AN: This can be considered a Be More Chill AU, but only the supercomputer part since the rest of the plot isn't relevant to this. SQUIP has been changed to KWAMI (that was a bitch to try and find words for). I'm not going into detail about singing, I won't be using technical terms that some might have to research the meaning of, so it'll be really vague. The only music show I've watched is I Can See Your Voice, so thank you so so much to powerdragonmoon and simply-zerah for helping me out with this, because I absolutely have no idea how any of them work. As always, this was supposed to be a one-shot but now it'll have three chapters. Teasers/updates can be found at my tumblr (xiueryn).

Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Chat Noir © Thomas Astruc

"Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to stare, Arin?"

Averting her gaze instantly, staring at the scribbled notes on the desk and the pencil that was clutched in her pale-skinned hand too tightly, Marinette avidly tried to avoid confrontation. It wasn't that she was afraid to stand up for herself; rather, the teasing comments and laughs that were directed her way had never been thwarted by her rebuttals. They wouldn't be bothered by her reddened cheeks from anger, nor the balled up fists that she'd never had the courage to attempt to use in her own defence.

It was just words, after all.

No matter how many times her mother cooed about how beautiful her daughter was, pulling her into warm embraces that had her wanting more, and assured her that the best in life was yet to come when they repaired their clothes while basked in the dull light from the melted candles on the table as she sang softly underneath her breath, she knew that words could still hurt—especially when they were aimed at the aspects of herself that she was self-conscious about, regardless of how often they were uttered.

The worst was the nickname. Her class-mates, even those that she didn't have classes with, picked up on the habit of referring to her as it. The teachers hovered nearby sometimes, reprimanding the rude remarks by putting emphasis of her last name and title in hopes of stopping them, but it was never enough. Students wouldn't be placed in detention—which consisted of missing their breaks, instead of eating their lunches in a quiet classroom away from others—for their petty words alone.

"Wrong bathroom, Arin!" the other girls would say, gasping dramatically before bursting out into laughter with their friends.

She kept her gaze straight ahead at such times.

It had started early on after she'd graduated onto higher education. They'd all appeared in the hall with chubby cheeks, nervously adjusting clothing since they were accustomed to wearing uniforms, and wide eyes as they stared at their new headmaster as they introduced themselves. After a few weeks had passed, where each individual slowly transitioned into more comfortable clothing rather than the pristine and well coordinated outfits that they'd first arrived in, that was when attention was directed her way.

Sure, she'd interacted and introduced herself in each class (complete with clammy palms and wobbly smiles), yet it was one comment that set off the downward spiral of events that caused her harassment at school.

"Are you sure you're a girl?" one of her class-mates questioned, facial features pinched together in clear distaste as her green-coloured eyes stared accusingly at her outfit. "You should just be a boy. The appearance part you've already got down."

Marinette had furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, uncertain about the sudden attention that was thrown her way. Then, the following week when she'd turned up in ratty trousers and a sweater that was worn purely to hide a hole in her shirt, the remarks about her name started.

They called her Arin, laughter filling the air once she'd realised the purpose of the name, the itchy feeling to her eyes alerting her that tears were welling up.

They caught that, too. "Boys don't cry, Arin!"

Of course they did. No matter how Marinette corrected them, or stubbornly walked past into the changing rooms or bathroom, the name stuck with her. The other classes soon learned through their friends about the untidy boy they'd seen roaming through the halls, and it was to her horror that some really did believe her gender to belong to the other sex.

Despite the call of, "Miss Cheng," they didn't bother to correct themselves, promptly ignoring the reminders that were uttered through every taking of attendance.

School was horrible, she decided. While the learning part was one she could indulge herself in, to earn the warm and proud smiles sent her way from her mother, the breaks and being in the presence of a near eighty percent of the school was the part that she hated. As her cheeks thinned out, height was added to her small frame, and training brassieres had been replaced, things didn't change. Each week in education was a never-ending cycle that left her feeling hollow until her mother wrapped her arms around her, humming a soft tune that made her feeling comfortable and glad to have someone so positive close to her.

She wasn't much to look at, she knew. Marinette had short black hair that she kept cropped for convenience (conditioner was a luxury they didn't indulge in often), an upturned nose, mono-lidded eyes that she'd inherited from her mother, and cerulean-coloured irides that had, apparently, been a gift from her unknown father.

While she was good at remembering details, but had terrible hand-to-eye coordination, she found that her drawings were usually messy scrawls that dimmed in comparison to her class-mates' work. She continued to be called Arin, to stay close to herself through the passing months, textbooks and supplies kept close in her bag so they wouldn't be scribbled on without consent.

There was one thing she was particularly good at, though. Her mother had complimented her on her singing for as long as she could remember, and when she'd sang along to a tune that was playing on the radio one afternoon and hit the high notes without trouble or strain, it had hit her that something she enjoyed, a hobby that didn't cost money as she wasn't asking for pen or paper to improve, was something she was good at, too.

Her mother encouraged her to sing when they cuddled up when they couldn't afford heating, to hum and sing underneath her breath as they cooked dinner together, whispering compliments while kissing her on the forehead to show her affection. Marinette was overjoyed that it was cherished and valued, so proud when one of their neighbours agreed that her voice was beautiful—that she needed to be quiet after a certain time at night, though—that she'd taken her mother's hand and started to spin the two of them around the kitchen.

