Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Marinette was fourteen years old when she realized that maybe things shouldn't feel so different to her.

She was fifteen when she began fully accepting the changes, especially after noticing the new heroes. A Justice League that, apparently, had been protecting the world for years.

That’s when she understood. Gabriel had done much more than give his life for Nathalie's, just to be with the woman he loved.

Marinette was sixteen when she and Adrien finally broke up. They had both discovered each other's identities. Neither had their heart broken by that romance, but Adrien had stopped speaking to her upon learning every lie Marinette had told him about Gabriel and every secret she had kept.

Chat Noir retired that very same day.

Ladybug had to retire too.

And she was seventeen when she decided that maybe Paris wasn’t the best place for her, even if it was the city where she had grown up.

Marinette was twenty-one and could still remember it clearly. How she felt almost as small as a mouse in an alarmingly large hole beneath Adrien's house, with the walls of the underground greenhouse—where Emilie Agreste’s crypt was—surrounding her as she searched for the brooch and tried to ignore the dead woman.

She still remembered how Paris loved their Ladybug, placed her on a pedestal, and admired her during her darkest moments. They expected her to protect them—always. They had faith in her even when she had lost nearly every Miraculous.

Tikki had always calmed her down when she entered one of her apocalypse-mode spirals. An anxiety attack, she would later learn. Then, when the teenage girl finally began to hear her kwami again, Tikki would tell her Marinette was the best Ladybug she had ever had. She repeated it so often that Marinette almost believed it at one point. Almost.

Chat Noir had handled Ladybug's breakdowns similarly, always cheering her up. But Chat Noir wasn't there anymore. In fact, she had no idea where he was. He had stopped speaking to her years ago when he found out all her lies. But even before that... long before that, when she was fighting Monarch, he hadn’t been there either.

Chat Noir—Adrien—had refused Su Han’s demands that someone know his identity, believing that would keep them safer from Monarch. And where had that led? To Marinette facing Monarch alone, her identity exposed, Chat Noir gone, and everything lost.

Now that she remembered, Marinette was surprised she had remained in the same spot Gabriel had disappeared, even ten minutes after it happened. She thought she would feel something when the world was rewritten. But at that moment, she felt nothing.

In fact, she didn’t realize anything had changed until she turned fifteen and began noticing the differences around her. Subtle, yes—but they were there.

The scariest part, something that still haunted her and kept her up at night, was that she had no idea what Gabriel Agreste had wished for. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been what he initially intended, judging by the horror and fury on his face before he died.

Marinette knew then that the wish hadn’t been calculated or precise. Gabriel hadn’t thought of the consequences. He had only wished for what his heart desired most. And she tried to imagine what that could be before one word came to mind: control. But she couldn’t be sure, because the man was dead.

Marinette turned fifteen. And while she was making plans to live out her perfect dream life with Adrien, she noticed it.

Something was clearly wrong.

As Guardian of the Miraculous, she was the first to feel it. At first, it was just a hunch. An inexplicable nervousness, a constant hum in her mind. Something had changed, but she couldn’t identify what.

So she dropped everything, sat in her room—surrounded by maps, blueprints, and documents she had gathered over time—and started researching. It was a good thing she had always been cautious and kept detailed records of everything related to the Miraculous, just in case something ever went wrong.

So that night, with a growing sense of unease, she began reviewing the maps.

At first, it seemed insignificant. A mapping error. A misalignment in the coordinates. But as she dug deeper, something else began to take shape—something that made her stop cold. Gotham. That city had never existed before—not that she remembered—but now it appeared on the maps. Not only that, it was marked as if it had always been there, sitting on the same plane south of New Jersey in the United States.

“What…?” she had whispered to herself, feeling a knot in her stomach. Something didn’t add up. Something was wrong.

Marinette expanded the search. Metropolis, Star City, Central City… All these cities, previously unknown, now appeared on the map as if they had always existed.

That was wrong. Everything in her screamed that it was wrong, mistaken, off.

So she went out as Ladybug, exploring Paris and trying to find anything different. And as she moved across the rooftops, she began to notice other small changes. Images of heroes in strange costumes with names like Superman and Flash—people she had never seen before, but who somehow seemed familiar to the citizens of the city. As if they had always been part of the world’s history. Each of these heroes, although unknown to Marinette, triggered a strange feeling—as if she recognized them from somewhere.

How was that possible?

Fear started to burn in her chest. Her mind, as Guardian, was working overtime, analyzing every piece of the puzzle. The connection between the Miraculous, the altered reality… Could this be the result of Gabriel’s wish? Was there something more behind all this?

She decided to stay alert. She wouldn’t act recklessly until she understood what kind of forces were involved. Monarch’s wish may have rewritten more than history—maybe it had altered the very fabric of the world or even the universe.

And then she felt it. A powerful presence, like the earth trembling beneath her feet. Marinette stopped atop a Montmartre rooftop, watching the white dome of the basilica glow under the moonlight. She wasn’t alone.

