"Kitty, to your left!"
Chat Noir rips his right gauntlet out from the metal abdomen of a fizzing drone, once an apathetic and harmless industrial vacuum cleaner, it had been transformed into a vicious attack machine with a penchant for sucking babies up its floor brush. Chat Noir had shoved the screaming mother-and-daughter pair it had been chasing after and neatly disabled it with a single strike to the heart. Now, he turns around, in the direction Argos had been calling at, to see a silver Mercedes-Benz coupé flooring it towards a family in a van desperately losing the speed race.
With a grunt, Chat Noir propels himself forward, transforming into a black bolt of lightning and slamming into the side of the Mercedes so hard, it flips over.
The family escapes, untouched, into the sunset.
"Come on," Chat Noir growls, back in 3D and ripping out chunks of the Mercedes’ tubes and engine and pipes, trying to stop its wheels from spinning. Alas, no matter what he does, the Mercedes revs and attempts to flip itself over. It must be sending help signals too, because Chat Noir can see a forklift truck, one perfectly capable of rightening 2t vehicles, approaching in the distance, beeping.
Chat Noir gives up.
"Cataclysm!" he roars, and slaps his charged hand onto the surface of the car. Immediately, rust spreads out from the point of contact, peeling away the glossy paint, eating into the metal, until there is nothing left but a pile of nuts and bolts.
The approaching forklift truck, as if wailing over the demise of a loved one, beeps louder, its pointy prongs headed straight for Chat Noir's head.
Chat Noir shakily stands up on his two feet, wondering whether or not Cataclysm will destroy the truck before it skewers him.
Argos is there, suddenly, and he neatly swipes his Fan through the truck’s body. He does so, so smoothly, that the truck itself doesn’t realise it's sliced into two until it travels a couple metres further and its top half falls to ground, its disected anatomy fizzing and on display for all to see.
"I told you not to use Cataclysm anymore," Argos says, approaching Chat Noir in disapproval, the violet of his eyes always make his scoldings all the more caustic.
"Well, I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?" Chat Noir spits, barely managing to remain upright, Cataclysm disabled, his hands gripping his knees.
Argos raises an eyebrow.
"…sorry," Chat Noir says glumly.
"You’re exhausted," Argos says. "Come on, we need to take a break."
"We can’t afford to–"
"I'm sure we won't be scalped for daring to take a break," Argos says, looking around at the orange horizon, the drones buzzing like mosquitoes in the air, the highway around them littered with roasting tires and bits of brick and fallen streetlamps. "No one is going to gain anything from our exhaustion, least of all us. Let's just go and sit down for a moment."
Chat Noir doesn’t argue, partially because his mouth is so dry, his tongue is sticking to the roof of it.
Argos sighs. "Come on, cousin," he says, lifting one of Chat Noir’s arms around his shoulders and wrapping his own around Chat Noir’s waist. "Let’s get out of here."
Argos leaps, and half-carries Chat Noir to a secluded rooftop of a semi-tall office block where they can look down on most of the city, just not the Central Park Tower. It’s a dusty little spot messy with abandoned timber, sheets of green canvas as large as ship sails, and enough pigeons that Chat Noir starts sneezing immediately. Argos snaps out his Fan and sends a gust of wind blowing through the rooftop which scare all the pigeons away and which hopefully should get rid of most of the feather proteins.
Argos gently lowers Chat Noir down. His Ring has been beeping all throughout their journey here, Plagg trying to keep the transformation maintained when Adrien had been pushed to his limit. Finally, Adrien could de-transform with relief. His head droops as Plagg emerges after a chartreuse flash.
"This is not how I imagined our New York vacation going," Adrien says, massaging his neck. He cricks it. "Ow."
Félix, de-transformed, is looking over the edge of the building, trying to peer through the windows to its interior but it is impossible with the glass reflecting the orange sunlight. Félix winces and squints as a glare of UV light sears his eyes so brilliantly, he loses vision for a second.
"You two make yourself useful," Félix mumbles, rubbing his eyes and inspecting his fingers just in case the redness in his pupils will also translate to blood leaking out of his tear ducts. "Giant f*cking building, there’s gotta be some food and water in there."
"Sure," Plagg says. "We’ll steal from the first terrified hostage we come across."
"It’s an office," Duusu adds. "All its workers must be trapped by their computers and money counters and printers." His eyes light up. Duusu loves printers. He loves scanning himself and converting all his bright plumage into technicolour and pasting himself around Félix's rooms.
"Just please get some food first?" Félix asks, and the two Kwami makes themselves scarce, diving into the building directly under Félix's feet.
Félix sits next to Adrien, the two of them leaning against a half-wall on uncomfortable concrete that has probably never been washed in its existence. Félix bears the discomfort, fingering the silver chain he wears around his neck and checking his many aged, argent rings. He sports a sapphire tartan blazer over an open-collar black wool shirt and a pair of chinos. Adrien is dressed in a more street-stylish fashion, in a GABRIELTM moss-green varsity jacket over a GABRIELTM beige hoodie with a pair of GABRIELTM black, tie-dyed jeans and GABRIELTM high-top sneakers.
Adrien is in New York for the opening of its new Madison Avenue store, in case that was not clear. In celebration of the event, GABRIEL had released a collection of men's streetwear which Adrien had been promoting through embodiment and advertisem*nt. Félix had counted nearly 40 different variations of electric billboard displays, bus adverts, and telephone pole posters around the City of That Never Sleeps since touching down at JFK airport.
The good thing about all the craziness is that, far away from his father’s supervision, Adrien had managed to wrangle three nights of freedom from his ignorant agent, three nights Adrien, Chloé, and Félix were fully intent on capitalising.
There was never much freedom in Paris, with its judgemental, stalking tabloids, restrictive households, and Gabriel’s disdainful eyes. Whenever Chloé and Félix attempted to spend time in Adrien’s bedroom with him, they’ll find their sessions continuously intruded upon by a Nathalie who ask them a series of increasingly inane questions starting with: "Adrien, are you hungry?" all the way to "Adrien, do you need your bedsheets changed?"
New York is busy, star-studded, and full of residents who learned to mind their own businesses. New York is the perfect place for three notable teenagers who want to disappear and be able to act their ages for once. They had all been to New York before, of course, it’s unavoidable – commerce and fashion capital - but only Chloé had truly explored it with leisure. Thus, she was the mastermind and the planner, and for the past week – from the moment Adrien got the positive confirmation that some space may finally be opening in his schedule – she had been teasing them and texting them hints of the jubilation they’re going to enjoy although refusing to pronounce any concrete names or places because that would "ruin the fun".
"I don’t really care where we go as long as we all go together," Adrien had said. "But don’t you think we should – carve out some time to take a trip to Manhattan?"
Chloé’s voice, which had been euphoric on the conference call, dims.
"…why?" she asked.
They are speaking from three different locations: Adrien in his bedroom, Chloé in her suite in Le Grand Paris, Félix sipping tea from the balcony of his River Thames-facing apartment.
"Why would we go to Manhattan?" Chloé asked.
Félix could sense Adrien’s panic and bluster for help.
"You can’t avoid the inevitability," Félix had said, stepping in partially to save Adrien from himself and also because he agreed on the necessity of going to Manhattan. "You'll have to talk to her sometime."
"I don’t have to do anything," Chloé snapped angrily. "And, frankly, I am sick and tired of humiliating myself for her. Why am I always the one chasing after her with a begging bowl for love and affectation? f*ck her, I don’t need her anymore and she can crawl to me if she wants to talk."
So that put an end to the possibility to visiting the Style Queen headquarters. With that off the list, the events of the upcoming three days of fun was completely unknowable, and that would usually be daunting, but if Félix had the humbleness to being honest, he would've confessed that he enjoyed being kept in the dark. If it had been anyone else, Félix would’ve been irritable and anxious, never one comfortable with being out of control, always wary of the inferior tastes of his peers, but it’s Chloé and Adrien. Some of the only people Félix can trust with his life and certainly his itinerary. Nothing can go wrong. The three of them can conquer the world together.
The first sign that their immaculate plan was cracking was when Adrien, sheepish, and Chloé, furious, called Félix one night with a surprise update.
"That stupid baker girl!" Chloé had been howling. "That obsessive, sneaky, creepy–"
Between Chloé’s tirade and Adrien’s hurried apologises and explanations, Félix managed to piece the entire story together. Adrien and Chloé’s homeroom class had recently run a series of successful fundraisers for their annual school trip, and, after an unanimous vote, the class decided on New York as their destination. The trip was to take place during the exact same time period that Adrien had subtracted himself from the class in order to attend the Madison Avenue store opening.
