Throwing the window open, Papier Machette jumped up on the ledge. He glanced at himself in the window's reflection, grinning just a bit at his papery-white suit, his mustache longer and twirling as pieces of pale ribbon fluttered from his arms like tassels. Reaching up, he straightened his bowtie before he jumped. Landing deftly on the sidewalk, he didn't even bother looking both ways before he headed out into the street.
There was traffic, of course, and as a car came screeching and honking toward him, he slipped his hand over the handle on his hip. With a graceful swing, he removed the machete from its sheath and sliced it down in the car's path. He spared the vehicle a look as he did, gauging its worthiness.
It was an economy car, the women inside hardly of any importance. Not something or someone Ms. Bourgeois would be interested in. Therefore, not worth collecting.
The glimmering, golden blade touched down on the hood of the car, Papier Machette scowling as he willed it away. Just before it struck him, the whole thing, and everything inside, burst into tiny shreds of thin paper, fluttering into the street as he kept walking. His own ribbons trailed behind, the use of his power washing over him as he continued. Cars slammed on their brakes around him, none daring approach now, and he was scowling as he finally got to the sidewalk on the other side.
He had to do this for Ms. Bourgeois. He had to get her everything she wanted. He had to make her happy. These were the thoughts that echoed through every bone in his body as the strength he'd used echoed inside him.
Ms. Bourgeois, Ms. Bourgeois, Ms. Bourgeois!
Going to the shop on the corner, he paid no attention to the "closed" sign, instead raising his machete again and slicing through the front door. The wood crumpled into a sheet of paper, slipping to the ground as he stepped through.
Massages, he read. An empty front desk and no one else around.
He'd find them! For Ms. Bourgeois!
Sheathing his weapon, he stepped through the parlor and into the back hall, which was split left and right. Peering one way, then another, he looked for any clue, the light seeping under the screen on the far right drawing his focus.
Without any hesitation, he headed down, hand going again to his machete as he reached the screen door. Standing before it, he drew his weapon and sliced up, the screen crumpling and bursting into tiny shreds.
He thought of Ms. Bourgeois. He had to think of her.
He could think of nothing else.
"Where are they?!" he demanded as he stepped into the room, eyes falling to the single man crouched at the center beside a mat. He was older, with a small beard and short stature. And though he appeared surprised at having been interrupted, he did not look afraid.
"W-who?" the old man asked.
"The teenagers!" Papier Machette pointed his blade at the man. "Adrien Agreste and Marinette Dupain-Cheng! They were here! Now, where are they?!"
"I don't know," the man replied, slowly standing as he eyed the machete. "They left some time ago."
Papier Machette narrowed his gaze, scowling once more. "If you cannot help me, then you are of no value. Not worth collecting." Ms. Bourgeois would have no use for such a person.
The older man's eyes widened and he looked as though he would say something more, but Papier Machette had limited patience and little time. Pushing his power through him—thinking of Ms. Bourgeois—he stepped out and sliced forward.
The man exploded into a burst of paper pieces. They fluttered in a fog, Papier Machette glancing around for anything that would lead him to what he needed, or anything that would be worth collecting for Ms. Bourgeois. Anything valuable—she loved anything expensive or showy.