“We didn’t mean to scare you,” said a firm, deep voice behind her.

Ladybug turned quickly, yo-yo in hand, ready to fight. But she stopped when she saw who was standing there.

A tall, imposing woman with dark hair and shining armor. Her eyes seemed to see through everything—even the mask. Beside her, a man with a serene, almost kind expression, a red cape billowing behind him and the iconic “S” symbol on his chest.

“Ladybug,” he said, giving a slight nod. “I’m Superman. This is Wonder Woman. Can we talk?”

Marinette didn’t lower her guard, though her breath hitched for a moment. Superman. Wonder Woman. Names that, just days ago, didn’t even exist. And now they were here. Real. Watching her.

“Why are you here?” she asked without moving.

“We’re investigating a recent phenomenon. Subtle alterations in the structure of our reality,” Wonder Woman replied. Her tone was direct but not hostile. “And all the signs led us here—to Paris. To you.”

“You defeated Monarch,” added Superman, “using a power we couldn’t fully trace. We want to understand what happened. And also…” He paused, searching for the right words. “We want to invite you to the Justice League.”

Marinette blinked, as if she hadn’t heard right.

“Invite me?”

“You are one of the most formidable protectors on the planet,” Diana said calmly. “What you did... you didn’t just save your city. You saved something bigger, even if you don’t fully realize it yet.”

Ladybug slowly lowered her yo-yo, though she didn’t relax completely. She couldn’t tell them that she remembered the change. That she remembered a world without the Justice League, without them. That her mind, as Guardian, had retained memories that no longer existed for anyone else. Because if she revealed that, she might jeopardize what little stability remained.

“I only did what I had to do,” she said at last, uncomfortable.

Diana nodded, as if that answer was enough for now. Superman smiled at her—a warm, sincere smile.

“We understand. We’re not here to pressure you. But when you’re ready—if you want answers, or if you need help—we’ll be nearby.”

Ladybug nodded silently.

Superman handed her a small card: metallic, with a subtle shine and engraved with the League’s symbol.

“You don’t have to decide now. We just want you to know the door is open.”

Ladybug held it for a few seconds between her gloved fingers. She said nothing. She looked at it. Acknowledged it. Then looked up at the two heroes in front of her. “Thank you, but no.”

Diana slightly furrowed her brow. “May I ask why?”

Ladybug was silent for a moment. The wind stirred her hair. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower twinkled with its artificial lights, oblivious to the ghosts drifting across its rooftops.

“No,” she finally said, without looking at either of them. “Paris has Ladybug and Chat Noir. It doesn’t need a League.”

Superman stepped forward gently, without invading her space.

“This isn’t just about Paris, Ladybug. The world is changing. So are the threats.”

“I know,” she replied, calmer than she felt. “But the choice is mine. And I don’t want to. The Order will not mix with the Justice League.”

Diana nodded faintly. “Sometimes it’s not about mixing. Just knowing that if you ever need something, you’re not alone.”

Ladybug squeezed the metallic card tightly, until its cold edge bent slightly.

“Thank you. But no.” She returned the card. A heavy silence lingered for a few seconds. “Now, please—out of my city.”

Superman didn’t insist. Neither did Diana. Both nodded, and as they drifted away into the starry sky, Ladybug watched them go. Imposing. Legendary. Distant.

When she could no longer see them, she sat at the edge of the building, gazing at the city lights. Her knees drawn to her chest as the cold night air washed over her.

The Miraculous, ever tricky in their interpretation, hadn’t granted Gabriel’s wish the way he expected. The wish created a cosmic fracture—a tear in the very laws of reality, a breach that didn’t just affect Paris but merged entire dimensions.

Marinette was fifteen when she noticed it. And she couldn’t do anything about it.

.

.

.

Marinette was seventeen when she realized Paris was no longer good for her.

Each day, she felt herself unraveling—bit by bit. The weight of responsibility pressed down on her, heavy and relentless, while anxiety grew like a storm in her chest. The nightmares never ceased. The memories lingered. Always.

The kwamis, though still by her side, seemed to feel the same pressure, the same unease that pulsed through the city’s veins. Even Tikki—loyal, steady Tikki—had begun to show signs of unrest, as if she could sense that something was wrong, and not just in Paris.

Marinette could see the consequences of what Gabriel had done, but she had no idea how to stop it. His wish hadn’t just shifted her world—it had torn the balance between heroes and villains apart. The worlds were no longer two, but one, tangled together in a chaotic fusion where the rules no longer applied.

So she made a choice.

She would leave.

She would travel the world as the Guardian of the Miraculous, doing everything she could to mend the damage, to restore what had been broken.

It was all she could do.

It was her duty.

And then, Marinette turned twenty-one.

She was in Gotham, patching the imbalance that had rooted itself in that haunted city, when someone tried to mug her—and a vigilante stepped in to save her.

And then, the most improbable thing happened:

She fell in love.

With Red Robin.

And that… was when everything truly began.

