"Ladybug!"

Black butterflies plague the room, compressing the heroine in inky darkness and the incapability to see her own partner who helplessly slings his baton about the devilish insects. They need a plan; but the adrenaline flooding through her veins and the fear reigning her heart seem to be overtaking any possibility of the formation of a plan. Ladybug swings her yoyo in attempt to escape the enclosing darkness, but more and more sprout from Hawkmoth's baton by each second.

"Give me your Miraculouses," the man ejects a sinister laugh as if he knows he is winning—that he knows victory is imminent and he can taste it.

The idea is so enticing that Ladybug almost caves.

It all seems hopeless now. She cannot see Chat Noir; her vision is penetrated by the flocking creatures. The butterflies are overpowering her by the thousand, and for once, the savior of Paris seems so small compared to the villain's comrades. It feels like drowning. It feels as if her body is sinking slowly, slowly, and no matter how wildly she waves and kicks her limbs, she has succumbed the probability of death. Considering the void of rancor knitting its way into her heart, she yearns to avoid it; she knows the whole city is relying on her.

What a horrifying thought.

Somewhere, perhaps a small girl is sitting wide-eyed behind a television feeling no fear; she trusts that Ladybug and Chat Noir will defeat Hawkmoth and everything will return to normal. Her mother paces nervously behind her, occasionally giving her blissfully ignorant child a squeeze on her shoulders. But the mother knows that every human has a breaking point. She prays that these heroes won't find it today.

A horrifying thought occurs. Her own mother and father are at home, likely pacing the floor in worry.

"Don't worry, Marinette," she remembers his words. "Ladybug and Chat Noir will take care of us."

How pitiful and ironic that she, their own daughter, is failing to protect them. She knows Tom is likely clutching Sabine to his chest, giving her hand a light squeeze in reassurance. And they assume their daughter is at school watching the same broadcast as they are—but she isn't. She is the one who is given the perilous task of defeating this villain, and she wants to cry. The long-forgotten insecurity convicts her own abilities—am I good enough? She wonders why she was chosen for this job; and why clumsy, reckless Marinette was given such a large responsibility.

Form a plan. Form a plan. Form a plan.

Time is running out. Ladybug attempts to find anything, anything that could be used against Hawkmoth. She could use her Lucky Charm, but there lies a risk of her identity being revealed—and if her identity is revealed, then Hawkmoth can use this against her. He could hurt her family. He could hurt her friends.

Squinting her eyes, Ladybug spots a silvery luster shimmering in the corner of the room: a pipe.

Never before has she ever really considered not using her Lucky Charm—

Hope is slipping through her fingertips like sand in an hourglass, falling fragment by fragment. The darkness of butterflies swallows her and now no thing can be seen.

"Chat Noir!" She cries. "The pipe!"

A frantic cry escapes his lips as he claws at the akumas, kicking and twisting as to part a path of vision. She can see the luminescent glow of emerald green finding its way through the hurricane of black.

"CATACLYSM!" He shouts in a tone of aching and yearning and loathing. He launches himself up, up, up—

The claws collide with the pipe.

Black toxic fizzes its way up the pipe, singeing and then burning the base of the pipe.

Ladybug's eyes widen.

Though not fully visible, she detects the for-coming danger.

"Chat Noir! MOVE!"

She sees his eyes, still that radiant green; and then she feels warm.

A certain brightness opens and warmth sprouts in a comforting dance of colors. A rainbow spreads its way before her vision, and all appears like a dewy watercolor painting melting on the canvas. She sees red and orange and yellow and nothing could be more beautiful.

The last she hears is a cry: but of victory, or of fear?

"LADYBUG!"

Then she sees black.

***

Eyes dart open.

Blink. Blink.

Her head pounds with a certain ache. Her raven black hair curtains her vision.

Where am I?