Chloé was adamant that the decision was entirely up to charismatic class president, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, who, among other colourful traits, bore a painful, redoubtable crush on Adrien.
"She’s being doing this sh*t since our seconde year," Chloé spat furiously. "No matter how many times Adrien told her he wasn’t interested, she keeps popping up in the most f*cking unwelcome of places, and now she has managed to worm her way all the way onto another f*cking CONTINENT."
"That seems like a bit of a stretch," Félix had counteracted, frowning. "Didn’t you say the decision was down to an unanimous vote? I don't think it's possible she convinced everyone in the class, no matter how influential she is. Besides, New York is a popular and uncreative choice for school trips. It might just be a coincidence."
"It’s not," Chloé hissed. Adrien had been trying to contribute to the conversation for the last fifteen minutes, but kept getting over-spoken by either Chloé or Félix. "You wouldn't be saying that if you met her, she did it on purpose, that little freak. She's delusional! She's convinced that she and Adrien are meant to end up together, as if it's fate and she's willing to do whatever to achieve her goal! She has the entire class in on it as well, I cannot tell you the amount of wacky schemes I've had to foil over the years. Did I ever tell you about the Valentine Day’s dance where they stole his clothes so he’ll have to dress in a white tuxedo and then she showed up in a f*cking wedding dress?"
"That couldn’t have happened," Félix said, aghast.
"Actually, it did," Adrien confessed awkwardly. "But it was a mistake. Nino just lent me some clothes and Marinette has always been a fashion designer–"
"There was a f*cking altar, cake, and her creepy little Girl Squad entourage were all dressed as bridesmaids, you cannot excuse her out of this one, Adrien," Chloé snapped. "They had a marriage certificate and a notary prepared, for f*ck’s sake! I don’t want to envision how the night would’ve ended if I hadn’t dragged you out of there. You’re usually so observant, Adri-chou, why are you so intent on forgiving her?"
Adrien hadn’t answered and Chloé must’ve left it at that because she was afraid to hear a response. Félix was a little, too. He doesn’t mind sending Adrien down the altar, if the person standing there is worthy of receiving him.
No matter how much Chloé petitioned for a new vote, the class’ destination was finalised and when they flew out, it was even on the same plane; Adrien, Félix, and Chloé in first class while listening to their homeroom being the rowdy bunch of teenagers they are in economy.
Chloé was right. Within five minutes of getting to know Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Félix no longer believed that anything Chloé claimed was exaggeration. The three of them had been enjoying their personal indulgences while flying 35,000 feet in the air – Chloé snacking on Belgian chocolates and drinking champange while chatting with their stewardess about the famous/interesting clients she's had over the years, Adrien listening to Lorde on earbuds while watching the clouds outside the window, Félix with his temple resting on his knuckles while reading a random US business magazine he found – when a horrendous scream rendered from the back of the plane. It sounded as if someone just had boiling hot oil spilled over them. The stewardess immediately excused herself to check on the commotion. Adrien had stood up, trying to peer past the dividing curtains, and Chloé was turning pale, when:
"Hi, Adrien."
The petite man before them sounded unusually feminine and was unusually short for a flight attendant. While his uniform was well-tailored, the colours didn't look quite right, the tie material wasn't a complete match, and he was also wearing a comedic, clearly-fake moustache.
He had also called Adrien by name and looking at him, only, with shining, starstruck eyes.
Chloé stopped looking pale and looked more as if a server in a high-end restuarant had just lifted the silver cloche off her plate to reveal a rotten fish.
Adrien also had the expression of running into someone familiar but not particularly welcomed.
Félix added two and two together. When Chloé began screaming about a terrorist, Félix did not stop her.
They got the full story when their harassed stewardness returned. Turns out, one of Adrien and Chloé's classmates had been hollering in a back, wailing about a broken leg that was completely straight and unbruised. Marinette had taken advantage of the commotion they stirred by sneaking into first class.
The truly diabolical thing about this plan was the amount of preparation involved. It's not like Marinette could've purchased a whole new outfit on-board. Which meant that she researched the uniform of the airline in Paris, f*cking made it, smuggled it on board, persuaded one of her friends to fake a medical emergency, all so she could talk to Adrien for five mintues while disguised as a male steward.
First class boarders are let off first, so when the plane landed, Félix and Chloé practically dragged Adrien away before Marinette could manage to track them down to their hotel.
"Why are you being so quiet?" Félix had asked in the circular, marble lobby of the Mandarin Oriental while Chloé was checking them in with the receptionist. "…you can’t really like her back, do you?"
"What? No, of course not, I barely know her," Adrien said, so surprised, Félix felt relieved.
"Then why are you being so nice to her?"
"…I think she has a mental illness."
Félix was so startled, he laughed and choked at the same time. "What?"
"I don’t think she means any harm," Adrien said. "But I noticed that she has hyperfixations and gets quite – energetic over things she like. I think she’s just obsessed with me because I’m a model and she’s into fashion. It’s harmless."
"It is not harmless," Félix argued angrily. "You’re a human person, not a hyperfixation. A human person she broke through security to get in contact with. Don’t think she might end up hurting you?"
Adrien scoffed. "Oh, please," he said. "She’s tiny."
"Chloé’s tiny and she can take both of us," Félix said.
"You got that right," Chloé said, standing over them, a white keycard in one hand. "And don’t either of you ever forget it. Come on, let’s go up, I really need a shower. That stuffy cabin air completely ruined my hair."
New York was chock-full of superheroes and supervillains who fought battles that ranged from god-like wars thundering in the skies above the Tri-State Area to the pettiest bullsh*t imaginable. On their second morning in New York, while Adrien was being chaperoned by limousine over to Madison Avenue, Félix witnessed a skirmish between the so-called Captain Green Light smacking the Jaywalker with a red STOP sign at an intersection.
"Wow," Adrien said, eyes wide as they drove past. Numerous onlookers are filming the scene with their phones, completely ignorant of their close proximity to the battle and the fact that laser guns are being used. "So many heroes. Do you think Paris will be as busy one day?"
"I sure hope not," Félix grunted. It's not that he doesn't enjoy being the Peafowl, it's not that he doesn't cherish Duusu's chatty, exuberant company. Félix patted at his breast, where his geometric gold Brooch was pinned to his shirt, hidden under his jacket. But he doesn’t enjoy being part of a team, he doesn’t enjoy being under Ladybug’s command. That got old real fast. He doesn’t get along with any of his new team members, he finds their can-do attitude and constant need to one-up each other junveile and oppressive. They're not fond of him either. What Félix wouldn’t do to be able to run off into the night and become a solo man once again. Part of him regret going to Ladybug the moment he gained the Peafowl, but if he didn’t, he never would’ve found out that Adrien is Chat Noir, they never would have this new solidifying layer over their bond. And Adrien would never leave Ladybug. So – you lose some, you win some. That's life.
Paris may have eighteen brightly-dressed teenagers hopping across its rooftops and causing a general ruckus, but New York was much, much worse. Superheroes infiltrated every last crack of their culture, situated themselves on every tier of their politics. A shield-wielding acrobat runs the local government, gangs of mutated specimens and cybernetic warriors terrorise the streets. Daily battles are waged, where blood is shed to gain even a single square inch of dominance. The city reeked of desperation and competition, and Félix was very glad that he's only here for a holiday. That he doesn't live here.
Madison Avenue was crowded from end to end with visitors who had travelled from all over the US, even from neighbouring countries, to see Adrien. The limousine pulled up before the red carpet leading to the entrance of the techno-futuristic GABRIEL store, with its glass façade and OLED interactive displays. An army of security guards collaborated to keep the way clear, and Adrien squeezed Félix’s hand.
"I want you to come with me," Adrien had said.
"And Dear Uncle Gabriel would skin us both," Félix said dryly, although not without remorse. "Just go, Adrien."
Adrien gave him a small, feigned smile, before his eyes sharpened and his mouth grew lazy and he stepped out of the limousine to a cascade of cheers, applause, and camera flashes as the beautiful, carefree, and effortless progeny of the Agreste Empire.
Chloé was somewhere in the crowd, Félix knew. Gabriel didn’t invite her to the opening either, but there’s a high chance she may have bullied her way into the venue using her status as the daughter of Audrey Bourgeois, a notorious editor-in-chief, yes, but also a notable long-time friend of Gabriel’s.
"Just 'round the back, sir?" the chauffeur with his heavy Long Island accent asked.
"Actually, just here is fine," Félix replied. He tipped the driver fifty American dollars, opened the door at the red light and sprinted away with his head down just in case he get mistaken for someone he's not. In an alleyway, Félix transformed, sapphire-blue light washing down his body as he leapt upwards towards the roof. Fan tucked into his belt, his weapon’s feathery blades matching the tail of his coat. His jacket embroidered with peaco*ck quills, his trousers silver pinstripes, and his mandarin collar shirt bedazzled with stars.
