#what a long text post this became. appreciate anyone who’d read it

[transformersreviewer]

Transformers Prime review

(Some images may be blurry. The quality in the beginning and in some spots are due to the buffering of the video. Images will be stacked OVER their respective text most of the time. Though sometimes images will be in the middle of their text.)

Season 1 Episode 1

Ah, the nostalgia from this opening scene. And to hear CliffJumper’s voice again after so long. It’s a true bummer that he dies in this same episode. RIP CliffJumper, you will LITERALLY be missed throughout the whole series. Speaking of voices, I completely forgot how smooth Arcee’s is. It really has been too long since I last watched Prime. Though, after Cliff tells Arcee that he got ‘the boot’, she feels compelled to describe what a boot is. I know this is a cartoon but this series was, and still is, mainly watched by adults who know what a boot is, in terms of cars. Especially since the movie Cars came out in 2006  and TFP premiered in 2010.

Anyway, after Cliff describes what he did after he got booted, Arcee almost literally said that the cops who booted him shit themselves. So, if you don’t listen carefully to Arcee, what she says may confuse you at first. what she says is, “Like Jasper, Nevada’s a party…” when I first heard this line, I thought she said, “Like Jasper Nevada siparty…” You can hardly hear the spacing in the sentence. And the second part, “…we’re alone where ever we travel on this rock, Cliff.” The last two words sound merged into “rock-cliff”, as though she was talking about a mountain.

Cliff: “I got a signal.” Arcee: “You need backup?” Cliff: “Do I ever need backup?” Me: “This time, I think ya do.”

And there he is. The first sight of a Cybertronian in robot mode. 

Ah the return(?) of the Decepticons. I adore the vehicons/eradicons. They don’t get the appreciation they deserve. They have to put up with their insane superiors.

So, one thing that some people might’ve noticed is that this series utilizes hand painted backgrounds. Not as liberally as RID 2015 but they still use them. The paintings are incredible. [image] Look at that. The way the trees look is amazing. You can see the texture of the paint and the paintbrush.

Oh boy. Ratchet’s voice. Oh geez. It sounds like he just finished a spoon full of peanut butter and his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth as he talks.

Hey look, the vehicons are playing ‘Bot in the middle’.

And there goes the horn. Cliff is pissed but that doesn’t matter ‘cause he loses anyway.

Hey, uh, StarScream? What’s going on with your, uh, w-with your eyes? You okay buddy? Do you need a doctor or something?

Ah yes, the first time (in TFP) that someone gave StarScream a nickname. Admittedly, ‘Scream’ doesn’t quite roll of the tongue as nicely as ‘Screamer’ does. It sounds kinda weird.

Has anyone else noticed how shiny StarScream’s chest is in this scene? Did he polish it before hand to show off or something? How could he have known that they’d take a prisoner?

There he is! Big Papa Prime. Y’know i’ve always wondered how he still looks shiny and new. He’s been at war for over six million years, you’d think his paint would have dulled over that much time. *shrugs*

Also, just a small note. In this first episode it’s clear that they were still learning the models. The lip syncing is a little off, but if I remember correctly, they get better and even manage to exaggerate expressions in later episodes.

*squints* is that? It is! It’s modern Cybertronic. I’ll send that over to my linguist blog and I’ll try to translate it there. Here’s a link to that blog. {link}

FIRST OF ALL!!! KO Drive-in. They are foreshadowing Knockout!!!! Secondly, I hate the models for the humans.

I mean, it like they didn’t even try. They could have at least put texture on the clothes. Also, Jack is an idiot. why would you leave the bags on the sill after you insulted them, you shoulda known they were just gonna grab them and leave.

JACK!! why would you sit on a bike that wasn’t yours. Even if she is a Cybertronian, you shouldn’t sit on a bike that’s not yours. what if she had an owner and they caught you on their bike without permission. You’re a teen and you look like the kind of person who’d steal an expensive looking bike like that.

Look at these two handsome gentlemen. I love the vehicle modes for the vehicons. what car are they based on? I wanna know.

Arcee enter’s an alley, pulling a U-turn then drops Jack off. Jack runs into an alley on Arcee’s right. Vehicons’ magically appear behind Arcee even though they were following her before she entered the alley. They coulda gone ‘round the block but they got to the other side real quick Arcee looks in rearview mirror. Vehicon turns left into an alley to chase Jack. First off, that alley got real long real quick. Secondly, wrong way bud. He went right not left.

Keep an eye on these pedestrian cars.

WHERE THEY GO?! They disappeared!

even though they supposedly don’t have faces, I think the Vehicons are fucking sexy as hell!

Oh my god the glass is clear. I never noticed it. I just thought it was flat black. Oh my god!

Oh wow. it would take some careful aim to impale someone on a knee spike like that. it’s not a part of the joint so it wouldn’t stick straight up. it’s part of the shin and would require a perfectly vertical angle to stab someone with that.

Did anyone else notice that you can see the anatomy of Arcee’s eyes? I think Arcee is one of the few, if not the only, bots who display the actual shape of the eye. Most of the cybertronians I remember don’t show it as clearly as she does. The others look to have some sort of screen display or coloured glass over their eyes that hides the anatomy.

Ratchet rolls his eyes but doing so makes it look like his right eye is completely black.

why does Optimus have his mask up when he enters this scene? That’s just unnecessary and strange. the moment passes so quickly that it makes you think you’re seeing things.

Um… Optimus claims that they are at war because of Energon. Last time I checked, the war started because Megatron wanted every bot to be free to do as they please but instead of being granted Primeacy (Prime-hood? The title of Prime) like he wanted, you cut in, initially to try to help the council understand what Megatron meant, and became Optimus Prime, making Megatron furious. The war started because of; 1. the inequality of the planet’s people 2. the councils’ refusal to acknowledge the fact that their were bots whom were unhappy with the situation they were forced into and 3. Megatron’s rage of your betrayal that sparked because of a misunderstanding.

On a positive note, after OP explains some random stuff, that doesn’t quite line up with the actual origin of the war, If you watch his neck closely, you can see parts of his anatomy shifting over the core surface. The attention to this detail is very cool.

Megatron’s back but it looks like the Chameleon Eye syndrome is contagious.

And thus concludes episode 1. Thanks for reading. I’ll be posting episode 2 soon.

#transformers prime #review #tfp review #TFR

[spiritcc]

The Hound of the Baskervilles: director’s script

I’ll try to compress both episodes into one post and that will be big. 

Alrighty so this is the wildest script out of the entire bunch, in my opinion, mostly because of one thing in the end. Many changes from the final cut, many additions, closer to the book than it turned out to be in the end. A lot of stuff. 

So we’re only the third movie in and the script already hurries to point out that everyone is old.

Mister Sherlock Holmes was having breakfast at the table. Hundreds of solved cases marked new wrinkles on his manly face, brows became darker, and temples - lighter. 

