Marinette knew this feeling.

She remembers it well, as clearly as she could the breakfast she had yesterday morning. She knows the feeling of her legs starting to twitch, and her feet start to roll. She knows the feeling of her eyes open, standing so far in the back of her own mind that it's as if she was spectating a different girl.

It wasn't her when Mari Al Ghul got up—not Marinette—, looking Chat in the eye with a dead stare, glancing at Alya (Auburn hair, relatively athletic, could slit her throa-) who had her phone pointed directly at her.

She wasn't her when she viciously, silently struck a fight up with Reverie, and definitely wasn't her when she pulled the knife out of her purse she painstakingly kept for emergencies. It felt like she was a spectator in her own body as she watched her hands strike a maneuver she hadn't done in literal years.

So this was who she was. There was no way around it.

Mari moved like a whisper, her movements swift and precise, her body an extension of her will. She moved with the grace of a murmur, her steps soundless as she circled her clueless opponent. Her blade flickered in the light.

Remove everything, all of the years she put into becoming better, the friends she made, the lessons she learned as a supposedly normal girl ... was it all for nothing? Leave nothing but instinct, and Mari turns into the cold-blooded assassin she was always born to be.

She wasn't normal. She wasn't perfect.

How could she salvage the image she created of herself when she knew that Alya was only a few feet away lighting the fire that will start the next chapter of her life? She wasn't even sure Alya was aware she was still recording. The look of astonishment— betrayal? —on her face was unnervingly still.

Tomorrow, everyone in Paris would know what she was, and so would the people she's hid so dutifully from for her entire new-life. Or was it one of her past lives now?

Her brother would know. The League would know. Her Maman and Papa would know, her poor Maman and Papa. Her friends, her classmates, her school. Perfect Adrien. Would he pity her? Avoid her forever in fear?

Chat had already snuck off before he de-transformed as well. It was just her against the pale faced, white robed, blindfolded ghoul puppeteering this blind teenage girl.

It was a frostbitten pain in her chest, the only thing she could feel, as she watched herself tuck into a roll dodging confused tendrils floating in the air, gracefully tumbling into a leg-sweep. The akuma had no chance against her, Mari Al Ghul, daughter to a hidden empire, seasoned killer, silent as the night.

Reverie would hear nothing, wouldn't even see anything if she could.

Mari would never be her idea of normal, she thought, as she watched herself slit. her. throat.

What?

Suddenly, she was back in the reins and in control of her own two hands. Her knees immediately gave in, and she fell onto the concrete in an ungraceful heap. The gashes on her legs burnt. Her head pulsed. She was going to be sick -

Her entire body shook as she carefully made a cut through the middle of the choker, where she found a small pendant. As she held it gingerly in her hands, she remembered that she couldn't purify it without activating her Ladybug Miraculous.

"M-Mari-" It was Alya, who still had her goddamn phone pointed at her. The look in her eyes- the look in her eyes. It was haunting.

Alya's seen death before hadn't she? Akumas have killed a lot of people, more than even she had. But not like this, never like this, right? Never at the hands of an unmasked person, with blood spurting out warm at their feet. Never a convulsing teenager, Akuma or no.

Don't call me that , she wished she could scream. Her mouth could only open, and it did not make a single sound.

She needed to go. She needed to undo all of this.

She was Ladybug.

As soon as she ducked into a secluded corner, Tikki flew out of her bag with a frenzied squeak. "Snap out of it!"

Snap out of what? Snap out of what? This is who she was, like it or not. This is who she always has been. A killer.

A killer.

Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer—

This, this is what she needed to snap out of. Like a light through the fog, she felt herself start to breathe. Then her throat started to restrict again.

Mari had been six, and it was early in the morning when she was doing her academic tracks. It was before her physical activities so she had time to herself which rarely ever occurred. That was when she had heard a knock come from the door which she thought would be her tutor but was a nameless servant instead.

