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Marinette grew up knowing to always be careful who took pictures of her.
“Remember, Bǎobèi, every picture taken has a piece of your soul. If someone intentionally and maliciously sets the photo on fire, part of your soul is destroyed forever. If ever you no longer want someone’s photo and you don’t want to return it, tearing it up or throwing it in the trash will send their soul back with no repercussions, other than maybe some pain for a week or two, like a bruise. If you ever want to keep a picture but no longer want to carry the soul, there’s a ritual. You have to ensure you clearly state that you’re setting that person free. But you have to be careful. If they are living, it may remove them from your photos, and it can even remove them from your memories. If they aren’t alive, it just helps them be a little more whole as they wait to be reincarnated.”
“What if there’s an accident, though? What if a wire shorts or a burner gets forgotten?”
“Well, as long as it wasn’t done on purpose, the pictures lost in the fire release the souls they carry back to their owners. No harm done.”
When she became Ladybug, she became worried about what Hawkmoth could do to her, but Tikki was quick to reassure.
“If you don’t know someone’s identity, they can’t lose their soul from malicious burning. And it’s safer that way. Not only does it protect the heroes, but think about what a villain with close to no soul would be like. No soul may kill you entirely, but if you have only the tiniest bit left, you’re living in agony. No conscience to stop you from trying to make everyone around you feel exactly the same, or worse, to destroy their souls entirely.”
Suddenly, Marinette was extremely glad no one knew her identity.
Except…people who love Ladybug but not Marinette could do significantly more harm, couldn’t they?
Damian Wayne grew up knowing not to let people take photos of him. He was a prickly child at best, an extremely violent one at worst, and he knew he had many enemies who would love to see him destroyed.
Everything changed when he met Marinette, though. He found himself smiling more, significantly taming his temper, and more patient with those around him. And suddenly, he was a lot more willing to do things he had grown up unwilling to do.
For Marinette, he allowed one photo.
For Marinette, he would allow part of his soul to be in someone else’s hands.
Marinette didn’t know how much more she could take. It was the middle of the night on a random Tuesday in March, and she was curled up in a ball, whimpering as fire lashed through her being, pieces of her soul being destroyed irreversibly.
Alya Cesaire grew up knowing the same rules as everyone else. Be careful with your pictures and who you allow to take them. And when Marinette was her best friend, it was easy to let her. Most of her friends had at least one photo.
Then Lila joined their class and everything went wrong.
Marinette is not who Alya thought she was.
As Lila grew closer, Marinette pulled away, no matter how desperately Alya tried to keep her close. Marinette refused to give Lila a chance.
When Alya’s soul started burning on occasion, she never once suspected Marinette.
Not until Lila pointed out that the burning had to be from pictures.
And who has the most pictures of Alya outside of her family?
Marinette.
Then Lila started having burning on occasion, as did their other classmates.
And suddenly, it was clear.
The only one without any burning?
Marinette.
Lila took great pleasure in taking everything away from Marinette. A few whispered words here, a few fake soul burns there, and everyone believed their precious Everyday Ladybug was setting their souls ablaze and destroying their essences.
It was perfect, really.
The class was so trusting. Too trusting.
And Lila? Well, she was all too willing to use that to her advantage.
She would cut Marinette out and set class photos ablaze, allowing everyone to feel the pain but the very person she planned to destroy beyond repair.
It was easy to point fingers at the one person who never felt her soul destroyed.
And it was even easier to get the class to want their own revenge.
Alya stared at the picture, torn on what to do. Yeah, Marinette hasn’t been a great friend. And yeah, she hasn’t been feeling the pain when the rest of them do. But… is it really okay to destroy her soul in return? What if they were wrong?
“Where is it, where is it?!”
Marinette panicked, searching high and low for the picture of her and Damian. The only picture of him in existence.
“Marinette!”
Tikki brought the photo to her, allowing her to heave a huge sigh of relief.
“I need to give this back to him, Tikki. I need him to be safe from this.”
“But Marinette-”
“No. I…I can’t allow him to think I would break his trust. Everyone here already believes that. I don’t think I could take it if he did, too. While I…While I still have most of my soul, I need to do what I can to protect him.”
“What are you going to do?”
She sniffs, a lone tear escaping.
“What I must.”
The next day, she teleported to Gotham, eager to see the one person who still truly cared. The one person who knows everything she is and still cares more about the girl underneath.
“Marinette?”
“We need to talk. Please.”
A sense of foreboding rose in Damian, a flashing red alarm deep in his soul.
Something is wrong.
“I…I need to return this to you,” she sniffs quietly, a trembling hand holding out a picture. The picture.
“What is this. What are you doing, Marinette?” his voice demands, dread growing exponentially.
“I need you to be safe. Please, Damian. Take it.”