Doctor Watson was standing at the fireplace twirling a some sort of cane in his hands. The time left its marks on his as well: his hair got thinner and forehead became higher, moustache...

I’m not sure if Maslennikov had a some sort of weird appreciation for Livanov’s features with all those manly faces and all, but eyebrows getting darker? What kind of an observation is that? Was his first thought upon meeting with Livanov again “MAN those brows!!! Dat going into the script boi!!!”? It’s always the weirdest details.

By the general descriptions of everything and everybody it’s pretty clear that the script was written before the casting, since every character looks like they do in canon. Pretty jarring to read about blonde Stapleton and look at the picture of Yankovsky above the text. 

Speaking of Yankovsky.

Sir Hugo Baskerville, a knight of the age of thirty, was standing on a table topless, trying to organise a choir...  

They wanted Yankovsky to dance on a table without pants on, alright. Yeah, they later specify that he takes his trousers off after this scene, so yeah, that might’ve been...an interesting scene. I like how they keep referring to him as knight, like from all the things in the world, I don’t think this guy is worth the courtesy. 

When was the original case set season-wise? It was summer in the script, the murder happened in June and Mortimer talked about dog footprints on the grass. It turned into January and snow in the final cut, which is more fitting cause what kind of shitty grass would that have been if there are clear footprints on it.

Now, when they said a lot of stuff between sir Henry and Barrymore was improvised, they meant no joke. Of course before Mikhalkov burst in, Henry was a pretty canon-looking bud. No alcohol tiny joke plot ever took place, Barrymore was even compassionate to a degree about everything. No infamous porridge and “oatmeal, sir”, which you should be pretty familiar with if you’re yodeling around this blog. None of that, just plain canon all around. Whether that was a good or a bad change is up to your own judgement. 

At one moment he thought he saw...

...a woman wondering around the swamp. Her thin silhouette in a light dress blinked behind the sickly trees and disappeared...

<...>

...a short thin blond man of 35-40, with a clean shaven bland face. 

Definitely Yankovsky right there. 

Watson managed to kinda annoy me slightly in this script, surprisingly, he kept being a dick for no reason to anyone who asked about his investigation even faintly, remained grumpy for no reason, everything for no reason. Why? There have been moments in the final cut, but they’re not as in your face as here. 

...Doctor Watson stood in front of sir Henry Baskerville in his bedroom and helped the ex-Canadian to do a tie in an English manner.

“Where are your tie pins?”

“In this box...”, sir Henry opened it and started picking a pin, “Listen, Doctor, if her name is Beryl, maybe I’d stick a beryllium pin on?”

“Vulgar!...”, Watson throwned.

“You’d have to notice the pin first.”

“Vulgar for your inner wellbeing”, Watson explained coldly, “For a gentleman’s wellbeing! Here’s your smoking, time to go down to the table...”

Henry: beryllium for beryl how bout tha-

Watson: ew. ew ew ew. what the fuck. what the fuck of a pun is that. disgusting. appalling. here, take your big boy pimp suit and fuck off. 

I was glad to know there were some extended Watson/Henry dudebro scenes originally. 

Interestingly enough, Watson was supposed to remain relatively sober after that dinner, which was obviously not the case in the final version. Quality changes, man, quality changes.  

Also a case of a needed change, Mrs. Barrymore and everything about her character. She was supposed to be canon, but Kryuchkova’s husband (Vexler, the lead cameraman of the series) was already in the hospital recovering from a heart attack, and she was pregnant, and her script was nothing but tears and drama. So she decided to fuck this all and play her role with a smile, and the irl Mikhalkov/Adabashyan dudebro tandem helped. 

Also about line distribution, here’s a picture of Mrs. Barrymore speaking to Watson about the letter, accompanied by the text where Mr. Barrymore speaks to Watson about the letter.

She found it in the end, so why not give the text to her then. 

This script loves to call itself out, here’s the text of Henry and Watson discussing Stapleton’s fit, under a picture of Henry from the final cut expressing his angsty teen self on a horse.

That’s kinda even surprising to an extent that an adaptation that had so many changes from the canon in the end is still considered very faithful to the text. 

While listening to Frankland, Watson was constantly looking for a free chair to sit on, and never found one in the end. 

The real tragedy. 

The iconic “Love, Watson...” moment is nowhere to be seen in the script either, I’m starting to get really amazed. Who comes up with this then, who improvises this on the set? Who’d thought to insert a four second long scene of Livanov explaining love like he’s the creator of this universe? Honestly, this is fascinating.

By the way, a good story for me personally: Cartwright the most unfortunate boy of the series got to arrive home after all. Of course they had to cut it. We’ve no idea where he went. Maybe he’s still wondering around the swamp, keeping the hound legend alive. Who knows, certainly not the final cut.  

Double by the way, this script had a rather vivid imagination about special effects in the USSR. 

Yes! It was a dog, giant, pitch black. But no mortal has ever seen a dog of such kind. Flames were firing from its mouth, sparks flied in its eyes, sparkling fire was playing on its face and nape.

There was a whole story of delusional Maslennikov vs. actual SFX and canine experts on the set, which ended up with Maslennikov shooting an arrow up his ass or something along the lines, but yeah, definitely not happening, this setup. Let’s set a dog on fire lol k art 👊👊 sherlock holmes adaptation🎩 special effects 😱😱 baskerville hound 💀top quality 👌 (c) Maslennikov circa 1980s.

When a second flashback flashed and Hugo took his pants off, apparently the script says that his girl just fainted in the end. Yes, just fainted, and the guy was killed by the dog. Like pantsless “knight” Hugo was just checking out his bud who had a scar on her upper lip lying on the ground when the dog attacked. I dunno, the streaks of ketchup in the final cut suggest things did not end well for neither of them, but oh well. 

Apparently Holmes vs. Stapleton chasing scene was nowhere in existence, but instead we’d have to watch an unnecessarily graphic scene of Stapleton drowning.

 A soul tearing, dying cry from the depths of the night swamp interrupted the words of Mrs. Stapleton...

...Stapleton was drowning in the swamp. He was drowning slowly, twitching with his entire body, trying to grab the weak bushes of swamp grass. The more he fought for his life, the deeper the thick liquid was sucking him in. Bits of white fog were consuming him just as stubbornly as the swamp abyss.

Stapleton screamed loudly and beastly, and that’s why his face appeared to have the last final resemblance to his feral predecessor - Hugo Baskerville... 

yikes

well, at least the final directions are kinda cool, history repeating itself or something, more like dna is a bitch please don’t breed. 

By the way, even there in the script the dog was most definitely shot by Lestrade. I’m still fascinated by this decision, especially now when I know that this always was the original intention. 

“Precise shots of Inspector Lestrade in Devonshire”, she read out the big heading, “Is that true, Mr. Holmes?”

“Pure truth, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Is that true, Doctor Watson?”

“Sadly, yes!”

“Why “sadly”? “Times” always claims that this is the best Inspector of Scotland Yard”, the granny said with conviction.

