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Chapter Text

1: Shadows Of Love And Curses

Firelight flickered, and shadows danced, beneath the dwindling purple of the blazing desert skies. The winds had long receded, except for the barest of strands. Though weak, the searing sky was determined to chill those huddled around the warmth of the red-orange flames. 

The Egyptian desert may grant mercy on calm nights such as these–but these men were trained never to expect mercy nor leniency. In this year of nineteen-twenty, the desert had been notably benevolent. They enjoyed it but did not take it for granted.

And that was but one of many lessons they learned. The desert never stops teaching. They always expected to die at any moment, yet they always lived life to its fullest nonetheless. For as long as they chose to dwell in the arid Sahara and remained dedicated to their ancient cause, they would always be in danger. 

These men were content with this, and tonight they basked in the glow of the fire, smelling the fresh air of the oasis, enjoying the soft sands and lush, exotic greenery. So, too, were the camels.

However, amassed in numbers at least three times that of the dedicated warriors, were those not so content, dedicated, and knowledgeable. For these were the recruits; whether they were the sons of these men, or misfits given refuge from wherever they once had been mattered not. All were treated as one and the same. 

The men stayed silent as the hopeful, inexperienced boys and men alike, whether younger or older, talked with reverent hushes. As sunlight dwindled, so did their conversations.

The fire’s gift encompassed everyone. Together, everyone slowly nibbled the last of the provisions that had been assigned and roasted as feed to satisfy the stomachs of all present.

As the last ray of the sun finally dipped beneath the horizon, one youth held up his hand. All discussion halted immediately. A lone camel grunted, perhaps intent on taking the attention. He sat front and center of the youth on one side of the fire, their backs to the sound of the wind-rippling waters. Silence befell them. They become a unison of quiet, intent listeners. The youth’s hand fell. He leaned forward in his crisscross position, hands on knees.

At that moment, a blast of heat exploded up, embers popping, sparks flying. The warm squall blew his black, blue-tipped hair up for the briefest of seconds, He smiled at the man across from him on the other side of the fire.

In return, the man flashed a snarky curl of the lips. With a quick hand, he threw another iota of flash-fuel into the fire. It matched what it did before, and roared higher and louder and hotter for a few seconds. The instant the flame rose, so did he.

The man’s dark robes and gray sash were hardly visible against the black backdrop of the endless desert behind him. All the men sitting on his side were hardly visible either. Only the glint in his dark, brown-black eyes betrayed his true position. They met the pair of luminous cyan, parallel with him; another set of warm grins exchanged. The two felt warmer than the fire for a moment.

As the man’s mouth began to move, the firelight glistened, making visible the tattoos on the upper and sides of his sun-baked complexion of a dark brown face. 

“For the past weeks, we have trained you, refined you, to make sure you truly wish to become one of us, the protectors of mankind, warriors of the desert, believers of the ancient cause we serve, each and every one of us-”

At that, he unsheathed long blades in each hand–slender scimitars pulled from nowhere–and gestured to the dozen men at his sides, each splaying in a different direction.

“The Medjai.”

Just as quickly, they vanished, the only proof they were ever there having been an unmistakable, flashing reflection of moonlight on metal. A cold air whispered, and the fire flaked warm breath upon the Medjai.

“However, you know nothing more than whispers of what I have done, what I do, what I will continue to do so, and that my name is Ardeth, your leader,” he went on. “Tonight that changes. What none of you know will now be told.” Ardeth swayed a bit, cocking his head. “Though, there is one exception–for this young man does know,” he said, pointing to the one across from him, “He has been my eyes and ears, for he was always going to become a warrior. If you are here tonight, among the chosen, he has vouched for you. For what better judgment than a father’s trust in his son?”

All eyes of the desert-honed, desert-scorned, desert-worn youth weighed upon the thirteen-year-old, nervous yet visibly attuned, boy, who smiled in acknowledgment of the praise.

Ardeth threw another piece of trickery into the fire. The massive whoosh of spewed heat and cinders brought all attention back to him.

“Tonight, you, the mighty few, will complete the ritual, and earn your tattoos. These are the signs you willingly sacrificed your purpose to a fate higher than us, that we do our best, and only the best we can do, to prevent apocalypse upon this world.”

Immediately and immaculately, Ardeth’s expression became serious and straight, his posture stiff and rigid. Not one muscle dared misalign, lest he inspire anything less than clarity and confidence. The young boy leaned forward to listen better; the others followed suit.

“There is one thing that precedes everything else first, however, the very reason we are here tonight, and the reason the Medjai scour and claim these lands of the desert for no one but us to even gaze upon. The reason you were trained, tortured, wounded, starved, stripped, beaten, stung, cut, lashed, all manner of tests to see who could endure the evils of the desert–and perhaps beyond. The reason for your decision to become part of something greater than yourselves, why we do what we do and call it good and just.”

The whispers of the night drowned out these eager youth, and the men prepared to listen again to the cause of their glorious purpose, whether that path was chosen or fated.

“Forget your stories, forget who you once were. It matters not if you are one of our sons, were rescued, escaped somewhere, committed deviousness, or are an orphan, or if all you knew was burned, taken from you, or slaughtered.”

Just the barest of eye movement, and crease of guilt, directed towards the black-blue-haired boy. He was the only one who saw it. Accordingly, he nodded, to let Ardeth know it was okay. A breath escaped Ardeth, who nodded ever so slightly back.

“What does matter, in the end, what only matters, is this story, the one whose every word you will recite in your hearts until the desert claims you as hers.”

He paused for a moment, letting the tension increase, and for the fire to dwindle, and let it become paler and more yellow, to soak up its gift of light and life while he could.

“This is the tale of the Miraculous, the Medjai, and the Mummy…”

—

Long ago, the Earth, and all that surrounds us, were given existence by the ethereal beings known as the kwami. There exists one to embody every concept that can be thought of. Thus, they are infinite in their numbers and infinite in their powers.

For the longest time, they flew between the stars, experiencing each other and the results of their labors, witnessing the births of lifeforms and the destruction of worlds amongst the infinite cosmos, seeing the infinite possibilities with their infinite forms.

That was, until one of their many sparks of many creations across the many worlds, called out to them. A man, his name lost to time, summoned them, to their awe and wonder. For the first time, a lifeform had transcended the simplicity with which they were made. Humans were truly able to grasp and conceptualize the embodiments of the universe. 

For the first time, they experienced a physical form and the fruits of their infinite labor. Filled with joy and wonder, many of kwami, some of the most powerful of all kwami amongst them, agreed to be bound to the Earth so that they might continue these delights.

Their forms were small and vividly colored, able to fit in the mage’s palm. Each kwami’s vessel became modeled after an animal the man felt represented them best. In due time, many were each bound to specially crafted artifacts–the Miraculous. Kwamis stayed inside at all times unless actively worn by a person to keep them hidden. It also served to prevent their magic from destroying the mortal realm.

These jewels, when worn, would allow the wielder to use the great powers of the kwami. They would grant the user superhuman abilities and a suit to protect the wielder, making them almost invulnerable to all threats, physical or magical. There was infinite potential in their use. 

Subsequently, the mage established an order to safeguard these powerful objects against misuse and to guide the world with an invisible hand. He passed down his knowledge. They were entrusted to continue doing good.

Throughout history, Guardians were sent to assist peoples of the world as they deemed fit. Special people were chosen to wield Miraculous until the crisis was over. For eons, all went well.

Until, one day, in ancient Egypt, a Guardian grew complacent. They forgot not all kwami were bound; those left in the stars became the god or gods many worshiped, and were watched over by.

A man of powerful magic attacked Thebes. His name became lost as time passed. But he had a title–the Scorpion King. The Guardian made mistakes. The box was destroyed in a single strike by the man. In a clash of magics, the Miraculous within were scattered across Egypt in an explosion of indescribable yet finite power.

The man was turned back, and the crisis averted–but at a cost. For this was the most powerful box, that of the Miraculous of the Ladybug and the Black Cat Miraculous.

Fortunately, those two alone were saved, having been worn by his chosen wielders. All jewels except these two were lost.

The Guardian, to atone for this grave mistake, was exiled and instructed to form an order of his own to recover the Miraculous. No help was sent or ever would be. No one dared risk further loss of Miraculous, whether by those responsible or by abuse of found jewels.

And so, the Medjai were born. We were tasked to both recover and fill the box with the nineteen Miraculous of the Chinese Miracle Box, as well as keep vigil over the lands of Egypt. 

Accordingly, we did. We wove ourselves into the lives of Egyptian society, from the lowest of laborers to the highest of courts, integrated into every echelon. Though the Medjai were known, we successfully kept our true intentions secret. Not even the Pharaoh was allowed to know unless a Guardian deemed them worthy, and solely as needed.

One by one, as time passed, we found them. With the Miraculous of the Ladybug and the Black Cat still on our side, chosen wielders across time helped us.

We dared not to use any recovered Miraculous even once. For that would be abuse in and of itself, against principle. Furthermore, we had the Ladybug and Black Cat to be called on at any moment.

Alas, we once more grew complacent…

—

Ardeth’s voice carried through the dark and windy night.

The boy, though he’d heard this before, innumerable times, sharpened his ears nevertheless.

“Follow Luka’s example,” Ardeth said, briefly pausing, an open palm inviting all to see his example. “For to grow complacent, regardless of how pointless a task may seem, is the undoing of one who wishes to become a Medjai, as those who last held the Ladybug and Black Cat were…”

The recruits and men alike fell even quieter. They leaned forward, huddled against the fire and the blackness, the cold and the sands.

Luka and Ardeth shared a radiant glance before the tale went on.

—

Almost three thousand years ago, Egypt was ruled by Pharaoh Seti the First from the grand city of Thebes, City of the Living. He was great and powerful, perhaps the wealthiest ruler there ever was; never again were such heights of richness reached.

Though staunch and strict, Seti was beloved by all. He ruled fairly and benevolently. No one was beneath him. Everything was known to him. Seti was surely infallible; the Medjai protecting him thought so too.

Unfortunately, for both him and us, fate has a cruel sense of timing and humor, to punish hubris with humility, in equal measure to the shadows of complacency.

Most ironically, Seti had been betrayed by his closest friend. This man was the once loyal High Priest Imhotep, the Keeper of the Dead, he who kept Osiris and the souls of the dead satisfied.

The cause was Imhotep’s love and lust for Seti’s most prized possession, Anck-Su-Namun, his most beautiful, most deadly, mistress and personal bodyguard. She protected him as much as she consummated with him.

For anyone but Seti to touch her was a death sentence. But the allure of love often overcomes such fears. The two became inseparable behind his back. Their secret was theirs alone; only his followers knew, often keeping watch. Their devotion, too, overcame primal fear.

However, as with all secrets and lies and injustices, it did not last forever.

Nor, too, do good things–sometimes they are destroyed in the most brutal manner.

On this fateful night, the blackness was young, the full moon shone brightly, and power hung in the air.

Imhotep strode towards his destination within the pharaoh’s place. He had handsome bronze skin, moving swiftly in his priestly black robes. Light gleamed off his intimidating baldness, intimated by the focus of stunning brown eyes. 

Soon he reached Anck-Su-Namun’s chambers. The ornate room was enormous and gleamed brilliantly. His fellow followers closed the doors behind him.

And there she was in all her glory. The moonlight behind bathed her olive skin, painted gold and black. Imhotep took her in, almost bare, save thin cloth. They reached one another and kissed, hands exploring.

He did not, however, notice, in their passion, a smear he left on her arm. They’d been so, so careful to avoid leaving any traces. But tonight, a night unlike any before, left them forgetful.

Taking a step back, Imhotep smiled. He raised her hand and carefully kissed it. “Soon, my love, we shall be free, free of our responsibilities, free to run and love each other as we please.”

“So you say,” she giggled lightly, taking her hand back after playfully swatting him. Anck-Su-Namun next rested her palms on his chest. “He would never allow it.”

This time, Imhotep chuckled in return. “Ah, but you must see, I have discovered a power even greater than that of the pharaoh, one that will let us force him to let us go.”

She was confused. Then her eyes widened in surprise. “That… that is eerily similar to what I had to tell you, Imhotep. Perhaps fate is on our side tonight. Let us show each other?”

Imhotep nodded. Together, they each unshelled a brooch from the confines of their wear. A purple kwami, and a blue kwami, floated into the open.

Just as they did, though, the two lovers called forth their powers. Flares of purple and indigo shot through the moonlight. They now each adorned the Miraculous of the Butterfly and the Peacock, respectively.

Imhotep wore a purple cloak and hood fashioned after his priestly robes. He simply smirked. “Well, dear, it does appear the gods are on our side.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She kissed him again, her feathery yet revealing costume brushing him sensually. 

He met her with force in his lips. The coolness of their suit’s material caused them to shiver delightfully. A warm wind blew in from the open balcony doors.

Alas, it was this very balcony that betrayed them. From afar, Princess Nefertiti, daughter of Seti, and her lover, an esteemed palace guard, saw the twin flashes of light, and a man cloaked by darkness kissing Anck-Su-Namun.

Secret members of the Medjai, they knew of only one thing that could cause such an occurrence. An emergency signal was sent out.

The Medjai summoned the then Ladybug and Black Cat. They were a young maiden known as Mari, who called herself Scarlet Beetle, and a palace guard known as Aiden Baset, who called himself Dark Claw. They, too, were immeasurably in love. Even so, they did not hesitate to protect their pharaoh at the call of their order.

At the same time, Seti broke from his meeting. Concern and anger fueled his rush to Anck-Su-Namun’s chambers. The Medjai told him nothing more than that his mistress had betrayed him. He decided to personally intercept them. The Medjai, bound to not divulge the secret of true magic even to their sovereign, knew they would have to do their best.

Seti and his guards caught Imhotep’s followers off guard. They managed to make enough noise to let their master know. Loyal as they were, though, Seti’s glare caused them to open the doors. He knew not who they were at that time, but decided their punishment could come later. The doors opened.

Lo and behold, there stood Anck-Su-Namun inconspicuously standing by herself. He strode to her faster than the Medjai anticipated. Grabbing her wrists, he examined her.

For a moment all was fine. The Medjai walked closer, alert for anything, ignoring the men they’d passed. The air was tense, and nothing was certain.

Then Seti saw the smudges on her arm and demanded to know who touched her. At that moment, she yelled out. The indigo light shocked him. Seti took a step back and saw her costumed form.

A figure dropped from the ceiling behind him; Imhotep’s followers rushed the Medjai from behind, separating them and their pharaoh for a brief moment.

In one fluid motion, the assailant snatched the pharaoh’s blade away. Anck-Su-Namun snapped out her sharpened fan. It sliced down Seti’s chest as two blades simultaneously entered his back.