Chapter Text

[Aberratio, from Latin: "deviation," "distraction." It means a departure from the norm, whether in thoughts, behavior, or physical or scientific aspects.

Or, in the words of the author of this fanfic, something that sounds like a ritual—and a sin.]

Tim Drake did not believe in destiny.

He believed in logical consequences, in the orderly chaos of the universe, in invisible patterns that revealed themselves only to those who knew where to look. Destiny? No. Destiny was a comfort for minds that couldn't calculate probabilities.

A deception for those who needed to soothe themselves by justifying the consequences of their actions.

So when he saw—out of the corner of his eye, among the crowd in the café—two children entering, he didn’t think it was anything special. His mind immediately registered it as an anomalous variable.

A minor anomaly, of course. Gotham was full of things that didn’t quite fit. People who talked to themselves, street kids with eyes that weighed like those of adults, ghosts with flesh and names like Jason—and others (because Jason was certainly not the only one who was supposed to be dead in Gotham). But those two... they were different.

And “different” was never a good thing in Gotham, so he watched them.

One was a little girl, around six or seven years old, with bright red hair—almost artificial—with black highlights at the tips, a red headband with soft, playful antennae, and a pink dress resembling some kind of bug. Red mites? Boxelder bugs? Ladybug? Yes, a ladybug, judging by the spots on the dress.

The other was a boy, apparently fourteen or fifteen, tall for his age, with ink-black hair, black sunglasses, and a crooked smile that promised mischief and disaster in equal measure.

They were children. They shouldn’t have stood out, but their mere presence and clothing made them stand out more than anything. And yet, the entire café seemed to ignore them. That, more than anything else, made Tim narrow his eyes.

Who were they? His mind was already operating, the puzzle assembling itself on instinct. Tourists? Possible. But at that time of year? Unlikely, though not impossible.

Their clothes were designer too. Rich kids, most likely. Which made it more probable they were on vacation.

Tim kept watching. The children entered without ordering anything. They sat together right in front of his table, allowing him to observe them more clearly without revealing himself.

The girl folded her hands on her lap, her posture far too straight for her age, looking around with curiosity before turning to the boy.

“We shouldn’t be here, Plagg,” the girl insisted.

Plagg? That was an odd name. And an even weirder nickname.

“Marinette will be mad.”

The boy crossed his arms and huffed, glaring out the window with irritation. “So what? It’s her fault for leaving, sugar cube. I told her I was hungry!”

“Plagg!” the girl exclaimed. “You know she’s busy. We shouldn’t bother her.” She scolded him. “It’s not like you’re going to starve to death.”

“I feel like I could starve to death,” Plagg dramatized.

Okay, so the kids weren’t siblings. Not quite. Their gestures didn’t match, their rhythms were opposites. They didn’t look alike. But they were perfectly synchronized. Like opposites who understood each other without speaking. And somehow, even calling them adopted siblings didn’t feel right either.

The children had no backpacks. No devices. No symbols. No trace of identification. Nothing.

Too perfect. Too clean for Gotham.

And yet... no one seemed to see them.

Tim forced himself to look around. A woman walked right past the children’s table without so much as a glance. The barista ignored their presence. A normal kid tripped nearby, looked directly at them... and his gaze passed over them as if they weren’t there.

It wasn’t invisibility. It wasn’t tech camouflage. It was something subtler.

It was as if the world refused to notice them.

But Tim couldn’t stop noticing them.

He rested his elbows on the table and laced his fingers in front of his mouth, watching. Analyzing. Thinking.

What was this? Shared psychological projection? Some kind of mental camouflage? Metahumans? High-level illusionism? Magic?

Nothing fit. Nothing made sense. And that, to him, was unbearable.

For an instant, the girl's eyes—an intense, bright blue—moved. They locked with his. And Tim felt a sharp pang in his chest. Something like... recognition.

The girl blinked, freezing. Tim pretended not to see her. She seemed relieved.

“Alright!” Plagg said, snapping his fingers. “I’m going to order.”

Tim frowned slightly when he noticed a waitress finally seemed to notice the children.

“I want cheesecake!” the boy—Plagg—demanded. More people seemed to notice them.

Tim pulled out his notebook and wrote:

 

[Two anomalous subjects. Unidentified.

Subject A: female, ~6 years old.

Subject B (Plagg?): adolescent, ~14–15 years.

Unregistered.

Not acknowledged by immediate environment. Synchronized movement. Possible telepathic or pre-verbal bond. Unexplainable. Highly improbable. Magical? Metahumans?

Probable cause: unknown.

Threat level: unknown.

Curiosity level: unacceptably high.

Investigate.]

 

He closed the notebook. Stayed still.

Took a deep breath.

No. Tim Drake didn’t believe in destiny.

But something—something deep within his trained instinct—whispered that he had just stumbled upon the beginning of a pattern with no name.

And he wasn’t going to let it go.

So he kept watching.

The girl left after ordering her own chocolate cake.

Tim followed her with his eyes until she vanished into the crowd—in that improbable way things that shouldn't exist do: fading into the everyday without leaving a trace.