Ah yes, the Mrs. Hudson’s crush plot. Also, Watson, fuck off and be jealous somewhere else, you couldn’t even, like, handle a pun. 

And just as the movie is about to hit the final credits, a completely unexpected turn follows. You’ve read this rather weird paragraph about Watson seeing a woman wondering around the swamps, right? Well, no wonder there, that’s Beryl, like who else would that be. Indeed, after a second hallucination like that it was her who emerged in the next scene. Then they go to Stapletons, Watson looks out the window and...sees a woman wondering round the swamps. My weirded out scare didn’t last long, that’s probably Laura Lyons? Who else might it be now, I guess it was a some sort of early exposition, why not. 

Several of those incidents come and go, it’s the climax, Beryl is safely strapped in a basement, Lyons is chilling home, Stapleton is about to drown, Holmes tries to chase him and...sees a figure of a woman wondering round the swamps in the distance. 

I tell ya this was the first actual legitimate scare I got after reading this, all this time it had a some sort of explanation, but not now, not in a situation like this. Then the flashback follows with that gal described having a scar on her upper lip, a weird detail to point out, but who am I to judge there’s a guy with no pants on. 

So literally the final minute of the movie, and it goes like:

“The fact that Stapleton stole sir Henry’s old shoe”, Doctor Watson remarked, “is a perfect evidence that we had to deal with a real dog, not with some mystic force.”

“Perhaps, yes”, Holmes replied, deep in thought.

Narrowing his eyes, the famous detective looked at the flame burning in the fireplace.

He saw a strange face of a woman - pale and mysterious, with a scar on her upper lip. The face turned away from Holmes and started disappearing in the white fog...

“Although, I don’t know, my dear Watson, I don’t know...”

??????

They had a ghost of Hugo’s chick wondering around the place for the entire movie

Jesus man, that is so creepy when I finally realised what was going on, they had a literal ghost, even like 0.3 seconds before the final credits?? A story about some mystical evil forces being proven bullshit accompanied by ghosts and Holmes hallucinating a victim long dead even back home at safe Baker Street. “I don’t know”, jesus christ what the hell and everyone kept seeing this on the swamps and she was everywhere jesus fuck 

Like what was I supposed to assume until the end, when it comes to the Hound you expect anything but this sort of shit to occur. A ghost, man. A literal ghost. Don’t tell me this isn’t the wildest script of them all. 

So here we go, the Hound of the Baskervilles. Pretty dark undertones it had, I suppose. Helps to sleep at night. 

#russian sherlock holmes #the hound of the baskervilles #christ how am i supposed to sleep after this finishing this

[itsokaytheyrejustwords-blog]

A Beautiful Year

below the cut is the short story that i wrote.  i know it is pretty rough right now.  i know it needs a lot of work.  i’m going to edit it a lot, don’t worry.  still, the content is important to me since it’s an expression of how i’ve come to love writing again after a long struggle with my mentality, so i wanted to paste this draft version here, and if anyone has feedback (good or bad), i would love to know your thoughts!

i’ll post the final draft whenever it’s done!

Rafa and I met when we were both on our way back to campus from the airport, on the train. I felt broken and just wanted to hide from the world, which I thought was fitting considering the way it was raining outside, and she turned to me so suddenly that I thought she was angry. That was pretty common when it came to me on trains on account of the amount of fat on my body and its tendency to intrude on my seat-neighbor's space.

Instead, she said, "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

I'd planned on ignoring the insult I expected to hear, but when it didn't come I responded more instinctively. "Hardly."

The girl was immediately defiant, and I immediately regretted my decision to talk. "On what grounds?"

"It's r-raining," I said, reluctantly, trying to keep the response short, but apparently it wasn't short enough. The girl didn't seem phased, though, and simply raised her eyebrows as if to say "so what." So I risked continuing. "On what g-grounds is it beautiful?"

"It's a perfect day for writing!" She grinned, and pulled out a journal with a pencil in its spine. It was the same kind his sister used for her writing, cheap and plain and black, but clearly well-loved nonetheless. I knew I shouldn't, I knew it would only lead to a let down, but I couldn't stop myself from speaking up again.

"You're a wr-writer?"

"Sure am! My roommate Erinne says it's the source of my life force."

"Is she r-right?"

"Probably," she giggled. Then she reached out her hand. "I'm Rafa!"

"Jasper," I said. I tried to grab her hand, but my own mercilessly resisted the action.

"Oh!" Rafa pulled her hand back, apparently noticing my hesitation. "You don't like touch, huh? That's my bad, sorry!"

"Ah," I stalled, because that was my line, normally, and I couldn't think of an alternative response for a moment. "It's f-fine. N-Nice to m-meet you. Are you g-going to the university, too?"

"Sure am! You too? What're you studying?"

"Journalism, for editing. You?"

"Wow, editing, huh? That's awesome. I'm studying Creative Writing," she said, holding the pencil up again. "Speaking of, I ought to get back to it!"

She opened the notebook, and almost instantly her pencil was flying across the page, and it seemed that the conversation was over. That should have been perfectly fine with me, but once I'd started watching her write, I found myself unable to stop and a chill scampered up my spine. The only other person who'd had that effect on me was my twin sister, Jet, and she was the best writer I knew. I'm not normally one to offer my editing skills to strangers, but her likeness to my sister made too compelling argument to deny.

"Hey," I said, "d-do you n-need a proof reader?"

When she looked up, it was like she was coming out of some sort of trance, and it took a moment from her expression to go from confused to appreciative. Then she shook her head. "Thanks for the offer, I do appreciate it, but, well, I don't let people read my stuff."

"Why? I c-can t-tell you're g-good, I'm sure of it."

Out of all the things I'd said, I figured that one was the least likely to offend, so I hadn't hesitated at all, but I immediately regretted it. Her entire face seemed to darken, and she didn't even bother to respond.

"I m-mean, you'll n-need t-to share if you're m-majoring in C-Creative Wr-Writing, ri-right?" Of course that was the wrong thing to say, but I'd hit the point where I realized I should just keep my mouth shut and my stuttering went out of control. Unfortunately, once I get to that point, I ramble without restraint almost as bad as a stutter, so I kept going. Knowing exactly what was going on, I tried my utmost to swallow my words, but when Rafa didn't respond and went on writing, the urge to talk only became stronger.

"I'm sorry," I said, finally. "I d-don't m-mind. Just d-do what's c-comfortable for you. B-But m-maybe I c-can g-give you my phone number in case you need a proofreader in the future. I really love editing, and I won't judge, I promise."

It was one of the hardest things I've ever made myself say, but it seemed to pay off. Rafa still didn't speak, but that seemed more due to the fact that she was absorbed in writing than holding a grudge, since she offered me her phone with her left hand while the other kept writing.