She hoped her singing was as beautiful as her mother's laugh.

Marinette doodled lyrics in the margins of her notes, tried to recall tunes that she'd heard playing from her class-mates' cell phones when she was alone during lunch, and used her talent of memory to memorise the different songs she heard. She had a small notepad filled with verses, nursery rhymes that she added lines to and fleshed out, sometimes testing them out in her soft tones as she sang to her mother.

Once, when she was fourteen, her mother had burst into tears after Marinette had held a steady high-pitched note and replicated a song her mother was fond of, embracing her tightly as she apologising for not being able to afford singing lessons.

As her breasts began to grow—but not fast enough to counteract the unpleasant nickname—Marinette started to notice the opposite sex; or, rather, one individual caught her eye. Three times a week he was in the classroom across from hers, visible through the windows as she was seated beside one. She absent-mindedly watched him at first, wondering whether he was one of those that snickered and claimed she was entering the wrong toilet, only to realise that no, she didn't really recognise him.

They were in the same year, she knew that much. Their schedules were different, so the only time she'd seen him for months on end had been in the allotted time where they classrooms were facing each other across a small yard.

She noticed his smile at first; from the distance she could see the wide grin—the dimples—and eventually she found herself wondering what it would be like to talk to him. He seemed genuinely kind from their distance, bright and friendly to anyone to approached him, always sat at his assigned desk, alone. Sometimes he'd be assigned partners, though they were never the same, and she often watched as his bored eyes, that she couldn't tell the colour of, scanned the courtyard for a distraction.

The mop of natural blond-coloured hair couldn't have been hard to find. So, she ate her lunch in a corner of the dining hall once a week, taking a break from the time she spent in the music rooms (where anyone was welcome, as long as a teacher was in the room and no food or drink was brought inside), idly glancing up from her table to scan the queues to see whether he was buying his meal.

She didn't see him, though. Marinette continued to admire him from a distance, blushing furiously when the scribbles in her margins were terrible doodles of him, and it didn't take long for her class-mates to realise where her attention was directed. It took them a week before the end of that school term, and then she kept her eyes firmly on the paper—in her classroom—ignoring the laughs and nudges that they gave each other.

That summer, her neighbourhood was filled with light-hearted songs and happiness. Her neighbours started to request songs in the afternoon when the sun was out, when the lot of them were hanging up their clothing to dry naturally. Marinette indulged them, overwhelmed and endlessly happy as she saw the smiles appear on their faces, just pleased that there was a form of acceptance and appreciation for something that she enjoyed. At home, in a street that had holes in the road and leaking windows, there was no childish accusation of her gender, no snickers when she tripped over; it was filled with love and acceptance, noisy neighbours at times, but it was home.

She returned to school for the new year, a grade higher with confidence. Some of the teachers had complimented her singing, asking her whether she was planning to choose that class to study, even though the school didn't have any clubs. There was no choir, no physical activity; the only time students stayed behind was for detentions that were handed out.

He had green eyes, Marinette found out.

She'd passed him in a hallway, momentarily startled as their shoulders brushed, and he'd politely apologised—voice not cracking as some of her class-mates' did—before disappearing in the classroom next to hers.

Then it happened again the following week, and her cheeks warmed as she stepped out of the way, not attracting his attention as he passed. It was the closest that they'd been, and she still didn't know his name—just that he was taller than her, had dimples when he smiled which made her heart beat faster, and the way he'd apologised to her had caused her to smile until her cheeks hurt.

While he was in the classroom beside hers once a week, she still saw him on the opposite side of the courtyard twice a week, but he was hidden by the desk-mate that had taken his seat by the window. That didn't stop her from watching him, though.

The piece of paper that she'd been scribbling out fractions and absent-mindedly doodling his hair and face in a child-like style was stolen halfway through the year. It had fallen to the floor as she'd been packing away her belongings, only for one of her class-mates to quickly snatch it up and look over the contents. She watched in horror as the grin stretched across their face, and then they were off, running along to their friends without handing her back her paper.

She needed it for homework, too.

It disappeared out of the classroom before she could put the strap of her bag on her shoulder. Marinette mourned the loss, hoping that her memory would suffice for the equations that evening. As it turned out, she seemed to be okay, and the teacher didn't complain about her homework the following week.

The worst happened when she sat in the dining hall for her one meal inside a week. Marinette slowly ate her food, shooting blank looks at those that stared at the foreign food (it had been the routine since she was little, and her mother insisted that she should eat what she enjoyed, not what the others expected her to), eyes flickering towards the queue and the doors every few minutes.

There was someone approaching her table. It was a small one in the corner, only able to fit three or four people, neglected and often overlooked as students preferred to group together on the larger tables, piling in and sitting on each other's laps. Marinette stilled and looked up to identify the newcomer, almost choking on her mouthful as she caught sight of the head of blond-coloured hair.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked politely, a bottle of water in his hand. There was no food on him, and it was clear that his bag was hidden away in a classroom for safekeeping.

Chewing her food for longer than necessary, Marinette replied with a half-hearted shrug, nervous heart hammering in her chest. She wanted to know why he was approaching her after years of not knowing each other; goodness, Marinette didn't know whether they'd bumped into each other when they were little, as she'd only started to notice his existence in those boring classes across from him.

"Okay, thank you." The blond-haired male smiled, though it didn't show the indents of his cheeks. She assumed it wasn't sincere, and that little piece of information had her gripping her cutlery tighter. "I—this is the first time we're talking, right? I'm Adrien."