He didn’t get up. Not yet. Something held him back. A barely perceptible noise in the gears of his instinct. As if the pattern wasn’t finished. As if the equation was incomplete.

And then, exactly three minutes later—the girl returned.

With company.

She walked in as if she’d never left. Her stride was still calm, but this time there was something else… something more animated in her steps. Almost happy. Her red dress swayed with a light, childlike bounce that felt rehearsed. As if she were trying to imitate what the world considered adorable. Tim noticed, of course.

But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

It was her.

The girl who entered holding the child’s hand.

The anomaly within the anomaly.

He saw her before she fully crossed the threshold.

And for a moment—for the first time in a long while—Tim didn’t know what to do with the information he was receiving.

She was young. No older than twenty—though she looked even younger. Nineteen. Eighteen, maybe, if one didn’t look too closely. But Tim did look closely. And on closer inspection... there was something about her that didn’t match the apparent innocence of her face. Something tired in her eyes, like she had already lived a full life.

There was something in the way she looked, in the precision of her movements, in the silent gravity of her figure that violently contradicted her youth.

And that contrast confused him.

Unnerved him.

She was beautiful, yes. But not like the women Gotham was used to. Not provocative. Not calculatedly attractive. Her clothing didn’t seek attention. She dressed like an art student or a designer-in-training who didn’t need to shout her talent—because it lived in every thread: high-waisted jeans hugging her slim figure, a short midnight-blue coat with large buttons, and a white blouse with barely visible floral embroidery at the collar.

Her red, hand-knitted scarf had a loose thread near the edge, which she hid with a habitual thumb flick. Low boots. A black beret tilted to the left.

She looked like she had stepped out of a French film… if that film had been shot in the middle of a war.

And yet, nothing about her seemed out of place. She wasn’t dressed up. She was simply like that, and the world around her had to adapt. Nothing about her appearance should have been eye-catching… and yet it was. As if the world subtly molded itself not to outshine her.

Her hand held the girl’s with instinctive softness. She didn’t dominate. Didn’t drag. Didn’t lead. She accompanied.

And despite everything, something about her was deeply anomalous.

Tim narrowed his eyes.

Fluid movement. Calm breathing. Pulse—visibly—stable. No visible weapons. No devices. Skin unscarred, from what could be seen. But her feet touched the ground like someone who knew exactly how much weight to carry without being heard. Like someone trained. Like someone who tried to seem untrained.

She was good. Very good.

And that, more than anything else, made his pulse quicken. Fear? Adrenaline? Excitement? He wasn’t sure—had no time to analyze himself either.

He saw her scan the room, as if counting exits without looking paranoid. The way she kept her body slightly turned toward the child, protective. The way, when their eyes met, she didn’t immediately look away.

No. She saw him.

And she noted him.

And she weighed him.

Just a second. Less.

But it was enough.

Tim forced himself not to move. Not to blink.

Instinct screamed in his ribs.

The pattern had shifted.

The anomaly had branched out.

A variable within a variable.

The girl smiled. Not at him, of course. At the child. She leaned down slightly, just enough to whisper something in her ear—just enough to make the child giggle and wrap her arms around her waist like she had been waiting for her all day.

It was a warm scene. Familiar. Harmless. Almost. And yet...

Tim felt it.

That uncomfortable tug in his chest.

As if something inside him had been knocked loose. As if that impossible equation had just revealed a new unknown. One without a name. One that shouldn’t hurt. And it did—but not in a bad way. And somehow that made it worse.

But he knew what he felt was curiosity. That was all.

A natural intrigue toward a new pattern. A strange figure that didn’t belong in the environment, and therefore had to be understood, cataloged, broken down. Nothing more.

It was fascination.

It wasn’t attraction.

It wasn’t destiny.

He repeated that to himself as he pulled out his notebook again.

And wrote:

[Third anomalous subject.

Female. French, judging by accent. Possible Asian descent. Approximately 20 years old. Appears younger than expected. Deliberately innocent style.

Controlled movements. Possible training in evasion or discreet combat.

Strong bond with Subject A (girl) and B (boy). Protective behavior.

Anomaly level: high.

Mutual recognition with Anomalies A and B.

Sustained eye contact.

Primary variable.

Danger: uncertain.

Curiosity: undoubtedly unacceptably high.

Investigate thoroughly.]

He closed the notebook.

Looked again.

The girl was already seated. Their gazes met for a fraction of a second—he looked away casually as if he hadn’t been watching.

Tim tried not to stare. But failed.

Everything about her challenged him. From the way she didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard, to how she seemed to read the child with just her eyes—as if they didn’t need full words. As if they were already made of shared language.

And yet that wasn’t what unsettled him.

It was that he couldn’t figure her out.

Every person Tim saw went through the same filter: posture, tone, movements, gaze, details. Each one produced a reading, a sketch, a profile.

But with her, it was like reading a page that rewrote itself every second.

One moment, she was an ordinary girl. The next, a well-trained shadow. Then, a caretaker. Then, a strategist.