The phone wasn't locked, so I went ahead and entered my number. When I tried to hand it back to her, Rafa didn't move, so I held on to it for the remainder of the train ride. Neither of us spoke; Rafa wrote, listening to the rain; I listened to the rhythmic scratch of her pencil on the paper and eventually dozed off.

As the train slowed, I woke up and Rafa was still writing like mad. I nudged her, and again it took a moment for the haze to clear from her eyes. When it did, the peaceful smile on her face remained.

She thanked me when I handed her phone back, and told me she'd text me. Still, I didn't actually think she would until she did, no more than six minutes after we parted ways, although it wasn't about editing. It was a statement:

hi jas, i just got back to my room. now that we're friends, we should hang out. let me know when you're free

p.s. please don't think i'm a freak for calling you my friend already. i wanted to be friends with you because i think you're cool, but we don't have to be if you don't want to

After all of Rafa's surprises, I was less shocked when, after three days passed and I had yet to reach out, she sent me her address and told me to come to her place.

As much as I had enjoyed spending the train ride with her, I was tempted to refuse the offer, simply because it meant I would have to leave my room and encounter other people. However, at about that time, my roommate returned with his older sister, and suddenly the last thing I wanted was to be in my room.

It wasn't that either of them were terrible people. It was just that Spenser was a terrible roommate in the sense that he left dirty dishes around for weeks, he left his dirty laundry on my bed, and he often came back to the room drunk. In fact, the day he'd moved in, he had tried to drink in the room, but I'd shut that down. He'd fired back that I ought to worry about my own problems and get out of the room more often because being holed up alone was unhealthy, but he never brought alcohol into the room again after I threatened to call the police on him and that was what mattered. In comparison, his sister was a godsend, often stopping by to put him in his place and clean up some of the mess he'd made, but she not only reminded me that Jet was so far away, but was also one of the most intimidating people I had ever met. Thus, I refused to talk to her altogether. Suffice to say, the chance to leave my room was suddenly welcome.

After that, I spent a lot of time at Rafa's place. Her roommate was out quite a bit (to her disappointment, since she very much desired for me to meet her; apparently they were best friends) and mine was around, and with his sister, far too often for my liking.

Meanwhile, my own sister, my twin with whom I'd spent my whole life, was on the other side of the country, at another school, on a full ride scholarship, but and was too busy to talk. It was, cliché as it sounds, as if I'd lost half of myself when we went our separate ways.

Fortunately, spending time with Rafa helped with that, too. They didn't look a thing alike, but something about her and Jet's mannerisms were similar enough that being around Rafa calmed me in the same way Jet always had. Moreover, whenever I saw Rafa around campus, she was happy, and it was the sort of happiness that was genuine and deep and contagious, even from a distance.

All in all, being friends with Rafa made those last few weeks of my first semester at college as painless as possible.

At the end of that semester, she asked me to read some of what she'd written. It was, as expected, outstanding, and I told her as much, but instead of being glad, or relieved, as I'd expected she'd be, Rafa's face darkened in the same way it had on the train when we'd met. Just like then, she became uncharacteristically quiet.

"Raf?" I didn't know what to say, and made an attempt at changing the conversation that just made the situation worse. "Are you excited for next semester?"

Rafa's first semester had been filled with required general education courses like Biology and Algebra, so I figured she would be excited to get into the writing courses. I was wrong.

"I'm nervous," she said, more quietly than I'd ever heard her speak.

"About what p-people will say about your writing?"

She nodded.

"I d-don't think you have to worry about that. That's why you had me read something of yours, right? It think you're terrific," I said. Then, for good measure, I added, "You d-definitely chose the r-right thing to study.

"Thanks," she mumbled. I thought I sensed a bit of sarcasm in her tone, but brushed it off as my imagination, and although her continued lack of enthusiasm was still concerning, I figured she would be alright once she got started and people confirmed that she was as amazing as I believed she was.

Once again, I was very wrong.

The next semester started off much the same as the last had finished, with me spending a lot of time in Rafa's room while my roommate was being a pain in my ass who was not only terribly unhygienic, but intent on rudely convincing me that I needed to see a counselor about my inability to talk to people I deemed intimidating, and Rafa still complaining about the fact that I still hadn't met her best friend and roommate.

Eventually, it got to the point that I wondered if she was just making this roommate out to mess with me, but when I asked Rafa, she told me that Erinne had family issues to deal with, so she was out of the room a lot. Not soon after I asked, however, Rafa stopped texting me.

It may seem strange, but after all this time, I had yet to text her first, and that in itself meant that it was impossible for me to do so after all that time. Not only that, but I figured it was my fault in the first place, for doubting her about her roommate. I should have known it was a sensitive subject by the way she always talked about Erinne with such emotion, but I'd grown too comfortable around Rafa and had been pretty tactless about the whole thing. Unfortunately, saying sorry is one of the hardest things for me to say, so instead, I kept my silence.

Three weeks passed without a word from Rafa, and I missed her all the while. I started missing my sister more than ever, but when we talked on the phone, it didn't have the impact I had hoped it would and I realized that I really missed Rafa. She'd become my best friend, which was something I'd never thought I'd have. It hurt all the more because I knew I had ruined it with my own two hands.

Moreover, my roommate was becoming more and more insufferable. His sister was around only rarely, and both of us wondered if she'd given up on him. He seemed happy about that, but I was certainly not, since it meant he got drunk more often and his mess never got cleaned. Then he sprained his ankle during some drunken escapade and he was practically unable to leave the room, not to mention terribly irritable all the time, and he seemed set on sending me to see a psychologist. As usual, I tried to ignore him, one day at about midterm time it got particularly bad, and I had to leave.

It was raining, so I took my umbrella, which was almost immediately broken by the wind, but the rain reminded me of Rafa, and even if I wasn't a writer, it was beautiful in that the rain was a reflection of my own emotional state, so I didn't mind too much. I ended up walking 20 minutes to a café off campus, which was pleasantly empty, save its employees and one other customer. As usual, I sat in a corner so that I had a view of the entire room, and set to work.

However, after no more than about six minutes had passed, someone else entered, and I looked up and made eye contact with her instinctively. Not recognizing her, I didn't realize my mistake at first. Then she made a beeline straight for me and I wondered if I was going crazy, because the person in front of me looked like Rafa, but she wasn't smiling.

"Oh, hey, Jasper, it's you," she chuckled, and it was the creepiest thing because still she didn't smile.

"R-Rafa?" It was the first time I stuttered on her name.

"The one and only," she said, her enthusiasm apparently completely gone.

"What's wr-wrong?"

"Nothing."

"R-Right. S-Sit d-down," I said, in a less demanding way than I'd intended, but effective nonetheless as she sat. I gave her the rest of my coffee and she downed it in seconds. I was about to ask again what was wrong when she spoke of her own accord.

"I can't write."

The way she said it took my breath away. It was as if her life force had been replaced by a black hole and the words sucked the oxygen out of everything they touched.

"What d-do you m-mean."