“What do you mean? Safe from what?”
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” she says, turning to leave.
Damian stops her, spinning her around and caging her against the wall.
“Talk to me. Please.”
“I’m losing, Damian. I fought so hard to keep them, and now, I’m losing so. Much. More. I won’t let you be lost with me.”
“Wha-?”
Surging upward, Marinette kisses him, desperate to convey how much he matters to her.
“I promise, I’m fighting. I’ll keep fighting. For you. But I can’t let you be a casualty in this war.”
One more kiss, and she was gone. Escaping his arms and teleporting before he could catch up. Just in the nick of time, too, as her soul began burning again the moment she returned.
She quickly bites down on a pillow to muffle the screams. No one tells you how badly it hurts to have your soul slowly devoured by flame.
“Marinette, you can’t go on like this,” Tikki whispers, eyes watery.
“I have to. They need Ladybug.”
Tikki hesitates before saying, “But they don’t need Marinette?”
“No.”
“What about Damian?”
“I told him I would keep fighting, and I will. Just not like this. If things continue on this way, I will lose too much of myself to fight for anyone.”
Before Alya could begin to set the flame, Marinette began to fade.
“What is this-?” she whispers, alarmed.
Across Paris, other students found the same thing to be happening, including one Lila Rossi.
“No!”
“Ash to ash, dust to dust. A soul to protect from what I must. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, I release you. I break your chains and set your soul free.”
“Marinette, no, you don’t know-!”
“Yes, I do.”
Marinette Dupain-Cheng enrolled in Gotham Academy and kept her head down. She knew the consequences of what she had done.
As the person releasing herself, every photo of her was erased.
And with every photo…
Every memory.
Damian Wayne could never figure out why the new girl bothered him so much, but it grated on him. Ever since the photo, the only photo of him, appeared in his room, he was disoriented. Something was missing. A person. Someone was erased. Was set free. Did I set someone free?
No. I know myself too well. I would never allow such a gap in my memory.
Still, it was obvious someone had been erased. His arm was poised as if holding someone close, and his smile…
It was almost as if he were…
No.
He shakes the thought off, more ire growing toward the girl. He takes to bullying her. Nothing too malicious, but he can’t help but take his anger out on her. It only grows every time she refuses to fight back.
Spills water on her clothes? Nothing.
Steals her notebook? A look of hurt, but she still won’t fight back.
Makes fun of her accent? No reaction.
The more he tries to get under her skin, the more she gets under his.
Marinette struggles to reconcile her Damian with the boy who torments her. Her Damian knew everything about her and still cared. This Damian?
He knows nothing and has decided to make her his personal punching bag. Metaphorically. He hasn’t gotten violent with her. Even he has limits, it seems. Or at least, there are limits to his torment of her.
Considering she just watched him punch someone for calling her a name, she feels like even he doesn’t quite understand his feelings surrounding her. She can’t help the guilt that fills her for what she did. Yes, it was for the best. It protects her, and it protects the people of Paris, and it protects Damian from whatever actions she would take with next to no soul, but it’s also taken pieces of who he was, and it took him from her. So while she fought for him and did what she could to keep fighting…it doesn’t seem to matter much in the end.
Damian catches the guilt in her eyes and incorrectly assumes it was for the boy he just broke the nose of.
For him, that’s the final straw. He grabs her by the arm and drags her into a nearby classroom, closing and locking the door from the inside and caging her against the wall.
“What, you won’t fight your battles but it’s a problem when someone else does?” he sneers.
She keeps silent, looking down.
“Answer me!” he smacks his hand against the wall next to her head, frustration filling him.
She shakes her head, refusing to look at him.
He scoffs, “You never fight for anything.”
A lone tear slides down her face as her heart whispers, “I fought for you. You just don’t remember.”
This is the first real reaction he’s gotten from her. Why does her tear bring such pain to him?
“I don’t understand you.”
“I know,” she whispers, finally answering him verbally, though she still refuses to look at him.
“Oh?” He raises a brow sardonically.
“This is all my fault,” she whispers, bringing her hands up to cover her watery eyes as she fights her tears, head dropping back against the wall in defeat.
“What have you done, Dupain-Cheng?” his eyes narrow.
“I’m so sorry, Damian,” she finally looks in his eyes, heavy sorrow filling her own.
“What. Have you. Done?”
“I did this,” she whispers brokenly.
He stares at her, green eyes boring into her being as he wills her to explain.
“You said I never fight for anything, but that’s not true. I promised I would fight for you, and I did. Fighting led me here.”
His mind flashes back to the day he got the photo, and suddenly, he remembers watching a girl fade from it. He remembers the girl giving him the photo and kissing him as though she were saying goodbye. He guesses, in a way, she was.
Because he remembers it was her.