Impossible.

Tim blinked. Leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, staring at her reflection in the glass. Watching without watching.

His mind buzzed.

Who was she? What was she doing there? What kind of person is followed by two impossible beings? And why did he feel so curious about her?

He watched the girl’s reflection. She cut the cake for the child with patient care.

And smiled.

Tim didn’t believe in love at first sight. That was nonsense—an illusion based on idealizing the person. But he did believe in omens.

And that girl was the beginning of a very dangerous one.

So he would pay attention.

He would pay very close attention.

Chapter Text

[Fascinatio is, in general terms, the kind of fascination that implies an enchantment or a dazzling allure—an attraction that can feel almost magical.

Or, in the writer’s words, an obsessive fascination.]

Marinette wasn’t sure what to expect in Gotham, other than the incipient chaos that lingered without shame, guilt, or regret around her. The scent of decay hung in the air like particles coated in chaos, death, and evil—making her feel sick in a deeply painful way.

“Marinette!” The sweet, high-pitched, and scolding voice of the Goddess of Creation, Tikki, rang beside her. “You shouldn’t leave me behind like that!”

The woman blinked and looked down. Tikki—very human and very childlike—was standing beside her. Her red hair shimmered with black streaks under the sunlight, and a red headband with soft, playful antennae held it firmly in place.

“That outfit looks very cute on you,” Marinette replied instead of acknowledging the reprimand. The kwami, disguised as a human, giggled with a smile.

The little girl’s dress—Tikki’s—looked like something straight out of a modern fairytale. Its centerpiece was a bright red dress adorned with soft black details that mimicked the signature spots of a ladybug. The bodice was complemented by a delicate, long-sleeved black blouse made of light, stretchy fabric that covered her torso gracefully without taking away from the elegance of the ensemble.

Over it, the dress hugged her childlike figure with a simple, comfortable cut, cinched at the waist with a bow that resembled ladybug elytra, unfolding behind her like two soft fabric wings.

The skirt, reaching mid-thigh, was loose enough to let her spin and run freely, while a pair of hidden shorts beneath the fabric ensured her comfort and freedom of movement. Adorable red ballerina flats with little sparkling details protected her feet.

It was a beautiful dress. One of Marinette’s best children’s clothing creations.

“Take my hand,” Tikki said, stretching her hand toward her. Her deep blue eyes—so dark they were nearly black—looked up at her, wide and bright.

Marinette obeyed. “Is there a reason why you decided to look like a five-year-old in this city?”

Ever since Marinette had taken on the role of Guardian, something had changed. Since she accepted the title—not just as a name, but as a living function—her magic had grown, gathering experience and knowledge, and the kwamis had also begun to do more. Because something had shifted in her. In the kwamis. In magic itself.

It was as if her magic was directly linked to her, like a conduit.

Because the magic of the Miraculous wasn’t static. It wasn’t inert energy contained in jewels as many believed. It was living magic—cyclical, deeply symbiotic. And at the center of that magical network was always the Guardian: not as a mere overseer, but as a catalyst.

The former Guardians, shaped by tradition, channeled the magic of the Miracle Box in a contained way. Limited. They used rituals, seals, and strict disciplines to maintain order. But Marinette wasn’t molded by that system.

Marinette came from chaos, urgency, empathy. She was born of creativity itself. Her bond with the kwamis wasn’t rooted in hierarchy, but in affection, understanding, and constant presence.

And that changed everything.

It was as if her own energy—her essence as a living Guardian—had begun to resonate with the essence of each kwami. That resonance allowed the magic to expand. Not from the jewels, but from her. She became the new “emission center” of the magic.

Tikki once explained it, while they rested in silence: “For centuries, our magic adapted to the limitations of the human bearer. What we could do was determined by the structure of the Miraculous. It was a fixed conduit. But you don’t use a conduit… you create a new one every time you believe in us.”

That change allowed the kwamis to begin manifesting latent abilities. Not newly added powers, but dormant aspects of their original essence, which the old methods of channeling couldn’t awaken.

Kwamis, by nature, are fragments of primordial concepts: creation, destruction, illusion, transformation, balance, and many more. Each represents a universal force. But the Miraculous, as physical objects, could only manifest a fraction of that power—adapted for human use and limited by their magical design.

As Marinette grew as Guardian, she became able to connect directly to that primal essence.

She didn’t just use a kwami’s power—she understood it. She touched it. And that magical understanding was the key to unlocking new abilities.

For example, it happened with Trixx, the kwami of illusion. He discovered that he no longer needed a physical object or a bearer to generate simple, lasting illusions. He could now influence human senses directly through Marinette’s magic. And if it was Marinette using his Miraculous, well, her magic made those illusions tangible—as if they truly existed.

Even Plagg, essence of destruction, began to show a more complex form of his power: not just destroying matter, but breaking it down into pure energy—as a form of renewal, and other abilities they were still discovering.

These changes, of course, didn’t happen overnight.