The weapons left his warm corpse as the Medjai pushed back Imhotep’s followers. The lovers stepped back, realizing what they’d done in the heat of the moment. Yet they held no regrets. Such was their love.

At last, Scarlet Beetle and Dark Claw came through the balcony, but far too late. Rage and shame brimmed in an instant. Imhotep and Anck-Su-Namun, unaware of any jewels but their own until that moment, were surprised.

Scarlet Beetle, with dark blue hair and eyes, wore a silk white battle-dress and mask, accompanied by golden bracelets and pauldrons, whereas Dark Claw had a handsome complexion of blonde and green, and adorned a sleeveless suit of black with silver arm braces and a silver-lined black mask. 

Quickly and efficiently, the duo set to work against the unprepared committers of deicide. Anck-Su-Namun’s fan met Dark Claw’s staff, and Imhotep’s blades, one magicked and one Seti’s, met Scarlet Beetle’s yo-yo.

The battle kicked off, neither side of the lovers gaining any initial advantage. The unready Medjai and Imhotep’s crafty followers slew one another to a dead standstill. 

Older and stronger, the venomous-hearted wielders managed to push back the chosen wielders at first. Imhotep and Anck-Su-Namun had declared themselves inseparable. Nothing would ever come between them. This promise carried their strength as they dodged and weaved.

However, Scarlet Beetle and Dark Claw soon countered them with greater force. Trained together since they were young, and bound by unselfish love and the agility of the youth, they soon gained ground against the priest and the mistress.

Shouting forth ‘Lucky Charm’, Scarlet Beetle was gifted a red-black spear. With one look, she and Dark Claw knew her plan.

They manipulated and swerved their opponents without them realizing it. Then, at the right moment, they switched enemies in a tango of clangs and whiffs.

‘Cataclysm’ rang out and suddenly Imhotep found his magic sword disintegrated, his other one knocked away, and himself shoved onto the balcony. 

With a cry, he next saw the magically enhanced spear drive itself through Anck-Su-Namun’s suit. She cried back for him to flee. They both knew only he might save her–through resurrection.

Knowing he had no choice, Imhotep flew into the shadows to await his chance. He was gone before Dark Claw could get to him.

Scarlet Beetle walked to Dark Claw; a grimace formed on her expression. They had not lost, but they had not won either. Lacing their fingers together, they sighed.

“Damn him,” he growled. “We were too late.” His lady’s fingers squeezed his before a kiss stole his attention.

“Fret not, my kitty,” she said. “We will bring him justice, will we not?” He purred in response, bringing her warmth.

They leaped off into the night, determined to succeed…

—

Luka continued to listen, knowing though this may seem the precipice of victory in any heroic tale ever listened to by the youth here, this was not like any other tale.

Shadows moved in the night as Ardeth ranted out, his voice quiet yet loud. The crackling of the fire matched the eerie strength of his intimidating tones and the movements of his arms.

—

Thereafter, Imhotep laid low. He dared not use his powers nor even chance his kwami being seen. He hadn’t had a chance to ask how its powers worked yet, but it had to wait. 

Anck-Su-Namun’s impaled body was slowly mummified over the course of forty days. Scarlet Beetle, Dark Claw, and the Medjai did their best. Unfortunately, nothing pertaining to the second murderer’s identity could be pinpointed. She kept the peacock close to her for lack of a current Guardian. One was yet to even be chosen to be trained by their superior order. Such was fate’s amusement.

The day eventually came for Anck-Su-Namun to be entombed in the middle of the Sahara so none might find and commemorate her.

Per his duties as Keeper of the Dead, Imhotep attended the ceremony to damn her soul in the afterlife. They did not want her devoured by Ammit for that would be too much of a mercy.

Scarlet Beetle and Dark Claw kept watch from afar; Medjai close by did so as well. For though this was tradition, they wished to be sure of no malicious magics. 

The deeds were done with nothing going askew. She was damned, her sarcophagus dropped in carelessly, the chest of Canopic jars slid in, and then covered with sand.

The Medjai soon left. So too did Scarlet Beetle and Dark Claw. All went as it should’ve. They were determined to enjoy a night after endless weeks of work.

However, as soon as they did, and Imhotep’s men confirmed it, the plan was sprung. They murdered the soldiers there, unburied her, moved her and the chest into a chariot, and raced into the night, time now against them.

They headed towards Hamunaptra, the City of the Dead, the resting place of the pharaohs of Egypt and countless others.

What they did not know, though, was that Dark Claw, having second thoughts, had returned to see them–or, at that moment, their absence, and his dead brethren. Crying for his lady, he followed after, hoping his lady and their men might catch up to him.

By the dawn’s light, Imhotep and his men were there, the glory of the rising rays revealing the rocky complex in all its deadly gorgeousness against the backdrop of a long extinct volcano, whose rocks were the ground the city was carved in.

The Watchers of the Dead, unknowing of Imhotep’s treachery, only of his status, let him and his followers into the city without protest. An ominous gust whisked alongside.

He visited the statue of Anubis under the pretense of worshiping the god he served. This, though, was deception. He descended far, far below and unsealed a chest–within was the Book of the Dead, the one thing in all the world that could recover the soul of his lover. The chest was returned. The heavy obsidian book was hidden in his spacious robes as he returned to the surface.

Further trickery managed to gain them a sah-nejther, a preparation room. The cold stone room, deep underground, filled with priests cautiously working around a boiling, bubbling pit of black, mysterious substance in a moat in the middle of the room’s other half.

Anck-Su-Namun’s mummy and the five jars were laid on the altar with unmatched speed. Not only were they doubtless being hunted down, but her organs would not be fresh enough for long.

Chanting began. Imhotep’s legion kneeled in a circle around her, and others stood guard to the rocky chamber. First, he easily undamned her soul; next began the true ritual.

Imhotep, the only man entrusted with the key to the book, promptly unlocked it. He read forth from it and spoke in the ancient tongue of the time. His followers repeated the words over and over. 

Upon Imhotep’s words, the moat bubbled. The slimy substance arose to the surface–and so did her soul.

Black sludge spilled from the Canopic jars lined between her and Imhotep. They oozed and poured, the essences crawling into her preserved corpse. Her soul floated from the moat to her, seeping inside.

Imhotep made his way over to her, sacrificial dagger in hand. His men continued to chant. As Anck-Su-Namun breathed to life, he smiled. Life gleamed in her twitching eyes.

“This will hurt my love,” he said. He opened the lion jar. Reaching in, he procured her mummified heart. Raising the heart in one hand, and aligning the dagger to her chest with the other, Imhotep whispered lovingly, readying her to return to him. “It will hurt to put you back together again, but-”

And at that, shouting ensued. The curdled screams of his soldiers sounded of an ambush. A familiar whir shot and knocked the heart from his hand, back into the jar as it shattered in half.

Absolute frustration annexed Imhotep. Still holding the golden sacrificial blade, his hand moved to put on the brooch resting in his pocket.

“Nooroo, Dark Wings Rise!” He transformed, instantly going after the duo. Meanwhile, the Medjai led an onslaught upon the priests and soldiers of Imhotep.

At last, Scarlet Beetle had caught up to her precious cat after a long and arduous night of travel. They were more than ready to finish this.

Scarlet Beetle only smiled. “Well, my charming and cunning cat, it seems that a dark shadow has cast over Egypt.”

“Even so,” Dark Claw said, “The light of your beauty will overcome it, and outshine his dark desires with our love, hm?”

Then they jumped at him as he dashed towards them. A distant thunder boomed, perhaps the gods letting their anger be known to motivate them. 

Imhotep’s magicked blade and the dagger deflected Dark Claw’s staff with enough might to stagger him across the room. He yowled, almost falling into the pit.

Anck-Su-Namun’s soul, with no chanting to tether it, screeched a ghostly wail. Imhotep’s blade met a whirring red circle he was unable to penetrate.

Shrill screeches cried out again and again as the combatants continued to clash. The black sludge retreated into the dark waters from whence it came. Her loose spirit finally sank back into the depths.

Avoiding another strike from Scarlet Beetle, Imhotep skirted a wave of sand into her eyes. Her hands threw up. The yo-yo spun out of control. With glee, he lunged to impale her as she did his lover–

–and Dark Claw came forth and punched him right in the jaw. Pain shot in Imhotep as something cracked. Dark Claw's sneaky claws flitted the brooch right off him.

A pained, normal Imhotep fell onto the stone. The Medjai scooped him up, off and away to face punishment.

As the men were carried away, too, Scarlet Beetle and Dark Claw stole the moment to rest on each other. At last, with one easy swoop, they had won.

—

Though the fire was very warm, and the recruits were silently cheering the ancient heroes, Luka steeled himself. The Medjai around Ardeth followed suit.

No matter how often they heard it, Ardeth always managed to invoke emotion from any listener. Such was his skill.

—

Soon, Imhotep and his followers were taken to the court of Pharaoh Ramses the Second. The Medjai were doubled in number to ensure his safety. Scarlet Beetle and Dark Claw watched from the shadows, nestled among the audience.

Imhotep and his men were tried for the deicide of Seti the First; the murder of his daughter Princess Nefertiti, who had fallen ill and passed away of a broken heart; the death of her lover, who followed her similarly; and the murder of many loyal Medjai, guards, and soldiers.

However, far more vile charges were laid thereafter upon Imhotep alone: treason against the gods of Egypt, and perverting the sacred order of life and death.

In due time, inevitable guilt was handed down by Seti’s son, along with the sentence for each and every one of them: to be mummified alive.

And, written not on the record, the fate of Hom-Dai for Imhotep, the worst of all the ancient curses. It was one so feared it had never been used before, nor has it been used since. 

As the sentence was struck, and Imhotep was smitten by the gods he’d once served through and for the pharaoh, he screamed as he was dragged away. “Death is only the beginning!”

Following their orders, his men and he were taken away by the Medjai to face their living pain and post-mortem judgment. Or, in Imhotep’s case, to forever suffer.

Relief swallowed over Mari and Aiden as the traitorous priest was finally out of sight. But Imhotep’s words remained fresh in their minds. In her dress, she clutched the brooches tighter, awaiting a Guardian to hand them too. In equal fashion, he held her close, even if the danger had passed. 

All were transported to the depths of Hamunaptra to face their final fates. Once more, they visited a sah-nejther, except this time not of their own volition, and as the victims.

The priests and soldiers were strapped to boards and tables. All writhed, resisted, rebelled–futilely. Their vital organs were ripped out of them piece by piece. Men in jackal-themed headdresses worked ceaselessly to mummify them with no regard for their agony. Their screams and moans grew loud and desperate. Then they were quiet and hopeless.

Naturally, none would survive the full forty days of the process. But many still suffered for days on end before finally succumbing. 

During these forty days, Imhotep was held in place as part of his punishment. He was forced to watch his men tortured alive. They kept his eyes open by force. He saw them die one by one. 

Then began his own mummification, as the last of them to be doomed. Firstly, they held him in place and cut his tongue with a clean cut. The rats delighted in devouring it. No more could he speak except in muffled gags. 

Imhotep struggled and bled as they slowly, slowly wrapped him up in bandages. Once he was fully covered, save his eyes so he may have one last look at those who punished him, they placed him in the sarcophagus. 

As the Miraculous wielders began to recite the curse of Hom-Dai, as Imhotep saw and heard them, a man wearing an Anubis headdress, a physical embodiment of the god, brought an urn containing a skittering multitude of flesh-eating scarab beetles. 

He raised the urn. Opened it. Tipped it over. Right over Imhotep’s face.

They were poured into the sarcophagus, Anubis’s wrath came to the mortal realm.

Quickly, the insects swarmed around and began eating Imhotep. His screams were muted as they placed the lid on top of him, sealing him. This then placed this coffin of wood inside a larger, heavier sarcophagus of smooth granite.

The very key he had once been entrusted with was used to lock this second box. The scarabs and Imhotep consummated with each other through the devouring of one another’s flesh. Here he was to remain, locked away, to be undead for all time, to never truly die, and to be conjoined with the scarabs in eternal unrest. This was the curse of the Hom-Dai.

The Medjai buried Imhotep underneath the statue of Anubis. This was to ensure he could never arise. It also kept him under the watchful eye of the god he’d once been a faithful servant to. 

They vowed to make sure he was never released. For if he were awakened, he would arise as a walking disease, a plague upon mankind, an unholy flesh eater with the strength of ages, power over the sand, and the glory of invincibility! 

The Medjai were to remain ever vigilant, standing guard over Imhotep’s tomb to prevent his escape, from destroying life and bringing back his love. This, we have done, and continue to do so.

—

And at that, as stars twinkled, Ardeth threw his final piece of trick-fuel into the fire. Cold, dying flames jolted up with fury–more than a few recruits were taken aback. Shadows danced around them all.

Though some thought he was surely done, Luka held up his hand to quell any words from them. For Ardeth was not. The Medjai leader stood silent. He took in a few breaths and a drink of water handed to him by a fellow warrior. Ardeth silently thanked Luka.

Then the shadows jumped out and a great roar ripped.

The recruits screamed–only to find a few warriors standing there, amused at their expense.

Ardeth then cleared his throat and dropped the canteen to the ground. The men returned to his side and all eyes flew to him.

His gaze scorched over each of them individually. The moon and cold grew stronger. A wavering thread of wind weaved through the camp. His tongue spoke again.

—

Alas, against all odds and eyes of the watchful Medjai, as well as Scarlet Beetle and Dark Claw, one follower escaped their notice.

He was furious that his master had been defeated viciously and unfairly. He was angry that such great pain and punishment had come to Imhotep and his fellow brethren. 

In due time, Ramses the Second was soon officially crowned. Great celebrations were had. Though Seti the First had passed brutally, in death there is life. The cycle continues anew. The kingdom had remained stable in spite of Imhotep’s distortions. For this, the gods were to be thanked with great festivities to entrench the faith that all was and would be well. 

The Medjai, too, partook in the delights. Assuming all was safe, so, too, did Mari and Aiden. They were fresh off their hardest battle in their years as the Miraculous wielders. For once, for the first time in a while, they decided to be together, to themselves, while Egypt was at peace.

During the day, Mari and Aiden roamed the thrilling streets of Thebes as a palace maiden and her guard. It was indeed the truth. Out they went to enjoy it all. With them, though hidden, so too did the four Kwami partake in the jubilation: Tikki, the Ladybug; Plagg, the Black Cat; Nooroo, the Butterfly; and Duusu, the Peacock.

The young lovers explored all the festival had to offer. They ate and they danced, they drank and they kissed. Their love for one another had never been stronger. Giggles and promises echoed as the hours swept by. The kwami experienced a wide array of human activities for the first time in a long time. Truly, this was the City of the Living. 