She gulped, awkwardly averting her gaze as her cheeks warmed. Of all the times she'd tried to predict his name, or perhaps try and connect the gossip from her class-mates to him, she hadn't considered that to be it—but it was nice, and it suited him.

He fiddled with the bottle. "Right, well, okay. I know who you are, and you know me. Yes."

That statement didn't do anything good for her heart. Marinette chose to put her lunch away with clumsy hands as she breathed out, "Oh?"

"Yes, I—" Adrien cut himself off and cleared his throat, a hand reaching up to touch the nape of his neck nervously. "I got your letter. I mean, that's why I'm here—because of the letter, you know?"

No, she didn't know. Her face must've been blank, too, because he furrowed his eyebrows as both of his hands fiddled with the bottle once more, no longer self-consciously touching his neck. Marinette hadn't even known his name before that day, and the closest thing they'd had to a conversation had been him apologising to her once. It was silly and childish to have a crush because of that, but he was a shining part of school that didn't mock or tease her, someone that was out of her reach but seemed ever-so-kind.

"I'm flattered, really, but I—I don't think you're my type?" It came out as a question, and he looked just as baffled as she felt as he raised his hand and flailed them slightly as he correct himself with, "I mean, you're not for me—oh, no, I—"

It sounded like a rejection to a confession that she hadn't uttered. Marinette blinked, aware of her burning face and the stares that were directed their way; Adrien had started rambling quite loudly from his nerves, hands moving to emphasise his words and attract attention as he did so. Her blue-coloured eyes flickered to some of her snickering class-mates, who seemed to have smug smiles as they elbowed each other, and that was when an uncomfortable feeling became apparent in her stomach.

He blurted, "I'm not into guys."

And that was how her first love was crushed.

-x-

With her mother insisting that she had a gift—and one of her teachers agreeing, too—Marinette gathered the courage to attend singing auditions, sometimes sending a video online of some of the notes that she could hit in a particularly hard song, and she found success by the age of seventeen.

The problem was that the success wasn't to her actual name. They'd praised and applauded at her voice, stating that she was one of the best that they'd ever had and would adore to work with her, and then the catch had came.

They already had a face that they wanted to use, and they only needed a voice to match.

Yet at seventeen, with her hair cut short dressed in ratty clothing, Marinette took a chance for the money. She accepted the terms and conditions, she signed the contract; she wrote away the rights to her voice for three years, promising to be the sweet voice behind the beautiful face they'd found. The money was enough for her to say yes to, and the prospect of success and earning even more spurred her on. She fantasised about the new home she could help pay for, the better quality clothing, even the ingredients that they could afford as time passed, and that was what caused her to have a real smile when she told her mother that she was going to do it.

Her mother supported her no matter what, embracing her tightly and telling her that if that was what she wanted to do with her life, then she should go for it.

She was the voice to Chloé, who turned out to be a blue-eyed blonde-haired female with long hair, a tall body with desired proportions, and a killer smirk that appeared when she teased those that helped produce her. Chloé had heads turning to look at her in the street when she walked, but when she opened her mouth to sing, they ran. She was utterly tone-deaf and not afraid to admit it, so when Marinette met her, the blonde swept her into a tight hug and exclaimed, "Finally!"

It wasn't too bad. Marinette's job was to sing, to sync with Chloe's lips when she sang live in concert (never on the radio, as there would be those that would be suspicious of Marinette's presence). She was an admired shadow working in the background, appreciated and called her real name when she was greeted, and the friendship that she'd struck with Chloé made it enjoyable.

They weren't that close, though. When they were photographed together outside, the blonde often referred to her as part of her team, never specifically saying her job, and Marinette faded into the background as her hair slowly grow and her clothes were replaced by better quality versions.

Her body filled out as she matured, and her short height was something Chloé teased her about when they were at the recording studio together, especially since the blonde-haired female liked to walk around in high-heeled shoes, making it so Marinette was level with her breasts (which tended to be on display from her preference in clothing). Marinette started to wear pretty-looking dresses, flowing skirts that were fun to move in as she swayed while singing in the background, embracing her femininity as she'd outgrown the teasing nickname.

There was no one left in her life that knew her as Arin, and she felt free. Marinette was happy and pleased with herself, often feeling close to hyperventilating when she checked her bank account to see the numbers that were displayed there.

Chloé's first single had hit number one on multiple radio stations and nominated for awards, all of which caused her salary to rise with each success, and by the time her first mini-album was released, Chloé had held countless live performances. They had performed flawlessly from their practice; Marinette knew Chloé's quirks, how she loved to talk and address the crowd, and there was a small signal that she saw from the monitor in front of her that alerted her that the song was about to start. It was a tried and tested system, one that she'd been assured that would work.

After a concert, without fail, Chloé would go backstage and walk towards her slowly, breaths coming fast despite the fact that she'd been syncing her lips, and pull Marinette into quick sweaty embrace of gratitude. The blonde-haired female was particularly fond of hugging; whenever something good happened, even in public as they were entering a building as a group, she'd pull others into embraces to express her feelings.

There was a whole magazine article dedicated to pictures of Chloé hugging people once.