They were small awakenings, almost imperceptible—like a flower blooming under the moonlight. But each of them had the same origin: Marinette’s living magic as Guardian resonating with the sleeping essence of the kwamis.

It was as if the bond between her and them—cultivated through trust, shared living, and love—had become a direct path to restore them to their fullest form.

They were no longer just tools. No longer fragments.

Now, thanks to her, they were whole. Or, well, as whole as they could be.

That’s exactly why Tikki and Plagg—and only those two—could take on human forms for now.

Because when Marinette became Guardian, she didn’t impose herself—she intertwined with the kwamis. She didn’t just carry the box—she held it with love, empathy, and lived knowledge.

Marinette lived with the kwamis. She suffered with them. She trusted them. And that kind of emotional connection, according to Tikki, was what awakened their magical memory.

Tikki and Plagg, being the oldest—the first, and the primal poles of the magical cycle—were the only ones who still retained all their dormant potential to materialize in human form. But they hadn’t been able to do so for centuries, because the required energy channel didn’t exist... until Marinette happened.

Thanks to Marinette’s magic—not only grown, but harmonized with them as if they were part of the same soul—both were able to reach the energy level needed to embody a form between the cosmic and the earthly.

The human appearances of the kwamis weren’t illusions or disguises. They were condensations. It was magic that allowed them to adopt a form closer to their own. They weren’t fully human, but close enough to speak with Marinette—or anyone else—face to face, without translating thoughts or causing a stir.

“Six,” Tikki corrected Marinette. “I’m physically six years old. And yes, Plagg and I made a bet to see who could stay human longer.” The kwami explained. “We picked each other’s ages. I picked fourteen years old for Plagg. He picked six for me because he’s a cheater who doesn’t play fair.”

“Mhm.” Marinette hummed, grateful she always carried a change of clothes for all ages for the mischievous kwamis. One thing she learned once they gained the ability to change their appearance. “So I guess that makes me the guardian of two kids now?”

Tikki looked at her with big blue eyes full of guilt. “I’m sorry, Marinette. We didn’t think about how this would affect you.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Marinette sighed, a resigned smile on her lips. “Where’s Plagg?”

“There.” Tikki pointed toward a nearby café. “Because he wants to try the cheesecakes.”

“And who’s paying?”

“You are, Marinette,” Tikki informed her. “Plagg told them you’d pay and sent me to fetch you.”

A moment later, the sky above the café burst into flames.

A roar, like a metallic dragon spewing fire, tore through the air. The windows burst inward in a rain of glass and flame. The hanging lights flickered desperately before going out. A scream tore from someone’s throat. Then another. Then many.

Smoke spread like a living shadow. And with it, the flames.

A man descended from the broken ceiling, propelled by a screeching flight system. His suit was rough, full of tubes, scorched metal, and burned seams. Fire burst from his arms as if they were extensions of his soul.

Marinette had heard of him.

Firefly.

Marinette threw herself to the ground without thinking, shielding Tikki with her body while Plagg clung to her, his sharp nails now digging into her skin like a frightened cat despite his human appearance. But Marinette knew the kwami of destruction was only protecting her, covering her with his body because the chaos of this fire wouldn’t harm him.

"Marinette, are you okay?" Tikki asked from beneath her.

“Yes.” She nodded. Her heart was pounding, yes, but not out of fear—out of calculation.

Because Gotham had just revealed itself—raw, violent, and unmasked.

The screams didn’t touch her. Neither did the flames, thanks to Plagg. She was observing.

She measured the time between explosion and panic: three seconds. The number of hostages: at least eighteen. Number of visible exits: two, but one was already blocked by fire. Firefly flew from table to table, shooting flames, laughing. A game to him.

Was this what Gotham offered?

This senseless brutality?

Tikki was curling tighter against her chest. “Should we stop him...?”

“No,” Marinette murmured, not moving. “Not yet.”

She wanted to watch a little more of Gotham’s raw chaos before acting.

And then, like a shadow, a vigilante appeared.

His silhouette descended from the top of the building like a sentence. The red of his suit was the only bright thing in the smoke, his movements fluid, mechanical, trained. He struck Firefly in the side with a precise kick that sent him crashing into a wall. Silence followed.

Marinette watched him closely.

Not for what he did, but for how he did it.

Every movement was tactical, cold. Calculated, but not devoid of humanity. The vigilante was a savior with a cape flowing in the wind. A strategist. And yet, when he shielded a crying girl with his body, he did so with a tenderness that didn’t belong on a face hidden behind a mask.

The contrast intrigued her.

Firefly roared, taking flight again. The air was once more filled with heat and screams. Red Robin moved fast, but he was alone. He needed support. But Marinette didn’t move. Not yet.

This wasn’t Paris.

The rules were different. Here, heroes wore armor and masks without magic.

A smaller explosion shook one of the columns. Marinette was thrown backward. Smoke covered her like a black tide. She saw nothing. Heard nothing. Only her own breath, ragged.

And then, arms wrapped around her, shielding her from the imminent collapse.