Gradually, the sun went up then fell, and the moon rose to take its place. The city went to sleep, but not Mari and Aiden. They called upon their powers to transform. 

Scarlet Beetle and Dark Claw soared in the air above Thebes. While avoiding all sight, they took in the sight of each other and they sailed to and fro. 

They chased each other with flirts and laughs. Their eyes crossed paths, shining with love under the shine of the moonlight. 

Soon, though, the euphoria wore off and tiredness came over them. Scarlet Beetle and Dark Claw returned to the outer walls, between the palace and the wealthy.

However, as careful as they were to avoid being seen, one pair of eyes, laced with malice, managed to follow them in dark, hidden pursuit. 

The young couple detransformed. Mari and Aiden sat on the wall, hands together and legs kicking against the stone. It was just them and their love, above the city, beneath the moon, and four kwami spinning at their sides with pure joy.

A pleasant breeze flew over them. It ruffled Aiden’s hair, irking him. Mari couldn’t hide her coy face. In retaliation, he tussled hers. She slapped back his hand. They chuckled and quieted down.

“You know,” she said, tugging him closer, leaning on his shoulder, “I’ve been doing some thinking… Perhaps it’s time to renounce our Miraculous?”

This piqued Aiden’s curiosity. “Why do you say that, my love? We have long lives ahead of us and much left to do.”

Mari sighed. She looked into his eyes. “Yes, but… will we truly be loving another, or have a life together, if all we do is fight?” A pleading tone rose. “I think, by stopping Imhotep, we’ve more than earned our rest.”

Aiden considered her words–then smiled. “After all, we recovered two entire Miraculous as well. They ought to be enough to pay for retirement, my elderly love.”

“Oh shut up you kitten!” She couldn’t help but wheeze. “We haven’t been doing this that long! We have the rest of our lives for each other.”

Aiden’s grunt was mirthy. “Of course we do. Anything for you, m’lovely m’lady.”

“Thank you, my precious kitty.” She pulled him closer with a strength he’d grown used to.

Flustered, he met his lips to hers, prepared to give anything to be with her and do anything she wished so they may always be happy together. For if she was happy, he would be, too.

As the kwami cooed, and they kissed, the gleam of metal glinted in the shadows behind them. As they pressed deeper, arms wrapping, and the tiny gods were distracted, he struck.

He mustered every ounce of speed in himself. He dashed out of the darkness, each hand holding a curved dagger. No sound came from his waving hands or his swift feet.

Only the sound of his breath alerted them. 

Aiden whirled around, breaking their embrace, and tried to push Mari out of the way.

But it was too little, too late.

An experienced bladesmen, one hand struck Aiden, and the other hand readjusted in the flick of an eye to impale upon her.

They fell next to each other, already dying. There was nothing the kwami could do but call out to the Medjai. Calling upon their powers on their own would only devastate the world itself. That was the price of the greater good.

The last follower of Imhotep finally let loose his rage. However, before he fell, Aiden, with a push by Mari, managed to knife-slice their assailant with a fatal, but slow-acting, gash on his chest.

Regardless, he noticed nothing in his onslaught. He pulled out his daggers and stabbed them once more. Again and again. Unleashing vengeance for his master. Every ounce of fury and blame was rammed into their chests.

Flesh flew and blood sprayed. Brutal violence ruled their last moments and cut short their lives and love.

Though they were on the cusp of death, Mari and Aiden, in one final act as Scarlet Beetle and Dark Claw, held their hands together. They lay a curse upon him to die with suffering in measure to their own.

As he heard shouts from the guards come closer, and final breaths drew, they renounced their Miraculous. They told their kwami to never look back.

Great sadness consumed the kwamis, Tikki and Plagg especially, but it was important for them not to fall into the wrong hands. The moments their masters died, their last breaths released, they vanished into the jewels; so, too, did Nooroo and Duusu, to never see day or night until worn again.

Arrows started to fly, and footsteps came closer. In his panic, the follower snatched the brooches, holding only a vague notion of their powers, and stuffed them in a bag.

Alas, for the Ladybug and the Black Cat, he had no time to wear them. So, with crafty anger, he ripped them from their bodies–and threw them into the streets while he descended the wall. Thus, in a twisted way, they wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.

In mere moments, the earrings and ring were lost to the sands of time. After thousands of years of service, they vanished with tragedy and mystery.

The Medjai gave chase. He knew he would soon die from the gash. He fought his way across the desert as his master did. Infection and sickness settled onto him.

He reached the depths of Hamunaptra, searching for the remains of Imhotep. His hours were dwindling.

And then the curse laid upon him was brought forth by Anubis. When he took a misstep into a chamber, thunder boomed and he fell.

They swarmed him–a horde of mummified crocodiles. They first bit his manhood, then his limbs, then his chest.

Screaming, he threw the brooches to either side of him, scattering them into the depths. His death took hours.

The Medjai found his minced remains and the blood-soaked, bandaged creatures back in their resting places. Yet, even so, the Miraculous could not be found. Their best efforts failed.

—

“And so, the two Miraculous were lost once more, in addition to the Ladybug and the Black Cat. They remain lost to this day. We possess the remaining fifteen, but we dare not use their powers, lest we lose them too or fall prey to incurable temptations. When and if we find them–that is up to fate. We continue to keep watch over Hamunaptra to keep anyone from resurrecting the Mummy.”

Ardeth finished his tale, breath toiling.

“No matter who,” Luka added. “Even if they were my parents.” He was not perturbed in the slightest. For the heavy expression upon him, he was calm.

Ardeth sat back down, and an old man stepped forward, introducing himself as Fu, the current Guardian. Fu began to congratulate the recruits personally.

Luka walked to Ardeth to sit beside him and enjoy the rest of the night together. He sighed, and Luka looked at the stars with him.

The fire continued to flicker as Fu spoke to the recruits, the tragic story settling into their hearts and souls.

Soon enough, the man was done; the fire fizzled out, and the men and the recruits soon retreated to their tents to rest and ready themselves for further travel. Ardeth and Luka made their way to a velvet tent, the only color in a sea of brown-black fabrics.

Ardeth’s thoughts wandered far and wide. Telling the tales always made him ponder. He couldn’t possibly imagine anything coming back, even though he was one of the few allowed to see the Miraculous and the Box in close and in person. Sighing, he turned his head.

One look at Luka, already sound asleep, caused a smile. This boy was his second chance in life and he wouldn’t let anything stop him from being the father required. Feeling the exhaustion himself, he closed his eyes and let all thoughts cease. There was a final one before he faded.

If there was one thing he, and all Medjai, always knew, it was that life and fate can be quite fickle and unpredictable.

Chapter Text

Amongst the ruins of Hamunaptra stood a torn and cracked statue of Anubis. Stone colored brown and black, sandy and pale, littered the land all around it. This stone, carved by man, had been assaulted by nature over five thousand years. It was still and undisturbed, but not quiet.

It was nineteen-twenty-three, the City of the Dead was dead, and would soon claim more dead, its hunger for death never satiated.

Stone formed into a crumbling assortment of somehow intact walls and pillars, half-remaining walkways and ramps, partial roofs and floors. The extinct volcano, behind in the distance, stood eternally, rising high into the blazing desert sky. 

Each eye of Anubis, if crossed, could gaze upon each side of battle. One for the men here, and one for the men incoming. Though missing an arm, the pale-faced stone was no less imposing. Harsh sunlight scorned it, as both did to the men. But the statue did not care for the heat. It kept staring.

Three hundred military-uniformed men, colored sandy-white and wearing kepis, were stranded in the desert ruins. They had no one but themselves to save them. The primal instinct to survive was raging. Even so, they must keep on going. No sane person would not try to outwit the barren odds. For if man is known for anything, it is the tendency to persist against a cruel universe.

The burning sun bore in full brunt force, capering the legion of men, and one woman, below with tortuous heat. They held themselves as best they could. Defensive formation was tight but thin and ill along the ancient, crumbling walls and pillars. 

No clouds offered even a thread of shade. Nothing allowed any strands of shadow. Sweat soaked and dripped. Firearms were clenched, holding steady, but shakily so. The men in the lower half of the city fared no better than those lining the edges of the upper half’s overtowering wall.

The sun reflected upon hundreds of scimitars crossing a rapidly squeezing distance. The sea of glints felt the true mark of their doom, a sign of the absolute.

The ruins of Hamunaptra held the ragtag remnants of a rogue squadron of the French Foreign Legion. Weeks ago, they’d been far, far stronger. An arduous journey dwindled them one by one. Greed had devastated them and kept them in a hazy bliss of ignorance. Only now, too late, did they realize their regrets upon their imminent slaughter. A dark-cloaked horde of men on horses screaming ‘ooo-loo-loo’ were charging in the distance, blotting the sandy horizon.

Following greed’s pursuit, fear left them almost paralyzed at this moment, rueing the day. The apprehending sound of twelve thousand pounding hooves beat closer and closer. The odds were ten to one. Nevertheless, for all their flaws, loyalty to another currently stood stronger than any selfish desire to flee. 

They were barely held together by their will to live. They knew themselves to be lost; they had been lost for quite some time. From individual ragtags across the world to a well-oiled, if loose-ethics, regiment, they’d found companionship and purpose with one other in this hazardous occupation. Death was an all too real possibility. Yet try they must.

At the middle and front of their lines was the commander, Gabriel Agreste, the sole man atop one of the legion’s few surviving horses. Beneath a gloved hand, the only shade, pale gray-cerulean eyes observed the approaching enemy. A mocking whisk of breeze fluttered his light blonde-silver combed hair. Like his uniform, it was slick and well-kempt, laid-back. The heat did not bother his pale, rosy-tinted, European skin. Silver-lined, squarish glasses were the final touch.

“So, do you think we have any chance within reason, Sir Pointy-Chin?” asked the man to his right, at his steed’s muscular legs. “The desert may have caught up to you, old man.”

Gabriel sighed and looked down at his second-in-command's bright blues. “In all confidence? No, Rick, no we do not.” He smiled anyway. “But we shall try and see, luck may be on my side.”

This man, Rick O’Connell, was perhaps the most fierce, and normal, man present. Compared to everyone else’s standard wear, American roots showed through a brown jacket atop his white long sleeves. Rick held himself tough and firm, traits learned through a harsh but fruitful life. Squinting his eyes and biting his cheek, Rick triple-checked that his ammunition was full. The same wind grated his head’s rugged mess of brown hair and desert-tanned, peach skin.

Licking his lips, Rick grunted and then spoke, tasting the blitzing, grinding grains. “Your luck, Gabriel?” He quit gazing forward for a moment to shoot the old man a scathing look. The weak wind died. “We all need luck, here. We haven’t had a single iota of it since you convinced your pals here to a damned march from the Equatorial to Egypt. The British are no doubt pissed.”

He grunted, unbothered. “That was every man’s choice to risk, and diplomacy is not our problem,” Gabriel suavely replied. His foot nudged the horse and it repositioned sideways. He squinted harder, attempting to discern something. “Besides, I am the one here with a wife and son. If anyone,” he said, “I require all the luck. Tell me why you complain when you went with us.”

Rick half-chuckled. “You have me there. I wanted a piece of action and treasure. The rumors were half-right. Even so, unlike you, I roll with the punches. And,” he spat out with a flair of fiery snark, “I will admit being ignorant of the enemy, which your smug face won’t. Clever bastards, these accursed Tuaregs, waiting until we were cushy and sneaking up on us.”

“Hm, we shall see, Rick,” Gabriel replied, amused, “We shall see if they bite us at all.” His grin grew wider. “The desert is a battlefield that tests our very mettle, our spirits as soldiers, and them as warriors, to see if we have what it takes.”

The American laughed at his French counterpart. “I don’t know what the hell you’re on, rich boy, but you better have my back. I, for one, don’t intend to die for my mistakes and your slick charm. I’ll give you that as well. You’re as slick a bastard as the guys coming to kill us are!”

Rick was forced to shout the last bit. The ooo-loo-loos and the thundering ramparts of their partnering hooves had increased in deafening intensity. The desert warriors were almost upon them. Their menacing eyes and lightly tattooed faces were a blurry detail. They’d be much clearer soon enough.

The camels, tethered on the far end of the ruins, were completely unaware. Gabriel drew his revolvers, unafraid to be an open target, while Rick ducked slightly lower. They were ready and armed for the incoming, imminent, inevitable slaughter. 

But not everyone was.

Straight behind them and past the walls, by a few hundred yards, a pair of old, worn stone doors hung open by a crack. A curious, young gaze peered from behind. They were the only obvious entrance to the vast underground beneath the city. And the only viable shelter around.

These doors led to the vast network beneath Hamunaptra. These halls of death were worn down by wind, sand–and, at this moment in time, one very excited weasel. He was fast on sandals. This cooler air was kinder to his darkened skin and eyes.

Cracked walls hurried past Beni, a Hungarian, who almost wore the standard uniform. Red torchlight matched his crimson kepi-fez, the one unique item he wore. In the near darkness, his desert-torn clothing itched the dry rock and cooler air beneath. A pair of poorly maintained Steyrs clanked on his belt, in addition to useless wads of ammunition stuffed in a bandolier.

Beni passed turn after turn. Sharp imagery haunted his mind as he hurried through the ancient corridors. He had not expected to come across a room of mummified alligators. The horrifying sight would not leave his mind. Despite it, an even greater trail of thought occupied him. What he’d found was far more important. It made the harrowing surprise well worth it in hindsight.

In due time, the crack of light provided by the slip in the doorway soon appeared into view. It lit him up as cool air was harried away. Eager hands flitted an old, wooden hexagonal box between his fingers. Excitement nearly overcame. However, being a professional bandit of synagogues, he did not let it show. He maintained a calm, cool exterior.

Beni’s weak lungs burned as he slowed down. He tossed his torch behind him. It clacked on the ground, fire half-snuffing out. “Nathalie!” he called. Holding the box aloft, he took delight in the glasses-wearing woman attempting to hide her alarm. In a rush, the man finally reached her. Beni formed an iron grip on the box as he practically shoved himself into her personal space.

Next to her, a blonde, green-eyed young teen, with a face reminiscent of the commander, but not her, turned his frightened eyes in curiosity. This new event was more interesting than the death threat outside he’d been peeking out. Nathalie motioned for him to keep looking. Understanding this was adult business, he went back to peeping.

Nathalie was dressed equally elegantly and as sharp as Gabriel, except in all black and fitted to her form. Sleek and dark, ovular glasses reflected the sunlight. Beni more or less forced the brown-black box, the size of his hand and carved eloquently with red swirls, into her view. Bluebell-colored eyes looked between him and it. Beni smirked callously. 