"What is your business?" The little girl asked the servant who could not speak unless spoken to. That was the way in her grandfather's Nanda Parbat.

"Your Mother summons you."

"To her chambers?"

"Yes."

"Is that all?" Mari asked the servant. The servant deeply dipped their head to show respectful confirmation, "Yes, my lady."

"You may leave."

The servant backed out of the room.

Her brother would have pestered the servant for more information, but Mari was not nearly as petulant. The servant had likely had other things to do. She herself would not want to be pestered when she had things to do.

There were very few reasons why her Mother would want her presence. One, which was not uncommon, is for check-ups. Talia had still wanted to know her daughter even if she was the way that she was. Two, is her spars with Damian. They were always somewhat sporadic, but the last one had been months ago and she'd seen her mother just the other day.

Her tutor never came.

As she made her way to her mother's hall, she quietly despaired about a spar with her brother. They were always pointless, at least for her. Her brother was stronger, and simply more talented. The only thing she had on him was her silence and her speed.

And as she entered her Mother's hall, she did indeed see her brother who had arrived before her. Her room was further west and his room was closer to their Mother's hall. "Daughter," Talia greeted with a sharp smile that mimicked warmth.

She greeted both in turn although her brother had stayed silent. They do not talk, or in other words her brother does not talk to her. When they were younger she tried to during the sparse moments when they'd see each other. Never once did he acknowledge her other than with the occasional mild look of disdain.

"Will me and Damian be sparring today, Mother?" Mari asked plainly.

"How about some tea, Daughter?" Talia smiled indulgently, offering her a seat at their table and a cup of hot tea.

So they wouldn't spar then. There were no mats laid out or any gear to fight. They would simply have tea.

But it was never as simple as that.

"How are you today, Daughter?" Talia took a quaint sip of her tea as she did as well. Assam tea. The little assassin girl was not fond of black tea.

"I am well. I have practiced my languages and done my arithmetic, but my tutor for world history did not arrive," she informed the woman blithely.

"Yes, well, I told your tutor not to come. I summoned you, after all. Your teachers are busy people." Talia smiled again.

"Mother, what is the purpose of this meeting?" Mari turned, surprised, to Damian who had spoken for the first time in her presence in a very long time. Damian, in his part, looked quite pained to be doing so.

Talia shook her head in mirth as if to say, 't hat's my boy. ' "You are seven, yes?"

"Yes. You would know, Mother."

"What do you know about your Father?" Talia asked.

"What you have told me, of course," said Damian.

Mari had not been told anything. To her mother's defense, she never thought to ask. She'd thought there was no father and that like the womb they came from, the sample Mother used alongside hers was artificial.

"You, Daughter. Do you know any one thing?" Talia had likely known that she'd never parted any information with her one and only little girl. She'd said it merely to ask.

"No," Mari answered.

"Your Father is the Dark Knight," Talia immediately volunteered. "He is strong, and he is wealthy. He is known as the Caped Crusader, the World's Greatest Detective, to me, my Beloved, and to most, The Batman. He is not a part of this world, but he knows it well. He is a good man, and he does not kill."

To Mari, this may as well have been a beacon of light. She was used to taking lives but she'd always despised it. Her Father must have the same conviction if he was familiar with this world but did not partake.

"I know this already, Mother. You've told me."

"But your sister does not. It wouldn't be fair for you to know and her to not, yes?"

"I fought for this information." He crossed his arms. "She is merely given the answers. She does not deserve them."

The girl in question turned to him, indignant. "And why not?" But her brother did not so much as look at her and did not acknowledge her other than with a snobbish huff.

"Of course she needs this information. You will be meeting your Father."

Their heads snapped to look at their Mother.

She could leave this place, she realized. Her Father did not kill, so she would not be forced to kill.

"We will be?" She asked, taken by surprise.

"No." Her mother seemed upset by this, almost as upset as she was.