Argos leapt across the rooftops of New York City, careful to stay out of sight from cameras and pedestrians. He stood on the building opposite of the Avenue Madison store, looking down at Adrien entering the shop, surrounded by bodyguards, trying to spot Chloé in the crowd – and that was when everything went horribly wrong.
There were so many smartphones already held up in the hands of the onlookers, in perfect attacking angles, that Argos had a prime view of the first wave. Small electronic devices suddenly grew spindly arms and legs, like little spiders, and bit the fingers and stabbed at the faces of their owners. Then, an airplane, which was unfortunate enough to be in New York air space, crashed down into the Northern Atlantic Ocean, spewing fuel and flames on the horizon. Car stopped following the commands on their steering wheels and revved wildly across the streets, striking telephone posts, crashing through shop fronts, and jerking so incomprehensibly, performing manic wheelies, that they snapped the necks of the people strapping to their driver's seats. The final abnormality – this all happened within forty-eight seconds, mind you – was all the giant advertisem*nt billboards pausing whatever news/commercials/memes they were playing to simultaneously show the face of a green-skinned giant tattooed all over with shadowy vias and traces. He had a feather pendant around his neck and was dressed in a bizarre combination of brown leather and golden feathers that clashed horribly with his complexion.
"Greetings, New York!" he had announced gleefully, powerful baritone voice screaming out from every single speaker. It blared from mobile phones, mall speakers, recording studios, car radios. "Thought you all saw the last of me, huh? Oh, what’s this?" He mockingly gestured at his ridiculous outfit. "I look a little different? Well, I do have a new accessory on hand…" He made an overdramatic gesture to his front, waiting for someone to point out the obvious.
A woman in the crowd below, clutching at her bleeding cheek, having been stabbed by her own camera, gasped. She pointed at the GABRIEL store;s main screen which previously displayed one of Adrien’s campaign posters, now stuffed with this hacker’s ill green face.
"That’s the Thunderbird Miraculous! You stole the Thunderbird Miraculous!" she cried.
"That’s right!" the thief cried triumphantly. "Chief Goodluck isn’t as good a Guardian as you all thought! The Power of Amplification is now in my hands! I am unstoppable!"
Another feature Félix can praise Paris over New York for is its supervillians with their comprehensible rationales. Papillon want Ladybug and Chat Noir’s Miraculous, all of his Akumatised Champions want humiliation revenged and wrongs righted. What was this new villain’s goal in transforming every last piece of electronic machinery in New York into a bloodthirsty, metal soldier? What is he hoping to achieve, what will they have to give up and concede to in order to make him stop?
Argos never found out, because after informing New Yorkers gleefully of their upcoming demise, the villian vanished.
Superheroes flew over the New York skies, Majesta in the lead, her flag-themed suit blazing like a comet, trying to control the chaos. Soldiers armed with assault rifles, grenades, and signal scramblers implement martial law. Minor villains joined the side of the heroes, because if this thief of the Thunderbird Miraculous achieve his urbicide, none of them would win, none of them would have a house to return to.
Argos leapt down into crowd immediately after the end of the thief’s announcement, f*ck if anyone sees him, it'll be a miracle if anyone did pay attention to him, as men, women, and children split, running and screaming in all directions. There was no one in the GABRIEL shop when he burst through. A mild mirage shimmered in the air, as if Argos was seeing everything through a desert haze. He covered his mouth with his glove once he realised what it was, carbon monoxide spewing into the climate by the gallons.
"Adrien?" he cried desperately, running through the store. Its eerie, flickering lights imbuing the atmosphere of a horror film, featureless shiny mannequins posed with bucket hats and striped tracksuit trousers looking likely to spring to life at moment. "Adrien? Where are you! Adrien–"
Argos pushed open the door to what must be a staff rec room, because he caught a glimpse of comfy couches, a vending machine, and a sink, before a microwave with teeth made out of the broken fragments of its turntable glass leapt at him.
Cursing, Argos rocketed backwards, swallowing a mouthful of gas in his shock, only for the microwave to stop an inch away from his face.
Chat Noir had grasped onto its electric cord and, with a single neat motion, swung the microwave violently into a wall, shattering it into pieces.
"Techno-Pirate can’t breaks the laws of physics," Chat Noir said to Argos’ gap. "Once a device runs out of fuel or battery, it’ll automatically shut itself down. A quick way to disable any of these – drones is to rid it of its power source. Probably is, we can’t wait for the city to run out of power herself. I’m sure New York has manual generators that can keep her going for a few more weeks."
"…Techno-Pirate?" Argos asked.
Chat Noir nodded. "Mike Rochip, that’s his real name, I met him the last time I came to New York. He’s a villain with technopathy powers." Chat Noir clicked his teeth. "Who’s supposed to be in prison."
"Do you know what he wants?" Argos asked, accepting the hand Chat Noir offered, pulling himself off the floor.
"I wish," Chat Noir said. "Although, more likely than not, he wants nothing but simple chaos. It's been his dream to live in a world where machines run free. He achieved it."
"Excellent," Argos sneered. "Something always has to f*ck up, huh? The world can’t ever give us a break."
"Have you seen Chloé?" Chat Noir asked.
Argos faltered. "I couldn't track her in the crowd," he confessed. Félix does not like to admit he's limited. "I was hoping you might be able to."
"I might," Chat Noir said. "But we'll have to get out of here first. The gas is messing with my nose."
They emerge on a balcony a couple of stories above street-level and wasted ample time gasping like fish on dry land. Chat Noir coughed, thumping his chest while Argos attempted to purify his breathing air by fanning his face.
The air quality outside was not any better. Smoke and smog bloomed into the air like volcanic eruptions, squirting from overturned vehicles, blazing brownstones, and burning technological garbage heaps. When Argos had entered the Gabriel building, the sky had been a pretty orange and pink. There had been indigo clouds and the streetlights had been turning on. Now, he can barely see a couple of metres ahead without his sight obstructed being by haze and junk. He could hear gunshots, screams, explosions. They had left anarchy and entered a war scene, far away from home, as lost and afraid as stray lambs, one man down.
Chat Noir sniffed the air and coughed again. "I can't smell sh*t!" he exclaimed. "Where would Chloé go? We–"
Chat Noir grabbed at his Bâton as if he's going to risk his identity by calling her, before realising the obvious failures of that option.
"We'll walk," Argos proposed lowly. "Chloé couldn't have made it that far. Maybe she holed up in a Starbucks."
The smile Chat Noir forced was purely for Argos' benefit.
So begun about two hours of mindless surviving and struggling and escaping by the skin of their teeth. They made their way from Midtown to Lower Manhattan. They battled Teslas and flying electric guitars, washing machines and bread makers. Chat Noir charged Cataclysm over and over again and exhausted himself. On the Brooklyn Bridge, surrounded by the burning wreckage of car frames and smouldering, stinking tires, Chat Noir’s energy had completely depleted.
The Black Cat is the most physically and destructively powerful of all Miraculous Holders. All can meet their end by ruin. The significant drawback to his great strength, however, is the necessity of high rest periods. There’s a reason why cats need to sleep sixteen hours a day.
Argos hauled Chat Noir to the rooftop of that office complex, commanded Duusu and Plagg to find them some food and water, and there they are, watching the chaos of the city together.
Adrien's mood is sour, clogging their ambience like smoke. He picks at his nails and doesn't speak and there's nothing Félix can say to comfort him.
They've come across bodies and limbs. Hair blonde enough to have given them heart attacks many times over.
Here's another benefits that Paris has over New York: the injured don't stay injured, the dead don't stay dead.
"What on Earth is taking so long?" Adrien finally grumbles, voice so hoarse that Félix didn't hear him at first. "How long does it take to subdue one lousy supervillian? If it was me in charge of this city, this all would've been over hours ago!"
Félix says nothing and Adrien sighs, loudly and exaggeratedly.
"f*ck this," Adrien mutters, burying his face in his hands.
Plagg and Duusu return; the former carrying a giant 1.5l bottle of springwater in his paws while Duusu has his talons clenched around a brown paper UberEats bag.
Félix assembles their meal, braised beef with bok choy and flour noodles, eight cabbage-and-pork potstickeres. A healthy and delicious set, Duusu had chosen well. They had grown tremendously knowledgable during their tenure as Félix's Kwami. When they first met, Duusu was surprised that Félix needed a horizontal surface to sleep.