Then her hands grabbed his wrists. She strong-armed Beni and shoved the man back by more than a few paces. Almost back into the dark, in fact. The movement stopped when his boot crunched onto the withered torch. His back had hit a wall. Miniature plumes of dust kicked up. Her black, purple-tipped hair, combed straight and neat, swirled madly.

“What do you want, you scrupulous bastard?” Nathalie hardly whispered, staring into his soul. “I told you minutes ago to line up outside, and take your place! To the man, those were his words!”

Though nervous with dripping palms, and pinned, Beni’s tongue never failed him. “Ah, but you see,” he almost chuckled out.

,“I know your little secret.” His fingers tapped on the box. “I’ve adventurous eyes, and I believe a little ‘Duusu’ would be welcomed by Gabriel.”

“I do not know what you speak of,” said Nathalie. “Furthermore, that would imply you have spied on us, your leaders.” She squeezed his wrists, huffing. “Then again, the scoundrel you are, I am not surprised.” She pressed him harder into the ancient stone. Gratification crossed her face as she saw the man wincing.

Beni elected to get straight to the point, for though he liked to gloat, pain currently overcame that priority. “Let us not pretend nor fret further. You want my silence and my treasure, a treasure he promised shares of if known about.” A flash of white accompanied daring eyes. 

She let go by a small margin, but not enough to stop the pain. “I see where you are leading to, I think.” Nathalie blinked, considering. A quick check on Adrien proved him still there at the door, and not listening in as told. “Do go on.”

“I offer both–for a price, of course,” Beni went on. The kepi-fez leaned as he cocked his head. “Or else, word may leak of a traitorous commander when we get home. It’d be ostensibly said, and rather obvious, he became too greedy…”

In an instant, Beni found his head slammed against the wall. His straining body was lowered and let go without so much as a notice. Beni barely saved himself from flailing about. Hands on his knees and breath catching up, the man glared at her. 

Nathalie’s expression was bleak and formal, business-like. She simply dusted off her cuffs. Beni stood up, box in one hand, as the other rubbed his pounding head. Pleasant satisfaction spewed from her aura, yet there was not even a pinch or twinge of muscle showing it.

“You’re quite lucky,” Nathalie hushed venomously, “I prefer dialogue to violence–well, mostly at least.” She allowed herself a small smirk. “Your appointment has been made.” Nathalie swirled around swiftly. Coincidentally, Beni stumbled onto his back anyway with a wheezing oomph of agony. 

“Adrien!” she called out. The fourteen-year-old dipped back to meet her gaze. “Ready the horses, grab all we packed, no firing any of the weapons. We are leaving now. And let your father know he must come here, then along with us. Right away, please.” 

Adrien nodded and dashed out of the door. Sporting an adolescent version of the French Foreign Legion’s wear, he ran across the ruins, under the sun. He would’ve liked to gaze in awe at the ruins, but pressing matters--namely, the three thousand riders coming to kill him–motivated him not to act as if an archeologist or a tourist. Feet kicked up sand.

Seconds later he arrived between his father’s horse and the kind man he called Mister O’Connell. Adrien ducked behind the wall. Not a whiff of hair stuck above the ruined wall. His father’s mount was impressive to be by. Rick, painted with concern, eyed them both, asking without speaking. The ooo-loo-looing would’ve drowned him out anyway.

“Adrien,” Gabriel almost growled while shouting, his figure imposing. “I told you to stay safe with Nathalie, not run out and get yourself killed!”

While Adrien’s nerves tinged at the admonishment, he effortlessly relayed with a yell. “Yes, Father! But Nathalie told me to get you–that Beni guy you told me not to bother with requires you. Something vague about a deal, I think I heard!”

Rick let himself be heard. “Well, well, that’s where the scamp has been!” While maneuvering to see the stone doors, he saw Nathalie waving the boy over to her. He slapped Adrien’s back with a hup. “You go over and join your mother, Adrien!” he ordered. “Go get along and get going! Leave the fighting to the men!”

Adrien nodded. With no waste, the teen scampered his way back in the direction he’d come. Along the way, he kept his head low. In due time he’d rounded the corner, both him and Nathalie vanishing. Rick saw Gabriel’s stiff face lighten up only a little. He wasn’t a father, but he certainly understood the grave situation they were faced with.

“You go and take care of Beni, Gabriel!” Rick said loudly, “I can handle it out here! You just make sure you come back, elsewise you’re no better than that freak!”

Gabriel mused for a moment. “Hm, yes, yes, I shall take care of him, in the best interest. He’s only ever been a thorn since specially assigned to me… “

At that, with a shout of ‘Hi-Yah!’, he stirred the horse into action. The hundreds of yards became a blip to them both. Rick and his men became specks of sand to him. He leaped off and sprinted inside. Though he may be aging, he still maintained a spring in his step.

As per his son’s good word, Beni was inside, awaiting. Gabriel’s eyebrows raised at the hexagonal box, the happy, happy hippo of a Hungarian beheld in his hands. “Well, Beni,” he greeted, stopping short of the man, tall and imposing, “I do indeed see you have a deal to make. You’ve always had a good eye for that which is of value.”

Beni shuffled forward and took his commander’s hand, shaking the limp mass eagerly. “Indeed, indeed, my good friend!” his voice echoed. The closed quarters of the space muffled the horde almost upon them. Afterward, he stepped back and brushed himself for a more dashing, presenting appearance. “My gracious commander, I wish to strike a deal with you.”

Nodding, Gabriel snapped his fingers. “Let’s be of haste, then. We both have places to be, my good friend.” He reached inside his coat and readjusted two items. They were smooth and wonderful to touch, soothing against this aggravating man.

“Ta-dahhh!” Beni razzle-dazzled as he opened the old, wooden box the size of his palms without a creak. Inside rested a dark, metallic brooch. It glinted hungrily in the sunlight. In the blink of an eye, he then snapped it shut. It retreated inside his coat. Then he spoke again. “Come out, little friend, and meet my friend!”

On his word, a humanoid blob, colored a deep glowing blue from his pocket, accompanied by iridescent pink-violet eyes, flew into the air out of his pocket. It floated with wing-like arms and its head and tail peacock feathers spreading out. In return, a light purple being of equal size swooshed out of Gabriel’s pocket. Across it were swirls. It's more human, amethyst eyes widened as the two beings froze where they were.

Beni’s expression gleamed. “It appears they know each other, just as your ‘Nooroo’ said to you! This one calls itself ‘Duusu’.” He shook Gabriel’s hand again and then patted the man’s uncaring shoulder. He only received a grunt. “I do not know what these pesky creatures are. I am sure you were as shocked as I was. Consequently, I’m sure you are interested in having them, for they are so strange!”

The shouts of the soldiers outside, and the storming of desert warriors, had reached its zenith. However, Gabriel ignored them for the moment. “Yes, you are correct on many counts, Beni. You indeed know the value, if not the power, these treasures hold.” Not a twitch appeared on him. “I presume you have told no one but Nathalie and me?” He readjusted his gloves.

“Of course not, majestic sir!” Beni beamed with a half-bow. His headwear almost toppled off, but he was quicker. “I’ve been zip! For one, only us few have the imagination to not go insane and accept that higher powers, such as these-”, he gestured to the kwami, “-exist! And the more who know, the less pay I receive from you!”

Gabriel bit his cheek and twiddled his thumbs, nodding thoughtfully. “I agree on all points, Beni, and appreciate your discreteness. You’ve been a most valuable, if irritating, asset. Perhaps our little bugs can be away now, to avoid the harsh heat?”

Beni nodded; at their commands, the small creatures hid. The crashing outside had to almost be at the lowest of the city’s withered walls.

“Then, my fine sir, what shall my award be for helping you obtain the treasure we came here to find, upon our return home, hm?” Beni was practically dancing in place, his bundle of multi-faith necklaces swinging. “This shall be the finest day for us both! Blessed are we for a sandstorm to have uncovered the city, and for you, our fine commander, to lead us here on mere rumor, for all our glory.”

“You shall be rewarded as you deserve, Beni. Though, I have a slightly different thought as to how it shall be done,” Gabriel replied. “I propose this, instead: You’re fired.”

Nimble fingers, timed to Beni’s confused eyes, were quick on the draw–Gabriel produced a revolver and pulled the trigger one, two, three times, two by the heart and one in the head, in smooth succession. Beni fell to the cool stone ground, dead as a doornail. 

“Alas,” he thought out loud, tucking the gun away, “The Book of the Dead will have to wait, but not all is lost. It seems new, astounding powers are now in play…”

With a whistle, Gabriel strolled over, plucked the box from the dead man’s pocket to his, and ordered both kwami to stealthily come along. He picked up the pace and ran to the doors, knowing his time to be limited.

“Soon, Emilie, soon!” he cried, pushing open the stone doors. Gabriel was upbeat, even as his hamstrings throbbed.

To Rick’s bewilderment, a shot crackled behind him, not ahead from the Tuaregs. Snapping to see behind him, he saw Gabriel mounting his horse in one solid jump and galloping away.

Their eyes locked, and Rick screamed, throat burning.

“Hey, I told you not to flee, you coward!”

“Sorry, Rick, but as I said before, I have a son and a wife to attend to!”

“That’s no excuse, you yellow-bellied bastard!”

“Well, you’ve just been promoted!”

And off the old man went, following the dust clouds of horses laden with passengers far ahead of him.

Rick wanted to vent and hit the man. There was no time to do it, though, as his life depended on ahead and not behind. 

Immediately, Rick yelled to all his men and held up his gun for all to see. They knew he was in charge in one second. Rick resettled into position and hollered again.

“Hold steady!”

The dark-robed warriors, scimitars swinging about, ooo-loo-looing as if their lives depended on it, kicked their horses faster. The desert behind them could not be seen.

“Keep steady!”

Rick shouted louder and higher, assimilating his role as their lead without fail, for such was his duty. He gripped his shotgun, ready. Once more, he aimed. The blazing blue above was still.

“Wait until you can see the glint of their scimitars in their eyes!”

The men and their horses grew closer, closer, closer. Their overwhelming force deafened the air, causing Rick’s teeth to rattle. The men around nearest to him shifted their knees.

The white of their turbans became distinct from the black covering the rest of them. The snorts of different horses became distinguishable.

Rick and his men were tense, fingers ready. They were eerily quiet in the face of the storm before them. Licking his dry lips, Rick tasted the dryness of the desert.

Sand kicked up by the horses formed a low undercurrent that drifted towards them. Pounding, pounding, ooo-loo-loo, ooo-loo-loo, scimitars rising, their individual expressions becoming visible.

Across the walls, behind the columns, and atop half-roofs, shotguns were realigning, revolvers were shaking, and bandoliers were strapping tightly. Three thousand descended upon three hundred.

Rick kept focus on the man with the golden scimitar, in front and center, three rows back. Beside the man, Rick observed a curiously European-appearing boy with bluish hair—then Rick saw the gold shine in the man’s dark brown.

“FIRE!”

At that, the first volley of shotgun blasts rang out. Rick and the legion of soldiers started firing at the enemy forces. His attention was so intently on the enemy, that he hardly felt the recoil of the well-oiled machine.

Some shots felled the men on the horses, and some shots hit the horses. Whether fatal or crippling, the result was the same. One rider down brought their fellow companions alongside them to be trampled upon by the incoming warriors.

“AGAIN!”

Rick did not give up sight on the enemy. Another round of lead echoed, their bangs shooting into the flesh of man and horse alike. Men screamed, and horses neighed. Bodies splayed and blood sprayed. Another line of dark-robed men died in unison to the tune of three hundred guns.

Even so, the enemy continued to approach. They soaked the losses. Their resolve did not break. Rick sensed nerves in the men next to him start to fray. Every man could only prolong the decay of confidence for so long.

“SHOOT! SHOOT!”

In quick succession, more shots blew forth from the desperate mass of French citizens and signed foreigners alike. Despite this, the Tuaregs thundered forward–their horses leaped the low ruins closest to the men and were suddenly upon them.

“FIRE!”

Yelled a man who was not Rick, with a thick accent.

Without warning, a counter-return of fire breathed hot from the saddled men. Out of thin air, the line of warriors nearest to the soldiers unleashed gunpowder and metal to their horror. These men had scimitars and shotguns, ensuring they were deadly, no matter how near or how far.

It was at this moment that Rick knew they were dead men. 

Along the entire wall of Rick’s squadron, men gasped in agony as bullets passed through chests. Rick shouted for them to fire again. He heard uncertainty in his voice, even though he wished he could believe otherwise. Heartbeats pounded louder than the horde of hooves.

The soldiers fired again, and again more warriors were slaughtered. This time, the warriors traded shot for shot, letting out their will upon the battlefield. They violently let it be known they would win the battle here.

Tit for tat, even more uniformed men were killed. They slumped over and behind walls as cloaked men and their horses died, only to be replaced, unlike the soldiers. Rick cautiously crept back a few steps on his heels, hoping no one would notice.

Once more, fire for fire fired out, firmly flattening more men onto the hot Sahara. However, the strength of the legion’s shots was halved to what it had been a minute ago. Meanwhile, the warriors’ unbroken volley had not lost any might.

A few gallops later, the Tuaregs flooded into the central partition of the ruins the soldiers occupied. Scimitars lashed out, seizing more lives with their wretched tips. More men fell and more men screamed. Though some warriors died, they were never-ending. 

And at precisely this nadir, hell broke loose.

Rick fully sprang to his feet. Formations dissolved. Without looking behind himself, he cried out loud and ran backward as he went along with thin hope, pulling the trigger. All around him, men on both sides died. Bullets whizzed, somehow missing him each time.

One warrior even threw his scimitar, nailing a man in the forehead from afar.

Rick winced but pressed on, continually spraying his ammunition at the Tuaregs.

One warrior tried to come at him from the side. A quick shot in that direction ended the attempt. He unloaded another blast as the warrior tried to shoot him. Rick ignored the surrounding massacre to fight for himself.

By some miracle, he reached the ramp between two walls that led to the doors. The man with the golden scimitar swung not far from him. Meanwhile, the young man at his side shot again and again at those who tried to come at him.

An accidental self-bite to his tongue, in combination with a half-stumble, forced Rick to refocus on the chaos around him. Enraged yelling went on. Warrior after warrior, horse and man alike, charged him and failed. 

Footstep by footstep, Rick climbed his way up, up, up the never-ending ramp. Bullets tried to end him. Nevertheless, with skill and luck meshed together, Rick grooved around them like a tumbleweed. Men died to him while trying to return the favor.

He fired, fired, fired, reloaded, reloaded, reloaded–until he heard a click and felt lighter than he’d been moments before, with nothing to be found on his bandolier. Rick threw the gun and strap into the sand and ran up the rest of the ramp. Heavy, hot, stifling breath became winded.

