Chapter Text
Chloé Bourgeois is not a good person.
Forget about kind, or even superficially nice. Chloé is a spoiled brat at best, an unbearable nuisance more often than not, and a vindictive bitch at worst. All of this is, of course, by design. No one is a jerk by nature, and Chloé is no exception.
She could fill a book with the reasons behind her rather heinous attitude; a mother more interested in the latest fashion trends than remembering the name of her own daughter, a father-turned-corrupt politician who’d rather give her daughter a blank check than actually check up on her, a best friend who was forced to sever ties with her as a result of his cold, tyrannical father...
Etcetera, etcetera.
The point is, Chloé is the kind of person whom one – in a morally dubious way, perhaps – might argue deserves to perish at the hands of the literal monster she’s caused. She’s not stupid; she knows there’s a cause and effect thing going on between her admittedly horrid treatment of Ivan, and the stone creature he’s become, at least this time around. Bullshit magic transformation notwithstanding, she’s the reason he’s a fifty foot tall golem clinging to the side of the Eiffel Tower, inches away from crushing her to death.
Yeah, yeah , Mylene is there too, but at least the brute inside the monster, like, cares about her. Ivan –or Stoneheart, as the media has stupidly taken to calling him already – isn’t about to squish the girl he has a crush on.
Chloé has no such guarantees. Unless that ladybug-themed heroine that appeared out of nowhere a day prior comes up with the mother of all rescue plans, Chloé is going to die .
She’s not even gonna get to come out of the goddamn closet.
In fact, before she knows it, she’s falling. It’s kind of an improvement, she sourly thinks as gravity begins to take its hold on her unfortunately rather fragile body, since she’s no longer in danger of being crushed to death by a giant stone fist, or actively getting scraped all over by the world’s angriest lump of pumice, but she knows the reprieve won’t last long.
There’s no rush of memories, no ‘life flashing before her eyes’. Just a moment of clarity, of regret, of absolute fear that, yep, this is it for Chloé Bourgeois. Fifteen years old and the only mark she’ll have left on the world is a rather messy one, beneath the looming form of Paris’ greatest landmark.
Will it hurt? (Of course it will)
Will she die? (There is literally no way she survives this fall)
Will anyone remember her fondly? (... fuck . No, probably not)
She braces for impact...and feels it, but way softer than she anticipated. She’s also...not stopped moving, which is trippy for someone who expected a rather abrupt stop , but makes a lot of sense once she opens her eyes and sees the nervous-yet-determined expression of the insect-themed heroine, swooping in and saving her goddamn life like she’s sprung out of the pages of one of Adrien’s old manga issues. She glances back at Chloé as they approach the ground, bluebell eyes meeting frigid, icy ones, and all the blonde can think about is how beautiful that unnaturally blue hair of hers is.
There’s a threat by some kind of supervillain, the spotted heroine – calls herself Ladybug, who could’ve guessed? – fires back with a speech she can barely hear, and then an absolute, nuclear-level explosion of magical ladybugs happens, and then everything – from the overturned police cars to the slightly bleeding scrapes on her forearms and legs – is returned to its normal, pre-monster state.
Chloe’s pretty sure she makes some kind of snappy comment at Ivan and Mylene, but she’s honestly on auto-pilot. Ladybug and her partner, Cat Noir, have vanished, the police is trying to make sense of the shockingly peaceful aftermath of what news people are calling a ‘magical terrorism threat’, and before she knows it, she’s ushered into the back of her dad’s limo.
André Bourgeois fretfully asks her if she’s okay, painfully unsure of how to speak to his own daughter - fearful when all she can muster is an annoyed glare. He shrinks a little, turns to his phone, trying to ‘coordinate’ the city’s response – aka, yelling at his PR people to come up with something to say about the absolute madness brought on by the guy calling himself Hawk Moth – while Chloe just...stares at her forearms.
Her very much whole, formerly bleeding forearms.
Chloé manages to dismiss her butler before he can even begin to ask about the day’s events. She shuts herself into her room, tosses all of her clothes at her bed – no blood stains either, huh – and steps into her lavish bath. Doesn’t even wait for the water to warm up, let alone pool into the tub, before lying down inside and staring at her bathroom ceiling.
What the fuck just happened?
Logically, she knows some madman with superpowers turned the classmate she – and Kim, but who’s counting – bullied into a monster that very, very nearly killed her. The only reason she’s alive to experience this mindfuck is the similarly super-powered Ladybug. In the abstract, though, she can’t help but think karma. Chloé’s never been much of a believer – between her religion-unfriendly sexual orientation and the fact that no heaven or paradise would take her in, with the way she knowingly acts – yet she can’t help but think about the events she barely survived as some form of cosmic comeuppance.