Adrien splits the dumplings with his fingers, sucking up the juice that tries to escape down his sleeve, and separates the chunks of meat from the cabbage. He also picks up the beef from the noodles and hand-feeds Plagg, who splays on his shoulder, always cherished, always spoilt. Félix and Duusu locate the longest noodle for him and Duusu slowly slurps it in like an extra-long, extra-tasty worm.
They eat in silence. Food that would've been delicious and a view that would've been delectable in another situation daunted by the missing member of their party. While Plagg and Duusu has never spoken to Chloé directly, they've spent enough time around her voice and her presence to consider her one of their own.
Once they are done, Adrien stands up and dusts his hands off on his jeans. His clothes had been pristine, protected by the armour of his suit. After only a few minutes exposed to the air, however, they are already tainted by a layer of grim, his hair converting from sunlight-blond to dark gold. When Félix looks down at his jacket, even without a mirror, he can tell he's not in a condition any better. He scrunches up their garbage in the paper bag and leaves it in a corner of the roof. The four of them lean on the ledge, watching the city together. At an intersection, a group of humaniod drones that must've been liberated from an advanced robotics lab march like infantry footmen, armed with laser guns and tasers. A trio of superheroes dressed in primary colours are working together to halt their advance, but no matter how many front line soldiers they strike down, the army keeps advancing. Faceless, omnious, undauntable.
"You ready Plagg?" Adrien asks quietly.
Plagg eyes him warily. "Forget me, kit," he says. "Are you ready?"
"I have to be," Adrien replies, and transforms. Félix follows suit, Duusu waving goodbye cheerfully as they dissipate as sapphire light into Argos' Brooch.
With his Miraculous activated, Argos can breath better, sense clearer. He feels the seismic tremors of the building beneath his feet as its inhabitants root around the floors, his instincts prickle with the urge to sweep Chat Noir off this building and settle them on higher ground, which would offer more protection.
"Let's try again from Madison Avenue," Chat Noir says. He has his Bâton out and is zooming in on a simplified map of the Tri-State Area. "We picked an awkward direction to go in, let's think like Chloé. Imagine: she's trapped in the crowd as a supervillian launches an attack. Unlike New Yorkians, she's familiar with Miraculous-based supervillians, so–"
Chat Noir freezes.
"What?" Argos asks. He peers at the screen of Chat Noir's Bâton and sees it too.
Peppered the simplified map are sixteen emblematic, circular symbols. Ladybug’s five-spotted shell is located in Central Park alongside Viperion’s wound snake and Rena Rouge’s fox-tail. Vesperia’s bee is in Rikers Island with Pigella’s piglet, and Ryuko, Pégase, and Traquemoiselle are all clustered in Queens.
They move through the map at a snail’s speed.
"Is that everyone?" Argos demands, gripping onto Chat Noir's wrist to inspect the live tracker more closely. He manually counts, just in case his own bias has befuddled him. No, he's right. "What are they all doing in New York?"
"I don't know..." Chat Noir answers, stunned. "...who's guarding Paris?"
"Does that matter? She can go back anytime she wants via the Horse. What I'm concerned about is–" Argos bites his lip.
Chat Noir and Argos had gone seperately to Ladybug requesting time-off due to unavoidable personal reasons for the trip. Ladybug had accepted their appeals gracefully and assured them that the city would be still just as well protected during their absence. Even if they have a number of eighteen against Papillon's one, the danger is that Papillon has no qualms about dragging in vulnerable civilians and causing destructive havoc to necessary architecture, thus, their numbers are not needed for battle as much as they are there to prevent innocents from getting caught in the crossfire.
So, heroes always have to be present in Paris. To patrol, to keep up morale, just in case there's civilian crimes that could use their assistance. It's not unusual for Ladybug to lend out soldiers to other countries especially since she'd made so many international friends, but all of them at once?
And how did Ladybug even learn of the tragedy in New York? No one can get any information out, helicopters can barely hover above the city without getting dragged down by Techno-Pirate's influence.
This means that either someone from United Heroez may have contacted Ladybug for exceptional assistance given the dire state of their emergency and Ladybug decided that the circ*mstances are so special that Paris could be abandoned for a few hours, or – all the heroes were already in New York and trapped by Techno-Pirate's attack.
But that makes even less sense. Why would Ladybug drag all sixteen heroes to the other side of the world spontatenously? How did this arrangement even come to be, what reasons did she give her subordinates? And why was Chat Noir and Argos never informed of these traveling plans? The other heroes know that Chat Noir and Argos have camaraderie, not that they're aware of each other's identity and, more significantly, family. So what is so noteworthy about the two of them that neither of them were informed?
Chat Noir and Argos exchange wary glances.
"Maybe this is all just a coincidence," Chat Noir suggests.
"Coincidence for what?" Argos asks irritably. "What on Earth could they all already be in New York for?"
"...I don't understand," Chat Noir whispers. "Why didn't she tell us–"
The two of them are so distressed and distracted by their discovery that neither of them notice the tiny purple butterfly making its way to Chat Noir's mask.
Partially it's because it's not Papillon's Akuma, which they would'be noted immediately, that instinct grated into anyone who has lived in Paris for the past few months. It has none of Papillon's dark, oppressive magic or poisonous aubergine colour. This Akuma is as light and dainty as a fairy, flapping as it is dancing. Its wings are ice-lilac tipped in white, and when it sinks into Chat Noir's mask, it does so with flash of swallowtails.
"Chat Noir?" Argos asks, staring at the new lilac visor flared across his face. Jagged wings with cells at the corners. It doesn't resemble Papillon's visor either, which is the only reason why Argos' panic has gone overtime yet. "What's going on?"
Chat Noir's face is frozen, listening to whoever is speaking inside his head.
Argos panics. "Chat Noir?" He grips his cousin's shoulder in one hand while gandering at the feathers tipping his Fan. If he Akomatises Chat Noir's mask, could he engage the invader in a battle of wills and force him out?
But Chat Noir hasn't transformed, his face doesn't morph into a wicked expression of malicious delight. He only seems confused if a little wary. When his eyes meet Argos', they're still sane, autonomous.
"Argos," Chat Noir says, holding up his right gauntlet. "Akomatise my ring."
"What?" Argos says.
"Akomatise my Miraculous," Chat Noir repeats, indicating the heavy-duty silver signet jammed between the metal segments on his ring finger like a gear mashed into a machine. "I'm not a fan of being a conference call, but I think you should be here for this conversation."
"Why are you here as well?" Argos demands, speaking into Chat Noir's mind. His visor has combined butterfly wings with Argos' beak and feathers, resulting in a masquerade-like product of jewelled quills and ultramarine blots. Chat Noir scratches at his neck gingerly, tilting his head left and right, as if getting used to the weight of two presences and two sly hands weighing in on his mind. "Why is everyone and their mothers in New York?"
Oh, so you noticed Ladybug has been hanging around too? the Butterfly Holder replies. Her voice is lofty and complacent, Argos would place her as a twenties or thirties female, he imagines her as tall, wearing a lot of hats and purple, and consumes plenty of wine. Dumb bitch. Why did she leave her location on?
Never mind, Argos would place her as late-teens or early twenties, someone addicted to sparkles, and obsessed with artisan co*cktails.
"You're not Papillon..." Chat Noir mutters, vocalising the obvious yet the important, like a lawyer. "But you are the Butterfly Miraculous Holder...who are you?"
A sigh. I had been hoping to keep my identity hidden for a while longer, she says, sounding authentically glum, but the Butterfly Wielder will always be a master manipulator and Argos refuses to trust anything that comes out of her mouth. Make a grand entrance worthy of Beyoncé, but there's no choice here. So, sorry to break the news anti-climatically, boys, but Papillon is no longer. I am now the new Holder of the Butterfly Miraculous.
A stunned silence.
So, anyway, the new Butterfly continues. I contacted you because–
"I – no, wait," Chat Noir splutters. "You can't just drop that and not expect us to ask any questions! Who are you? Are you Papillon's family, mentee, girlfriend–"
Ew, no! the Butterfly cries. Her abhorrence is so potent, Argos decides that this statement may be true. Not any of that! And, anyway, you don't need to know. The point is–
"You can't just tell us that the reign of Paris' most malevolent supervillian is over and expect to continue on without asking any questions, without being given any answers," Argos says. "You came to us for help, I can sense it, why else would contact us in a situation like this, revealing your valuable identity? Sure, you may have a bargaining chip, but we have far more. Our information of Papillon remains the same: we don't know who he, or, now, you are, we don't know what you want, and we don't know how you keep popping up in places you're not invited to. If you want to convince us to listen to you, you need to drop the mystery act and start persuading before we decide this conversation is worthless." Argos reaches over to grasp the edge of Chat Noir's mask firmly. Chat Noir blinks guilelessly at him, completely trusting despite the steel-tipped talons just inches from his eyes. "So start talking."
