you won't make yourself a name if you follow the rules

She might as well stare at the television, she decides. It's ad break time; this looks like a movie trailer; something fanciful enough Adrien might enjoy it, with colorful magic sweeping forth from the violinist's bow and the snap of the crowned woman's fingers. The pianist is almost familiar, but Émilie is certain she'd remember if she'd ever seen this bearded man's distinctive facial scar at a casting call. A dramatic sunrise cuts to fiery gold text on black: Mylène Bruel, the crowned woman holding out a red-gold apple; Lila Rossi, the smirking violinist; Adrien Dupain-Cheng, the pianist clutching a walking stick and staring down someone else's swordpoint. Movie title Inherit the Flame; the violinist dropping into the pianist's lap and leaning in for a kiss; premiering Next Friday. Someone hands the bewildered pianist a piano accordion.

The copyright date on the credits scene—

"Two thousand twenty-six?" shrieks Émilie.

Ariaste

Speranza

Not that Émilie, armed with absolutely nothing except diplomacy and pink-enameled fingernails, will be able to do a single bit of good for anyone. But Adrien still lives in the mansion Émilie bought, and would have had no reason to remove her voice print from the security access list; Gabriel's personal phone line is still active, though with a recorded tenor voice she doesn't entirely recognize saying "You have reached the voicemail of Adrien Agreste" instead of Gabriel's familiar brusque baritone; and though she has neither her brooch nor either Miraculous, that is undoubtedly for the entirely sensible reason that someone might steal them far more easily from her bedside than from her safe. Once she's home, she'll be able to make real plans.

—What on God's green earth have people done to her courtyard wall?

The mural is beautiful, Émilie must admit: a small turtle tussling with a black kitten among marigolds and sunflowers; a large bee and a purple butterfly hovering over yellow cinquefoils and white chrysanthemums; a fox kit hiding in a patch of chamomile, poised to pounce on an oversized ladybeetle in flight. But why is there a mural? Eleven years later or no, Gabriel would never allow—

"Oh no, you don't understand," called a cheerful voice, a half step to the left of familiar. "I'm transgenre. I'm transitioning from rom-com fantasy to magical-girl drama." The speaker, bouncing around the lobby out of reach of the akuma's scarf-whip, was unmistakably Chat Noir, though with shoulder-length hair and—

"Are those kitten heels?" Ladybug asked, incredulous. It could be worse, at least: the new shoes were still steel-toed and now pointed, and he could have gone for a taller, equally narrow stiletto heel.

"You know I've mastered the catwalk."

The loveliness of ladybugs whisked through the bakery, lights coming on and both warming and refrigerated displays humming back to life. Sabine mimed mopping sweat off her forehead, and Mme Lahiffe murmured (or mouthed or shouted, for all Sabine could tell) a thankful prayer. "OH, GOOD," said Tom over the growl of the generator, "I'LL GO TURN OFF THE GENERATOR."

Outside, Chat Noir held out his fist for the heroes' usual victory sign, smiling, and Ladybug bypassed this in favor of flinging herself into his arms. His wide-eyed, quiver-tailed startlement melted after a moment into something softer and gentler, hidden seconds later behind a flattening mouth and worriedly flicking cat ears as she lifted her head. "—and meet me," Sabine could hear her say, as the generator grumbled to a stop.

"We're getting out of here," Ladybug murmurs anyway. "We'll get you safe, Adrien, I promise." Unless Chat Noir got caught too, she doesn't say—but if he had, Hawkmoth would already be ripping the earrings from her ears, wouldn't he? It's really obvious which jewelry box has Ladybug inside. It's the one with her yo-yo dangling from the latch.

"Knock on wood," Adrien mumbles, thumping one of the walls with the hand not squished between their torsos.

Socchan

"I fell in a puddle of pink peroxide."

"Pink peroxide."

"Hey, these things happen! Weirder things happen all the time! …What happened is, a few weeks ago I realized I am not currently contractually obligated to look any specific way. So several of my friends broke out their dye stashes, and I took one look at that rainbow of possibilities, and I handed the decision over to my friend with the best eye for color. And half of my friends are shocked my hair's now shocking pink, and the other half would be shocked if it weren't."

The scene was rockin', all were digging the sounds, they have an audience, but that's background. The pose that's more obviously tango, her left leg has to cross between both their right legs—she can't step on him, her ass—when her right foot can just move sideways when they move forward, before her left foot joins it. Slow, slow, quick quick slow, quick quick slow. Back, back, quick stop check, cross side close. And they're dancing the tango to 'Monster Mash', and Alya will never ever let her live this down.

Igor and the mad scientist and the drum set fade out; a sultry slide down the xylophone takes up the cheerful new melody.

"So the gray, white, and pink is color coding? Like, on purpose?"

"I'd ask why you'd think it wasn't," Marinette says, "but you're the first to say anything."

"You know that whole spring 2018 line? The only person who knew light blue, slate, charcoal, and white add up to the demiboy flag is one of the models."

"Is that so?"

"Sew it would seam."