"I can't-"

"Why? It's a b-beautiful d-day," I gestured towards the window. The reference to our first ever conversation seemed to catch her off guard, and she actually laughed. It surprised her enough that she finally snapped out of her panic.

"Oh, Jas, it's terrible."

"I kn-know."

She smiled, and it was sad. "I think I'm going to fail my classes. I'll have to drop out of college. Do you think we can still be friends?"

"N-No," I said, and as I watched her face fall, I almost regretted it. I almost took it back. But it wasn't the same as the other things I had regretted, because as much as it pained me, it was what she needed to hear. "You're g-going t-to stay here, or else we won't be friends."

"Don't say that," she pleaded, now on the verge of tears. "It doesn't help."

"What would?"

"What would help? Nothing, probably."

I waited for her to correct herself, and sure enough she did.

"It's too much," she said. "It's the sharing, and getting feedback. I thought I'd be fine. I thought I loved writing enough by now that I'd be strong enough to take it. But I can't."

"What d-did they say?"

Tears again filled her eyes and I expected the worst. "The same thing as you, Jas."

That broke my heart and confused me. I thought I'd been nice.

"B-But-"

"Yeah," she said. "It was all positive. It was all, 'you're writing is fantastic, so you've clearly chosen the right path,' and 'you're a natural' and 'your writing is flawless, you were made for this.'"

"What's the p-problem then?"

"None of it is true!" Now the tears fell from her eyes. "I'm not a natural, my writing is flawed. There are so many people who are better at writing than me, how can I possibly have chosen the right path? I don't even... I don't even like to write any more."

I was shaking my head before she finished. "I n-never said your wr-writing was p-perfect, b-because you shouldn't be."

At that she looked up, and I nodded and kept talking.

"I wouldn't have a p-problem with you d-dropping out if you were. You're not here to be perfect. You're not even here to learn to be perfect. You're just here to learn, which, since you aren't a natural, is what you've been doing your whole life. In a way, you're a natural at that."

It took her a minute to process it, but I could tell by the way her back straightened that it made some sense.

"You're right," she said, as if the words were one of the Wonders of the World. It was only a moment before a bit of hesitation returned, though. She spoke in a whisper. "But what do I do if they say my writing's bad?"

I laughed. "You s-say what you j-just t-told me. 'You're right.' Then you ask how to fix it and let them help you."

"Oh!" And now the light returned to Rafa's eyes, her whole face, the whole room. She jumped up and looked ready to hug me before she stopped herself, remembering my resistance to touch. That made me vaguely sad, but mostly I was happy to have helped her rediscover her own happiness. "Oh, Jasper, I feel like I can write again! You're right, it is a beautiful day, and-“

She could have gone on for hours, I'm sure, but instead she froze and scrambled to answer her ringing phone. As emotionally expressive as she is, I'd thought I'd seen the majority of Rafa's countenances, but the way she transformed from thrilled to downright terrified caught even me off guard.

"No," she whispered. "No, Erinne, oh my gosh. Hang on, I'll be there. I- I don't know, I'll figure it out, don't worry about it. I love you. See you soon," she said, and hung up.

The calm she'd maintained throughout the call was gone in an instant.

"Jasper, what do I do? Erinne's brother- he's in the hospital, but I don't have a car, and you don't have a car, I don't know-"

"There are b-buses."

"Right."

It wasn't the best solution, but we managed to catch the next bus so that we arrived at the hospital in about 35 minutes. Erinne was standing outside of the hospital, and both Rafa and I recognized her immediately. Rafa, of course, saw her best friend, and ran to her and gave her a hug. I recognized my roommate's sister and took a step back.

"Oh no," I whispered. "Spenser..."

"Oh," Erinne said, wiping her eyes, "you're his roommate, aren't you? I'm sorry he's been such a pain, I'm sorry I didn't do more-"

"Er," Rafa whispered. "What happened?"

"Pills," Erinne said breathlessly. "But, he'll be fine. Medically, at least."

Rafa hugged her again, and Erinne seemed to deflate.

"I had n-no idea," I muttered, and Erinne smiled at me and didn't seem half as intimidating as I'd imagined she was.

"It's not your fault," she assured me.

"It's not yours, either," Rafa said firmly, holding Erinne's shoulders tightly. Erinne shrugged.

"Regardless, I'm going to be there for him in the future, Raf. I'm going to get him help."

"We c-can all help with that," I said, before I even knew I was talking. I couldn't help but add, "if you want."

Erinne nodded. "Thank you, I would love that."

---

A year later and we're sitting in the small apartment Spenser and I now share. It's been a long year; Spenser had to try out various counselors before he finally found one that helped with his depression; I finally took Spencer's advice to heart and found a good counselor myself. We’re both making progress, even if it’s slow. Erinne's been around a lot. So much, in fact, that I no longer fear her.

As for Rafa, well, her life force has returned to her, so she's writing as usual, and always around to remind us that rainy years, like days, are often the most beautiful.

a note to my editor: hi jas, i just finished this. now that i understand how learning works, you should help me fix this terrible piece of writing. let me know what you think

p.s. please don't think i'm a freak for writing it from your perspective. i wanted to write something i could learn from, and with you as my editor, i figured this was the best way for you to teach me

#tw depression #tw suicide attempt #tw hospital mention #feedback is more than welcome!!! #words = 3481 #my writing #short story #to be editted #jasper #erinne #spenser #rafa

[queenangst]

Unsung

Chapter Eleven

by: achieving elysium  summary:

Chat Noir looked away from her, turning his sad eyes to the sky. "My Lady," he whispered, his words so faint she could've imagined them. "I failed you."

For Marinette, her good luck has just run out. For Adrien, things go horribly wrong. In the blink of an eye, everything has changed - his friend Marinette is akumatized, Ladybug is nowhere to be found, and Papillon looms behind it all. The two heroes have to fight for themselves, but it's hard when they're on opposite ends of the battlefield.

chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 // chapter eleven: ffnet | ao3

part iii. tell me how the world burns chapter eleven

The news traveled around the school like wildfire. Between the Ladyblog and Alya practically announcing it to the world, everyone knew about Ladybug's open letter.

"I can't believe it," Alya gushed as Marinette steered her through the school. "Did you see Ladybug's post?"

Marinette led her up the stairs.

"Yes, Alya," she said patiently. "You were at my place yesterday when Ladybug posted it. We freaked out over it together."

"I know, I just, ahh!"

Alya's arms flew like pinwheels in her excitement. She spun in a circle with her arms outstretched. "She's so brave and kind and good and I lo-"

"Yes, you love Ladybug, we know, you love Ladybug so much, she's the light of your life, you love her so much, you just love Ladybug, we know, you love Ladybug, you fucking love Ladybug, okay, we know, we get it, you love Ladybug. We get it," Marinette said in one breath.

Alya blinked. "I don't sound like that," she protested.