...I think my bargaining chip is a little more than you expected, the new Butterfly says. Just, FYI.
"What does that mean?" Chat Noir asks.
I know where Techno-Pirate is, the Butterfly says, and laughs as she feels their dual mental jolts of shock. Yeah, isn't that surprising? A whole city of legendary superheroes and I beat them all to the punch. You two are looking for someone, I can sense it, a friend, and you're both afraid you're not going to find her alive after all this is over. So, you two want to defeat Techno-Pirate as soon as possible, you can't afford to waste any time. So, are you going to continue stalling or are you going to listen to what I have to say?
"Why would we trust you?" Chat Noir asks. "How do we know you're not leading us into a trap?"
"You're not as clever as you think you are," Argos follows. "So you claim to have Techno-Pirate's location." Argos doesn't deny that he and Chat Noir are looking for someone, and that they both fear they'll find her in less-than-pristine condition. "There's no proof and you've still not presented a logical argument for why we should continue to listen to your babbling." Argos' fingers begin to peel Chat Noir's mask off his face, revealing pale, creamy skin beneath. "It seems that all this was just a waste of time. Good-bye."
Ugh, okay, wait! the Butterfly grumbles. Fine! Some heroes you are, why couldn't you have just leapt at the chance to save some lives like the goody-goodies you're supposed to be? Some indecipherable muttering. I would've just gone to Ladybug if I knew you were going to be this troublesome!
"Ladybug's location is on air for anyone who cares to see it," Argos says. "Yet, instead of easily going to her, you've decided to take the labourious effort of tracking us down, which means that you've already decided that we're the only people you can go to." Likely, this Butterfly wants Chat Noir, who, out of everyone in Ladybug's army stood the most likely chance against a rouge Miraculous Holder. And Chat Noir isn't going anywhere unless Argos gives the say-so. That also brings out another salient question: why does this new Butterfly want Techno-Pirate defeated? "And we're not going anywhere until we know what we want to know."
You're impossible, the Butterfly says. Don't you think you're wasting time? How many more people do you think are dying while we waste time, sitting around, chit-chatting?
Chat Noir's eyes implore Argos. Argos shakes his head.
"Don't put the burden on us," Argos snarls softly. "It's all down to you."
...I'm not a bad person, she says.
"Okay?" Chat Noir says.
I know how it sounds, but I swear I'm not, she continues. I don't want Techno-Pirate defeated because I want – because I want the Thunderbird Miraculous or anything, this isn't a part of my grander plans. I want Techno-Pirate defeated because he's a murderer and a tyrant and I want him gone. Simple as that.
"Forgive me for doubting your sanctimoniousness," Argos says. "But since when are supervillians interested in the greater good?"
When they're NOT a supervillian, she shoots back. Fine, you want to know who I am? I'm nobody, I'm an average nothing girl who got close to Papillon by pure conincidence and managed to steal the Butterfly Miraculous from his office.
"Are you serious?" Chat Noir asks.
"So, Papillon has no idea who you are?" Argos asks.
"Oh, he knows who I am, and he probably suspects that I stole his Miraculous, but what the f*ck is he going to do about it?" she says. "I hold all his powers now and his Kwami is much happier with me. Papillon just quietly lost everything while you were all busy making grand speeches about how he will never take over Paris. Why do you think there hasn't been any Akuma attacks in the past few weeks? He's not planning for something big, he lost it all.
"...I don't understand," Chat Noir says. "If all this is true...why didn't you go to Ladybug?"
"Because I'm not Ladybug's biggest fan," she says. "Because I want to keep the Butterfly Miraculous."
"So, you are a villain?" Argos concludes in disgust.
No, she says. I'm just selfish. If you have the chance to keep a Miraculous all to yourself, wouldn't you take it?
Argos doesn't answer.
"The Butterfly Miraculous doesn't belong to you," Chat Noir says softly, as if he's trying to persuade a tempestuous little girl into sharing her toys. "Nooroo doesn't belong to you, they belong with Ladybug. Keeping a stolen Miraculous is a crime–"
Er, Nooroo is his own person who doesn't belong to anyone, she cuts in. Do you really think they want to return to a box where they'll be kept all cooped up, yelled and nagged at by a bunch of bald, old men who think they know everything after being kept captive by another old man? Yeah, I know what the Guardianship is, and they don't sound any funner than Papillon.
"That's your argument?" Argos asks. "That Nooroo is happy with you so they can stay?"
He is happy with me and I'm not going to cause any harm with the Butterfly Miraculous, she says. Two good reasons.
"That's not – okay," Chat Noir says, frustrated, making a visible show of holding back his ire. "I'm sure you're a very nice girl – whoever you are, but–"
Farfalla, she says with solemnity. Call me Farfalla.
"You're Italian?" Argos deduces.
There are currently 60,000 Italian residents in Paris, Farfalla says. Good luck finding me, bird boy. And we're wasting time. I gave you plenty of information, plenty of reason to trust me.
"You didn't give us sh*t–" Argos starts.
I gave you proof that I have goodwill and ample reason to believe I'm on your side, at least for this common goal, Farfalla says. You two can needle at me all night, but I am neither going to reveal my identity nor hand over my Miraculous. I know where Techno-Pirate is. You two can defeat him. Do we need to argue more?
"...I'm going to contact Ladybug," Chat Noir says, looking to Argos for agreement and is surprised when Argos doesn't nod. "Er – with sixteen more heroes–"
Means we're going to waste sixteen more rounds of time convincing every one of them that this is a good idea, Farfalla says. Chat Noir, I've seen the way you fight. You can fold everyone in your team sixteen times over. You don't need them. We can get rid of Techno-Pirate on our own.
"We?" Argos mocks. "Are you going to join the battle? I thought you were just going to cower in the shadows."
Ohh. Ouch. I'm so hurt, Farfalla says. I know my strengths, and direct combat isn't one of them. I am, however, going to send a friend of mine over.
Chat Noir connects the dots quickly. "You Akumatised someone," he says flatly.
Don't sound so scandalised, Farfalla complains. Isn't this the whole point of the Butterfly Miraculous? To create Champions and defend? This girl is my friends and I got her permission to Akumatise her. She's sick of the destruction around her too and she just wants to help. She wants to join the battle.
"...is she aware of the risks?" Chat Noir asks. "If Ladybug doesn't join us – any damage incurred can't be reversed. She might be permamantly injured."
To get rid of Techno-Pirate, she'll take the risk, Farfalla says smugly.
A flutter before them, and Argos and Chat Noir look up to see a woman clothed in gold land on the ledge of the roof. She's glowing faintly, standing out like a firefly in the now ink-dark night. She sports a spiky crown and long, flowing robes. Her hair is curled in thick ringlets and she holds a torch in one hand, a tablet in the other.
Gents, Farfalla says smugly as Chat Noir and Argos gape at the Akuma while she gazes serenely down at them. Meet Lady Liberty.
"Chloé?" Chat Noir cries.
Oh? Farfalla says as the vestige of her lilac visor appear over Chloé's face temporarily before fading. You guys know each other?
"I don't know who Farfalla is," Lady Liberty says.
The three of them leap through the rooftops of New York, keeping away from the edges, trying to block out the sound of battles, cries, and screams beneath. Chat Noir blends into the night seamlessly, if not for his roiling emotions and glowing green eyes Argos could barely tell he's there. A stranger who has never come across him before would encounter more difficulty, when a flash of emerald could be easily dismissed as the trick of light.
Argos' sapphire feathers encounter some trouble as eventide is more his hour, but he'll survive. Lady Liberty is the one the have to worry about, when her auric hue glimmer like candlelight. Farfalla regretfully tells them there's not much she could go about it. She dims the glow as far as it can go, but Lady Liberty's appearance has to pay for the strength of her power. Lady Liberty stays as close to Chat Noir as possible in recompense, his suppressive glamour succeeds in shielding her as none of the drones flying overhead spotted them.
"She said she's your friend," Chat Noir replies. They split to climb up a tall wall from three different vantage points – Argos sailing over, Chat Noir clawing his way up, while Lady Liberty leaps from a chimney. Chat Noir is brimming with powerful fragments of relief, fear, and gratefulness. He had held back his urge to hug Lady Liberty and settled for a welcoming handshake instead. Argos hopes that Chat Noir can keep his passion nebulous, before Farfalla starts wondering why Chat Noir is so concerned with the wellbeing of a random civilian. "Do you know any friends of yours who have suddenly withdrawn? Or seem renewed? If you interact with the same people Farfalla does in your civilian life, there's a chance that you might know who Papillon is as well. Have you noticed any men in your life that seem depressed or anxious lately?"
