and contempt.
“I am Hippolyta.” She said in carefully accented Greek. “And you are my prisoner.”
Cleopatra leans back into her chaise and smirks at him, "If it be love indeed, tell me how much."
The barren beach and biting wind have been replaced. No longer outside, he is in. Humid air, ripe with excotic scents, teases the back of his neck as his lover beckons him forward.
She's wheedling and he loves it, the cat and mouse chase of their relationship setting fire to his veins. Never one to back down from a challenge, especially if said challenge is going to involve a hyperbolic war of words with his Lady, Chat bends at the waist and takes her hand, locking eyes with her.
"There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd."
He slips into her room unnoticed, lurking in the shadows cast by curtains and lanterns. He knows he’ll remain unseen until he wishes to be seen - it’s one of the things that make him so effective at his job, and so desirable to his Queen. However, unseen does not mean incorporeal, so he takes a position in a little-used corner, watching until the last of her slaves had served and undressed her.
Her gowns were becoming increasingly elaborate since expanding her rule, her collection of intricately woven scarves and robes of every color growing exponentially by the day. Every one a mark of prestige, of victory. She has spent years on battlefields and war fronts, serving as an inspiration to the troops. Her popularity has given her an almost iconic status within her new empire, and he revels in the knowledge that he helped give it to her.
Once, he’d told sworn that he would give her the world. Now, he has. She dismisses her servants, sends the guards outside. The flickering candle lights illuminate her, glimmering on the golden jewelry she wears. Light and shadow play across newly exposed skin as she removes the last of her robes and begins anointing herself with scented oils.
For a time, the only sounds is the faint rustling of cloth and the splash of water.
"Is it over?" She asks, unclasping one of the many golden chains around her neck. Setting it aside, she turns to face him, vibrant eyes trained intently on where he stands hidden. Her hair glows in the candlelight, so dark in color that it practically shines blue, "Is he gone?"
"Of course," He slinks towards her, catching his black and green reflection in the mirror as he passes. "Palmyra is yours."
Scented candles and trembling sighs as replaced with an wooded grove and screams. Dilwyn stumbles back, lashing out with his staff to bat the golden hammer away. The two weapons collide, and though the hammer’s aim is thrown off course, Dilwyn has been thrown fatally off balance.
He has no idea how the burly Scot had managed to hide in the forest, clad as he is in bright yellow and black. He should stand out like...well, like a Scotsman amongst the Brits, and yet, he’d managed to sneak up on him, knocking him to the ground as Dilwyn was traveling to meet with the Red Lady.
“Black Cat! Duck!” Dilwyn lets gravity take him, dropping and rolling away as the hammer crashed down where he’d been. A familiar zipping noise herald’s his Lady’s arrival, as she leaps from the trees, her weapon lashing around the man’s ankle and dragging him down.
“I’m not a black cat!” Dilwyn protests as he gains his feet and brandishes his silver staff. “Black cats are un-Christian!”
Pain flashes through his Lady’s blue eyes before she’s distracted with the Scotsman - Killer Bee - who has grabbed her rope and is trying to haul her forward.
“Kitty.” She scolds him even as he slams his staff on her string, dragging it down and giving himself slack to twist the string around it, “You have a pact with a faerie, who inhabits a ring to give you supernatural powers. You are un-Christian.”
Dilwyn grimaces, grasping his staff on either side of the string and adding his enhanced strength to hers to counter the stronger man’s pull. Killer Bee gives up, going with the tug and trying to gain enough slack to unbind his ankle.
He is un-Christian. As the son of the head Deacon, his father would undoubtedly say so, immediately before he damned him to the fires of hell. Still, Dilwyn did not feel evil, despite his activities. He did good things - he protected people from threats, both mundane and supernatural. He read his scriptures, he faithfully attended mass every Sunday. He did extra devotions to make up for his sin of lying during confession.
The argument about whether they were going to hell or not was an old one. It bothered him, more than he would admit, that he was often told he was evil, but did his best to be good and virtuous. His Lady, on the other hand, had accepted her faerie and the charge laid upon her with joy.
Dilwyn yanked the rope viciously, jerking the man off-balance and sliding his staff free. Leaping forward, he pinned the golden hammer, forcing a foot against the man’s throat and reaching into the mass of hair to yank free the comb. Killer Bee screamed his rage, but it was too late.
Bringing his staff down with more force than necessary, Dilwyn rendered his fallen opponent unconscious.