"Really?" Nino asked, coming up from behind them and slinging an arm around Alya's shoulders. They were so cute, the two of them, and they didn't even realize it. "That impression was spot on, Mari."

They fist-bumped as Alya rolled her eyes.

"But still," she pressed.

"I have to agree with you, Alya," Adrien said. "That letter was pretty great."

His fingers brushed against the inside of her arm before drawing away. He smiled at them.

"See? Adrien appreciates it."

"It's not that I don't," Marinette began, though it was weird to say considering she'd written that letter, "but Alya, you've been talking to me about it for, like, the past ten hours."

Adrien raised an eyebrow in question.

"After you left," she explained. "Alya just kept texting me. We probably stayed up until two or three before she finally left me alone so we could sleep. And then the minute she gets up, my phone starts buzzing."

Alya whirled around and walked backwards, pointing a finger in Marinette's face.

"Hey," she said warningly. "I got you to school on time, didn't I?"

"Thanks for that."

"I just... Ladybug."

Adrien looked at Alya. "I know, right?"

Marinette heaved a long sigh. "Personally, I like Chat Noir better."

Though she hadn't said it very loudly, Adrien, who'd been walking next to her, had heard her words clearly. He blushed and turned even redder when Marinette smiled genuinely at him.

I mean it, she mouthed.

Even Chloé had something to say about it. It was ironic, considering how much she hated Marinette but loved Ladybug. Painfully, disturbingly ironic.

The four friends finally made it to the school library, where they found a desk. It wasn't long before someone came to talk to Alya, though, the knowledge that she ran the Ladyblog sparking conversation.

Marinette let the sound of chatter wash over her as she read a book she'd bought for herself a few weeks ago. She scribbled some notes in the margins; in the seat next to her, Adrien was writing lines in Chinese, though their eyes occasionally drifted to each other.

Take it slow, Marinette reminded herself. She liked Adrien. Well, okay, like was probably an understatement.

But they were still adjusting. She'd look at Adrien and wonder how she'd never noticed how he was Chat, but in the next minute would find herself overwhelmed by it. And though she'd written that letter on the Ladyblog, the superheroine Ladybug had yet to make an appearance on the rooftops of Paris.

Marinette set down her book and leaned in, making a split second decision. "Samedi night."

Adrien cocked his head and blinked, long and slow. "Samedi night? Are you asking me out, bugaboo?"

She shoved at his arm.

"Seriously, kitty," she said, but she giggled in spite of herself. "Really, though. Samedi night."

He frowned lightly, confused but willing to go along. "Okay."

Marinette squeezed his shoulder and returned to her book like nothing had ever happened - until someone slammed it shut before she could continue reading.

"Marinette," said Chloé, her blue eyes icy. Sabrina was nowhere in sight. "Can we... talk?"

She trembled in her seat. Chloé made her feel insecure; her presence dragged up memories and tore at the scars that had only just begun to scab over.

Adrien stood up; when they noticed what was happening, so did Alya and Nino.

"Hey, leave her alone, Chloé," Alya said sharply, and underneath her anger was fear.

But Chloé ignored her, staring down at Marinette. "Well?"

She took a deep breath. I want you to remember that you are loved, that you are worth it, and that I believe in you. There will always be someone who cares. You just need to open your eyes.

Adrien stepped forward, cutting in protectively between the two girls.

"Chloé," he said in a low voice so only the three of them could hear. "do not make me choose."

Had that only been yesterday?

Marinette took a deep breath and stood up, meeting Chloé's eyes.

"It's okay," she said to herself. Then she said it louder for her friends. "It's okay, guys."

Then she swept out an arm. "Lead the way, Chloé."

As they found a corner of the library that was quiet, Marinette let herself think. She wasn't sure what Chloé wanted. And it probably wasn't a good idea to "talk" with her, but Marinette needed to face her at some point.

"Look, I don't like you," Chloé said the moment they were out of earshot, spinning around so they could face each other.

Marinette's face burned, but she lifted her chin and crossed her arms. "Good," she said. "I don't like you either."

"But Adrien is my best friend."

Marinette said nothing, though underneath her skin, a mix of anger and spite bubbled. She suddenly wanted to spit in Chloé's face. But he wasn't hers, not really.

Chloé sighed.

"I don't think you deserve him. I don't think anyone deserves him." Marinette sat down in a nearby chair, Chloé copying her without thinking. "But he means a lot to me, and you - you - mean a lot to him. I don't get it. I don't get it."

The anger burst free like the floodgates had opened, water pouring out. "I don't get why he's friends with you, either," she said, shooting upwards. "I don't deserve Adrien and I know that, but neither do you!"

"Will you shut up," Chloé snapped. She took a deep breath. "What I'm saying is I think... I think we should be friends."

"What," Marinette said.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Chloé shot back. "Not friends, but..."

Marinette counted to ten and then backwards in her head until she felt calm enough to reply. Her mind frantically ran over the words, trying to figure out what was happening and why. She knew what Adrien would want her to do, what Maman and Papa would say, what Tikki would whisper quietly in her ear.

"No," she said finally.

Chloé stopped. "No?"

Marinette closed her eyes. "Chloé," she said. "What you've done to other people, what you did to me... I won't ever forget that. That's not something I can forget, something I can just- drop. I will never look at you and not remember what you did. What I did. Who I became."

Take care of yourself first, a commenter had said.

"Being friends with you won't fix anything. And I don't want to be friends with you for Adrien. I'd want to be friends with you because I genuinely like you, or because I respect you as a person. And right now, I am neither of those.

"But I'm also tired of being shut down. I'm so tired of feeling like I'm struggling to just get up every day. And I'm tired of seeing you as an enemy, because in the long run, you aren't."

Chloé pursed her lips.

"Then don't make me one." She held out her hand. "A truce."

Marinette raised an eyebrow. "A truce?"

"Ladybug said something yesterday," she said, "and of course, I read it, because I'm Ladybug's biggest fan. She said that we should stand against Papillon... and that all that negative stuff doesn't help."

It wasn't exactly what she'd said, but it was close enough.

"So... a truce. If you don't want to be friends, fine. I don't really, either. But for Adrien and for Ladybug, because she's my other best friend and, like, I want to help her, then we can try not to hate each other all the time."

"That's going to be hard."

"Ugh, it makes my skin crawl just thinking about it," Chloé said. Marinette rolled her eyes but silently agreed.

"Maybe we can hate each other, like, sometimes," the other girl finished.

Marinette sighed. She didn't want the anger, the fear, the hate. And though the thought of Chloé being a not-friend wasn't her favorite one, it wasn't the worst.

She took Chloé's hand. "This isn't me forgiving you. This isn't friendship."

She needed to say it - for herself and Chloé both. Because it wasn't, because it still hurt too much, because red threads still looped around lampposts and signs, because the ambulance sirens still rang in the streets of Paris.

Chloé smiled, a rare sight. "I never wanted it to be."