"I don't know," Lady Liberty repeats. "I'm the daughter of a politican, I have a lot of 'friends' and I know a lot of people who alternate between manic periods of elation or sudden depression. We'll be looking forever if we search everyone who's related to the Hôtel de Ville."
"At least it's a place to start," Argos says. "We can compile a list of everyone who has worked at the Hôtel since Papillon's attack and cross-check those who don't have alibis."
Hey, I'll really appreciate it if you guys stop making transparent attempts of tracking me down while I'm helping you all, Farfalla complains.
"You're just helping yourself," Chat Noir says.
"And you lied," Argos follows. "Lady Liberty – Chloé Bourgeois isn't your friend. She has no idea who you are."
I'm hurt, cara, Farfalla mocks. After all we've been through together?
Lady Liberty narrows her eyes, she doesn't reply.
They land on Vanderbilt Avenue, staring up at an imposing concrete building, its crown smothered with cloud. Half of its windows are broken and through the jagged glass they could see rickety shapes slowly moving, as if giant unwieldy snakes has taken over the interior.
In the abandoned lobby ahead, the lights flicker, off and on, off and on. Papers are scattered over the floor and the receptionist's ergonomic leather chair had been thrown halfway across the room onto its side, one wheel rotating slowly. Something large and bloody had been dragged to a corridor, a trail of still-wet scarlet glistening beneath the unreliable illumination.
"The JP Morgan Chase headquarters?" Argos says doubtfully. "Techno-Pirate is here?"
I've tracked him here, Farfalla replies confidently. He's definitely holed up somewhere inside this building.
"Er, do you have an exact location?" Chat Noir asks. "Because, I don't know if you f*cking noticed, but this building is 70-f*cking-stories tall."
Do I have to do everything myself? Farfalla demands.
"Well, when you promised that you can delivery Techno-Pirate's location–"
And I DID. He's in THERE!
"That's not a location, that's a f*cking suburb!" Chat Noir says. "Are we supposed to search the entire building?"
Lady Liberty walks forward just as Farfalla is going to retort.
"We're wasting time," she says. "Farfalla is telling the truth, Techno-Pirate is in here somewhere. We'll just have to find him."
"Do you have any idea how long that'll take?" Argos asks.
"Well, stay out here and argue," Lady Liberty says, stalking towards the lobby. "I'm going to do something useful with my time."
Argos holds back a curse and exchange vexed glances with Chat Noir.
One of you is a hero and it's not either of the ones wearing Miraculous, Farfalla says snidely. Girls get it done, huh?
"You shut up," Chat Noir says. "I do not want to hear a single word out of you that isn't something helpful."
Chat Noir and Argos follow Lady Liberty into the building, her gold glow lighting the way. She had paused and is staring at something above her, to her right. When Argos follows her gaze, he could see a security camera, it's red indicator light blinking. After a while, it slowly rotates the other way, allowing the three of them to quickly cross the lobby into the corridors undetected.
"I have an idea where Techno-Pirate may be," Lady Liberty says quietly, under her breath.
Chat Noir catches onto her train of thought almost immediately. "The security room?" he questions.
"He can surveil the entire building and be surrounded by technology which I suppose must be very comforting for him." Lady Liberty pauses. "Why do you guys think that Techno-Pirate hasn't made any demands yet?"
"Because he already won?" Chat Noir says. "What else does he want? New York is now a technological wasteland. That's his great desire, right?"
"Right," Lady Liberty says. "But why stop there? Why stop at New York if he's so successful? Why not continue spreading his influence, take Philadelphia and Connecticut next, then move onto Canada and Mexico, and, eventually, the whole world? Why just go radio-silent, when the night is still young and victory is bountiful?"
Chat Noir turns around to frown at Argos. They're walking in a line, Lady Liberty leading the head and Argos bringing up the rear. Her electric powers allow her to sense the presence of any cameras or any drones that might be heading their way and Argos' empathy will detect any organic beings in the building. Chat Noir can be there in a flash to cover either of them if needed.
"The Miraculous are inexhaustible..." Chat Noir says. "But their human holders are not. There's a limit to how much influence Techno-Pirate can exert, especially if this is his first rodeo. He's tired. He's hiding and regaining his strength while trying to maintain the drastic endeavour he already made."
"So, we strike while he's down," Argos summarises.
"Exactly," Chat Noir agrees.
"Sure," Lady Liberty says. "...but I don't think that's it."
"No?" Chat Noir says.
"I just...have a gut feeling," Lady Liberty says. "Techno-Pirate already has the ability to control technology, he could've done this all by himself, albeit, it would've taken a lot longer. If a Miraculous falls into your hands, would you continue on the same boring plans you always had? Or would you start dreaming big?"
"You think he has something else up his sleeve," Argos says flatly. "You think he's going to surprise us."
Lady Liberty glances back at Argos' tone and shudders at the eerie sight of his violet eyes. "You don't think so."
"I don't think you should give Techno-Pirate more credit than he deserves," Argos says. "So he has a Miraculous. He's still a petty criminal. He's not any smarter, just more destructive."
"Well," Chat Noir says. "Even an idiot can press the button to launch an atomic bomb."
Hey, guys, Farfalla suddenly says, startling them. Her voice sounds clearer, Argos can't believe he hasn't noticed the quality before, as if convenience store earbuds had just been switched for studio-quality speakers. Does this mean she is closer? Thanks to their magnified depth, Argos can taste the tinge of apprehension in her mock-cheeriness. I hate to intrude on your important conversaton – but who are all those people around you?
The three of them look around wildly. Chat Noir turns to Lady Liberty first, then to Argos, but both of them shake their heads.
"Do not f*ck with us, Farfalla," Chat Noir hisses. "The situation is bad enough already without you stirring up sh*t for fun."
...alright, all three of you need to untangle your panties and relax, Farfalla says. Do not let Techno-Pirate catch on that you've noticed.
What are you talking about? Argos grits in his mind, as he tries to smooth his ruffled feathers. Lady Liberty, already stiff and concentrated, looks the most normal out of all of them. Chat Noir has to cling onto his tail to stop it from lashing in agitation.
Lady Liberty didn't sense it because she only detect fully mechanical beings, Farfalla replies. Keep walking, stop standing there like wooden dummies. You didn't sense it because only organic beings have emotions. I, however, can hear thoughts and intentions, no matter who they come from.
"What are you talking about?" Lady Liberty asks lowly. Her right hand is clenched onto her torch so fiercely, Argos wonders if it'll crack.
I think you're right, Lady Liberty, Farfalla says. Having a technological world is so old-school. So last year. Techno-Pirate has moved onto greater plans.
"If you know something, will you just f*cking say it instead of spewing riddles?" Chat Noir demands.
They've come to a high-ceilinged hall with dim chandeliers, marble pillars, and a series of old-fashioned teller stands. If there are clerks, they would be sitting behind black marble tables, shielded by gilt, art-deco barriers.
Argos stares at this new venue with a sinking heart. This looks like a place where dramatic action would happen.
What's next? Farfalla asks. Once you've transformed your world into machinery, what's the next step that a cyberpunk-wannabe gearhead would take?
"...he'll transform himself," Lady Liberty realises.
Bingo.
Reflexes like a cat. Time seems to slow down as Chat Noir's eyes, which had been completely dilated, sharpens for a millisecond. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, his head whips to their right – before he's yanking Argos and Lady Liberty by the back of their shirts and throwing them to the ground just as massive tentacles come plunging out of the wall to grapple with splindly metal arms at where they were just standing.
"Go, GO!" Chat Noir roars as Lady Liberty struggles to her feet. "Come on!"
The only exit is across the hall. As Argos watches, marble pillars crack and whitewashed plaster shatter as more tendrils – slim, snake-like things or clunky and wheezy – come screaming at them.
Lady Liberty finds her footing. She raises her torch high up, just as tentacles are poised over her, about to descend for the kill, and emits an electro-magnetic blast that manifests as a gold shockwave, running through the room, repelling all things metal, blowing up desks, and scattering books.
In the aftermath, while Argos' ears are still ringing and Chat Noir is on the ground, covering his head, all the tentacles has frozen, twitching in confusion.
Lady Liberty yanks Chat Noir up and he stumbles. Argos sees that he's bleeding from one nostril, the trail of blood vermillion against his pale skin, and he raises one trembling hand to wipe it away.
"Come on!" Lady Liberty yells, and Argos skids over to help drag Chat Noir out of there.
"What's wrong with him?" Lady Liberty demands. They are back within the small corridors, and it doesn't make Argos feel safe at all. Wires have climbed out of monitors and computers are in mid-transformation into becoming dog-sized biters. If Lady Liberty's blast hasn't temporarily disabled them, Argos would've doubted their chance of making it out of here unscathed, especially with their star soldier down.