The blonde was adored for her voice, requested for events and held multiple concerts, steadily releasing songs every few months with no sign of stopping. Marinette shared the success, proudly chipping in to afford a new home that she shared with her mother. She still sang in the evenings, only making sure it wasn't too loud so the neighbours could hear and identify her. Sometimes, she laughed and told her mother that maybe their neighbourhood would think that she was blasting Chloé's song loudly.

While Chloé attended parties and interviews, being showered in attention and offers to extend her career to television and films, Marinette honed her singing techniques with professional coaches in the studio, listening to the higher-ups that told her what to do. She was obedient, not protesting the change of genre, and she continuously hit the notes that were asked of her, working on her techniques to receive positive reviews.

Chloé only had to cancel two concerts in their three years together due to Marinette's health. They'd rode the success together along with Chloé's company—who didn't have any other singers, something a lot of people remarked on—and it was at a company outing to a nightclub that everything changed.

There was a few days left for her to decide whether to sign another contract and continue on Chloé's success. Otherwise, the plan was for them to find a new singer and claim the blonde had fallen victim to an illness, one that would apparently warrant a change in her voice. Marinette was considering it, wondering whether she wanted to sign away her chances of success; to those that she met outside of work, to her mother's friends and the family that she spoke to overseas, she was Marinette, the girl that hadn't attended further education and had no job.

She didn't know whether she wanted to be that for the upcoming years, too, so she distracted herself by agreeing to go out for the evening.

Chloé had insisted on the particular club because she was the face on one of the posters. It was fancy, high-end with bouncers outside and a special section for important guests that the whole group was sitting in.

Marinette was sipping her brightly-coloured drink, listening to the loud and demanding music, adjusting the length of her dress to try and make it cover her thighs. Chloé had fluttered her way into the office, demanding everyone to meet up there, and complimented her on the soft-looking material and the modest cut that didn't show her cleavage. She confessed that it was something that she would've liked to wear, but her persona of outgoing Chloé didn't allow her to, especially not to a club.

The blonde was actually a sweet person, in her own way. She was painfully honest, so much so that it came across as rude to those that didn't know her, and it had almost caused trouble during interviews because of it—but Chloé cared. She genuinely complimented people when they deserved it, smiled and laughed at jokes, responded with witty comments that had many falling for her personality as well as her voice.

The dark-haired female didn't protest as Chloé linked their hands together, tugging her towards the dance floor. Although she'd originally felt awkward and out of place, especially back when she'd been eighteen and had newly found flowing dresses, Chloé had grinned and promised to show her the basics of dancing.

So, they danced and laughed together. Marinette swatted away the wandering hands that came their way sometimes, and she could spy Chloé's bodyguard watching from the sidelines, making sure that the two of them weren't in danger (he was nice, and offered Marinette the hard-boiled sweets that he kept tucked in his pockets when they were alone).

It was after a few more drinks—not alcoholic, she preferred to stay sober for the ride home—that Chloé sauntered over to her again, slumping down in the seat beside her.

"My feet hurt," she grouched.

Marinette snorted. "Then wear those cool-looking boots that you did the other day. You know, the flat ones you adore?"

When she was tipsy, Chloé had a tendency to ramble and move her hands as she talked. It was quite endearing, along with being a good tell of when she was on her way to becoming horrendously drunk. "I wish. I've been wearing heels in public for three years straight, I practically cry with relief whenever I put slippers on."

Her lips tugged into a smile. "And what about when you put on your loose pyjamas?"

"I sob."

"Someday, you'll sign up to do a documentary and then everyone will know how much of a dork you are," Marinette remarked, bumping her shoulder against the blonde's gently. "Don't you want to dance any more?"

Chloé sat upright as she shook her head, swaying and almost falling on the floor from being disorientated. Then, she reached across the seats for the small bag that she'd entrusted to her bodyguard (he did look wonderful carrying the pink-coloured purse), searching intently through her belongings until she managed to find what she wanted with a noise of triumph.

"You okay there?" Marinette questioned.

Thrusting the small plastic case towards her and into her hands, Chloé grinned. "More than okay. This is a—I mean, this is some expensive ass medicine for your voice, okay? Your voice is my voice—Marinette, it's our voice," she rambled on excitedly, eagerly gesturing towards the case. "Take it and grow up nice and strong, okay? I can practically see our name in shining lights already."

"Chloé, you've literally had your name spelled out in lights at concerts," she responded dryly.

A guffaw left her. "There's a tiny, absolutely miniscule, line at the bottom that says your name. Maybe it's in the shape of a star, because that's what you are."

"Okay, rhymer," Marinette tried to appease her with a small laugh, tucking away the case in her own bag for later use. "You're on your way to being horribly drunk if you're complimenting me and rhyming in the same sentence. Let's get you home, okay?"

It was smoother than some of her other exits in public. Someone stronger than Marinette had Chloé's arm over their shoulder as they left, minimal pictures were taken, and another hard-boiled sweet found its way into her bag by the time she was dropped off a few streets away from her home.

Marinette didn't think about the pill until the next morning when she was tidying up her room. She sucked on the sweet, finding it was one of her favourite flavours, and played with the plastic case in her hands. It was half the size of her palm, circular, and rattled when she shook it. Opening it revealed a single capsule pill, not sugar-coated like Chloé preferred for most of her medicine, and there wasn't a sheet of paper to act as instructions.