They stood there for a second longer before Marinette dropped Chloé's hand and turned away, her heart feeling lighter. There were worse things that could've happened, and there were worse people to face. She was glad she'd no longer have to worry too much about Chloé.

"Hey," said Adrien when she reappeared and sat down next to him. "What did Chloé want?"

Alya leaned in, putting her phone down on the table. Marinette was suddenly jarred by the absence of the Ladybug charm that was usually on her friend's phone and silently promised to make up for it.

"Yeah, what did Queen Bee want from you?" Nino prodded.

Marinette worked her jaw. "She, um, she actually wanted..." She couldn't even say it, "to be, uh, um, friends."

"Whaaaa," said Nino. "Bro."

"She what?" shrieked Alya. "Girl, please tell me you didn't."

Adrien was the only one who stayed quiet. He knew why Chloé had asked - in fact, he had been one of the reasons for it.

"Well?" Alya demanded when she made no move to answer.

Marinette continued. "I said no."

She took Adrien's hand under the table and rubbed her thumb over his knuckles.

"Booyah," Nino cried.

"No?" Adrien asked quietly, another question shining in his eyes.

She held up a finger. "But I told her... well, in the end, we- we made a truce," She closed her eyes, still not fully understanding the gravity of what she'd done, "because we have enough enemies out there. I don't need another."

No one said anything, but they all knew she was talking about Papillon. Adrien smiled at her, his eyes warm, something close to pride shining in them.

Maybe one day, she told herself. Maybe one day she'd be able to really be friends with Chloé, to love her like a sister. It was a strange thought.

Alya laughed, though she didn't seem to find anything very funny.

"Marinette Dupain-Cheng, everyone," she said, sweeping an arm out dramatically as if presenting her to the others. "What did we even do to deserve you as a friend?"

Adrien glanced over. "The world may never know."

Marinette smiled at them. "What did I do to deserve you?"

School would be out soon, their last class a study hall. Not that most students spent it actually studying, though Marinette probably should've taken the chance to do the weekend's homework - and then spend Saturday and Sunday free from school responsibilities.

The thought was so tempting she put her book away and pulled out her textbooks and worksheets alongside a beat-up stylus. There wasn't nearly enough time to get everything done, but she'd at least get a head start.

"Dude," Nino said, pulling his headphones back down to rest around his neck, obviously about to listen to more music. "Are you actually doing homework right now?"

Marinette made a face. "Maybe."

Adrien wrote a last line in Chinese and snapped his workbook shut, Marinette only catching a glimpse of the characters he'd written.

"That's a good idea," he said, getting his own work out so they could put their heads together.

"You know me," she said, pouring over her history textbook's chapter on Ancient Greece, "queen of good ideas."

"Don't I know it," Adrien said under his breath.

"But do you know the difference between Doric and Corinthian columns?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. She'd been obsessed with mythology and other cultures as a kid - Greek had always been her favorite. Something about the Greek gods had drawn her in, and then she'd ended up learning about other things, like the equally-interesting architecture.

"Um," Adrien said. Marinette skimmed the rest of the chapter, but it was hard to concentrate with him next to her, muttering equations under his breath. Really, really hard.

Marinette did end up getting two classes' worth of work done before school let out, though, which she counted as a victory. She packed up her things and walked with her friends out to the street before they parted ways. Adrien said a quiet apology - though she'd told him he didn't need to - before climbing into the limo. While he'd been free yesterday, today was jam-packed with activities, from fencing to piano. She hoped he'd be okay with all the work, though he was probably used to it.

Marinette kept her head down as she walked the short distance back home. Red string curled around a set of outside dining tables and still hung from the bakery, lines of red decorating the sign.

She dropped off her bag in the apartment before darting back downstairs and tying an apron around her waist. The customers smiled when she joined her parents.

"I can take care of the front, Maman," Marinette offered. "I know someone ordered that cake today - you should probably go help Papa."

Maman smiled. "Thank you, Marinette," she said, turning to the customer she was helping. "Have a great day!"

Marinette took over manning the front and let her mind be soothed by the familiar work. She answered questions, rang up bakery items, and called out her greetings to the regulars.

Mme. Halle, who came in every few days to buy a loaf of bread and some cookies, smiled warmly when she came to check out. "It's good to see you, Marinette."

She grinned back. "You, too, Madame," she replied, putting the cookies in a box and the bread in another one. "Anything else?"

Mme. Halle usually didn't buy anything else, though Marinette always asked out of courtesy. But today, she paused while rummaging in her purse to pay. "What's your favorite pastry?"

"Hmm?" she asked, blinking. "Oh, mine? Um, I really like the eclairs, but if you want a real treat, you should get a slice of Papa's coffee cake. There's also the red bean sesame balls, if you'd like to try something a little different."

"Well," said Mme. Halle. "if you like the coffee cake so much, I suppose I shall get two slices, dear."

Marinette boxed them individually. "You won't regret it," she promised. Papa's cake was the best; she loved helping him make it and breathing in the rich aroma of coffee and sugar.

"Thank you, Marinette," Mme. Halle told her as she handed over a few crisp bills. Marinette returned the change and a receipt and told her to have a good day.

Mme. Halle took one of the boxed slices of cake she'd bought and set it on the counter, resting her hand on it. Her blue nails shone in the warm light.

"One for me, one for you," she said. "You bring warmth to this bakery, Marinette."

"Oh, Madame," she said, pushing the box back across the counter. "I can't take this."

"You should."

"Really," Marinette said. "You're really too kind, Madame, but there's plenty of cake upstairs still waiting to be eaten, and..."

"I insist," Mme. Halle said, and Marinette quailed under her look and the line of waiting customers.

She bowed her head. "Thank you, Madame."

They smiled at each other, and Marinette took the box, setting it down under the counter. She'd eat it later, or maybe she'd save it for her parents or one of her friends. They'd like that.

"Are you Marinette?" said the next customer, leaning against the glass case of pastries and eyeing her with a predatory look she didn't like. "Marinette Dupain-Cheng, right?"

She smiled politely, mentally taking a deep breath.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The man, perhaps a student from one of the universities, was someone she'd never seen around before.

"I think you can."

He pestered her about the different kinds of pastries, asking about the cakes and cookies and pies until Marinette's head was spinning. Then he saw the Chinese pastries Maman made and frowned. "What are these?"

"They're our Chinese pastries, sir," Marinette said through gritted teeth, already on her last nerve. She took a deep breath. "We like to offer a wide variety on our menu."

"What are you?"

She hated the question. Hated how it made her feel, how completely insensitive and rude it was. "I'm sorry?"

He smirked at her, sliding a jar of orange marmalade across the counter as well as a box of lemon and cranberry poppyseed muffins.

"Are you Chinese?" he asked.

She took a deep breath but knew that being anything less than professional and polite would cost her.

"I'm sorry, but it's none of your business," she said, though her parentage was common knowledge to anyone who knew the Dupain-Chengs. "Is this all you'd like today, sir?"