Almost as if knowing his situation, a contingent of four horsemen broke away from the main group. They came at him together as he fumbled into the higher half of Hamunaptra. The doors were right there, so close, so close–and shut tight, courtesy of Gabriel.

Under his breath, Rick cursed him; it was not intentional, knowing the man.

Even so, he doubly cursed, promising himself to throw a good punch if they met again.

Rick shelled out his twin revolvers. They clicked, and barrels spiraled rapidly. He let out a battle cry in challenge. The men took out their firearms and shot at him, a favor for a favor. Rick took cover behind a half-wall just in time. A shower of rock kicked off.

As the men moved to pin him down, Rick shot away, firing again. Unluckily, the men after him outwitted his terrible, hurried aims. They were isolated from the main battle, making it only him and them. But that was hardly a silver lining when the numbers were against him. 

Rick dances amongst the ruins with them. They missed and he missed as he missed and missed. Pillar to pillar, wall to wall, alcove to alcove, he shot and they shot. For all his attempts, not one fell.

The battle once away from them drew closer. The men of the legion ran towards the city’s higher grounds. Then they died as the warriors scorched their way across the desolate city with blades and guns alike. 

Some attempted what Rick did, as he witnessed from afar, with little prolonged victory. The numbers against them were even higher and more unfair. After their kills, a few more warriors rerouted to join Rick’s personal execution squad. They were swift.

Blast powder sizzled on Rick’s straining wrists and his numbing fingers. On and on, Rick ducked and weaved, aimed and pulled. One man fell from his horse after a lucky shot. Rick had to move from the good spot before they shot him back. He did manage a quick barrel exchange reload.

Growing weary, Rick kept firing as they advanced upon him. Shot after shot whizzed out. Yet not one more man or horse fell. A truly unbearable thought arose: that he would actually die here. 

Of course, as that idea ripped up, two metallic clicks pierced the air. The last of his ammunition grazed inches from one warrior’s head.

A familiar statue of Anubis snuck up behind in his peripheral vision. From his short days here, Rick remembered rather high stone walls rose–higher than a horse could leap. 

Accepting he could run no further, Rick stopped to catch his breath. However, he would not give up. He had one last idea to try. The desert would not be his grave.

The Tuaregs stopped firing and swept into a half-circle a fair distance from him, perhaps a last honor as a sign of respect, considering him a worthy opponent.

Rick didn’t give two rats about that, though. The American pummeled his guns, successfully throwing them hard at the horses’ feet, and screeched, his arms waving about.

An opportune rush of shockingly cold wind gusted out from behind him. The timing was perfect and impeccable. Rick shivered, sweaty hair blowing.

The horses neighed in fright, swerving to get away. The men, not wishing to die in a stupid stampede, Rick guessed, were frightened as well. He saw as much on their tattooed faces.

Within seconds, they were gone. 

Rick, in disbelief, took a half-step. 

He slipped face-first into the sand. A plump of sand dusted up. Another cold wind, almost howling, passed over. A dangerous jubilation threaded his trembling limbs. Spitting out the nasty, vile sand, Rick knew his luck would not last. They’d be back soon enough.

Without hesitation, he jumped up.

However, as he did, a shimmering gleam poked his eyes. He fluttered his eyelids at the brightness. 

For a moment, curiosity–and maybe a hint of greed–overcame his unsureness. Rick stepped towards and kneeled amidst the quieting of the incoming shots. Exhausted fingers groped the sand. They found a purchase right away. Hot, hot metal met hot, hot skin.

Pondering it, a stray bullet unexpectedly blasted the ground beside his fragile digits. Rick took one glance for glance’s sake. It was a scratched, bronze-colored octagonal box, engraved with hieroglyphics. The top consisted of eight interlocking flaps. Next, he shoved it in his jacket and ran off. Slight scalding torched his fingertips, but he was fine with that.

Into the desert he went, away from ruins, hoping to himself to persist in being the luckiest damned man alive and stay that way.

Minutes later, he was well past the cursed city of Hamunaptra. Rick made another promise to himself–he’d never go back to the death trap, not for as long as he lived.

The sounds of horse hooves and charges of volleying firearms died as he walked his way to the infinite, blistering deserts of Egypt. Already, he was parched.

He wondered who else might be alive. Not that slimy Beni, of course. Gabriel, coward that he was, saw to that. Rick cocked a half-smile. That was a good thought. Staying positive would help.

Just as he made his way into a valley between a family of dunes, the true desert, Rick’s instincts alerted him. He stopped staggering and turned his head. 

Atop a cliff face, high and far away, stood the man with the golden scimitar on his mount. Its hilt was recognizable even from this distance. A band of several others were at his sides, including that mysterious boy with blue-tipped hair.

Ardeth stared at the jacketed man below, alone and without a weapon, staring back. The Medjai leader was expressionless and thoughtful. This man had somehow survived their onslaught.

“My men,” he said, “It appears we have a straggler. He seems saved by the mercy of Allah, but he is not out of our judgment yet.”

Luka gazed at the man, too, unafraid of the sun shedding its light directly upon him. “Though, father, he is also defenseless. I believe we should let the desert judge him, as it will the family that escaped us.”

No other man spoke up.

A moment later, Ardeth nodded.

The man below bore a puzzled expression and went back to traversing the bane leagues of the desert.

“Then so be it. We let the desert judge him.”

At that, Ardeth, Luka, and the Medjai spurred their rides and rode off, the horses’ cantors echoing back to Hamunaptra.

Chapter Text

On an early noon, the streets were hot, the shadows warm, the sky cloudless, and the sun burning. The arid atmosphere of the Cairo streets blew past. Hands in his pockets, a man with brown hair carefully navigated the bustling, hustling streets. Without a definitive purpose, he slid past bars and taverns, shops and restaurants, homes and houses. A whistling tune carried alongside as he mindlessly strolled his way through.

The man with brown hair strolled with an even stride. Turning the corner, he found himself in a far more crowded section of the great capital. Street shops and stalls glittered about galore. His sweaty hands stuck to his pockets, cooler within. Familiar faces milled about, acknowledged in various ways. Indeed, spending three years on the streets in such a vast, varying city produced an interesting array of relations.

A hot wind flushed past with the intent to disturb. No one cared, focused on their tasks of peddling and being peddled to. The man’s gaze flitted from item to item. Nothing quite caught his interest. The musty stir of the bazaar went roiling by as more wind floundered about. He almost succumbed to the persuasive shouts of some he walked past. Having slick wit–and luck–himself, that meant they were good. Yet not good enough.

The smells, sounds, and sights of the city blurred–cars rolling along, trams clinking, camels braying, meat and foods cooking. It brought a sense of nostalgia to when he’d first arrived, beaten and weary. Much had changed for him, and for the better, too. However, his fashion had not. The same worn jacket accompanied him. If one looked closely, minute smatterings of crimson still stained the leather from when he’d last drawn the blood of a fellow Egyptian.

“You, you sir, yes you! I believe I may be able to sate your wandering wonderings!” An oily call, with a sprout of light charm, shouted out from the left. 

Something about this vendor’s raspy voice caught his attention. His venturous eyes slithered as his pace slowed. The white-bearded man attending this booth had neutral, deep-gray eyes, his face bent crookedly and his posture beckoning. At a glance, an unusual variety of merchandise sprawled across his tables. There was an eerie, uneasy aura, but nothing threatening. Intrigued, he changed course. A few cuts and apologies later, he shuffled over.

Reaching the shade of the stall’s awning, it was rather spacious. “I see you don’t have many visitors,” he remarked. “Seems it’d be rather hard to maintain a business that way. It is an immaculate amalgamation of antiques either way.”

The man leaned on his bamboo staff. “Ah, but you see, Rick O’Connell, if those few visitors are wealthy, curious men–well, you understand. Quantity over quality has its place in life. Being tidier than most helps with that.” He held out his hand. “Wu.”

Rick shook firmly, then broke the exchange. “So, I see my tendencies to acquire the unusual reach even with your ears, Wu. You are good, very good.”

“Thank you,” the wizened Wu said, quietly accepting the praise. He spread his hands, encompassing his shop. “So, what does your soul seek today, my good friend?”

Rick laughed heartily. “That last phrase, unbeknownst to you, irks me.” He smiled. “All is forgiven. As to your question, I am unsure what I want.”

“I see,” Wu mused. “Let me guess, if I may: You seek a gift for a friend.” He stroked his beard, the wrinkles in his clothing crinkling with his movement. “But are unsure of what to get.”

“Very, very good!” Rick said. Naturally, the nagging, uneasy feeling returned. Curiosity overcame it. He leaned in some, impressed, hands resting on the table. “You’ve been here for many years, I suspect. Tell you what: give me something. If I like it, no haggling.”

Wu tapped his fingers together, eyes sparkling. However, instead of moving towards any merchandise, to Rick’s expectation, he reached inside his robe instead. In went his unoccupied hand. Out came a small, hexagonal wooden box. It must’ve been extremely valuable to require keeping on his person. It was quite a handful, literally outsizing the man’s small grasp. To Rick’s further surprise, Wu extended his palm out to Rick’s.

“Take it,” insisted Wu.

Though he complied, Rick was still uncertain of what he was doing. The box slotted neatly into his larger hand. “You really shouldn’t do that, you know.”

Wu shook his head, unnerved. “As you said so yourself, I have a good eye. And here I see a good, honest man before me.” His staff tapped the ground. “Go on, open it up.”

Shrugging, Rick accepted the odd man’s odd instruction. The dark-colored box, tinted with lines and symbols of silver, was old–extremely old. The grain was worn and smooth, polished by time. Obscure hieroglyphs were etched on the side; one was a Sphinx. An unfamiliar symbol capped the top. He popped off the tight-fitting lid. Inside, alone and now perturbed, sat a black ring snugly fit within the woodwork. A green paw adorned it. There was a timeless feeling to it.

Both amused and sated, Rick dug into a pocket. A sizable, as well as fair, amount of coin reached the man’s cupped hand. No sooner than had he held it, he bought it. He snapped the box shut and stuffed it into a jacket pocket.

“Do be careful,” Wu spoke, drawing Rick’s gaze to him. The coins vanished just as smoothly. “To my knowledge, the ring is ancient. It is also cursed to bring its wielder bad luck. The girl who pawned it to me received the noose a few weeks later, or so I heard. It’s been passed around many, many times.”

Rick shuddered. He then dismissed the outlandish legend. “Well, you seem to be doing well enough,” he chirped back in refutation. 

“That is because I know how to handle relics,” Wu retaliated, blinking asynchronously. “Treat them nicely and properly, such as treating them to a sprinkling of the scent of cheese. Trust me.”

Shrugging, Rick opted to shake hands again, give a silent goodbye, and leave. The man was odd, but the gift was good. That was a fair enough balance.

Gift in hand, he headed to where he wanted to go next. The city passed by. In due time, Rick reached his destination. It was a fancy-schmancy, state-of-the-art hotel. This part of Cairo catered to tourists and adventurers alike. The wealth was plentiful and readily on display. Rick contemplated it now and then. He wouldn’t mind such a life. He’d scraped by it a few times. Such was not in the cards yet.

Rick walked into the hotel lobby through grandiose doors. The blast of air conditioning was a welcome reprieve. Given that he looked respectable enough, no one thought much of him. He sauntered his way over to the receptionist and let his business be known. She shrugged and sent up the call. Rick proceeded to wait. He stood around, not far from the stairs and also out of the way.

Soon enough, between the hustle and bustle of everyone going in and out, he saw it. A sight he hadn’t seen in three years. Rick waved them over. Those young green eyes went wide.

Adrien recklessly ran over, his lanky and strong build practically shoving through people. He was like a train with no brakes that also muttered apologies along the way. His tan suit was reminiscent of the French Foreign Legion still, but without the hat and more like a suit.

Crashing into Rick with a tight hug, he was almost as tall as him. “Rick!” cried Adrien, focused on him and oblivious to anything else. Jacket met suit and his lungs were crushed, 

The bodyguard, a tall brute wearing all black known as ‘The Gorilla’–a strange yet apt choice–silently thundered after Adrien. He squinted at Rick, not saying anything. They exchanged a nod: hurt the kid, and he’d be hurt in return, here and now. The kid had certainly grown since he’d last seen him. Rick didn’t say a word. He hugged back. The Gorilla relaxed a little but remained on alert. Some seconds later, the embrace ended.

Rick patted Adrien’s head, ruffling his hair. “Hey, kiddo. Been a while,” he chuffed. “Last I saw you, you were hardly able to hold even a Remington 95 properly. What are you, seventeen now?”

“It… it really is you, Rick!” he exclaimed. “It’s… good to know you’re well, still.” Adrien's joy was thoroughly mixed with undercurrents of disbelief. “After… all that…”

“The feeling is mutual, kiddo,” Rick agreed, pulling Adrien closer to the wall for privacy. “Given what happened, I’m just glad to know you made it out all right.”

“Most certainly…” A dimness entered Adrien’s eyes as he seemingly shriveled. “Yep, just glad and all that here, too. That you’re well.”

Rick saw straight through him. “Adrien, tell me what’s on your mind.” He projected a stern yet inviting warmth. “I didn’t come here to see you all mopey, kid. Nor did you!”

“Yeah…” Adrien’s voice was rather somber compared to moments ago. “You know… I didn’t want to leave you behind. And all those other guys too, I guess.” A small hint of guilt appeared in his eyes as his tone dropped. “My parents insisted they had to get me to safety, that you all could handle those horsemen…” He shuddered. “I know it’s my dad’s fault for taking everyone there… Still, I think he has his regrets, you know?”

“Don’t blame yourself, alright? It wasn’t anything you could control.” Rick spoke softly and gently. “Your dad did what he thought was best for you, for all that transpired.” Adrien numbly tipped his head, even though the guilt didn’t quite go away. “I’m… I’m sure he does have his regrets. He had a difficult choice to make, and he did his best. You understand that, right?”

Adrien nodded. “I suppose… still…” He rested his back on the wall. “Knowing the whole legion gave up their lives for us, even if it was just surviving the terrible choice they and my Dad made… it was noble.”

“I concur… I don’t think any other of those poor saps made it, alas,” added Rick. “May they be at peace.” Except for Beni, of course. He kept that to himself. “So… what are you doing back in Egypt?”

Adrien wiggled a bit, taking a small breath. A bit of excitement returned to him at the change in subject. “Well… it's been way too long since we’ve been on a trip. And yes, I am seventeen now,” he acknowledged. “You’ve always been good at birthdays.” He mimed a gun and shot it off. “I’m a way better shot now. If you want, I can show you. While we do so, you can regale your epic on how you lived…” His hand waved about. “All that, ya know… stuff, at and after the ruins…”

He still takes the loss of Emilie hard, Ra bless her soul. Six years since she gave her life for his… I can only imagine how he feels.

