plagg! claws out!

”Start from the beginning,” he says, leaning forward and steepling his fingers.

Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng takes a deep, steadying breath, pulling her legs onto the chaise and crossing them under herself. “When I was 13,” she says, shrinking into herself, “I was late for my first day of school.”

Hearing that feels like queuing up for the bathroom at the back of an airplane and then suddenly getting hit by a train. It’s such a mundane thing to say, such an average, run-of-the-mill problem, he’d never have expected that to be the start of it. He’d figured it would be something bigger, something momentous, some moment where she’d found a secret cave behind a waterfall or met a wise old mentor who bestowed upon her the magic jewels. Not something as simple, as prosaic, as being late for school.

But if there’s one thing Simon has learned from this work, it’s that it’s the small things that stick in someone’s mind sometimes. And if something like that stuck… it would be because it was part of something very big. And sometimes starting small, starting with the mundane, is how his patients ease themselves into talking about the big, damaging stuff.

The way she tugs on her own fingers, not looking up at him, but staring resolutely at the Ladybug-red carpet—he'll have to do something about that for her visits, that's probably not a good color for her—only reinforces his assumption.

"I lived in my parents’ bakery, back then,” she continues. “It was right across the street from the school, but I was a chronic oversleeper.”

That’s another unexpected detail to file away about Ladybug, then. Not a morning person, probably very tired. More tired than she ever let on to the public. Even without the Akuma to keep her awake some nights.

”I was running across the street, and…" Her voice starts to grow more ragged as she speaks. "This... little old man." Her hands go completely still at the mention of this person. "He dropped his cane and fell, in the middle of the crosswalk. There were cars coming.”

Simon's stomach drops, knocking him back in his chair. The way she's speaking, the way she's moving, something clearly happened to this old man, something she's still dwelling on to this day. He remembers, in the comics he loved, how frequently the superhero would have some kind of tragedy in their backstory, some trauma that drove them. Did Mme. Dupain-Cheng watch this man get hit by a car? He knows full well the kind of effect something that violent would have on a 13-year-old—he's seen the haunted looks in patients who'd had to watch their parents or friends or siblings die, only to be magically brought back again. But this accident would be pre-Ladybug. Pre-cure.

Simon's mind spins, thinking about possibilities. Maybe this man been carrying the magic jewels, the Miraculous, and they'd spilled across the street for anyone to grab. Was that how Ladybug had gotten hers? Was that how Hawkmoth had gotten his?

"I ran back to help him up," she says, and Simon feels the tension in his shoulders release. Not that, then. Not the worst-case. Still, though, something bad happened to this man, something she still hasn't processed.

She brushes a bit of hair out of her face, still staring at the floor. "Apparently, that was the test!" she says—she's laughing, but there's no humor in it. "He purposely fell down in the street, and... whoever stopped to pick him up..."

It's not hard to notice her word choice. Whoever, she said. Implying that she felt like it could've been anyone. Implying two very different statements: I'm not special, and Why did it have to be me?

Then her face softens. "Adrien had a similar test, apparently," she says, and for the first time since she revealed her identity, she finally looks up and meets his eyes. "Master Fu fell down in front of him, too. He had to choose between his own freedom, or helping a stranger."

"Freedom?" That’s a concerning word, especially if this Adrien was the same or similar age to her when it happened.

"His dad..." She stops, starts picking at her fingers again. Her gaze shoots to the left, at the picture of the victorious super team taken less than an hour after Monarch’s arrest. "His... his father..." 

"You don't need to tell me anything you don't want to," Simon tells her, gently.

Marinette swallows, tearing her eyes away from the picture and back to Simon’s sweater. "...Okay."

"Adrien." Circling back to that. Talking about Adrien is the most comfortable, the happiest, he's seen her since she entered his office, and he wants her to be at ease. "This would be... Chat Noir?"

Marinette nods. "I think Fu was testing whether Adrien would use his power selfishly, or whether he'd put others first." She purses her lips. "I... my test was... it was so simple, in comparison. I don't even know what it was for."

Translation: I don’t know why I deserved to be Ladybug over anyone else. He suspects she does know, or at least did at one point, but it’s been buried under so much pain that she can’t retrieve the memory. But he does have a suspicion.

"How close were the cars?" he says.

Marinette blinks, startled. "I, um." She swallows, uncrossing her legs and pressing her feet down into the plush if the carpet. "I don't know."

Simon nods. He wouldn’t expect her to, but he’s willing to bet that there had to be at least some danger. "Maybe this... Master Fu?"

Marinette nods.

"Maybe Master Fu was testing to see if you'd put yourself in danger to save someone else."

As soon as he says it, he can see in her face that it's absolutely the wrong thing to have said. All of the shaky, nervous, extraneous movements suddenly stop; her face turns ashen as her eyes sink further into her head. He knows she's not in his office anymore—she's somewhere far away, somewhere dark and painful, and the hitch in her breath is the only way he can tell she's still alive.

"Mademoiselle?" he ventures, hesitant. He's tripped over a trigger, and he's uncertain as to how to proceed until he knows what it is.

"If—" she begins, then halts. Closes her eyes, tears squeezing out from the corners of her eyes. "If... if I'm the one who's supposed to be in danger..."

Simon's eyes widen as he straightens in his chair. Oh. Oh no. Oh no, he knows where this is going, this was just supposed to be a gentle introduction to—

"He... he k-keeps..." Marinette sobs, before slamming her fist into the couch's armrest, her voice rising to a tear-filled, grief-stricken scream. "S-s-stupid fucking bastard cat won't! Fucking! Stop! Goddamn! Dying!"