Captured in Time - MLB Félinette Fanfiction [DISCONTINUED]

Cafe Barista Chick

Marinette hated the public. Despised the media with a passion, abhorred the press with all of her being. How could she not, when they were the very cause of her downfall? When they were the very reason why she was exiled (she exiled herself but her hatred still stands) to London? London, where her aunt lives but also where his cousin lived - the very cousin who could as well have exiled her along with the press?

It's been five years since then and granted that she doesn't remember what Cousin looked like anymore despite him being the spitting image of him , she still feared that Cousin would recognize her instead. And it's exactly the reason why she grew out her midnight blue hair (and yes, even her blunt bangs), the reason why she went from being the pink designing princess into the cafe barista chick who probably never once saw color in her life.

Yet apparently, that stark change wasn't quite enough.

"Are you Marinette?" A girl, probably fifteen, the front chunks of her brown hair dyed snow-white, asked Marinette. Oh god, did she go viral and TikTok teenagers are now bothering her? Surely the nice lady whose order she got wrong last week didn't rat her out for it online, did she? What could possibly be-

"Can I please have your autograph?" The bluenette looked at the girl, snapping out of her thoughts.

She blinked, watching as the girl fish out, from her Kanken backpack (rich!), a travel notepad, and a pen, and reached them out to her. "Um... I'm sorry?" Marinette asked, hesitantly taking the items in her hand.

"Autograph. Please sign my paper," the girl said. Marinette acquiesced. She looked up at the girl with a confused look, and the girl continued, "I really love your recent work with A. Agreste ."

The reaction was immediate. Her breath hitched, a warning that her lungs now refused to work, the beginning of a breakdown. Alarms rang in her head – gasp for air! Cry out the sanity left! Scare the girl away! She couldn't do any of those though; Marinette was left rapidly blinking back the tears that stung her eyes, left gripping her black apron tightly as if it would steady her faltering balance.

The girl began to speak again."I think you did very well playing your role, too! The way..."

     -Here we are, on the battle site. We can see Ladybug, along with a few other fallen heroes-

"...and A did so good, too, like, it's so emotional and..."

     -is still nowhere in sight. Things look even more dreary now and without Ladybug's partner-

"...I don't know, I'm totally ranting now, but I just love..."

     -countless battles won later, Shadowmoth is finally no more, the long-lived war for the miraculous finally ending. Lives were lost and families were ruined, and with how things went, there is one thing for certain, Ladybug does not-

"...I think you did a great job! You deserve so much more recognition, honestly, though I'm sure people will come flocking soon asking you for autographs, too," the girl giggled, and Marinette was finally torn away from Paris and put back in London, inside l'Histoire , in front of her counter where she was supposed to be serving the girl coffee.

And definitely not autographs. She bit her lip and in a soft voice, said, "I think you have the wrong person, though. You probably confused me for a different model who looks like me, because Agreste and I couldn't possibly have..."

"It definitely is you, though. See?" The girl now had her phone in hand, showing Marinette a photo that definitely wasn't just a model who looks like her because the photo definitely was Marinette.

And it was Marinette in her uniform - the same black apron that used to have l'Histoire's cup and book logo but now didn't because of its wear, the same white long sleeved shirt she'd always roll up to her elbows so it wasn't long sleeved, the same black slacks, and the same white sneakers - serving one of the customers, a tray hugged to her chest.

She looked up, all too aware, looking where the photo was taken with her breath held, and she was beginning to feel lightheaded – she shouldn't be this scared, should she? Was she even scared? The photo was taken in a beautiful light, and the same area she was looking at now wasn't, and it made it unbelievable that that photo was taken in this place.

That photo was orange, and it was red, and it was yellow and alive, and she was smiling wide, and the customers she was serving were smiling wide, and they all seemingly glowed under the dusk's influence. But the area she looked at now was gray. It was dead – the pointy plants which she didn't know the names of were slowly wilting, the sides of the squared wooden table were chipping away, the chairs were uneven, and they were old – it wasn't in any way picturesque. So this photographer, this miracle-worker, took something dead and brought it to life. Was it right, then, to be afraid of them?

Marinette turned to look back up to the girl's phone, and she must've mistaken the befuddled look on her face to that of recognition, and scrolled some more. And there were more photos, much like the first one she saw, and the look of befuddlement on her face turned to that of fear.

The answer was yes, Marinette was supposed to be afraid of them.

Not because they were the press that she so hated, no, she almost wished that was all they were. At least she didn't have to worry too much. No, Marinette should be afraid because she has a stalker.

One who was impersonating her passed partner, too.