Rick’s mood soured slightly, which Adrien picked up on through the change in his expression. “It's good to know you’re safe and handling yourself alright enough.” He gave another pat, firm with reassurance. “Alas, I’m on a timetable today. So are Gabriel and Nathalie, I imagine. I’m not sure how long you all are staying in Cairo before heading off. As such, I do want to give you something in case we can’t arrange a time to talk. A gift, if you will.”

And at that, with swift hands, Rick took out the box and plopped it into Adrien’s palm. The Gorilla raised an eyebrow. He just gruffed. 

“I have no clue what it is, exactly,” he admitted. “It’s one of the stranger artifacts I’ve come across in Cairo. I felt like you might like a little something, even if it’s just–oomph!”

A squeezing hug from Adrien cut him off. He then let go. A few tears rolled down as he looked at Rick. “It doesn’t matter what it is, I’m just happy you survived. That you still care enough to meet me the first chance you could get. It’s the thought that counts. My dad only said he’d heard you’d lived… not much else. Though I wanted to believe him… I knew I wouldn't until I saw you for myself… so I hope you understand.” 

“All is alright, kid. You’re welcome, kid.” he agreed. “Sorry I never even sent a letter… never could find out where you lived. And going back to France was not ideal, to say the least.”

Adrien exhaled, blinking with a grunt. “That would be my dad’s fault, keeping us safe and all that. “I don’t think he would’ve even let you.

 Rick shrugged. “Yeah, figures. In any event, welcome back to the sands, kiddo. Must be tough, I imagine.“

“Thanks, Rick.” He wrapped his fingers around the gift. “It’s… hard. Being back. But if it helps my dad be happy… I’ll be alright enough, too.” Rick nodded in agreement. Adrien then glanced at the box, both hands now twisting around. “So… what is this? My dad’s done and found all sorts of odd and wonderful things. I have to admit that this box is strange compared to any of that. And weirdly preserved, too.” 

“No idea what it is. Even so,” he winked, “I’m sure you’ll like what’s inside.” He scratched his dry-feeling cheek. “Your dad is the stranger one, though, I counter. He’s a goddamn karma wizard. No clue how he managed to convince the French courts to let him off the hook for the shit-stir he caused with the British, nor how he’s allowed back in Egypt. Your dad and I may not get along well anymore-”

Adrien laughed a little. However, Rick’s attention cut to the hotel entrance. 

Speak of the devil, and he shall come.

In walked a particular man, strutting in with a white-and-brown collared suit. Simple but stylish, with a military-esque kick to it.

“Adrien, please forgive me for what I’m about to do.”

He gave a final pat as to say goodbye. Next, Rick sped towards Gabriel compared to the older man’s more leisurely pace. Cracking his fingers, relish flooded in. The Gorilla barely had time to react. 

The moment he was in the range of the former general, Rick wound his arm up–then let loose and sucker punched the jackass right on the jaw. Gabriel stumbled back a few steps without falling over. He certainly struggled to stand up. 

Despite the imbalance, he managed to hold up his hand to let it known he wanted no one to interfere. Gabriel struggled for a few more seconds before he stood up tall and spiffed again. He brushed off his shirt, his back straight and left cheek a slightly bruised red.

“Welcome back to Egypt, sucker,” Rick greeted with a small smirk.

Gabriel merely bore a miffed face. “Nice to meet you too, Rick.”

“So, how did you get away scot-free? Even the Legion must be mad. By the way, thanks for clearing my name in France.”

“It’s easier to blame dead men for what happened. They let me retire, just no pension. And you’re welcome, I owed you. We should be even now.”

“I reckon so. Purple suits you. I’m off to get a drink. A tavern, perhaps. Then it’s off to earn some pay.”

“I’ll be having one myself soon. Business calls, as always. Farewell for now, Rick. May we cross paths with more grace next time.”

Both men then reached out and shook hands, followed by walking past each other, debts settled. For everyone else watching, it was odd. But not for Adrien.

Watching from the sidelines, Adrien was not at all mad and instantly forgave Rick. In fact, while he loved and respected his father, he knew he had it coming. He had to smile.

It also doubled as entertainment. Little else had presented itself to relieve Adrien from drowning in nothing to do. This was also his dad’s fault.

He was bored with being cooped up in his hotel. Cairo was all around him. Endless possibilities were present. He wasn’t allowed to do anything beyond glancing outside his balcony.

So, seeing as the Gorilla was focused on his father waving him off while going upstairs, and not him, an idea came to mind. It was better than a boring Nathalie and more history lessons.

With little hesitation, Adrien stuffed the hexagonal box in his suit jacket’s large pocket and bolted past the people in the lobby, ignoring the Gorilla’s shouts and dashing outside.

—

“Marinette, calm down already!”

“Alya, I can’t! We’re finally at the museum! The best one there is to be in Cairo!! We've been at sea for weeks, and we're finally here! I can't not be pepped up anymore!’

Before Alya could respond, much less try to rein in her friend, Marinette was squeeing. In full-blown excitement mode. Again. It was more noise amidst the echo chamber that was their rumbling bus. Between thirteen students and two professors, the ruckus of chatter was inevitable. The only consolation was that Marinette was at least trying to reign herself in. Time lengthened as the streets of Cairo blurred by through the windows. 

Alya tried sharing an exasperated look with a boy across the aisle. He just blinked, shrugging. This prompted Alya to punch him in the shoulder–hard.

They weren't the only trio aboard. But they were certainly the quietest. Marinette spared a second to be amused at his pained face, as well as Alya's shit-eating smile. They'd been her closest friends for as long as she could remember. Despite the difficulties their class faced in France, they'd always stuck together. Even snobby blonde ones whose mayoral fathers forced them to enjoy a summer break overseas.

She committed the expressions of her fellow sixteen-year-olds to memory. It'd be fun to tease them about it later on.

“Owwww!” A wounded cry accompanied him rubbing his shoulder. “What did I do this time?” he asked, feigning innocence. 

“That’s for being a smart ass, Nino,” Alya said. She jerked her thumb to point at Marinette, whose face was pressed against the glass. “And not helping me calm her down!”

Nino shrugged. “What am I supposed to do about it, Alya? Mari’s been the most eager of us all. Finally visiting the place we’re studying is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.” The bus turned a corner, causing Nino to stagger a little. “Who wouldn’t be eager to experience something outside of a stuffy classroom?”

Alya raised a fist threateningly; Nino preemptively raised his arms as shields. “I could hit you…” Then she just stuck her tongue out. “But you also could help me by keeping an eye out for her, at the least, while we wander around.” She leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Pleaseeee?” Alya batted her eyelashes.

“Ugh, fin-”

“Hey, lovebirds! I’m not that oblivious!” Marinette pouted, glaring at them with crossed arms. “Simply because I’m hyper-excited to put my hieroglyphics knowledge to the test doesn't mean I’m naive to what’s happening!”

“Mari, you are constantly spacey when you’re obsessed with something,” Alya countered with a raised eyebrow. “You being a literal genius, years ahead of the rest of us in this class, doesn’t mean you have common sense, girl.” The second punch smacked Mari, though it was much lighter.

“Owww! Alyaaaaa!” Marinette cried out. “Just wait until I can punch harder than you! That’s a promise!” Shadows of vengeance crossed her face. Fire merrily flickered in her bluebell eyes.

“Hey! Why does she get less pain?” Nino complained, shooting daggers at them. “Being your boyfriend shouldn’t make me the default punching bag.”

“Because that’s how it works, dummy,” Alya curtly replied, her sass poisonous. Next, she grinned at Marinette. “I’ll be waiting then, Mari. I’m pretty sure I’d have to die before a shrimp like you gained any muscle.” Alya flexed her arms by stretching them out. “Besides, gal, I have to quell my jealousy of you somehow! Taking pride in my strength is one way.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Well, then, Miss Prissy, when you finally become a famous journalist or whatever, you can use your hubris to-”

The bus coming to a stop switched the subject at hand.

“OMIGOSH, OMIGOSH, OMIGOSH!” Marinette practically squealed, face back on the window. It fogged a tiny amount from her breath, despite the heat outside.

The rust bucket on wheels finally stopped rolling. Having arrived at the museum, Marinette was practically bouncing in her seat. Most in the class were visibly excited, wanting to get inside. A particular blonde girl was the exception. Even her ever-loyal, dogged compatriot was itching. The class shuffled out of the bus. High above acutely carved steps, bold letters above the doorway proclaimed ‘The Cairo Museum of Antiquities’.

Next, the group passed through glass doors. Once inside the main lobby, the air was significantly cooler than it was outside. There was a stiff dryness to it, quite unlike the more humid summer back in France, nor like the salty blightness of the Mediterranean. Of course, they were hardly the only visitors. Since it was early Wednesday afternoon, though, it was far less busy than usual. 

Professors Bustier and Gisèle started a headcount of the students. Marinette grumbled to herself incoherently. She knew it was mandatory. Student safety and accountability and all that jazz–even when it was boring. Everyone’s voices drowned out, including a pesky blonde’s. Marinette decided to meticulously reanalyze everyone, as if gazing in a mirror, to placate the numbness of responsibility.

Nino was of Moroccan descent. He wore thick, black-rimmed spectacles. He’d chosen a simple combination of a suit and cloak. It was more a suit in the pants, and more a cloak upon the torso. A head tunic helped to beat the heat; a bit of dark brown hair stuck out. Moderately orange eyes observed the mountains of artifacts ahead. His light tan skin was entirely hidden, save his hands and face. 

Alya's golden eyes focused more on the people passing by in and out. More ovular glasses outfitted her. She was Martiquan Creole-French, with slightly darker skin than Nino. A fancily patterned long-sleeve shirt fashioned with a low collar and brandishing cuffs draped across her. Orange pants to the shirt’s blazing blackness created contrast. A protective head tied around her forehead. The covering trailed alongside her hair.

Marinette, bearing Chinese-Italian-French heritage, had fairer skin. Her raven-blue hair was distinct; light bluebell eyes accompanied. Compared to her friends, she’d chosen to stick to a more French clothing style to beat the heat. She retained her monochrome-creamy blazer, sleeves fully rolled out, but collar down. The pants were light brown. She braved no hat underneath the hot sun. Her small pink purse stood out loud and proud.

However, Marinette only got three people in before a friendly kick to the shin snapped her out of it. Marinette discreetly kicked her back as names were called out: Marinette, check; Alya, check; Nino, check; Juleka, check; Rose, check; Ivan, check; Mylène, check; Max, check; Kim, check; Nathaniel, check; Marc, check; Chloé, check; Sabrina, check; Professor Bustier, check; Professor Gisèle, check. That accounted for everyone.

Miss Bustier clapped to get everyone’s attention on her. The class congregated near their professor. Marinette, Alya, and Nino bunched up together. Marinette’s excitement tensed up. She explained a perk of the trip that came as a surprise. Instead of a regular guide, their class was lined up for a special tour. This amped up Marinette’s enthusiasm. 

Right on time, sharp footsteps echoed on the stone flooring. A pale-skinned man, and a teenage girl with a slight tan, came down one of the hallways with fervor in their pacing. He was dressed in a sharp, formal suit, with brown glasses, and had an orange-brown cut. The girl wore a similar outfit, down to the bow tie. The real difference was how her red-pink hair was frizzled about. They stopped before the class in the middle of the lobby. 

“Hello all!” he greeted, clasping his hands together. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am co-curator Director Alim Kubdel, and this is my daughter Alix,” he gestured. Alix meekly waved. “Jalil is her brother, but he is off on a dig. It shall be a personal joy to pass along knowledge of ancient history on this tour! We used to live in France ourselves. Alas, interests elsewhere are called, as well as events…” Alim shared a momentary, wistful look with Alix. “Nonetheless…”

Marinette sighed. The words swiftly became muted buzzing.

For as glorious as this moment was, she just wanted to see the artifacts already! Marinette maintained eye contact–that was all. Whatever this man’s bittersweet family history, it was irrelevant to the tour. It wasn’t what she was here for.

While Alya and Nino engaged in the twittering introductions, she zoned out again. She was here for the history, the sights, the culture. Not getting to know people! Marinette decided to rest her feet. As such, she blindly stepped a few steps backward-

-And thunk!

With a wham! 

Then blam!

Marinette smacked onto the carpeted stone floor. Limbs tossed about as Marinette rolled onto the ground. Her palms barely stopped her from hitting her head. 

The reflexes came as a surprise. Usually, they were against her. Still, everything else hurt. Especially her palms and her busted up knees. 

As Marinette sat up and came to, rubbing her forehead, she heard a more intense, male series of groans. Lying on the floor a few feet away was a blonde teenager sprawled across the floor. Concern shot up Marinette’s nerves, lighting up like fireworks.

This was her fault! 

Flustered, Marinette sprinted over to help. Her hand was wordlessly offered. Blindly, the guy’s sweaty and hot hand took it. Gripping together like chains, Marinette helped him flounder his way to standing back up. 

I just hope he isn’t injured too badly because of me…

She guided him to a conveniently nearby pillar, muttering apologies each step of the way. Once he could rest against it, Marinette let go. Looking around, they were alone. They’d been so quiet and clean that no one had noticed their tumble of commotion. Well, mostly, that is.

One set of eyes burned into her. Alya was staring with a questioning look. Marinette glared back with a hard expression. Embarrassment fumed. She decided to ignore her friend's sly and insulting eyebrow rise. Making up for her mistake would feel better.

He grunted, indicating he could speak. Taking a deep breath, Marinette turned to face him. He appeared neutral, though not indifferent. Marinette hastily got to work. “I am so, so, so, so, soooo sorry!” She practically danced in place. “I didn't mean to do that! Not at all! Not at all!” 

I can only hope he believes me!

Words sputtered as she quietly squealed, trying not to alert anyone. “I’m such a klutz sometimes!” Guilt was drowning Marinette. She did not need to get sued abroad. “Please forgive me, I can make it up-”

“Woah, calm down!” he instructed, holding his hands up.

That brought Marinette’s rambling to a screeching halt.

He brushed off his tan uniform. “I shouldn’t have been running, and you should’ve been paying attention. We’re both at fault here, my lady. It’s not a problem.”

Marinette raised her pointer finger. “But even then, it’s my fault!” she decreed. “You were at the edges of where everyone is. You were paying attention!” He just smiled and shook his head. I wasn’t, I wasn’t…” Marinette faltered, the words dying off.

“Like I said, not your fault, no one is getting sued here,” he attempted to reassure. The lobby seemed more cavernous than before as he spoke. 