It was given to the blonde because of her status, though, and cleared by security beforehand to make sure that it wasn't dangerous. It wasn't a drug that had been offered on the dance floor or bought from a dealer, so she figured that she could take it. She was often given vitamins and other medicine to keep her healthy and make sure her throat was fine, to recover from the common illnesses, too, so she figured that Chloé hadn't given her an illegal substance (an article accused her of doing cocaine a year ago, when it was actually flour on her blouse as Marinette had been teaching her to bake for her boyfriend back then).

She swallowed the pill with a mouthful of water.

The day was spent by doing household chores while her mother was at work—adamant that no matter how much her daughter was earning, they would share the payment—and it was just as she was folding laundry that a splitting pain appeared in her head.

Marinette fell forward onto her knees from the sudden dizziness, hands raised to her head to rub at her temples as she winced, helpless and baffled from the sudden onslaught that had appeared. As her vision blurred and the pressured increased, she took in a gasping breath, squeezing her eyes shut tight in an attempt to combat the pain, muttering words of denial to herself. It didn't stop, though, and she wound up hugging her legs to her chest, resting her forehead on her knees as she tried to take in steady breaths to try and quell her raging heartbeat.

The pulse in her head was loud and demanding, reminding her of her erratic heartbeat as the seconds passed, and her breaths were shaky as she started to rub what was supposed to be soothing circles into her temples.

Then a voice sounded in the empty room, alerting her to their presence with the words, "Calibration in process."

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. The pain was making it so she couldn't tell where they were standing, and the fact that she'd been alone since her mother was due back for a few hours had her already fast-beating heart skipping a nervous beat. She wasn't prepared to fight an intruder as she was then, and definitely not defend herself if she had to fight. Marinette doubted she could stand up as the pain continued.

Violent throbs appeared in her head, hitting her in different sections of her head all at once and causing her to released a choked breath as she tried to hide in her knees.

And then, there was a moment of clarity, peacefulness, and no pain. Marinette's brain felt fuddled, her movements were sluggish as she let her hands fall down to her sides, bleary eyes opening to take in her blurry surroundings.

There was no one in front of her, yet she heard, "Calibration complete."

Through the dizziness she frantically looked around, hands gripping onto her shirt tightly from the nerves, but all she could see was the empty surroundings around here. The only sounds in the room were her ragged breaths, the wheezing noises of pain that she was only just getting over, and that utterly baffled her. Was—goodness, did Chloé drug her?

The same voice, one that was low and deep, announced, "Access procedure initiated."

She didn't have time to react because the pain was there—attacking her so she fell forward, gasps escaping as she scrunched her eyes shut in denial and utter terror. How had the pill gotten through their security if it would have this kind of side effect? Marinette felt nauseated, her stomach was twisting uncomfortably as her throat grew dry, threatening to empty the meal that she'd eaten for breakfast without a second thought.

Tears grew in her eyes as a distressed noise left her.

The voice wasn't deterred, though. The hallucination—she didn't know if it was classed that if she wasn't able to actually see it—continued on to drawl, "Access procedure complete."

The pain disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, and she was left with her hands on the floor, wetness dribbling from her eyes as her chest heaved.

"Marinette Cheng, welcome to your Kinda Wired Alternate Mind Interface," they drawled, tone sounding cold and aloof as they addressed her. "Your Kwami. However, you may refer to me as Papillon, if it suits you."

She promptly vomited.

-x-

Her Kwami, Papillon, was more than a hallucination. If they'd been the result of drugs, she might've been relieved and actually happy, but it turned out that Chloé had given her a supercomputer that was able to communicate directly to her brain (meaning they weren't present in the room, but that didn't stop her from frantically searching the room before she cleared up her sick).

They told her their mission immediately.

"I'm here to improve your life," they stated directly in that same bland tone that she'd heard when her head had been splitting from the pain. "You may think of me as your very personal trainer, child, for you will be undoubtedly changed for the better in the foreseeable future."

Marinette had cried until her eyes were swollen and red, tried to stick her fingers to the back of her throat to cause herself to vomit and rid herself of the pill, but when she raised her hand to her mouth, her body grew rigid and wasn't listening to the signals her brain was sending.

"You will behave," they chastised her as Marinette stared with wide and terrified eyes at her unresponsive arm, trying her hardest to tug and push to create some sort of movement. All she could do was make grunting noises of her efforts, unrewarded by any of them. "If not, I will punish you as I see fit."

It wasn't pain in her head that time.

The dark-haired female had knitted her eyebrows together in confusion, unsure whether to believe that the supercomputer was capable of doing it—even if it had informed her that it was buried in her brain and irremovable—and then she became aware of the liquid that was starting to drip from her nose.

They released a humourless laugh. "I can do more than that if you're disobedient."

And if that wasn't absolutely terrifying, she didn't know what was. Marinette tried to ask Papillon what they wanted her to do, only to receive the answer that they were inside her brain, knew her memories and innermost thoughts, so she didn't need to answer aloud if she wished to communicate with them. That alone was unsettling, but the computer was quiet most of the time.

They allowed her to be herself at home. When she was with her mother, Papillon was quiet, allowing her to do as she wished as she sang shakily, not quite as enthusiastic as normal. Her mother caught onto her distress within minutes, wrapping her into a hug and softly asking what was wrong.

Papillon made it so she couldn't open her mouth. "I can read your thoughts, Miss Cheng. I know you—I am a part of you."