"You've scrambled his senses," Argos says, and slaps Chat Noir across the face. "Kitty, come on!"
"Don't get aggressive," Chat Noir mumbles, managing to take a few steps forward himself and only foundering once.
"Chat Noir's senses are powerful," Argos explains as they run along. "But they're a double-edged sword. If he can hear you, you can harm him. I honestly surprised that Papillon hasn't taken more advantage with sound-based villains."
Well, don't be disappointed. Now, I know, Farfalla says.
"Shut up!" Lady Liberty and Argos snap at the same time.
"Where to now?" Chat Noir asks, slurring his words a little but he doesn't look overwhelmed anymore. The more he moves, the more confident his steps become until he has regained his usual fluency.
The map Argos memorised at the reception flashes through his mind. "This way."
He takes them down an adjacent hallway, they're approaching the fire escape when a rumble at the far end of the corridor nearly shakes him off their feet. Argos slaps one hand on the wall to keep himself upright, wondering if the building is likely to collapse.
Ahead of them tumbling down the hallway like a panicking horse is a tentacle with the circumference of a car. Along its body, Argos can spy all the bits and pieces that were cannibalised in the process of its craftmanship. The spikes of comb-binders, bulk borrowed from industrial printers, the teeth of shredders, and the circular dics of sprinklers splayed like acne scars. As it moves, it sparkles, and the heat it emits is immense. Hot air and mechnical screaming charge toward them like gas being shot from a pipe.
"Come on!" Argos cries. Bits of mechanical fragments are dropping off the tentacle like dead skin cells. Chat Noir has one hand out but Argos doubts even he will be able to catch something like that.
A door to their immediately turn is locked, its handle doesn't budge when Argos tugs on it, and frustrated with his politeness, Lady Liberty shoves him to the side and kicks the door in unceremoniously.
"Chat Noir, in here!"
Chat Noir turns from his sentry and follows them into the doorway just as the tentacle plunges past him.
It roars, as if furious to be deprived of prey and slams into the wall. The building shudders again, dust dropping from the ceiling. The tentacle is too mammoth it turn itself around but Argos can hear it trying, scraping into the walls and caving steel pillars with its effort.
Chat Noir hurries down first, Argos and Lady Liberty are quick to follow, none of them eager to find out if the tentacle will succeed.
Boots and heels clatter down the grated metal steps. If Argos looks upward, he can see the staircase spiralling all the way to the roof of the building.
The security room, Farfalla agrees. I think Lady Liberty is right. Where else would Techno-Pirate squirrel himself in?
As they pass the door of a lower floor, it suddenly concaves, a loud BANG discharing as the door's hinges snap. The wood manages to hold, but cracks are formed, large for printer ribbons to come slithering through like cobras. When Chat Noir tries to bat them away with his Bâton, they wrap around it and he has charge Cataclysm through his weapon to rid them as they start reaching for his neck next. Lady Liberty's torch and Argos' fan have much more luck slicing and burning them away.
Argos, Farfalla asks, and it is only to him. Argos knows not only because neither Chat Noir nor Lady Liberty before him have reacted to the voice but there's a slight intonation Farfalla uses, which Argos instinctively understands that only Transmission-type Holders will able to pick up. You can sense that, can't you?
Yes, Argos answers, agrees.
The toxic sentiments of hatred, despair, and megalomania had been growing stronger and stronger the deeper they descend. The emotions intensify until Argos is amazed that it hasn't drowned the entire building with its stench. Techno-Pirate breeds enough fury for a village.
You know where to take them, Farfalla trusts.
They enter the hall of a massive security room. No windows, deep underground, a perfect environment for curating paranoia and cabin fever. Stretched along the wall opposite of them are screens upon screens, 6 by 48 worth of little rectangles of live footage which, if active, would ensure that not a single square inch of the building remain shrouded. A third of those screens are blackened, and a remaining half are flickering. Still, Argos doubts Techno-Pirate need those monitors, when he can just connect his optic nerves with wires directly.
Lady Liberty gags, covering her nose. Chat Noir steps a bit closer to the pulsing mass in the centre of the room, out of curiosity if nothing else.
If Argos squints and tilts his head and dims the brightness of the room a little more, he can see some resemblance between the repulsive mass of flesh before them and the self-confident, mohawk-wearing man who had been boasting to them so grandiosely just a couple of hours before.
He’s still green, somewhat, and wearing bright orange. But his skin looks as if it melted, stretching like rubber under a hot Sun, swelling and ballooning beneath his clothes until he’s three times the size he was, his jumpsuit nothing but rags decorating his proportions. And Techno-Pirate was already a massive man.
He presents as a blob of sickly green meat, bulbous and overworked with purple veins and faint outlines of his traces-and-vias tattoos. Tentacles, bio-mechanic and robo-organic, equal parts hair, blood, and arteries as they are mesh, oil, and wires, exude from his bulk to be plugged into outlets, connected to a motherboard which is exposed from behind the wall once the insulation had been ripped out, laced into the security panel.
What Argos mistook as a misshapen purple bruise wobbles and slowly moves in their direction, and Argos holds back a gag when he realises it is an eye. Glazed over with a torn retina and a broken sclera.
"Oh…what the f*ck," Chat Noir whispers. "What the f*ck".
"Farfalla, are you seeing this?" Lady Liberty whispers, blinking rapidly as if that'll transmit the image quicker. "We found Techno-Pirate."
Yeah, I'm seeing that, Farfalla finally answers. And I wish I haven't. What the f*ck. If this is the next step in our evolution, I'll be quite fine staying where I am, thank you very much.
"Is he dead?" Chat Noir whispers. "Do you reckon he can hear us?"
It is quiet and cold within the room, and after crashing through a couple floors and escaping scalding-hot tentacles to get here, Argos' nerves are triple-sensitised, hearing catching onto each scruff they make. He cannot hear anything from Techno-Pirate, although vibrations that travel through him emerge slower and more dissipated, as if they've moved through water.
"Look," Lady Liberty says instead, raising a finger and pointing. "It’s the Thunderbird Miraculous."
The feather pendant isn’t attached to any necks or grasped onto by a possessive finger. It simply stays stuck upon Techno-Pirate’s skin, as if it had been solidified in a bowl of jelly.
"Well, I hope Chief Goodluck can deal with losing one Miraculous," Argos says, eyeing it. "Because I am not fishing that out."
"Who’s there…" Techno-Pirate suddenly croaks, his voice softly blowing as if it’s coming through a train tunnel, subduing them all into silence. Even Farfalla holds her breath, as if any sudden moves she make might inspire Techno-Pirate to manifest before her like a phantom. "I can…sense your…brainwaves."
Oh, gross, gross, GROSS!, Farfalla wails.
"I can sense…your flesh and blood…"
It’ll be a mercy-killing if we off him now, wouldn’t it? Farfalla asks.
"Speak," Techno-Pirate croaks. "Speak to me with your weak mouths and limited lungs."
"…we speak with our larynges, Techno-Pirate," Argos says. "Someone didn’t pass junior school biology."
"I am…no longer…Techno-Pirate."
"What do you call yourself, then?" Chat Noir asks, ever politely, ever cautious. "What shall we address you as?"
"I am…everything and all."
"Well, Everything and All," Argos says. "It doesn’t look like you’re having a swell time right now. In fact, I’ll say you look like you’re in a whole lot of pain."
Chat Noir squeezes his eyes shut. "Will you please stop antagonising the very scary and very powerful supervillain?" he hisses sideways at Argos.
"Sir," Lady Liberty says tentatively. "We're here on – we're here on behalf of United Heroez, we are Miraculous Holders from Paris."
Techno-Pirate makes a gurgle but doesn't reply.
"Right," Lady Liberty says. "We are here to help."
"...help?"
"Yes," Lady Liberty says hopefully, as if that single repetition is a sign of something optimistic. "We're here to – cure you. Restore you to the way you were."
It had been the wrong thing to say.
Techno-Pirate's bulk shudders angrily, and his single broken eye seems to be looking towards Lady Liberty now, although it's hard to tell. The pupil resembles runny black egg yolk.
"I do not...need help," he manages to pant out. Argos wonders where he is speaking from, there are no visible mouths on Techno-Pirate. No visible nostrils either, does this being need to breath? "You all need...my help. I am...greater."
"How so?" Argos asks boredly.
"I have achieved enlightenment."
"If this is what enlightenment looks like, praise God that I'm an atheist," Argos says.
"Argos," Lady Liberty snaps.