She did this, to herself . To Ivan, and Mylene, and the people who were injured or died fighting Stoneheart – but came back, thank God for Ladybug – and to Paris itself, but she’s honest. Breakdown or not, she’s still Chloé Bourgeois – read, a certified narcissist – and she caused her own near-death . How the fuck is she supposed to wrestle with this? With living with the knowledge that she would’ve brought about her own demise? With knowing she could’ve just... not poked fun at the obviously traumatized kid and been fine? Ladybug and Cat Noir beat Stoneheart at his strongest, so they probably could’ve just...figured out the immobile army of clones on their own, undisturbed. But no, no. Chloe had to go and make everything worse.
And almost killed herself, via giant rock monster.
Chloé’s mind cascades into other offenses she’s performed over the years. With a maniac preying on emotionally vulnerable people, it has to be just a matter of time until one of her previous victims is turned into a monster obsessed with getting revenge, right? Will it be the new girl, Alya, turned into some twisted parody of a comic book heroine? Or that eternal wallflower, Juleka, strangling her to death for all the taunting Chloé did because of her recent relationship with Rose?
Fuck , what if it’s Dupain-Cheng? Chloé hasn’t been able to stop herself from bickering with the raven-haired bakers’ daughter for years . How the hell is she gonna handle being around Marinette when there’s a perpetual chance she’ll end up causing her to become some kind of demon?
A timid knock on her door brings her out of this dangerous spiral. She glances at the watch on her wrist – it’s already been an hour . Her skin consultant is not going to be happy with this much soaking. Chloé finds herself, for once, unable to care - and unable to respond, long enough that the knocks turn frantic.
“Chloé? It’s me, Sabrina.”
“I’m naked .” –she eventually barks, before the redhead can get any ideas.
Her ‘friend’ – more like helpless sycophant – stammers. “O-oh. I’ll stay right here, then.”
Chloé sighs to herself. “Honestly, I’d rather you go away.”
“Chloé...I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” –she says, hurt in her voice.
The blonde isn’t , that much is clear, but Sabrina is not that kind of friend. Honestly, ever since Adrien was forced to stop seeing her, no one has been. “Your dad was there . He should know I’m alright.”
“I...he did tell me you were fine, but...Chloé, you almost died . If Ladybug hadn’t caught you...”
“I would be a fabulous smear on the pavement. I know .” –she says, more exhausted than she allows herself to express. “Now, if you’re quite done reminding me about my own mortality, please be a dear and get the fuck out .”
Perhaps her previous line of thought wasn’t too interrupted by Sabrina’s presence, since she immediately winces after she says this. Part of her still feels justified in chewing her out – like, seriously girl , catch the hint – but now she can’t stop thinking about how Sabrina must feel. All she wanted was to check on her. How is telling her to fuck off an appropriate response? Chloé’s heart would shatter if Adrien treated her that way – and maybe her and Sabrina’s relationship is not nearly as balanced, but she knows that, for all her borderline unhealthy, subservient behavior, Sabrina really, truly cares for Chloé.
This is... not ok. Nothing of the past couple days is, but this , at least, she can do something about.
Chloé gets out of the tub, and reaches for a nearby bathrobe. She’s dripping wet, her carefully applied makeup has mostly gone down the drain, and she probably ugly-cried during her freak-out, but she still opens the door, hoping to catch Sabrina and apologize.
“Hey- “
There’s no one there. The ginger is gone.
There is , however, a small, octagonal, wooden black box at her feet. Chloé almost fools herself into believing Sabrina might’ve dropped it in her – unfortunately, highly justified – haste to leave, but this thing is...well, it feels ancient. Valuable , but not necessarily in the financial sense. It’s hard to explain, but something at her core hums along with this strange box – or perhaps, with its contents.
Chloé’s hand is inextricably drawn to it. She picks the box up, and it immediately pops open. Inside is a small, yellow-black gemstone, shaped roughly like a honeybee. As she stares at it, it changes , morphing into an elegant, bee-themed comb. It glows golden, so bright she can only compare it to a tiny sun, right there in her hands. Chloé closes her eyes, but the blinding light quickly subsides.
There’s...a creature, floating above the box.
It’s tiny, small enough to fit in her palm with room to spare. It looks like a bee, but a somewhat humanoid one, with human-like eyes, arms, and legs. Its irises burn gold, surrounded by blue sclera, and its little body is covered in yellow and dark brown fuzz.
Chloé does not scream. Not necessarily because she doesn’t want to, but rather because her mind is, charitably speaking, simply unable to process what she’s seeing.
“Hello, my Queen!” –the tiny being says. Their voice is pleasant, like a small bell struck by a gentle breeze. “My name is Pollen. I’m a Kwami, and you, Chloé Bourgeois, are my Chosen!”