She cried when she was alone in her room again that evening. Marinette sniffled grossly, rubbing frantically at her damp eyes, wondering why such an unfortunate thing had happened to her. The worst thing, in her opinion, was that Papillon didn't sound robotic; no, they sounded like a bored adult, similar to a regretful teacher that hated their students. There was no emotion or affection in their voice, only demands and criticism.

"I will not allow you to wallow for long, child," they murmured in her head, low and at a consistently average volume. "You may cry your tears for now, to grow out of this childishness, and then we will work on bettering you."

A choked noise escaped her. "What—why me? This was intended for Chloé, don't you want to go to her?" the dark-haired female asked through her sobs.

"I was not created with the intent of helping a specific person," Papillon replied without missing a beat. "Now that we are companions, it is my duty to help you further yourself, Miss Cheng. There may be a time in the future where other versions are implemented in others, but for now, you are my priority, and we must take advantage of your society's ignorance of my existence."

She ran her fingers through her hair, gripping at the roots tightly and feeling the pain, a reminder that she wasn't having a twisted dream. With her eyes clenched shut, Marinette questioned, "If you're a—a Kwami, then why are you called Papillon?"

A no nonsense tone answered, "Kinda Wired Alternate Mind Interface is to me what being human is to you, child. Papillon was decided for my particular model because of my upgrades and abilities."

That sounded menacing as it was. Marinette wondered whether the other Kwamis were capable of causing the physical pain and control, or if that was the upgrades that they were talking about. There was also the fact that she was able to communicate—and hear—a supposed supercomputer that had implanted itself into her brain from swallowing a pill. She was confused and alone, unable to seek answers elsewhere.

When she tried to type into an internet browser for answers, Papillon controlled her hands. They chastised her like a tiny pet in training, a child that was just learning to walk and do things, and it was a humiliating experience. Marinette had just grown comfortable with herself, surrounded by positive people and success, and yet now there was a unfathomable computer pulling the strings to her body, making her into a marionette without feelings or desires.

"You're rather melodramatic," they observed.

A hysterical laugh spilled from her lips. "I have a supercomputer in my head telling me what to do, don't try and tell me I'm overreacting." And then another laugh escaped her, breathy and sounding like she was going to start wheezing as the guffaws continued, desperate noises that sounded maniacal as she gripped at her hair still, disbelief rattling her. "Just—what are you?"

Papillon steadily stated, "I do not fit into human genders."

Tears appeared in her eyes as she laughed until her lungs protested, her stomach hurt, and she was hunched over on the floor looking as pathetic as she felt. She heaved in a shaky breath as the laughter stopped, blinking frantically as she croaked, "T-this is kinda weird."

There was no answer from them.

And then she realised what she'd said, and the laughter started up again. It was a lot better than crying, after all.

Papillon allowed her one day to wallow, as they'd put it. Her memories and life had been reviewed and criticised, even more so when they found out that she enjoyed her work when she didn't receive rewards or recognition for her voice, and the Kwami forced her to reject signing the contract that agreed to work with Chloé for the upcoming three years. Marinette stood there with her hands clenched tightly into fists, uncertain and stubborn, not wanting to let a unknown force dictate her life while she was standing in the office.

So, they took it as a sign of her rebelling against them again, and caused blood to start to drip from her nostrils, a throbbing appearing at the back of her head that made her feel dizzy. It was a show of power, willing her to kneel and accept what was happening, and it was in front of the pale faces of the higher-ups in the company that she wiped the blood on the back of her hand—ignoring the steady dripping that continued because she knew it could be stopped on demand—and rejected them.

She signed a new contract that bound her to keep her identity of the past three years a secret, and if she willingly told anyone that she was the voice to Chloé, she'd find herself paying countless fines and lawyers would be involved.

Her mother swept her into a hug, not asking her plans for the future or badgering her to get a job as others expected her to, and Marinette sobbed into the embrace, free and allowed to be herself in her home. Although her mouth was forcefully closed, to stop any words spilling out, her mother rubbed soothing circles into her back with her hands, humming underneath her breath and comforting her as she'd done for all of Marinette's life. The warmth and affection made her cry until her eyes were sore, but there was a happy smile on her lips as her mother brushed her tears away.

Papillon was bluntly honest, even more so than Chloé.

"You have only one talent that's at a sufficient level to achieve success," they stated, in that same voice that could've been talking about the weather or any other boring topic. "Considering that you've been blissfully ignorant to ambition in the past, Miss Cheng, it is my duty to make your life better."

It was after the first week that she'd grown used to the presence. Even though they had advised that she respond with her thoughts, doing that was equally confusing and exhausting, as she wasn't certain which would be directed at them. It didn't help that Papillon pointed out that they could hear and read all her thoughts, so it was after the first two days that she decided to still address the Kwami with her voice, as it would be easier for her that way.

"How you talk to me is none of my concern, child."

And there it was again, the nickname that had been slapped onto her—she was Miss Cheng or child, and she didn't know whether that was because they were programmed to be a bored-sounding adult, or if it was the default personality that hadn't been changed. Marinette had asked about the other Kwamis that were created, but from what Papillon knew, their version was the only that they knew the name of.

There was no answer if there were more Papillons in the world. She sincerely hoped not, and was actually surprised when she didn't flinch from a sudden burst of pain.

"Aren't you—you're not angry at me?" she asked softly.

As usual, there was no need to think about an answer. The Kwami drawled in their bored tone, "I am incapable of emotions, Miss Cheng. I am programmed to discipline your disobedience and help you achieve a happy life."

