Silver Has Always Been Last Year's Gold

I think you always knew you weren't wanted. From the second you tore out of me you were wailing and you haven't stopped since. As if you wanted to make sure you wouldn't be forgotten.

Please.

As if anyone could ever forget a brat like you.

If being old was a crime, Chloé Borgeous would have him arrested.

He's absolutely ancient with flabby arm skin and balding hair, and walking slow enough to make even a turtle impatient. (Like wow, we get it. You're gonna die soon.) The man's short too, barely four foot tall standing straight but he's hunched over so low he might as well be kissing the floor. And ugh! That shirt with those shorts? Hasn't he realized hawaiian button ups were dead before he was even born?

Stereotypical tourist attire. People like that shouldn't even be allowed to dress themselves.

He looks like a troll, she thinks, and smirks. Gross, old and wrinkly. God she's clever. Maybe she'll tell him. Even a wrinkly old prune like him deserves to know too.

The man pushes ahead, somehow managing to climb the steps to her daddy's palace without breaking a hip. He pauses up ahead, and shoots her a narrowed eyed grin- his way of telling her to suck it probably. It widens when her nose wrinkles in disgust. Like he's laughing at her.

Whatever.

She has places to be. She shouldn't put up with some walking corpse's bullshit.

Without a second to lose, Chloé sticks her nose in the air and pushes past him, watching him stumble with satisfaction out of the corner of her eye. The cane is flung out of his hands, and tumbles down the steps. His arms flail a little for a second, before catching on to the first piece of support he can find: her purse.

Chloé's nose wrinkles in disgust and she tries to push him away, but the old man's determined not to fall and he's surprisingly strong for someone so frail. With one fluid motion he hoists himself up and, not so coincidentally she's certain, pushes her down. Before she realizes she's lost, she -and her new designer handbag- are sent skidding. He turns to her, his face the epitome of innocence, and hobbles down the steps.

"My mistake." He croaks. He bends down and starts to pick up the contents of her purse. Hands it to her.

Chloé stares at him and then her bag, blood boiling beneath her skin. With a huff, she snatches it up and stands. She can do without his fake old man pity. He's about as sincere as day old caviar.

"Do you even know who I am?" She says, crossing her arms. She expects him to hesitate after that-they always do-but instead his smile widens. Wolf in sheep's hawaiian shirt, she thinks, then mentally applauds herself. That's twice today. She should get an award.

"Of Course." He says. Crooning. "I've heard a lot about you, Miss Bourgeois.

Maybe it's the way he says it, or the glint in his eye, or that slimy little smile, but something about that sentence sends her speechless. It wasn't a compliment, that's for sure. She has every intention to set him straight, and knock some respect into his balding skull, but she blinks and he's gone.

All that's left is that walking stick, still abandoned by the side of the stairs.

It takes three shopping sprees, a haircut, and thirty-two selfies to even begin to forget the old man from earlier and even then she can't completely wipe his smug expression from her head. It seeps into her dreams too, until she's tossing and turning, gripping her pillow and pacing into the odd hours of the night.

She can't remember falling asleep. She just knows it wasn't pleasant.

It's noon when Chloé finally wakes up.

She thinks it's a Saturday at first. Her head is still terribly fuzzy and it's a little too bright to be morning, and besides- there's no one here to tell her other wise.

She probably wouldn't listen anyways. She's rich enough there's not really any point in even going to school.

The only reason she even bothers is to see Adrien. Oh-and maybe be served hand and foot by Sabrina. That's always been a bonus.

For a second, she rolls over and considers going back to sleep, (She's never really been much of a morning person. Anything before 10 is a miracle at most. Besides. She's pretty sure now it's a Monday and she's missed half of class. There's no use showing up now.) But her phone is buzz, buzz, buzzing up a storm and sleep be damned if she's missing this.

No Ladybug fan in her right mind would.

There are three things Chloé will never admit out loud. The first concerns a certain Adrien Agreste. The second is about spandex. And the third?

Well. Like she'd ever allow Alya the satisfaction of knowing that her blog was this good.

She runs over to her vanity, and dumps her purses contents onto the bed, pushing aside

emergency tubes of lipstick, and a certain little black box that was SO not there before until she finally manages to find her phone.

One typed password later, and Queen_B33 is logged in.

The first thing that pops up on the screen is a livestream and she wastes no time pulling it up onto her television. She takes great satisfaction in watching it slide down. Not everyone gets the luxury of being this close to Ladybug without actually having to be the one needing to be rescued in the first place. Not everyone has the cash to be real Ladybug fan. Not like her anyways.

The camera's super shaky, but it's zoomed in on Ladybug swinging through the air and the quality's good so she won't complain too much. There's shouting too, a little bit Chat Noir who she wishes would speak up, and a lot Alya who she wishes would not. She can't really tell who they're fighting, (it all goes sort of grainy here. Not even Chloé's state-of-the-art widescreen could fix this disaster of a camera.) but she thinks it's a librarian? Or like a book monster? Whatever. It involves paper and she knows for a fact that Ladybug will defeat it in seconds.

It makes her think of the black box though. And maybe a little bit of the old man from yesterday.

Now the screen's shifted to sneakers as Alya sprints to keep up. It flashes back to sky soon though. Alya might be huge pain in the neck, but she knows what she's doing.

Has she's ever actually seen it before?

The camera's zooming in, as Ladybug leaps to the side, somehow managing to avoid the swarms of clawed books all flapping their way towards her. She's charging straight for the Akuma, a small framed women with exaggerated glasses covering most of her face, and a bright red and teal bodysuit. (The result is both fashion genius and mistake. Like something out of an American 80's film.)

She just can't shake it…

The Akuma's releasing a scream, and all of the books fly towards Ladybug and Chat Noir at once.

Maybe it's something about the design…

They're both weaving back and forth. Dodging. Like streaks of black and red.

She should open it.

She should open it now.

Cataclysm! Cat Noir slices the roof of the building. All three of them tumble.

Fumbling fingers. The lid pops open with ease. She can't really help it. Chloé's never been one to resist temptation. Not with everything she could ever want at the snap of her fingers.

A flash of red. She's not even paying attention anymore

She doesn't notice anything at first- or at least nothing special. The glint of dulled silver. A hair comb.

Then- a burst of yellow light. Something small. A squeaky voice.

"Promise me you won't scream alright?"

Whoops. Too late for that.