Lifting a palm to part her hair, she is stopped by a rude force: cuffs pinning her wrists. Suddenly aware of her situation, Marinette writhes and kicks in the equipment. How did she get here? Her icy blue stare gazes forward. This is a different room. The walls are all metallic and white, and her only other company is a buzzing light hanging from above. It flickers every few seconds. The enclosure makes her feel claustrophobic; the walls seem to be shrinking. A lingering feeling causes Marinette to feel wary. It feels as though someone is watching her, yet there are no windows.

She curses herself. She knew the consequence of refusing orders—but taking a life is one task she will never complete. Maybe it's the last bit of gallant heroic heart she has left; maybe it was just conscience.  For whatever reason, her task resulted in her imprisonment in this new confinement. An unsettled feeling finds its way into her gut.

She remembers how much she despised appointments with a doctor when she was younger. When the doctor pulled out a needle, she always leapt behind the door in fear. Shots, to this day, remain her least favorite. She hated when a cheery-eyed nurse applied the strong-smelling alcohol onto her arm. Remembering its cold touch pinpricking her skin causes her to tremble. It was the appetizer preparing her for the main course: a long, thin needle to be pressed into her skin.

The rummaging of her thoughts is interrupted by a sudden parting of the door behind her.

"8075," a familiar voice intones.

The clicking of heels makes its way before Marinette; and she  feels a microscopic feeling of relief as the bun woman, nervously gripping her clipboard, stands before her. Marinette exhales slowly, allowing her shoulders to relax. Timidly meeting the bun woman's eyes, she feels her breath hitch. Perhaps, although unlikely, she carries good news. However the reluctance behind the bun woman's glasses radiates a feeling of perturbation onto Marinette.

"You know very well the consequences of your refusals, 8075," she says. Her throat bobs as though she withholds unspoken words like prisoners, and her eyes bulge in discomfort.

Marinette looks away.

The familiar feeling of anger begins to boil beneath her skin. This ignorant, robotic woman cannot display any sorrow besides a mere nod. This woman knows nothing. And Marinette wonders how she can just allow everything to happen; she wonders how this woman can just watch her be reused day by day as a guinea pig without feeling a tinge of guilt—or at least, enough guilt to end the torment. It makes her insides twist and turn. It makes her envy this woman who suffers no pain and feels no remorse.

"Get it over with," Marinette snarls. Her icy blue orbs narrow to thin lines as they shoot knives at the woman before her. "I don't care anymore."

The bun woman just stares at Marinette momentarily with the same dull, lifeless glance. The sorrow is slightly visible; but Marinette doesn't care. If this woman was truly sorry, she'd put an end to this torture. The bun woman draws the syringe from the back pocket of her black pants. Marinette watches it glimmer as the she holds in between her manicured finger tips.

A cold swab of alcohol is pressed to her temple, the area of application. The area of pain receptive nerves of the brain.

Inhale. Exhale.

The bun woman inches the needle closer and closer.

Marinette wants to cry. Unknowingly, tears jammed their way into her eyes; but she'll never allow them to fall. Her weakness won't show. She won't allow it.

The needle dips into her skin. The uncontainable cry escapes her lips as she bites her teeth, attempting to seal the cry with all of her might and strength. They can't see her weakness. She won't let them. She won't let them.

"Agh!"

It hurts. The pain, excruciating and constant, jolts through her head, and the stabbing sensation electrifies all nerves in her body. The tears slide down her cheeks—not tears of weakness, but tears of suffering.

"Stop!" She screeches.

It hurts. It feels like knives slicing her head, like her brain can no longer function but is exploding and spilling and fading away.

"Aghhhhhh!"

She can't do it.

It feels like burning, like drowning and burning slowly as the pain overtakes her body. The cold stare of the bun woman remains. It feels like death is encapsulating her.

The bun woman yanks the needle from Marinette's temple, and Marinette gasps in choppy breaths.

The feeling of darkness toys with her vision, and everything begins to melt in a sea of black.

"Screw...you..." she breathes before fatigue overtakes her consciousness, and the bun woman can only stare.

***

Hey guys :)) hope you enjoyed this chapter! poor mari...I hate making her suffer :( it'll get better for her! eventually...

~ lilacfrost021