It was later, much later, when Dilwyn was out next. The Scotsman, who still refused to divulge his name or Clan, was in jail, facing charges of thievery, murder and conspiring against the crown. Despite his further crimes as Killer Bee, he would not be able to ace those charges - the Red Lady had taken the comb, promising to return it to the one who guarded such artifacts.
She would not say who that was, and Dilwyn had been forced to concede the point - as much as he wanted the man to face justice, the comb needed to be returned to where it could be safely kept.
He leapt through the trees, letting his enhanced vision and superior reflexes guide him in the darkness. Ignoring his faerie as it tried to convince him of his innocence, and remarked on the irony of using his powers to escape his confliction with having said powers. Dilwyn’s stomach churned at the dichotomy of having sworn a pact with evil forces to uphold good. It didn’t sit well - it didn’t make sense. Nothing did.
The fire flickering in the distance caught his attention. Curiosity drew him nearer, despite his fear at what he might find. Would it be more faeries, frolicking in the forest? Demons, dancing in the dark and sacrificing the souls of the innocent to the devil? Something else, something more sinister? Or maybe a hunting party, camping in the woods in preparation for the morning hunt.
It was a party. The group was larger than he would have supposed - their village was fairly small and more than half of the people were either strangers, or someone barely recognised as traveling merchant families from other towns.
She was on the fringes of the clearing, laughing at the couples dancing and leaping the bonfire. Nearby a band played, the primal pounding of the drum and the sweet sounds of the lute and gittern accompanying the a bard who was singing a traditional Welsh ballad. Her loose white gown was bound with only a belt, her feet were bare, and a flowers were woven into her hair.
His Lady. He knew, without knowing how he knew. He was drawn to her always; her beauty, her grace, her spirit. He’d often wondered if she were in their village. He’d wondered, if circumstances were different, if his family might allow a marriage with hers. Plagg had told him often enough that even if he looked her in the face every day, he would never know her for who she was - the magic did not allow it. But here, in the night, with the presence of something hanging thick and cloying in the air, he knew who she was.
Beltane. Plagg spoke up from beside him. Even the gods cannot interfere with the magic that guides the wheel of the year.
What? He watched as boys, and handsome young men, and even older men, approached her where she sat giggling with the other young women. They offered her smiles, and honeyed bread, and cups of mead. She turned them all down with a laugh, waving them off cheerfully.
It’s Beltane, the second sacred holiday of the Celts. The fertility festival. Plagg added dryly. You’ll recognise her tonight, but only under certain circumstances will that hold true in the morning.
Circumstances? What ‘circumstances?’ Dilwyn asked distractedly, but Plagg refused to answer. Dilwyn didn’t care, because his Lady had turned, and her gaze was trained with unerring accuracy in his direction. She knew he was there, though how he knew, he couldn’t say.
The Red Lady stood, excusing herself from her friends. She winds her way around the circle, collecting a platter with bread heaped with honey, fruits from the spring forest, and a goblet of mead. Chatting and laughing, she meanders ever closer as the firelight plays in the shadows of her hair and folds of her gown. Dilwyn cannot tear his eyes from her, and cannot find it in him to worry at his behavior.
Careful. Plagg’s voice is distant and easily ignored. If you do this, there’s no going back.
Back? Back to what? Dilwyn doesn’t care, because she’s in front of him, blue eyes almost luminous as she offers him honeyed bread and a shy smile.
“Kitty.” The word is a whisper, a prayer, a benediction and a promise. Dilwyn shudders, fire igniting in his veins in a way he cannot ignore as he watches his hand rise to take the chalice of honeyed mead from her grasp.
“My Lady.”
He’s a fisherman, scarred hands hauling in the nets, dumping fish and seaweed onto the deck. Plagg is hiding under his collar, in the shade of his dǒulì as his chosen toils in the sun.
“I still cannot believe you gave it all up...for fish.” The tiny black cat complains. “Wealth, power, prestige-”
“Court intrigues and backstabbing. Cold meals, stale rice and military exercises.” Xai Li nods. “Yes, I have no idea why I would return to my home, with honor to my family’s name, to build a life for myself.”
Plagg snorts, and Xai Li knows he’s not fooling his old friend in the least. Smiling, Xai Li thinks of his Lady, his wife, who was by his side through the war, disguised as a man to avoid detection. Later, found, was elevated, much as he was, but they elected to retire with honor rather than continue life at court.