Argos ignores her scold, crossing his arms. "You're in pain, aren't you?" he asks. "This is horrendous, this is torture to you. Yet you continue to force yourself through it because you believe this is your next step. Hasn't it occured to you that what is natural might also not include suffering?"
"I am not...afraid of a little...pain."
"Oh, thank goodness. We were all interested in learning what you're not afraid of."
Chat Noir takes a step forward and Lady Liberty's gaze shoot to him immediately. Argos continues to make contact with Techno-Pirate's 'eye', trash-talking him, keeping his attention on the pretty, blue, singing bird.
"Tell me, how do you plan on showering once you're fully realised?"
Stop looking at Chat Noir, Lady Liberty, Farfalla commands to her. You might disrupt his spell.
...Techno-Pirate can't see him right now? Lady Liberty asks.
Technically, he can. He just forgets.
Chat Noir moves closer and closer. Argos continues talking.
"You smell like a three-day-old egg salad sandwich."
Chat Noir's hand reaches towards the Thunderbird Miraculous. Techno-Pirate doesn't seem to have a temper to raise, so all Argos has to do is sound interesting, through whatever farcical lengths possible.
Farfalla, Lady Liberty says in a panic. I don't think Chat Noir sound remove the Miraculous.
She's afraid to call out, just in case she ruins something tremendous.
Why not? Farfalla asks.
Because...because I think the Thunderbird Miraculous is all that's keeping him alive right now. If Chat Noir takes it away, Techno-Pirate will – die.
That may be true... Farfalla says. But if we take the Thunderbird Miraculous, then all the havoc in the city will stop.
I– Lady Liberty starts.
I admire your respect for Techno-Pirate's life, Chloé, Farfalla says gently. But this is a hole he dug himself. I'm beside a nine-year-old boy right now, who got his leg chewed off by a vaccum cleaner. Do you think we keep should Techno-Pirate alive over him?
Lady Liberty doesn't answer. Chat Noir is now an inch away from the Miraculous. His fingers extend and his gauntlet make contact with the surface of it.
"I have one last question," Argos says. "...was this all worth it, Techno-Pirate?"
"...yes," Techno-Pirate says just as Chat Noir's fingers snag securely over the Pendant's cord.
"Then," Argos says. "At least you can go with no regrets."
They're on the roof of the JP Morgan Chase headquarter together, feeling the wind ruffle their hair. Chloé found a cut on her thigh that she didn't realise was there before, and now Argos and she apply first-aid on the wound with a ribbon from her hair and feathers grabbed from his Fan.
The security room had fizzed and nearly set aflame when the Thunderbird Miraculous was taken from Techno-Pirate. A plume of gas flew from ventilation previously blocked into the air, and, as Techno-Pirate's eye dulled and his skin turned a mouldy, moss green, they quickly retreated, climbing through the shattered and lifeless remains of the tentacles that chased them to ascend to the apex of the building. Shortly after, Farfalla's Akumas leave both Chat Noir and Chloé, giving them no answers to the questions she had sparked.
Chat Noir sits, cross-legged, on the edge of the roof, looking down at the commotion gathered around the main entrance. After spending so long with her in his head in a period of high stress, it seems almost unusual to have his mind all to himself. Snatches of conversation float up to him, the fantastically-tailored suits of superheroes obvious among the navy and camoflauge uniforms of police and military men.
In his right hand, he considers the Thunderbird Miraculous. White and red beads linking the necklace to the black-speckled feather.
From where he is sitting, he can see the darkness that still plagues parts of Brooklyn, Soho, and the East Village. Several bonfires are burning, some from sources as small as a tire heap, others can have no kinder but whole buildings. While there is no longer the soundtrack of murderous household appliances and disobedient heavy machinery, the echoes of cars backfiring and gunshots seem to only grow louder. Chat Noir wonders what kind of man-made violence took over now that the supervillain is defeated.
Constant moaning and cries sound from below. Chat Noir knows if anyone has seen what remains of Techno-Pirate's body purely from the colour of their face.
An ambulance suddenly wails, the red-and-white vehicle crunching over bricks and broken bikes, tree branches being lifted out of its way by strongmen so it could park at the curb of the street. Judging by its size and the United Heroez logo printed on the side of it, there's only one passenger it's intended for.
"Techno-Pirate is dead," Argos says, appearing at Chat Noir's right and looking down in disgust. Chloé manifests on his other side, cautiously clutching the ledge. Her blonde hair is loose and her expression is demure. It's cold, and she lays her head on Chat Noir's waist for comfort. Chat Noir takes off his leather jacket wordlessly and drapes it over her head. "There are millions of injured civilians in the city who are losing their lives right now, and they decide to waste an ambulance on a dead body?"
Chat Noir shrugs.
"I have to find my friends," Chloé whispers, rubbing at her nose. "I'm – it's why I partnered up with Farfalla in the first place, I was trying to find them and when I couldn't...Farfalla suggested going after Techno-Pirate instead. Could you two – Chat Noir, you have a great nose. If I give you something of theirs, could you track them down?"
Chat Noir and Argos exchange uncomfortable looks as Chloé sniffles.
"Well, come on," a voice says just as Chat Noir had been about to answer. "Don't leave the girl hanging. Are you going to help her or not?"
A labouriously-dressed woman stands behind them, one hand resting on a slim cane with a butterfly-shaped head, the night framing her like show curtains would a starlet. She wears a slim-fitting, dandelion-coloured chiton, its hem dripping into black swallowtails and the shoulders secured by gold clasps. Between her breasts lie an amethyst brooch. A magnificent set of lilac-coloured butterfly makeup shrouds her eyes, the exact shape of her visor, and her long, mahogany hair is tied back into a bow, its hip-long strands laced with glass beads and semi-precious jewels. Attached to her arms by skinny diamond threads are the colourful sails of butterfly wings. They look delicate and non-functional, but it's quite obvious how she got up here so quickly and silently.
"Farfalla," Chat Noir says, stuffing the Thunderbird Miraculous into one of his cargo pant pockets. He spins around, thumping his boots on the ground as he lands, walking towards her.
"In the flesh," she says coolly, holding her ground despite the fact that Chat Noir is a good two heads and about forty pounds on her.
"You're brave coming here," Chat Noir says, staring into her magnificent green eyes. It is like gazing into sun-lit ponds. "When you admitted yourself that you're not a fighter."
"And you're a hero," Farfalla says, batting her curly, black lashes. "You wouldn't rob a defenseless woman, would you, not after I just helped you out."
Chat Noir's lip curls. "I admit that you don't seem like a bad person, and you did us a favour by stealing the Butterfly Miraculous from Papillon," he says. "We wouldn't have defeated Techno-Pirate without your help and I thank you for keeping Chloé safe."
Chloé shivers, dragging the edges of Chat Noir's leather jacket closer around her skinny body, its hems at her mid-thighs. Argos stands in front of her, gazing at Farfalla warily. There is no alarm in his body language yet, but the metal plates of his fan dangling at his belt catches the light and glimmers.
"But this doesn't mean that you can keep the Butterfly Miraculous and this doesn't mean that we're friends," Chat Noir continues. "You're still a faceless enemy, and I'm wary of your true intentions."
"What if I don't have any true intentions?" Farfalla asks, cloyingly. "What if I just want to help?"
"Then you have to go to Ladybug," Chat Noir says tiredly. "I'm sorry, but I'm not the Guardian of the Miraculous."
"That's not fair." Farfalla picks up her cane, spinning it around. She walks towards Argos and Chloé, heading for the roof ledge. As she moves, the petal-like fabric of her floor-length chiton splits, revealing black gladiator heels and burgundy polish the same colour as her lipstick. "Aren't you also a Sacred Dualist? Aren't you equal to Ladybug? That's what Nooroo told me. Why can't you make the calls as well?"
"Because that's the way things work," Chat Noir says bluntly. They all watch as Farfalla near the edge of the roof and gently runs her hand along it, as if stroking the keys of a piano. She looks over at the heroes and soldiers gathered on the street and shudders. "Sorry."
Farfalla turns around, a sly smile on her full lips. "They don't have to work like that," she says.
"What are you talking about?" Argos asks.
Chloé eyes Farfalla distrustingly even as Farfalla beams at her.
"We made quite a team today, didn't we?" Farfalla says. "We were so effective. The four of us managed to achieve, together, what an entire city of heroes and what decades of experience couldn't. I mean, Ladybug has fifteen Miraculous Heroes on her side and while we only have three and an untrained civilian, and we fared far better.
"What are you getting at?" Chat Noir asks.
"Maybe you should stop asking me to go to Ladybug," Farfalla says. "And, instead, come to me." She spreads her arms. "What do we think about a little mutiny, boys?"
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