𝙸 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏
𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗
𝚃𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗' 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞
𝙸𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎
𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘
𝙾𝚛 𝚊𝚖 𝙸 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕
𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎
𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗.
~ 𝙱𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚘 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚜, 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚃𝚘 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚗
White light. Shining. Halos. Purity.
It’s almost mocking, really, the way things were so twisted. He’s head to foot in white, surrounded by an ocean of white. White, white, white.
He doesn’t feel all that good.
Good shouldn’t feel so empty , so lonely , so cataclysmic. It’s a wasteland, all consuming, so chaotic he can hardly tell the difference between the chill of the air and the icicles of his heart anymore.
But he’s bleached white.
He has to be good.
Angels wore white, and that’s essentially what he was, wasn’t it? He was on the side of good, fixing what was wrong. He wiped clean the Earth, wiped from it all the evil, all the akumas with his destructive-
Destruction was his thing. All he did was destroy, destroy, destroy. His family, his friends, his partner-
She created. Yes, she had once, hadn’t she? The creation to his destruction, the Yang to his Yin. Where was her creative magic now, where was she when he- when everything needed fixing the most? Where were the bugs, the thousands upon thousands of magical insects that would dance right over this barren world and turn it back to what it once was? When could he be released from the pain?
But of course. He destroyed.
When was there time for creation when there was him? A complete and utter cataclysm, wild, uncaring, unchecked and free ! This world was his to look down upon, it was his playground, for who else was there left to claim it? Who other than him, the cat of this jungle?
He’d toyed with his gift, ripped his pure ruinous energy through the sky, a beam that collided with the moon with an almighty crack. The tides had lost all restraint, the sun had lost all its power, he’d done that!
He’d done that .
Why, why, why-
He just wanted to fix things! He wanted to make it better! He wanted his home, his friends, his family, his Lady, why would it never fix? Was it too much to ask for? Love? Any slight feeling at all?
HE NEEDED TO FEEL!
Anything! Anything at all other than eternal winter! Other than the stir of frantic emotions that put him here in the first place.
Was this what death felt like? An endless nothingness. No one to speak to? Nobody to care for? No one to save?
Could he even save himself?
He mulled the idea over, stretched it like putty in his mind. He was a hero, yes? Then what good was he as a hero if he couldn’t do so much as save his own self from eternal damnation.
The good, heroic thing to do would be to let his akuma fly free. A butterfly that gave no commands was pointless, his purpose had been served. Here, he could potentially face his mess and be rid of his akuma all together. It could finally be over.
Over for everyone if you gave it more thought.
No miraculous cure, no instant reset. The world was done for, as was he. A person? Surviving in this industrial sized fridge? He- no , not he. Chat Blanc was used to the cold, it was all around him, within him. It was Adrien who’d suffer, alone, heartbroken. Adrien would freeze to death, possibly even before he managed to starve. You know, if he was lucky.
Chat Blanc was above all of that. Truly. Here he was, sat atop of it all, singing his song like a broken record. It looped, over and over as his voice caught on the last words. Bitter as the air, half a choked sob.
He wanted, he wanted-
He didn’t know what he wanted. There was just nothingness. An endless supply of it. Time wasn’t even a thing any more, not to him. There was nothing to measure it by, no sun nor functioning moon. No stopwatches, clock faces or timers. For all he knew, this could have been the longest hour he’d sat through (longer than Adrien’s homeschooling — if you can imagine) or perhaps, now this was the thought that twisted something deep within him, it had been months. Years. How could he tell?
He was just a bleached white cat whose owner no longer wanted him. Just that little white lie that had grown and grown with catastrophic effects.
He was the ice that plagued these lands, he lit the fire of his emotions, and his turmoil had thawed out until there was nothing left but water. A vast sea of it, Paris just one of the many cities set to the same fate as Atlantis.
Atlantis. Hadn’t Plagg mentioned that one before? How he’d accidentally sunk that along with the dinosaurs? At the time Adrien had just brushed it off as nothing more than typical Plaggy snark, but now Chat Blanc remained unsure. Left without restraint, tapped with another source of power, he alone had done this . There was no telling what the literal concept of destruction could do .
Of course, Plagg was still stored in his ring. Had left him like the others by being both there and not.
(Wasn’t it his fault?)
And there was no telling what had happened to the other kwamis. Perhaps mere ash, or concepts foregone from the world no longer with their key to touch this plane of reality.
Perhaps they still lingered under the rubble.
(Like her and him in the fight that started this mess, the dilemma of choose, choose choose. His friends and their families, oh, but he wondered what they had done in their last moments. The moments before he- he-
Mon Dieu, he-)
In the end, he guessed it was just him. Him and this broken down moon. It was shattered, broken, struck through the middle like a jab to the heart.
He had something in common with a giant rock of all things.
The moon was steady, everlasting. It’s debris still floated as it did, amongst the vastness that was space. He could easily send up another beam, blast through the rock some more. But what was the point?
What was the point of it all?
Why couldn’t this just end?
Even if he crushed the moon to smithereens, Chat Blanc would still remain. Desolate.
He longed for that companionship.
(They broke his trust.)
For those warm hands.
(They were dust, frozen in time.)
He was no dog, but not for the first time he wished to howl at the moon. At the sheer unfairness of it all. What had he, a kid who just wanted to make people happy, do good, make his father proud , ever do to deserve all of this? Wasn’t he allowed even the faintest slice of happiness? At all?
The moon never spoke a word, but it was more companionship than he had otherwise. So he sung. He, the lonely cat. The cat who’d lost so much, the one who poured his words into everything he had for the return of what was most dear.
Just a little cat on the roof, all alone without his Lady.
(Perhaps if he kept on wishing, then maybe-
Their love could fix the world.)