Her face is round and pale like the moon, her lips dark and full and her hands talented and dainty. A pair of dark earrings glint in her ears as she weaves.
Pale metal gleams on his finger.
It’s cold - bitterly cold, since the sun has almost set. His boots crunch in the snow, and despite the layers of fur and wool he’s donned, Pyotr is shivering. Still, hunting went well, and having made the kill, his family will have a new bear skin throw for the darkest days of winter. Even better, being part of the hunting group who had tracked down the bear had meant he’d escaped having to sit through the council meeting. Pyotr whistles a jaunty tune, pleased with how the day has gone.
His home is straight ahead, candles glowing in the windows like a beacon of warmth and peace. Nika has long pulled in the wash, and the children are no doubt indoor as well, practicing their alphabets and maths under his wife’s patient tutelage.
Sure enough, Viktor and Anna are sitting at the central table, boards out and charcoal sticks in hand. Anna’s tongue pokes out from between her lips as she forms her words; Viktor is whining.
“But Mama!” He complains. “Letters are boring! I want to go hunting, with Papa! Artur went with his father!”
“Artur went fishing, not hunting.” Pyotr corrects his son as he steps in the door. “Today we were hunting for bear, and even though you are fierce, you are not ready for that.”
Nika straightens from her place at Anna’s side, hand pressing against her lower back as she offers him a smile. “Husband! Finally - I thought the veche might have eaten you.”
Pyotr snorts, setting down his pack and unlacing his thick boots. “No, I escaped that ghastly fate by sacrificing father instead.”
“You sacrificed grandfather?” Anna’s head pops up, wide blue eyes - so like her mother’s - full of concern.
“No, sweeting.” Pyotr wanders over, planting a kiss atop her braids as he eyes her neatly printed letters as well as the flowers she’d drawn in the margins.
“Oh.” Relieved, Anna goes back to her work, copying the verse she’d been set.
“Papa, will I have to go to council meetings some day?” Viktor asks with a frown.
“Unfortunately,” Pyotr nods solemnly. “It is the fate of all men - to sit and listen to older men complain.”
Next to him, Nika snorts out her amusement, holding out a bowl of rich-smelling stew and a hunk of dense bread. Taking them from her and setting them down, he pressed a kiss to her cheek. One arm reaches out, sliding across her shoulders and drawing her in as his other hand presses gently on the rounded curve of her stomach. “How are you feeling? Is Natasha behaving for you?”
Her smile is tired and strained, but it’s there. “Your son is as well-behaved as you are.”
The lights are too bright, the music too loud. No longer in the forest, the opulence of the ballroom is staggering in comparison to the simple, homey cabin.
Powdered wigs and powdered faces, covered in masks to conceal the wearer’s identity. Satin and silk and pearls and jewels sewn into ornate outfits made to represent any number of creatures both mundane and fantastical. There is a lavish feast spread out on the table for consumption, overflowing with meats and pastries. The wine is flowing and plentiful, and he can hear cups clinking around him as people laugh.
He's been to hundreds of these events, these tedious masquerade balls where he's always expected to uphold his father's perfect image. It drives him to distraction and in a moment of pure rebellion, he ventures out onto the floor.
"Who is that?"
His father's server simply shrugs, "I'm afraid you will have to be more specific."
"The woman over there," he gestures, the claws on the tips of his fingertips pointing across the room, "On William's arm, dressed in the finest silks of red and black."
"I know not, sir."
He follows her as she dances, utterly entranced, "I have never encountered beauty such as this. She could teach the torches of this hall a thing or two about burning so bright. Did my heart ever love until now?"
He was too late. His unit had been beaten back, and one of the English dogs had gotten close enough to put a dagger in his leg, delaying his journey. He was only hear now because of the grace of Marcus’ illusions, showing him still abed and resting quietly.
It was all for naught. His carelessness had left his partner dead.
The burning in his leg, the stickiness of the blood seeping through bandages, were all secondary to the pain in his chest. His breath scraped against his lungs, each inhale tasting of ashes and defeat.
“Calm down, Jean.” Plagg’s voice was hoarse with exhaustion and emotions. “You’ll give us away. And if you do, you’ll…”
Join her at the stake. The words hung in the air, unspoken, Plagg’s normally acerbic attitude faltering under the weight of his chosen’s pain.
“We’ll have to come back later.” Plagg continued. “The earrings must not be allowed to fall into Cauchon’s hands.”