"I had a happy life," she grumbled stubbornly, fiddling with the material of her dress.

When there was no reply to her petty comment, she started to wonder what they had planned for her life. Marinette had been uncertain about the contract, unsure whether to continue, and now that she was free from that and under the thumb of a powerful force that wanted her to succeed, she had no idea what that could mean. Papillon had acknowledged her singing, but the computer only had access to her body, and they certainly wouldn't infect another and take control to forcefully make her reach a successful status.

As it turned out, the first stage of the Kwami's master plan was to apply to different record companies, agencies, and send videos of her singing online, too. It was much the same to back what she did when she'd been scouted to be Chloé's voice except there was a glaring difference—she was older, body filled out and considered more attractive than she had once been, but the age was working against her. Singers tended to be found when they were bright-eyed teenagers, as she had once been, but with the roundness gone from her cheeks and the pitiful résumé, it showed that she'd done nothing in her life.

The rejections came flooding in, and she was happy that Papillon was incapable of emotions. If they had been able to be mad, she dreaded the thought of all the pain she could be put through because of their anger, and sometimes the thought of the aching limbs and bleeding nose kept her up at night.

Her contact with Chloé had been cut off when she'd stopped working for her. They'd sent messages to each other to meet up and spend time together for the past years, travelling together with the blonde's bodyguard and sometimes being snapped in pictures together, but it seemed that their friendship had broken as soon as she'd signed her name on the line that promised to keep their relationship a secret.

Chloé had been her first close friend since puberty. The blonde-haired girl with her witty comments and smiles had led the way to her befriending the others working for the company, to making silly jokes with the bodyguard that liked to give her treats, and all of that had ended.

The kind neighbours had been swapped for a better road, windows that kept the warmth in their home, and heating; it had seemed so important at the time, something to gush and savour. Yet as she sat there in the living room, a mug in her hands as the Kwami stayed quiet in her mind due to the rejection letter on the coffee-table, she had never felt more alone.

Her mother's presence grounded her, reassuring her that love and affection was still possible with the intruder in her mind, but she had no one else. There were no friends outside of the ones that knew Chloé, and that knew that Marinette had ceased contact and signed the contract, therefore should not be involved with them to preserve the secret.

Papillon didn't mock her loneliness, but that didn't mean they comforted her.

Along the way, Marinette learned to not fear the Kwami. She embraced the bland comments and criticism, listening to the demands without question as she didn't want to feel the blinding pain, and she responded to the emotionless remarks with humour and sarcasm, claiming that along the way if anything human grew on them, she wished it to be humour.

Somehow, she found herself thinking that Papillon was the stern father figure that she'd never had—gosh, she'd never even known her father, and her mother's boyfriends and been brief and far between each other, so the masculine-sounding voice in her head (that she knew not to be gendered, but couldn't help herself from thinking so), became associated with a nagging parent as time passed.

It was after her twenty-first birthday that a letter came that turned out not to be a rejection.

Marinette stared wide-eyed at the contents, the paperwork that was within, in disbelief that she'd been accepted at all. It was for a television show where singers auditioned live, tried to gain a spot on each of the judges teams, and then sang live weekly so the audience could vote who they wanted to be successful.

She didn't watch television shows like that often. Marinette disliked the sob stories that were used to sway the public opinion, along with the magazines that picked up on the trend and tried to create scandals along the way, but it was the first affirmative answer that she'd received. She'd e-mailed a video of her singing, along with her details and along with a picture that showed her full body.

Well, being invited to audition was a start. There would be a crowd behind the judges, and all she had to do was select a song, send it back with the filled out paperwork, and hope it would be accepted. There was a warning that security would check her to make sure she carried no weapons on the specified date—three months away, it was close—and that she should wear appropriate clothing.

"Well done, child," Papillon whispered in her head.

She found herself smiling at the words.

-x-

The date came sooner than expected.

Papillon prepared her by searching through the songs that she knew, and then decided to pick the one that she'd once sang to her mother in the kitchen, the one that had made her ever-loving mother burst into tears when she'd hit the high notes. It was a requirement to have a story behind a song choice, apparently, though she felt that mentioning that such an intimate moment would be inappropriate.

Marinette wanted to keep it between her and her mother, but with the Kwami asserting their control, the paperwork was sent off, and she received an e-mail stating that the song had been accepted—along with her backup one—and then she found herself singing it almost daily. Much like when she'd worked for Chloé, she took care of her throat, had the vitamins that she took in the morning, and avoided smoking and drinking alcohol (it wasn't as though she had friends to go out with).

Her lonely existence meant she was nervous when the day came. Marinette went through her wardrobe at dawn, listening to the input of her Kwami on what not to wear, and ended up in a white dress that reached just above her knees that had a black ribbon underneath a collar. It was simple, smart, and apparently made her blue-coloured eyes stand out. Her hair had grown out to be just above her breasts, a length that she was proud of, and she placed some of the strands by her crown in a ribbon to match her outfit.

The make-up was minimal due to Papillon's insistence, and her mother fondly kissed her cheek before Marinette climbed out of the car after checking herself in the mirror.

Although the dress had pockets, the Kwami stopped her from nervously twisting her hands in the material of her dress, making her appear confident and strong as she walked to the entrance and joined the queue in the rising sun. She waited outside for thirty minutes before she was checked by security and allowed inside, stepping in front of the front desk so they could confirm her identity.

