#chat pepper

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It would be easier if it was a surprise, because then he could be shocked and horrified. And he is horrified, but not shocked.

He was handed the script, he read the lines, he said the lines dozens of times. He knew what he was selling. He knew what his father was doing, what he was becoming the face of.

But now he was seeing it in action, now he was seeing the reactions of his classmates.

Now it was finally starting to sink in just what he’d signed up to be a part of.

It was finally starting to sink in, how much of himself he’d happily sold away for the sake of convenience.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it ever since Viperion had tackled him out of the way of Wishmaker’s spell. He’d given up the fight, just stood there, waiting to be hit. Because he couldn’t remember what his childhood dream was, and he wanted to remember, even if it meant leaving Ladybug to fight the villain by herself.

Thanks to Viperion, he would never know what his dream had been as a child. He couldn’t for the life of him remember.

But if he was honest with himself, he thought he could guess.

It had probably been to be whatever his parents wanted him to be.

And what his father wanted him to be right now was a pretty face that only had a voice when that voice was used to earn him even more money than he already had.

The cries of his classmates were raised in anger all around him, and even Marinette, who always looked at him with blushing adoration, was staring at him in horror. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, her mouth open in shock, her eyes wide.

And in front of him, behind the projector screen, so that they could have a better view of him, he can see the crowd of his fans. And they’re staring at him too, the same way Marinette is. With all due shock and horror and betrayal. They can’t see the screen, but they could hear it.

They heard him, in his own voice, advertising privatized oxygen. They heard him being used as a willing puppet to sing praise for the company that wanted to cut down the trees and replace them with oxygen sold by the glass. A mindless gear in the corporate machine, tearing the planet apart peice by peice just so the dead scraps can be sold back to the poor.

Adrien isn’t an idiot. He knows what’s happening. He knows what Project Oxygen is, what it’s for.

You can’t live in the same mansion as Gabriel and Emilie Agreste and not know what the motivation of the rich and powerful always is -- to get more money, to get more power, and to hell with the consequences.

He can’t remember for sure, but he can guess that his childhood dream was to be whatever is parents wanted him to be.

And he knows what they wanted him to be.

He knows why he was born.

So that he could do exactly what he just did in that commercial. Put on makeup, smile for the camera, and sell whatever they wanted him to sell. He was free advertising, nothing more. A walking billboard they could dress up whenever they wanted, and bring wherever they wanted. He was always wearing a patented Agreste™ outfit. Just one pair of his socks alone were worth more than any of his friends’ parents earned in a month.

And here he was, standing in the crowd of protestors who would never be able to afford a week’s worth of his clothes if they combined all the money they’d ever had.

He knew that if Project Oxygen was allowed to continue, if his father and the dictator who called himself a mayor were allowed to poison the city and sell back the cure, none of these people around him would be able to afford it. Their families would be driven further into debt, they would be desperate enough to work even for the lowest wages his father and the dictator could make legal...

And you know hat?

He was tired of doing what his parents wanted. He was tired of being a mindless puppet who did whatever he was told and was happy to do it. He was tired of being a mindless cog in the machine of his father’s corporate empire.

He couldn’t remember what his childhood dream had been.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t forge a new one.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t change. Couldn’t rip the strings that bound him out of the hands holding them. He would bite the hand that caged him. He would bite the hand that made him complacent, that made him cruel and uncaring.

He strode forward out of the crowd, and ripped the microphone out of Dictator Bourgeoise’s hands.

And he took up the chant.

He was going to stop Project Oxygen, he was going to defy his father, he was going to stand up for once and do the right thing rather than the easy thing, and to hell with the consequences.

What was his father going to do about it, anyways? Send him to his room? The room he spent all his time in anyways? The room he could now escape whenever he wanted to to transform?

Let him try. There was nothing his father could do to stop him.

Adrien was done playing the role of the dutiful and meek son, born only to increase the profit margin.

It was time to stand up and fight back.