The scent of smoke and the taste of tears are only a memory. The clatter of hooves on cobblestones and the call of voices in unknown languages are only heard in dreams that are half-forgotten by morning.
The trees are huge and dense, dappling sunlight and shadows in ever-shifting patterns across the branches. Nearby, a flock of parrots is cracking nuts and looking for seeds amongst the branches. A snake lounges on a nearby branch, barely discernable from the vines around it as it waits for unwary prey to wander closer. In the distance, monkeys scream to each other as a predator approaches.
The Jaguar kneels amongst the branches, spear in hand as he waits for his partner to lure their prey past. He sees her, scarlet body-covering flashing in the shifting light. Her dark hair is streaming out behind her and her smile is gleaming at the apex of her swing, luring the monster after as she alights on the branch.
The creature howls in its madness, it’s strange and unwieldy body barreling after his Lady clumsily. Laughing, she wait until the last moment - until it’s too late for the beast to correct it’s course, until it’s just where he needs it - and then she flings her strange bola. It loops around another branch, directly to the side, and she leaps, graceful as a bird while their quarry screams in rage.
Wrist snapping forward, Jaguar lets the spear fly.
The spear never struck.
Instead, the familiar weight of his wakizashi was at his hip, carefully concealed under his travel cloak.
It had been a long day. Having posed as a merchant delivering foods, Daisuke had entered the west gate. Fresh produce meant he was allowed into the inner walls, to deliver his goods directly to the kitchens situated near the living quarters. Once his delivery had been accomplished, Daisuke had detoured to the toilets, where he had emerged as a gardener. From there he spent the day raking, clipping, and tending to the blooms, making sure to remain inconspicuous (even when some particularly beautiful courtiers had strolled through).
He had taken his lunch in the gardens, passing himself off as temporary help that had been hired to prepare the grounds for the Lord’s upcoming celebration. One of many, his story was readily accepted. Daisuke had continued his work until the sun was dipping low in the sky, once again detouring to the toilets as the other gardeners departed.
However, now he was outside the inner walls - indeed, he was across the moat. Not that the distance was a problem; the kwami nestled in his pocket could easily ferry him across with a single phrase. However, there was no subtle way of vaulting across a moat.
And, considering who his opposition was, subtlety was paramount. Intelligence indicated that Lady Luck had sided with the elder Lord, against the reigning Shogun. Daisuke had come across her before, both as an ally and an enemy, and she was not somebody to be take lightly.
Nijō Castle is gone. He is no longer a shinobi sneaking through the night. Now, he stands just out of sight of a doorway, his heart beating wildly inside his ribcage.
"It's my secret!" She cries as he watches her through the reflection of the window, her arms wrapped around her middle in anguish. "How can I marry him when I'm in love with someone else?" She clasps her trembling hands together, "If this is heaven Tikki, then I am truly miserable."
The kwarmi, so similar to his own and yet somehow completely different, hovers before her eyes, "Please! Don't do this to yourself Ladybug."
"I dreamt I was there once," She continues, stricken with grief, "and the angels flung me from the clouds back to the earth where I woke, sobbing for joy. I've no more business marrying him than I do being in heaven, but he shall never know. He must not ever know how much I love him for whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are one and the same and Edward is as far from mine as fire and ice."
"You cannot reveal yourself to him," the kwarmi begs, "He cannot know!"
Clutching his chest, he stumbles backwards and disappears into the shadows whence he came.
Chat's eyes snapped open, searching frantically for the threat - for his wife- his...lover? His friend. His partner. His enemy? His everything. Where was she? Was she tall or short? Young? Blonde? No, brunette. Wait, black. Blue. Her eyes were blue. Her eyes were always blue.
People swam into view above him, their suits strange and familiar as they stared down at him with worried expressions.
“Chat? Chat Noir! Chat, are you okay?” Black hair in a million tiny braids swung around her shoulders, her face achingly familiar and completely foreign. Was she a friend this time? Or the threat? Who was she?
“Who- Who am I?” She sounded bewildered, and skin the color of cocoa overlaid her pale cheeks. Wild blond locks whipped around her head...except they were pigtails. “Chat, I'm Ladybug! Kitty, what happened to you?"
The scent of smoke makes him want to sneeze, but the taste of honeyed mead lingering on his tongue comforts him. He speaks, or tries to, but the words don’t make sense to him despite their familiarity.