A warm, strong body placed itself between her and danger.

It was the vigilante.

He said nothing. He just held her for a second longer than necessary, as if making sure she was okay, before gently placing her next to a safe wall. Then he walked away without a word, back to the battle.

Marinette followed him with her eyes, hair tousled, cheeks smeared with ash.

She didn’t know him.

But for the first time since arriving in Gotham, something—someone—had made her stop.

Not because of his strength.

Not because of his suit.

But because of that gesture.

That mix of calculation and humanity.

And for the first time in a long time, Marinette didn’t just want to understand him.

She wanted to watch him again.

And then the ceiling shook.

A new rumble. But this time it wasn’t an explosion. It was an entrance.

A figure darker than the smoke dropped from above like a living shadow, blanketing everything with the weight of fear.

Batman.

Marinette knew this one. She’d seen him a few times. He was a member of the Justice League.

His cape unfolded with the precision of a verdict, and his landing was dry, forceful. No introduction was needed. The silence that followed his appearance was almost more intense than the prior chaos. Firefly froze for just a moment, his flamethrower lowering slightly, as if his body remembered something his mind had forgotten—something even madmen recognize: fear.

The red-suited vigilante didn’t waste time. He used the distraction to launch himself off the nearest wall and disarm Firefly of one of his secondary tanks. A wild flame shot through the air like a whip, smashing tables, setting curtains ablaze. But he was no longer alone.

A second figure appeared from the side entrance, holding pistols in both hands.

Red Hood.

Marinette knew him. She’d seen him her first night in Gotham. He had been... interesting.

Red Hood didn’t arrive stealthily. He didn’t need to. He entered shooting directly at Firefly’s flight gear, not caring much about the debris or the screams. His bullets were precise, aimed at the weak points of the reinforced suit. One grazed the villain’s helmet and made him lose altitude.

“Hey, fire freak!!” Red Hood roared, his voice thick with restrained violence. “You’re gonna need more than fire to make me run.”

Firefly yelled something unintelligible before launching another stream of fire.

And in the middle of that storm of chaos, the smallest of them all appeared. But also the fastest. Marinette wasn’t sure who he was, but he seemed far too young to be there.

He was a child. And he moved like lightning. A blur of black and green leapt over the flames, spinning in the air with a short katana that didn’t aim to kill, but to slice with surgical precision through the propulsion tubes. He landed right in front of Firefly, sliding beneath his attack with a cocky grin.

“You’re slow,” he growled. “And loud.”

Red Robin instantly covered him with a smoke grenade. The team functioned like clockwork, even in the middle of hell. Marinette watched them from her corner, still hidden beneath the collapsed column, invisible among the shadows and dust.

Each had a role. A rhythm.

The one in red thought. Batman controlled. The boy executed. Red Hood destabilized.

And none of them needed to say a word.

They weren’t just a family. They were a war machine.

The fire was no longer spreading thanks to something Batman had thrown.

The strategy was clear: corner him, limit his mobility, weaken his suit. The boy destroyed the oxygen tubes, Red Hood shot at the reinforced parts to force mistakes, Batman approached from behind, silent as the night itself.

And the red-clad vigilante looked at her for a moment.

Through the smoke, their eyes met.

Just a second.

Just a look.

But it was enough.

She didn’t know if he was evaluating her. Making sure she was still alive. If he recognized her.

But she knew this: that second wasn’t accidental.

He saw her.

Then Firefly fell.

A kick from Batman to the back, a final shot from Red Hood directly at the thruster, and the villain crashed to the ground with a dry, metallic sound. The fire was extinguished with a snap, leaving only smoke, debris... and a heavy silence.

The red-clad vigilante didn’t look at her again.

Neither did Batman. Nor the small boy. Nor Red Hood.

But Marinette remained still. Her hair still loose, her clothes scorched, her eyes wide open.

She had seen many battles in her life. She had faced monsters, wars.

But this...

This was Gotham.

And Gotham fought differently.

"Are you okay?" Tikki whispered, still on her chest.

Marinette didn’t answer right away.

Because yes. She was okay.

But she had changed.

Something had changed. Something felt different, but she wasn’t sure what it was.

.

.

.

Night had fallen over Gotham like a heavy, grimy, gray shroud, steeped in a cold that crept down to the bone.

Marinette walked among stretched shadows, dodging black puddles and walls covered in graffiti that seemed to whisper sinister stories.

She wasn’t in a hurry, but she didn’t want to stop either. She just kept moving, as if the city itself were dragging her along in its dark current, letting her drift aimlessly.

The streetlights flickered at uneven intervals, casting broken fragments of light that barely touched the pavement. Her steps echoed in dry rhythm, interrupted only by the distant murmur of traffic and the scattered sobs of the night.

She felt the city before she understood it.

Not just the creak of old stone beneath her boots, or the harsh smoke that clung to her throat. It was deeper. A constant hum in her bones, as if Gotham wasn’t just rotten… but alive. A wounded creature, bleeding darkness from every corner.