"Actually, can I get your number?"

She closed her eyes and instead took one of the business cards from under the counter, slipping it into his bag.

"Our hours are from seven in the morning to eight in the evening during weekdays and nine to three during the weekends. If you'd like to reach us or place an order, please call this number."

She didn't like the look on his face. It made her uneasy, like she had no privacy, his eyes seeing straight through her.

But he made no move to do anything other than smile wanly at her.

"I'll be sure to make a call."

She smiled back, though it made her feel disgusted. "Have a good day."

She took care of a few more people before she had to excuse herself, telling Maman she'd like to get some homework done before the dinner. Maman suspected nothing as Marinette raced upstairs, her skin crawling.

She had to scrub at her hands and splash her face with cold water twice before she could calm down. When she wandered out of the bathroom and back to the living room, Maman had come upstairs, holding the store phone in her hand.

"Someone called asking for you," she said, passing the phone to Marinette. "I guess they didn't know your number."

"Oh," she said, "thank you, Maman."

Maman disappeared and left, leaving Marinette alone. She looked at the phone, wondering why anyone would call the bakery, and lifted it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Fabricator."

Marinette's legs gave out underneath her, and she slipped to the ground, breathing hard.

"I'm Marinette," she said firmly.

"You destroyed my home," the voice said, and she suddenly recognized the person - the customer who'd been at the counter not even ten minutes ago. "You don't belong here, freak."

"Paris is my home," she said, but her voice shook. Being biracial wasn't easy; Marinette had always felt split over her two backgrounds, like she didn't quite belong to either. "I have every right to be here."

Her breaths came louder and faster as he ranted, his words swirling in Marinette's head. She didn't belong. She'd been Akumatized, and it was proof that she should leave her home. Paris wasn't her home; if it was, she'd destroyed it. On and on, until Marinette was shaking, every word a claw pressing down on the barriers of her mind.

"Leave me alone," she spat. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough."

Marinette ended the call and threw the phone across the room, watching it land as she breathed heavily.

"Marinette?" Tikki phased through the side of her bag and looked up at her. She looked like she'd just woken up. "Are you alright?"

She heaved a breath. "Fine."

Marinette counted to ten and then back down to one, trying to steady her breathing as Tikki hovered around her.

"No, you're not," the kwami said gently. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Nothing," Marinette said, standing up.

"You're crying," Tikki observed, and she wiped at her tears with the back of her hand angrily, storming upstairs. Tikki didn't leave her alone, continuing to ask. All she wanted to do was curl up and cry, the storm of anger and guilt that had almost calmed stirring again.

"Will you at least talk to someone about it? Adrien?"

"No," she sniffled. "Adrien doesn't need to know."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a familiar jingle ringing in the air. Marinette went to dismiss it but hesitated on seeing the name Master Fu. "H-hello?"

"Ladybug," Master Fu said. "I have urgent news."

Marinette shoved away her emotions, locking them tightly into a box in the back of her mind. She had to focus. She was still Ladybug, still had a duty to do.

"What is it?"

"The akuma... your akuma has escaped."

Marinette whimpered, the noise pathetic. She shouldn't be as afraid as it was. "What?"

"Be careful, Ladybug. It will come after you."

The call ended as suddenly as it had come. Marinette scrambled backwards in a panic, her hands shaking.

"No, no, no, no, no," she panted. "It's coming, it's coming for me, Tikki."

Her fault, her fault.

A dark shape flitted through the window, and Marinette froze, her eyes wide. The dark purple-and-black butterfly drew closer, and her mouth opened in a silent scream as she leapt into action, trying to get further from it.

It slipped into her shoe, and in the distance, she could hear Papillon's voice, distorted and echo-y. Hello, my dear Fabricator.

"No," Marinette said. "No, you lied to me, you are my enemy, you-"

She tore off her shoe and threw it. The akuma went for her other shoe, and she took that off, watching in horror as it came back again and again. She tore off the bracelet she'd put on this morning. Out came the hairties that had kept her hair in pigtails.

She raced up the stairs towards the roof, pulling the door shut after her as she found her phone, frantically dialing a number she now knew by heart.

He picked up after the fourth call.

"Marinette, sorry, I had to finish the photoshoot." There was talking in the background. Adrien sighed. "I'm sorry, bug, I have to go-"

She sobbed into the phone.

"It's here, it's here," she gasped, "please, Adrien, it escaped-"

"Marinette? Marinette, you need to take a deep breath-"

She tossed her bag to the side, Tikki already floating beside her. "Marinette, you need to calm down."

But Marinette couldn't. Seeing the akuma sent her into a full-blown panic. She screamed again when it landed on her shoulder, dropping her phone and waving her arms to get it off.

"Go away!" she shouted. "Leave me alone, Papillon!"

"The earring," Tikki said in her ear, "hurry, Marinette."

"No," she said. "No. I can't."

Tikki hovered in front of her face, and Marinette forced herself to take a deep breath even though she was shaking and sweating.

"Ladybug," she said, "you must."

"I'm scared, Tikki, I'm so scared."

"I know you are," Tikki said, "but I also know that you're brave. I know that you're kind. I know that you have done things no one else in the world could ever even imagine doing. You can do this."

She pressed Marinette's other earring into her hand, and Marinette stared at it like she'd never seen it before. Eyes trained on Tikki, who was both patient and encouraging, she fit it into her ear. Some of the cold washed away, chased out by warmth. The world righted itself, and the akuma faltered in mid-air.

Papillon is a threat no one should take lightly, as I have learned. He preys on insecurity, on fear, on sadness, on anger... Do not let Papillon win.

As if she knew what Marinette was thinking, Tikki said: "Don't let him win, Ladybug."

Ladybug, not Fabricator. Ladybug. She'd always been Ladybug; she was Ladybug before she was Fabricator. A hero before she was a villain – no, not even that – a victim.

"Tikki," she began slowly. "Spots on."

Her yo-yo was nothing more than a blur as she caught the akuma as it raced in her direction, its flight dipping as if it was confused.

"Je t'ai eu," she whispered, releasing the purified butterfly a moment later. The white thing looked like a figment of hope, a piece of freedom. "Bye-bye, little butterfly."

notes:

祝你门新年好！恭喜发财！Since I can't send out red envelopes to all of you, I thought it'd be nice to update for the new year!

This is quite an appropriate chapter, I think - please remember this year to think about what you say to other people and how much of an impact you can have. Please remember today is not just a fun day, that today marks a holiday for many of us who are spending time with (or without) our families. For people like Marinette, for people like me, please remember that we belong here. We do, I promise.

I've decided to go ahead and do the Unsung Q&A, so if you have any questions about anything, drop them in a review, and when this fic is finished, I'll answer them!

#miraculous ladybug #ml fanfic #ml #marinette cheng #adrien agreste #my ml #my fanfiction #me: uses old memes #wouldja look at that its an update! #unsung