Marinette’s shoulders quaked; then, she squinted at him. “Are you sure you’re not a mind reader? Because, yeah, I don’t want to get sued.”

He shrugged. “If I am, I’m terrible at it!” A snicker snorted out, which caused Marinette to roll her eyes. 

“I doubt you are at all.” Marinette crossed her arms together. “If you were, you’d have sensed my intentions.” A lightness sprung into her step. “Soooo, we’re cool, then?”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re cool.”

“Good! Thank the hieroglyphics….”

“So,” he said. “I’d say proper introductions are in order, I’d think, if we are past the pitfalls of our small trip.”

The room felt small and chilly; everything else fell away, the curator finishing his welcome speech in the background.

“Yeah, yeah!” Marinette groaned at the puns. But a small chuckle mixed in.

He stuck out his hand. “Adrien Agreste, son of Gabriel Agreste, nice to meet you.”

Huh… he’s pretty chill for having been run into…

Taking it firmly, she returned the favor. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng, protégé, Egyptology class of Collège Françoise Dupont. Your dad, I think I’ve heard about him. The general who went rogue, yeah? Crazy to meet you!”

His eyes lit up, and he coughed. “Ah, ha ha, yes, him.” Stretching his arms some, he quickly changed the subject. “Sooooo, we’re on vacation then, it seems! And both from France! Quite a coincidence!” The boast sounded forced. Marinate could hardly blame him.

“Believe me, I know all about embarrassing parents,” Marinette agreed. Adrien seemed to warm up to her also burying the subject. “That we are both here is quite funny indeed. If I know of you, do you know of me?”

‘Hmmm…” Adrien thought about it for a moment. “I think so. My dad has donated to your school. Your name sounds familiar from going over student rosters with him. You’re a smart cookie. Nice to have the luck to meet you, too, Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Okay, then, Monsieur Agreste, the kid with the bad luck.” A viciousness glinted in her eyes. “I know all about what went down the last time you were on vacation. If I’m lucky, as you say, you’re the definition of bad luck.”

“Don’t remind me! Adrien cried. “That was the worst expedition ever…”

“Expedition?” Marinette’s interest was piqued. “You said ‘vacation’.”

Adrien scratched his hair. “Well, for me, it’s less a vacation and more an expedition, a return to form for my family and me.” 

“That sounds… nice. I think. Sorry if there isn't much to say.” Marinette said. “Comparatively, I'm here to learn about history.”

“Nah, it’s cool.” The dismissal caught Marinette off guard. Adrien was content with a lot. “Such is sometimes how things are…”

Speaking about how things were, Marinette took a look to the center of the lobby, her class was beginning to file away. “Yeah, I know the feeling… well, if you don’t mind, I better get going.”

Adrien followed her gaze. “I, uh, best be going by myself. To see the wonders this place has to offer. May we meet again, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

They shook her hands again.

Adrien took off running into the halls again, blindingly fast.

Marinette glanced over again. Somehow, her class had remained oblivious to their entire exchange. Not even Alya was paying attention to her now, much as she made Nino promise to.

Then she looked over to the empty halls facing the opposite direction, into the depths of the museum. The same place Adrien has vanished into.

A mischievous glint reflected in her bluebell gaze, and a boisterous idea arose. Going with her class might be the proper thing to do. And yet…

Marinette had a feeling that, while Mister Alim was no doubt a fun and knowledgeable professor in his own right, he’d be doing all the talking. He'd tell them where he wanted to go, show what he wanted to show. He would not be taking any suggestions. That’d ruin the experience for her. She came here to explore , not follow a curated path. Marinette hissed at the thought of that. Surely there was a lot more here to do and see than a petty walkthrough of self-interest.

Besides, she could always catch up later and claim to have gotten lost. She’d done that plenty of times unwittingly. 

That Adrien kid seemed to have the right idea, running away from his dad to have fun. He hadn’t hinted as such, but it felt pretty obvious to her.

So, with a whistle to carry her away, Marinette stepped into the shadows, stealthily bypassed the few distracted guards there were, and snuck her way into the backends of the museum.

—

Another day, another monotonous time for Evelyn Carnahan, properly restocking books.

Around her, rows upon rows of books and books lined upon shelves and shelves. Atop a ladder, she held a small stack, neatly sorting them back to where they belonged. Sunlight beamed through the windows, refracting in the lenses of her thin, rim wire glasses. The young English woman maneuvered deftly; slick clothes helped facilitate such smooth action. The combo of a long and black kalki skirt with a white, rolled-sleeve collared shirt was also fashionable.

She sighed. She just hoped today would not be another problematic one.

Evelyn’s light brown hair, curly and long, tossed about as she whizzed through the motions. Thank goodness she kept it tied. Reams of paper moved through her hands. They vanished, went back she moved down, got another stack, adjusted the ladder, reclimbed it–rinse and repeat. Hazel eyes rapidly moved, readily supplying information. She was swift. As the hours passed, the piles of busy work dwindled.

Though she was excellent at this archival work, and though it provided a living, each book handled was only a bitter mockery of her true skills. Half the professors and historians who worked here were entirely disorganized. The misplaced artifacts lining the shelves were another symptom of their messiness. Yet, all the work of properly ordering everything fell to her at the end of the day. Damn them! She was superior, she was smarter, she was better than them. She was always overlooked. 

Fuzz and dust sprinkled throughout the lonely air. Putting away a book, Evelyn took a moment to rest.

While she was standing there, thinking, Evelyn realized her glasses were a tad filthy. She took them off to check. This confirmed her suspicion. A quick rub with the hem of her shirt did the trick. While putting them back on, Evelyn scorched the sights of the book spines near her. As she looked at them numbly, an alarm went off in her head. She stopped. Her eyes retraced their steps. She squinted. There. There it was. A glaring filing error!

A sneaky book beginning with ‘The S’ that was not in the ‘S’ section. It was in the ‘T’ section. The only problem was that Evelyn needed to move the ladder. Biting on her tongue, she took a moment to consider her options. Ultimately, the librarian decided she didn’t need to change her positioning. It’d hardly matter how she did it. 

This would be easier. First, Evelynn took the book out of its misplaced location. Afterward, Evelyn cautiously edged her way to the edge of the ladder. One foot stayed on the edge. This left the other precisely dangling. Flexing her biceps, Evelyn cautiously held onto the ladder with one arm. Ever so carefully, she held out her other arm, book in hand-

“Hi there!” 

Evelyn instinctively turned her head to see.

Who is she-

This proved to be a mistake.

Evelyn slipped halfway off the ladder. Her gasp was matched by a tiny yelp from the visiting girl. The book slipped from her grasp and pounded onto the floor. Thankfully, just in time, she caught herself with excellent footing. She absolutely clenched the railing.

Unfortunately, the jerk in momentum caused the ladder to buckle up with a bounce–and detach from the bookshelf, now unbound. The ladder and its passenger started to fall backward. Both feet and hands on the ladder, Evelyn started to fall backwards with it.

She tried leaning forward to control her positioning. The ladder twisted around. She even walked like stilts for a few steps, turning it sideways. Evelyn fumbled for control. Crazily, the jolt of instinct indeed slowed the descent. 

For a moment it worked. The ladder balanced perfectly still in the middle of the aisle.

She saw the teenage girl who’d walked into the archives cringe. For a moment, all was well.

Evelyn breathed in relief.

Then the ladder fell backward anyway, taking her down with it.

Evelyn leaped as the ladder crashed into the shelf on the other side of the aisle. She’d rather break a leg than be crushed. However, to her amazement, the girl was right where she was about to land. She’d moved very far in a snap. Evelyn gestured with her falling arms for her to move. But the teenager had other ideas. Adamantly, she put her arms out to catch the librarian. Evelyn, in free fall, didn’t even have time to brace for impact.

She expected the worst. 

Somehow, it didn’t come to that.

By pure grace, with a pinch of luck and a dash of skill, Evelyn landed directly into the girl’s outstretched arms. They tumbled onto the ground in a tangled tango. The ladder hit the shelf. It tipped over. Then that shelf leaned over. It hit the shelf behind it. This started a chain reaction of mass destruction. Books and misplaced artifacts rained from the shelves. 

Looking up from the floor, Evelyn winced. The pain her body currently felt was unmatched by the horror crossing her face. 

She didn't have time to get up before familiar, angry footsteps stormed in, though.

Oh, Ra no…

“What in the name of the Ten Plagues is happening here?!”

The girl, having scrambled to her feet already, helped Evelyn get up. Evelyn gave her a nod of thanks. She then pointed her thumb to a nearby table. Taking the hint, the girl went and hid under it.

Evelyn brushed debris off her shirt. Just in time, as the girl squirreled away, one of the co-curators came into sight–Director Terence Bay, a stout but plump Egyptian native. He might’ve been elderly, but his fierce prowess was no less mitigated.

“Director!” Evelyn greeted. “Hi there! Just reorganizing-”

Terence waved his hands about. "Save it, save it, please!” He was clearly exasperated.

“It was an accident, you see-”

“There are accidents, then there are catastrophes!”

“There’s very much a difference-”

Terence spoke louder. “Just clean it up, please! I don’t care how long it takes! I have enough trouble already trying to find a touring student gone rogue… Ayiyi…” He took stock of the situation, shaking his head. “Why do I put up with you at all?” 

Well, that explains a lot…

Crossing her arms, Evelyn stood tall and proud, if awkwardly. “Because,” she said, pushing her glasses up her nose, “I am the only one here capable of dealing with these kinds of messes, my fault or not!” Confidence beamed. “I am an expert at understanding ancient Egyptian, deciphering hieroglyphics and hieratic. I am more capable than most-”

“Hardly!” he sternly interrupted. “I do this out of respect for your parents, Allah rest their souls. Alim may think you do a fine enough job, but that is his folly, not mine. I’d take all the plagues over the near-constant catastrophes you bring! Bah!” Terence cracked his fingers. “Just get to it! And if you see that student, bring her along!” 

And at that, he walked out in a huff.

Refusing to frown or be haughty behind his back, Evelyn opted to carry on with what she was about to do.

“You can come out now!” Evelyn called.

The girl came out of hiding. “My luck today has been terrible! I am so, so sorrryyyy!” she wailed, arms flailing about, as Evelynn approached her. “First, I ran into someone! And now I’ve caused devastation to the best museum in the world! Ughhhhh!” She groaned, looking directly at Evelyn. “Well, uh, hi, I guess. I’m Marinette… uh, yeah, haha, hiii…”

Terence's footsteps started to fade, quietly leaving them be.

Evelyn stopped short of her. “Professor Evelyn, Evy for short, Marinette.” She tried to notice her and not the slop of books and shelves. “Well, that’s your karma, not mine. For now, why don’t you just-”

“Nice to meet you, too, Professor-”

A shattering crash from an adjacent room rang out.

Marinette jumped with a mighty yelp; Evelyn took a few startled steps back.

A blanketing quiet settled across them both.

The room was suddenly still.

It felt cold and isolated.

“Hello?” Evy called out.

Another strange noise sounded.

Given there were valuable items here… she had to be cautious.

Protecting this girl was her responsibility now. Evy couldn’t leave her alone.

They shared a look. 

Evy cocked her head toward the nearby room while grabbing a slender metal pole from amongst the debris. Marinette snatched up a random artifact, presumably to bludgeon with–a hand-sized, hexagonal wooden box. The girl initiated her approach alongside Evy.

This didn’t make sense to Evy. Then again, this girl probably had no combat experience. At least she was sensible to choose something with jagged edges. On another note, it annoyed Evy to no end that it was yet another random, possibly valuable, item left lying about.

Slowly and carefully, the duo journeyed across the room. They were side by side, Evy taking the lead. Silence penetrated the air. Evy heard her heart faintly beating; Marinette’s exhalations were shallow, too. Evy’s fingers twitched across the rod.

They approached a room adjacent to the library. It was the only possible location of the sounds. Going up a few steps, Evy and Marinette passed through a creaky wooden doorway. The warmth in the air dipped.

Recognition sparked for the darkened chamber. It was supposed to be a simple, empty storage for preserved bodies. Torches lit up the tan and brown stone wall. Sarcophagi lined the shadowed walls. There was nothing to be seen but stone and fire.

Marinette’s teeth chattered. “Anyone there?” she yelled out, sounding pipsqueaky.

There was no answer except their shifting breaths.

It was just them, alone, here in this distant room of the museum.

As if in response, a tumbling-like sound echoed. 

Then, the room went silent again.

Evy approached where she was sure the origin of the disturbances was. Her soft, flat black heels slid on the smooth flooring. Bearing similarly flat footwear, Marinette copied her. The torches flickered, their flames dancing to and fro.

Marinette steadily followed her, object in hand. Evy inched closer and closer to a certain sarcophagus. She wasn’t entirely sure why this one. But she trusted her guts and what she’d heard; what you knew was real was all that mattered. Fear was irrational, irrelevant, and irreal.

Motioning with her hand, Evy told Marinette to take the other side of it. The student complied. Around she went to take the left as Evy flanked right. If a thief was trying to hide, well, they wouldn’t be hidden for long.

Reaching the sarcophagi, Evy rested on the stone, peering in, and-

-a screaming, purely guttural roar rocketed as a mummy sprang up!

Evy jumped back with a terrifying screech; her rod dropped from her grasp, clanging.

Just as a second roar started-

As Evy looked back, the punch flew, hand to gut.

There was a hard smack of skin hitting skin.

“Oh–ow! Oh my god, that hurts!”

And an adult male complaining of pain.

The mummy fell back into the sarcophagi. Lo and behold, there was her brother, sitting upright, in his wrinkly but otherwise spic and span suit and tie. Sweat laced his scuffed dark brown hair, running past his desert-tanned, cheeky, shit-eating face.

Closer to him than her stood a very angry and pale-appearing Marinette with fists clenched together, and her brother with an arm over his stomach, more or less curled over. Marinette had put the artifact box she’d been holding away somewhere. Evy figured she’d ask about it shortly.

“Jonathan! You bloody damn fool! Curse you!” Evy scolded. “No respect for the dead, I see.”

He weakly laughed and coughed simultaneously. “Hiiii, sis! Didn't, uh, expect anyone other than you! And I’m feeling more dead than this fellow as it is! And I thought you didn’t believe in curses and cusses.”

Evy scoffed. “Swearing, I still very much have faith in. It’s mystical hoaxes, hocus-pocus, and magic I don’t believe in. Either way, don’t go scaring me around like that!

“Or anyone else, for that matter!” added Marinette.

Jonathan stared at her, wheezing. “Well, if it isn't the missing girl! Marinette it was, right? Quite the stealthy bad apple, hm?”