The magic inside her—that silent spark she had learned to listen to since becoming the Guardian—throbbed with discomfort. As if Gotham were too loud, too unbalanced, too broken.

Chaos here wasn’t subtle. It was visceral, tangible, thick in the air like fog.

Marinette stopped at the mouth of a narrow street, where the streetlight flickered like a dying eye. She closed her eyes for a moment.

She felt.

Not the fear of people, nor the crimes whispered into alleyways, but the magical tear. The imbalance.

Every corner of Gotham screamed for a harmony lost long ago.

She exhaled slowly, letting her magic stretch out like an echo, brushing the city’s edges like fingers probing an open wound.

She wasn’t going to purify it all at once. Gotham didn’t want to be saved that easily. But she could start to understand it. To speak its language.

The ancient magic of the Miraculous responded with a faint inner glow, a warm vibration that clashed against the biting cold around her.

“We’ll soothe you… little by little,” she murmured, almost to herself.

And she kept walking—not like a stranger, but like a presence seeping into the dark corners, a whisper of order in a symphony of chaos.

As she turned into a narrow dead-end alley, the air thickened—oppressive.

Marinette sensed that subtle shift, the kind that precedes danger, and quickened her pace.

But not fast enough.

Two figures emerged from the shadows with calculated movements, silent as snakes.

Their eyes gleamed with hunger and threat.

“You’re not getting out of here tonight without paying,” one of them said, voice rough, a knife flashing in the dim light.

Marinette stepped back, her heart picking up—but not from fear. From sharp, cold, analytical alertness.

Without losing her composure, she searched for something to defend herself with—any advantage.

Then, a whisper of wind sliced through the silence.

And he appeared.

From the darkness, like born of the night itself, a streak of red and black glided against the wall, stopping just between her and the attackers.

The same vigilante from before. The one in red.

“Not tonight,” he told the criminals, voice low and firm.

Before anyone could react, he launched at the assailants with lethal precision.

The first barely had time to raise a hand before a kick sent him crashing to the ground, the thud echoing against the stone.

The second tried to strike Red Robin by surprise, but was taken down with an agile movement—a chokehold that left him breathless, collapsed and defeated.

Red Robin didn’t even look at Marinette as he subdued them.

But she felt that his presence was a promise—an enigma cloaked in shadow that called to her.

When the last attacker lay motionless, he turned toward her.

His eyes searched for hers—piercing, intense—as if trying to read beyond the skin, beyond the fear.

Marinette felt an unfamiliar warmth rise in her chest, a whirlwind that made her forget the cold dampness of the alley.

The certainty in his voice, the absolute control in every move, the blend of strength and humanity… all of it caught her.

“Are you alright?” he asked, without looking away.

She nodded, unable to speak, lost in that moment suspended between shadow and restrained fire. They stared at each other. The silence between them felt heavy.

“Name…” Marinette murmured. “What’s your name?”

The vigilante watched her through the white lenses of his domino mask. Marinette wished more than anything to see his eyes.

He remained still, tense but composed. For a moment, he seemed to consider the question, though the mask hid any sign of emotion.

Finally, in a calm and steady voice, he answered, “Red Robin.”

His words were brief—more a codename than a name. He wasn’t trying to make friends or win trust with that simple exchange. But there was something in his tone, a quiet certainty, as if that name alone was enough to understand who he was, and what he stood for.

“You’re not from Gotham,” he said—more a statement than a question.

Marinette shivered. His voice stirred something in her chest she thought she'd never feel again. But this time, it was deeper—more intense, more certain.

“I’m from Paris,” she replied.

“You shouldn’t be here alone. Gotham isn’t Paris.”
There was no judgment in his words—just a harsh, sincere warning.

Marinette could do nothing but watch him.

Red Robin took a step back, ready to vanish into the night—but before he did, he added in a voice barely above a whisper:

“Don’t walk here alone again.”

His words were a warning—but also a promise.

Marinette remained there, trembling, though not from the cold.

And that night, Gotham revealed its darkest side to her… and the dangerous glimmer of a new kind of hope.

The air smelled of damp stone and gunpowder—and yet, something in her chest began to ignite, like a candle that made no noise, but wouldn’t go out easily.

She wanted to hear him again.
She wanted to see him again.
She wanted to understand how someone could speak with such hardness and still feel made of something warm.

And the most dangerous thing: she wanted more.

It wasn’t the suit.

It wasn’t the cape.

It was the way he looked at her—like he could see her whole, even in the darkness.

It was the way he protected—like everything mattered… and nothing at the same time.

Something inside her shifted that night.

Something that had long been asleep.

A thought that began as a whisper and settled in the back of her mind, creeping soft and steady like smoke across Gotham’s rooftops.

That night, Gotham revealed its darkest side…

And also the dangerous glimmer of a new kind of hope.

A hope wearing a red cape, a gaze that pierced through walls… and the name of a bird.

Red Robin.

Marinette was never someone drawn to birds, but for all that was sacred in the world, she would have that bird.

No matter what.