"I would have liked for both," Damian shot her a dirty look as if she should not have even been considered, "but unfortunately, you Grandfather has not let me. Only one shall meet the Dark Knight. Your Grandfather already had one of you in mind, but I'd said it would not be fair to the other."

Talia then stood up, gently putting her tea down beckoning them to stand as well. "Follow me. Your mats are in the throne room, and your grandfather will be watching. You shall fight to earn the right to live with your Father."

It was as if the opportunity dropped from beneath her. She would have to fight her brother who she has never once won against to leave.

"The match will be simple," Her Mother started as they made their way to the Throne Room, the twins following closely behind her. "It will not be like your spars. Your aim is not to subdue, but first blood. You are allowed your weapons for this match."

This was good, great even. Damian had a leg up on her when it came to power, but she was nearly even when it came to blades. She had a real fighting chance if she played her cards right.

When they arrived at the Throne Room there were no mats in the room but their weapons were safely to the side. Ra's was sitting on the throne with his head propped up on one hand. He grandly gestured as they met eyes with him.

"Welcome, Grandchildren. I'm sure you are aware of why you are here. Your Mother requested mats, but this is not a spar. You will fight here, on the floor. We will watch."

Her Mother didn't seem to like it, but said nothing as she sat beside her Grandfather.

She needed a plan.

She needed a great plan to be able to defeat her brother who was larger, stronger, and more experienced. They may have been twins, but they were not the same. Far from it, from the moment he was born a first and boy, and her second, a girl.

She needed to be swift, she needed to be nimble, and smart, and calculating.

Their steps echoed, each movement calculated, each breath measured. Immediately, she was at a disadvantage. While Damian had picked up the katana, she favored daggers, a shorter and less ranged weapon.

Their eyes locked in a dance of anticipation, each calculating the other's first move. Mari, her dark hair framing her determined face, moved like a specter in the night, her steps inaudible against the marble floor.

Her brother with an intensity burning in his eyes, readied himself for the clash.

"I'll enjoy watching you bleed, sister," he taunted, his voice dripping with malice. Somehow, these were his first words to her. This time, she was the one who stayed silent.

With a swift movement, Mari lunged forward, the clash of steel ringing through the air as their blades met in a shower of sparks. Their dance was a deadly symphony, each move calculated, each strike aimed with fatal precision. They circled each other, a whirlwind of blades and shadows, locked in a deadly dance.

With a sudden burst of speed, her brother lunged forward, his fists a blur of calculated strikes. Mari countered with fluid grace, her movements matching his perfectly . He sidestepped her attack, her blade slicing through the air.

He aimed a low, vicious strike towards her legs, intending to cripple her mobility. She leapt over the attack, a dance of avoidance that left her momentarily airborne, her own weapon descending in a deadly arc towards his exposed shoulder blades.

The brother rolled away just in time, feeling the wind of her blade pass by, a whisper away from his skin. He regained his footing, his eyes narrowing as he reassessed his opponent.

She was more than just his feeble sister; she was a nemesis shaped in the same cruel crucible as he, he realized for the very first time.

With a lightning-quick movement, she darted right, her blade slicing through the sleeve of his shirt. Damian's expression was stony, but a single twitch in his eye betrayed his shock. She has never put up this much of a fight before. But they have never fought with blades, so he wouldn't know her adeptness.

They were nearly equal for the first time in their shared existence. Her brother nearly burst into rage; this was the sister who has never been able to defeat him. Where was this that last spar where she didn't even last a single minute? Where was this when they sparred for the first time and she did not even last ten seconds?

She feinted to the left and then spun, her blade darting out like a serpent's strike as she targeted his side. He twisted, evading blood by mere inches, and countered with a furious overhead swing aimed at splitting her skull.

The duel escalated, driven by years of festering resentment. She ducked under the swing, coming up within his guard, her dagger thrusting towards his abdomen. He stepped back just in time, the tip of her dagger grazing the fabric of his clothing once again, perilously close to drawing the line that would end the fight.