“This ‘missing girl’ just punched you in the gut! Want another one?” she threatened whilst growling. 

Her brother’s show of surrender greatly humored Evy. Shaking her head, Evy figured she might as well get on with it. “Well, the dear brother, what do you have for me now? Another worthless trinket, I presume? You always precede your offers with antics; that much you’re consistent on.”

Nodding, Jonathan fished something out of a seemingly small pocket. Glass clinked together inside. No wonder he ‘felt dead’. Evy blinked at how much room it had, then admonished herself to focus on the item as he produced it.

The artifact was a strange metal box of some kind. It had eight sides and eight interlocking flaps on the top. The object was bronze-colored. Hieroglyphics were etched all the way around. Marinette’s eyes went wide with awe. 

Evy snatched it–ostensibly to keep it safe from Jonathan.

“Somebody’s a little grabby!” Jonathan accused with amusement. “I’m sure–ow!”

Marinette had delivered once more as promised. 

“Be respectful to your sister for once, Jonathan, or I will keep punching you.”

“Gods, not again!”

As Evy continued to examine the metal box, a giddiness began to overcome her. 

Is… is this really… really real?

Jonathan had brought her a multitude of supposed treasures over the last few years. Ever since the trenches, he’d never quite recovered. She sympathized with her brother’s plight, even if he’d been a nuisance beforehand. Losing their parents a few years ago to a plane had not helped matters. On the other end of the stick, while she saved her shares of the trust fund stipulated by the will, he kept squandering his, hoping to strike it rich. He wasn’t a drunkard, but he steered too close at times for her comfort.

Of course, not once had he ever bought her something even remotely close to genuine.

But this… this was different.

All thoughts fell from her mind. She only thought about the possibilities this could bring.

“Jonathan.” The word quivered as Evy looked at him. “Where did you get this from?”

He appeared to shrink at the question. “A, uh, dig down in Thebes–ow! Ow! Ow! Would you please tell her to stop punching me?” Both arms were on his bruising torso.

Marinette frowned at him. “Maybe when you stop lying to Professor Evy. You reek of alcohol, you were roughed up some before I hit you, and you just give off an unscrupulous aura-”

“Marinette, please stop it,” Evy said, stepping in to bring their bickering to a halt. “While he is a bit of a pickpocket, he’s honest to a fault and full of enough guilt to where I know I can make him repay the aggrieved party. And while I do thank you for saving me, the extremely lucky and agile young lady that you are, I think it’s time you get back to your class. You’ve seen much you shouldn’t have and have had plenty of adventure.”

Jonathan sat more upright, resting his back on the sarcophagi’s non-mummy side. “I commend thee for your well-rounded palms of fury. I think you don’t know your own strength, I’d reckon. Good instincts, too, ladette! We’ve all been a bit lucky today.”

“I’m not that strong. Alya is way stronger than I am. In fact, I…” Marinette started to say. Then she realized what Evy was saying. “Oh, uh, right. Yeah… yeah, I should rejoin them before anything serious happens to me. I can just say I got lost! Heh, heh.” She held her wrist tight. “So, uh, where’s the nearest washroom? I need to recover from catching you and whipping your brother up… heh heh…”

“Thank you for understanding, Marinette,” Evy concluded. “Now leave us to go to our official museum business and be off to what you're supposed to be doing.”

Evy promptly gave her the directions while pushing Marinette to the doorway of the room. Jonathan saluted goodbye, being a good sport even if deserving of being punched, Evy privately thought.

“See you later, Professor Evy. It was fun to save you… even though I caused it. I hope you don’t get fired…” Marinette flushed with shame as she shook hands with Evy. 

Evy smiled. “Worry not, Marinette, I’ll be fine. I’ve survived Terence this far. Have fun for the rest of your trip in Egypt!” 

They completed the shake. Marinette gave a quick, curt bow and zoomed away. 

Jonathan, finally walking about, came up beside her. “She’s a fun lass, maybe you’ll cross paths someday. Hm, or maybe not.” Then his greedy eyes befell the box. “So, anything of value?”

Evy rolled her eyes. Before she could berate her brother, however, her fiddling hands managed to find the box’s in-built mechanism. It worked by pressing into hidden indentations on the four cardinal sides.

The clicking sound of its opening took their breaths away. Metal flaps silently popped open. Inside was an ancient parchment. Carefully taking it out, Evy’s jaw gaped as it unfolded, slowly realizing what it was

Jonathan and she shared a mutual look of disbelief.

—

The plush of the chair greatly comforted Nathalie as she sat down. “Quite a quaint office you two have. It must be a bit crowded to work at the same time in here.”

The room wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t spacious either. Across the neatly decorated desk, Director Terence Bay hummed away. To their side, Director Alim Kubdel finished supplying liquid to the glasses of brandy. Carefully placed candles brightly lit the space. A wide array of papers and artifacts were scoured around the office. Alix, also present, accepted the first glass with polite thanks. Nathalie took hers, then Terence, and finally Alim.

Terence took a small swig before setting him down with a breath of relief. “We manage. Largely it’s switching days and taking halves on projects. Really, it’s only a problem when we both have to be here or on days like this .”

Alim failed to stop himself from mustering a light chuckle. “Yes, well, such are the perils of preserving the past for the future, my friend. On some days you win. On others, you lose. Most often, it’s both and yet neither.”

“ Especially when you lose. I hardly ever win as a director in training,” Alix chipped in, taking a small taste. “Between Terence’s temper issues and my dad’s selfishness, it’s a wonder this place gets by at all!”

Nathalie had to guffaw at that, as the others did. “Most certainly, most certainly, mademoiselle Alix. I’ll drink to that.” And enjoy her brandy, Nathalie did indeed, enjoying a delicious taste of the antique French.

Alix glanced at her father, who merely beheld a sparkling gaze. “So, to cut to business,” Alix continued for him, sounding authoritative but welcoming, “You are here to donate to the museum, as we understand it? The generosity is a surprise to be sure, but a welcome one.”

The fine quality of the brandy expertly pierced Nathalie’s taste buds. She double-checked that her collar was perfectly flat. What she wore hadn’t changed in style at all since their last time in Egypt. It was just fresh clothes all around. Though, the glasses were still the same. As were Gabriel’s. Fragile as the mesh of glass and metal was, they’d survived years in the sands and other extremes.

“Correct,” Nathalie replied. “Gabriel and I wish to extend a portion of our wealth to help keep this fine establishment running.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward. “We wish to assure that though we do search across Egypt to explore ancient history, we are not plundering your country. It has been a fair few years since we were last here, shall we say…” Nathalie’s hands gestured vaguely. “In less than favorable circumstances. We want to let it be known that we hold regrets. We wish to stay in good graces. A good word to all around Egypt for us from you will help ensure this balance of peace and harmony. If you will accept, that is, of course.”

This caused Terence to bellow. “Ah yes!” He took a sip then slammed his glass down. “I heard about your little misadventure, and subsequent failure, to find the City of the Dead! Just an old pile of rubble in the middle of nowhere! Ha!”

Hm, yes, well, a failure to you, that is.

She opted to construe a wide, embarrassed smile. “We shall admit defeat on this one venture, yes,” Nathalie pretended to agree. “The point is, while it is our only such failure, it is just known enough to perhaps cause us troubles. Never mind the luck we had in surviving it.” Another sip of brandy went down. “We wish to atone before we venture on a lesser expedition this time, so we may find our bearings and love of adventure once more.”

Terence lit up even more. “One does need lots of good fortune to survive, not dying trying to find death itself.”

“Hm, an interesting proposal, certainly,” Alim mused. “Though, I had thought this meeting would have pertained to us informing you that one Adrien Agreste is here, exploring our halls?” He, too, enjoyed more of the beverage. “Also, if I may ask, Madam Nathalie, while we shuffle topics, why is your last name still Sancoeur if you’d entertain me? It’s quite an untraditional choice, if I may boldly say so.”

“Dad,” Alix whined. “That is not something you should be saying!”

“Alix, Alix, Alix,” Alim chuckled, “I’ve told you, when you know someone, you can afford to be a loosey-goosey. Being old classmates counts! Lighten up, you’re the one who is usually chaotic!” 

This caused Alix’s cheeks to redden. She partook in more brandy to shut herself up. She also not so subtly kicked her dad’s shin as well.

Amused, Nathalie held her hand up. “Alix, while you have a point, so does your dad. We may not have seen each other in a while, but we’re still classmates at heart.” More brandy disappeared. “Ever since Emilie… gave her life for Adrien’s, we felt it best to not have a second Miss Agreste. It’d rather taint her legacy, we feel. It’s one of those open secrets we three all loved each other. Alas, the law recognizes only one partner at a time. We didn’t have to marry, but well, besides keeping our reputation strong, the tax benefits are still there.”

Terence chipped in. “A highly unusual yet successful life you have all ventured thus far. May Emilie Agreste rest in peace, whether it be under Allah or another.”

Everyone clinked their glasses together and spoke nothing for a minute in reverence and respect for the fallen Agreste. Each took another small taste.

“Well,” said Alix, wiping her lips off, “It seems as though we are all getting along here, no? We’ll send the paperwork to Gabriel, and he’ll sign off on it. Though, still, Nathalie,” she pondered, “This isn’t about us informing you about Adrien at all?”

“Not at all.” Nathalie dismissed the idea with vigor. “As his mother, I say he is fine! I’ve just been a bit busy running affairs to keep an eye on him. Gabriel is a tiny bit controlling on days like this. Adrien did good by running off somewhere where he knew we’d find him. It’s about time Gabriel starts letting him be independent-”

And at that moment, the doors to the office burst in. In came a woman with glasses and a fellow who’d been beaten up quite a bit today.

Hm… the Carnahan siblings… an Evy and a Jonathan, if I recall correctly. I still miss their parents; quite a tragedy that was…

Terence shot to his feet, temper flaring up. Alim and Alix waddled nearer to the wall to give the intruders some room.

“NOW WHAT?” Terence yelled. “I told you, Evelyn, to clean up your mess! But no, you make it bigger by bringing your brother along and interrupting a very important meeting!”

Evy slammed down a large piece of parchment into his desk; included was an octagonal metal box. “Terence, Jonathan’s actually done it!”

“Done what?” the co-curator blazed. “He’s never brought anything worth more than junk! Now go before I set you with a seriously impossible task for the next two months!

“Mister Terence, please,” Jonathan piped up, “All we need is two minutes, sir, just two to convince you! Here’s a word that will convince you: Hamunaptra! Treasure!” Evy elbowed him. “Well, that’s two words, I suppose…”

If she’d had no self-respect, Nathalie would’ve committed to a spit take.

“Terence,” she spoke up. Everyone stopped speaking to look at her. Nathalie held up a ‘V’ in her left hand. “Give them two. I shall be amused, I believe.”

Unable to see another way, Terence folded. “Alright, you two, make it snappy! You’re lucky our patron here has a sense of humor.”

Evy readjusted her glasses; Terence pulled out a magnifier as she slid the map toward him. “We’re in Cairo here.” Her finger tapped on ancient-appearing ink in the center of a diagram of a long-ago Egypt. “See the cartouche there?” she pointed. Terence leaned in, analyzing. “It's the official royal seal of Seti the First-”

“-Richest bloody pharaoh-” Jonathon butt in, “-who ever lived. I have that, right, right?-” before Evy elbowed again to shut him up.

“-the Last Pharaoh of the Old Kingdom,” she went on without a hitch. “Terence, no one knows where his treasure, in both knowledge upon scrolls and the gold itself, went when he died. It’s said to have been buried in Hamunaptra. No one knows what happened to it. Until now, that is!” The map crinkled as Evy wriggled in excitement. 

“And how do you know this?” Nathalie interjected, curious. “These are very wild claims. I myself went looking and found nothing.”

Jonathan beamed. “Good question, miss! My sister will let you know in just a jiffy!”

Evy pointed out the hieroglyphics, on the box and the map’s edges. “It literally says right on here, right on it. It’s a clean translation. You can also see that the path to Hamunaptra lies right on the map! I’ve dated the map to nearly five thousand years ago. Between the nature of the symbols, the seal, the way the parchment was made-”

“Oh, give me that!” Terence scowled, taking the map into his hands. “This is so clearly a fake!” He leaned in with the magnifier, looking closer.

Alix cleared her throat. “It’s true, you know! Many men have wasted their lives in a foolish pursuit of Hamunaptra. Most have never returned. And those who did? Indecipherable madness possessed them!”

“And at least a woman too, of course,” Alim added, “Such as the lovely Nathalie here. She, unlike most men, did not go insane. Not sure if we can say the same for our old chum Gabriel!” He, Alix, and Nathalie shared a small laugh; Terence merely ignored them

“It’s plain foolish either way, Evelyn!” Terence battered on. “This is just a most excellent forgery. The City of the Dead does not exist. Plain and simple!”

Evy tried to protest. “But-” 

At that moment, Terence leaned in too close to one of the desk candles while trying to look at the map closer.

Evy started screaming at him. Terence started flailing away from the desk. Alim stepped back from the flaming paper, mostly from his daughter pushing him to safety.

Jonathan ripped the map off the desk and threw it on the floor. He stamped out the flames quickly. Alas, it was too late. Half of the parchment had been consumed.

“You idiot!” Evy screamed at him. “You bloody fucking idiot-”

Jonathan snatched the key box and put it into his pocket. “Evy! I have an idea!” He took Evy’s arm and pulled out of the room. “Let’s find the fellow I borrowed it from! He might know a thing or two-” Evy’s mad screams continued from down the hall.

Nathalie promptly excused herself to continue her day’s scheduled activities. She told the co-curators and Alix to enjoy their day. They bid her adieu to the same effect. Nathalie sauntered out of the office to leave them to their business.

Cautiously, she walked the opposite way the siblings went. She turned a few corners until she found an empty office with an open window. Hot air blew in. Checking behind her to make sure no one was watching, Nathalie slipped in. Providence may be on her side today. Nevertheless, she was not taking any chances.

These co-curators must know something about Hamunaptra. She’d suspected as much ever since they’d marched down with the Legion. Only they had known about their journey, outside of the men in their troop themselves. That Terence had cleverly ‘accidentally’ set the map on fire proved it.

From within a hidden breast pocket, Nathalie took it out.

An indigo-amethyst brooch was attached to the inside of the jacket. It had five feather heads, each with a red gem in the center.

A somber-appearing kwami whooshed into existence. Its iridescent pink-violet eyes blinked, uncertain of what she wanted.

Outside of practice, Nathalie had never needed to use the Miraculous. This was an emergency. Their plans were in danger, and she had to be quick to inform Gabriel.

“Duusu, wave your wings!”

One flash of mauve-soaked light later, the office stood empty.