“Maybe that akuma scrambled his brains.” The woman in yellow and black peered at him intently. Chat was absurdly grateful that she didn’t seem to be shifting identities.
“None of the other victims were this confused!” Russet ringlets shivered as another girl shook her head, and her bushy fox tail twitched in agitation.
“Nika? No, Cleo...Anna. Efa. My Lady.” Chat ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to block out the light and calm his churning stomach.“Who...who am I now?”
“Chat? Kitty?” He forces his eyes open, squinting up and focusing on her eyes. So blue. Always blue, to his green. It’s how they’re found. It’s how he knows her. He keeps his eyes on hers as overlapping features shift, until they resolve into someone he can name.
Ladybug. She’s had the name before, in other languages. Her face and form and outfit have changed, but he always knew who she was. The real question was, who was he? He wants to ask, but he can’t, because he head is threatening to split open as several personalities contend for dominance.
Adrien Agreste. Plagg’s voice is tired and dazed-sounding, even in his head. Plagg. His kwami. His companion, in this lifetime and tens of others.
You are Adrien Agreste. Plagg repeats, and he - Adrien - listens. The others - his team mates - are hauling him up, pulling him away from curious onlookers and flashing lights. They’re on a roof and his legs refuse to hold him up. He collapses against a wall as voices swirl around him.
Rena used her special ability and she needs to leave, but is worried. Queen Bee - who is not a burly Scotsman, but a petite blonde with a rapier wit - leaves with Guī. (No, not Guī, he thinks, but someone like him.) They go to speak to reporters and assess victims, to help clean up.
His Lady, in red and black, with dark pigtails and blue eyes, leans down next to him. Her small hand is on his shoulder, pale, wearing rings, covered in red. The Black Cat, now named Adrien Agreste, leans over and heaves onto the tarmac next to him.
There’s precious little in his stomach to sick up, but his body tries it’s best. Even his stomach is confused, wondering whether he’d eaten tough plains tubers, rich roasted lamb, succulent figs or plain rice. He drank water earlier. But there was champagne at the party? The taste of mead persists.
“Oh, Chat. Oh, Kitty. It’s okay, mon minou, you’re alright. I’m with you.” His Lady stays by his side, smoothing blonde hair back from his forehead, rubbing comforting circles on a back not covered in armor or cloth. Leather. He’s wearing leather, or something like it. Still, her voice is sweet, familiar and foreign and grounding as memories that aren’t his swirl in his head.
Too confused to be embarrassed, to tired to care about propriety, he (Adrien Agreste, Plagg tells him. Chat Noir.) hauls her into his lap, ignoring her squeak of surprise as he buried his face against her neck. She smells like shampoo and artificial flowers, like skin and sweat, and Chat focuses on it, telling himself that it’s really real.
Her pulse is fluttering faintly near his nose. Her ribs, encircled by his arms, expand and contract as she breathes, and the muscles under his fingers twitch and flex. He listens to the sound of her breathing, and the scrape of their uniforms brushing as she turns in his embrace, relaxing when her arms wind around his neck and pull him closer, drawing him into the circle of her arms and letting him cling to her as she whispers soothing words in his ear.
Chat keeps his eyes closed, trying to relax under the mental onslaught that’s thankfully slowing. He focuses on breathing, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth to calm his stomach as he listens to Plagg telling him facts about himself - this version of himself. The snark is missing, but he now knows that even Plagg can be gentle when the time calls for it.
Whatever happened, however confusing and strange and disorienting, has at least reaffirmed two things for him (whoever he is). One, that whoever he is, and whenever he is, there are two constants in his existence: Plagg, and his Lady. Two...there’s a reason for that.
300 BCE - Scythia (Iran) - Theseus and Hippolyta
41 BCE - Alexandria - Marc Antony and Cleopatra
270 CE - Palmyrene Empire (Syria) - The Assassin (lover of Queen Zenobia)
350 CE - Wales - Dilwyn and Efa
530 CE - China - Xai Li and Hau Mulan
1200s CE - Russia - Pytor and Nika
1300s CE - Italy - Romeo and Juliet
1431 CE - Jean de Metz and Joan of Arc
1510 CE - Amazon Basin - unknown
1615 CE - Kyoto, Japan - Daisuke and Akira (shinobi)
1794 CE - ??- ??? and ??? ← Who the hell are these people Bronte?
1865 CE - United States - Kembel Warren and nope fuck it I’m done