With a growl of frustration, the boy launched a series of aggressive attacks, his blade a blur of steel that sought to finally earn his birthright. The sister retreated under his barrage, her mind coldly calculating. As he overextended on a single savage swing, she saw her moment.

Unfortunately, so did he. With a grunt of effort, he feigned a high swing; as she raised her dagger to block, he abruptly switched tactics, sweeping his katana low. Mari leapt high but failed to stick the landing.

Her back hit the earth with a thud, and immediately, Damian's weight pinning her down, his blade hovering a whisper away from her throat. "Give up, Sister," Damian hissed. He needed to know for himself; he needed to know that his sister was weak , that she was frail, that she was unworthy of her title as even a spare heir.

He needed to know that all these years of ignoring her, snobbing her, belittling her existence was deserved. She was a weakling, that is why he did not speak to her. She did not deserve his attention for even a second.

Mari's heart pounded, her limbs ached, her throat started to constrict with the thought of never being able to leave. She hated this place, and this place hated her.

"Don't worry, my grandson," came the amused chuckle of their grandfather. "You are allowed to slit her throat if you please."

It was these words that grew Mari's resolve with a fierce twist of her hips, she loosened his hold, her hand snaking up to grasp his wrist. She twisted sharply, pain flaring between them. Damian grunted, his grip faltering, and in that sliver of opportunity, she shoved him off with a surprisingly powerful kick.

They grappled. Damian was aggressive, his swings wide and powerful, but Mari was a wraith, slipping past his defenses, a darting shadow that poked and prodded at his resolve.

Rolling to her feet, she pounced, the edge of her dagger pressing against the thin line of sweat at his neck. He froze, his sword falling to the ground with a dull thud. His chest heaved, eyes wide with the stark realization.

Damian's arm tensed, preparing for the final strike. But as he brought his arm down, the little assassin rolled, pulling him by his arm into her momentum. The ground thudded beneath him, and suddenly, she was on top, her dagger at his throat, her chest heaving with ragged breaths.

It happened in an instant—the tip of her dagger drawing a thin line across his throat. Blood welled from the shallow cut, bright against the pallor of his skin. Her gaze met his, heavy with a victory that brought no joy, only the bitter confirmation of her win.

She did not offer him her hand once she stood up. She gave him a mere look before she faced her mother and her grandfather who had sat up in shock at the turn of events.

"This is a surprise. Not necessarily a bad one." Ra's stroked his chin, but he was frowning at the boy who was still lying on the ground. "Congratulations, my granddaughter. You get to stay at Nanda Parbat."

Damian whipped his head to their grandfather as Mari choked a strangled "What?!" out of her sore throat.

"Don't look so surprised, Granddaughter. It is much better here than over there. You have access to a well of tutors, servants, wealth. Is this not why you fought so hard?" By the expression on Ra's face, he knew exactly why she fought so hard. He was amused.

She cried in outrage, "but you said-"

"I did not say anything about whether or not it was the victor who earned the right to live with your father. I'm sure your Mother did not either." He actually seemed quite displeased.

As Mari looked back through her memories of earlier in the day, she realized, they really hadn't. She crumpled onto the ground as her brother stood up. She looked up at her Mother for some sort of explanation.

"I did not think you would win," her Mother revealed to her softly.

And her eyes blurred as the world seemed to close in.

As her pulse quickened at her temple, she felt her feet dart away from the room and past several servants waiting at the door. Faintly, she heard her Grandfather yell out, "get her!" She watched herself give chase to a full group of assassins, a good number of them appearing out of intersecting hallways. She knew this place like the back of her hand, and so did they.

It did not matter. She escaped Nanda Parbat that same day.

For a moment, there was silence, the only sound the pounding of her own heart. When she was back in the reins, she did not go back. She hopped on a train heading north and hoped never to see them again.

It was only a few months before she arrived in Paris.