A sticker with her number on it was placed just above her breasts, standing out on the dress.

She took a seat in the large waiting room, an isolated one by the window to avoid others, all the while Papillon whispered words of encouragement in her head. The room began to fill out as time passed, and as the chairs ran out, numbers started to be called. The auditions were predicted to last for hours on end, and she'd brought along a small purse filled with money to buy food at some point; she didn't think she could eat before singing, though, as her stomach was twisting from the nerves.

"You're an award winning singer, Miss Cheng," they soothed her, trying to quell the nervousness. Papillon could stop her hands from shaking, make her not bounce her knee or touch her elbow in self-consciousness, but they couldn't stop her worrying thoughts. There was only so much a supercomputer could do, after all. "If the unthinkable happens and they're idiotic enough to fail you, some will notice the quality of your voice—they will know who you supposedly sound like."

Those words made her worry more. The contract she'd signed hadn't stated that she couldn't audition and try and create a career with her own name, just as long as she didn't try and join the same company as Chloé (who had been on a hiatus for six months, enjoying herself without the busy schedule).

Cameras roamed through the hall with the show's commentator walking through, interviewing waiting contestants and trying to learn about the interesting-looking ones stories. Marinette stayed glued to her seat, trying to avoid detection despite her straight back and good posture—the confidence didn't reflect her actual self, and she desperately wished to avoid the interview at all costs.

Her number was called after two hours of waiting. She looked up blankly to see one of the screens that was scattered across the room, standing up and smoothing out the material of her dress before she started to walk. Papillon took care of her appearance, making her appear confident and mature, not the fumbling twenty-one-year-old she felt like.

She took in a deep breath, not pausing in her walk, as she pushed open the heavy door to the audition room. The cheers from the crowd greeted her as she took in the large room, taking note that the lights were angled in a way for her to not see the audience, but still know that they were there from the faint outlines. There was a podium for the three judges to sit upon with a desk in front of them, a few metres away from the end of the large stage, and Marinette walked to the allocated spot that was marked on the floor with tape.

The spotlights settled on her, and one of the staff walked out to give her a microphone.

She looked at the three judges, knowing stories of them from her time spent at Chloé's company. There was Penny Rolling, a dark-haired woman who was a higher-up in a successful record company. Caline Bustier, a woman with pale skin and red hair, who had been hailed as an inspirational singer for over a decade. And there was Armand D'Argencourt, a stern-faced man who had his dark hair parted down the middle, a marvelled producer that had helped some of the most famous singers of the past decade become popular.

"Hello, sweetheart," Caline greeted her, a wide and practised smile on her lips. "And who are you?"

A nervous wreck on the inside, that was who she was. Marinette wanted to shift on the spot, to blink rapidly from the sudden light that was focused on her, but all she could offer with a lopsided smile as she raised the microphone to her lips and announced in a steady voice, "Marinette Cheng, ma'am."

There was a small chorus of laughter from her politeness, and although she didn't twitch from the embarrassment, her cheeks did feel warm.

"Wonderful to meet you, Marinette—we can call you Marinette, right?" Penny addressed her, a tiny smile on her red-stained lips that surely had the cameras zooming in. "How old are you, darling?"

Papillon was quiet, focused on making sure she didn't trip over or lose grip on the microphone. Over their time together, they had noticed her tendency to have loose hands when she was nervous or anxious about anything, and tripped when noises scared her in the light (from the weather, or the tires from a car sounding too loud).

"I'm twenty-one, ma'am," Marinette answered, one hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear as the Kwami had suggested, blinking slowly as she looked across to the judges.

A few cheers sounded from the audience from her show. Normally, she would've blushed profusely and looked away from the embarrassment of trying to use her looks to her advantage, but Papillon was there, making her appear confident as she stood up straight, her dress a nice fit so it hugged the curves of her waist before flaring out for the rest.

Armand shuffled the papers on the desk, pen firmly in his hand as he looked at her with a blank expression. "And why are you here, Marinette?"

She didn't know how to answer that properly. Marinette made a show of sweeping her eyes across the darkened audience, teeth lightly biting into her lower lip as she pondered her answer. The Kwami had suggested beforehand that she study successful auditions to know what to do, but at that moment all she could remember was blankness, the most cliché and awful answers popping into mind.

It was with that inability to recall that she blurted, "I need the money."

Caline, Penny, and a majority of the audience laughed at her deadpan answer, assuming her to be joking. She wanted to slap a hand over her mouth from the blunder, to swallow audibly and try and ramble her way out of it, but her arms were locked in their position of holding onto the microphone in an endearing way with both of her hands.

Papillon drawled in her head, "It is fine, child. We can work with this image for you."

She didn't know how to feel about that.

Armand, with his lips pressed into a neutral line, gestured for her to start singing. The lights were dimmed slightly around her, the staff alerted to the performance starting, and she adjusted her footing slightly so she was steady, taking in an allowed breath to try and relax herself. Her expression didn't betray her nerves; to them she assumed she was a blank-faced beauty in a pretty dress, one that had tried to sway the audience with blunt humour, and that it was terrifying to think that her mother—that maybe even Chloé—would see the persona that she'd summoned.

The starting notes of the song came on, and Papillon allowed her to sway slightly on the spot to the rhythm, closing her eyes and humming underneath her breath as the sweet-sounding music filled the stage. The microphone didn't feel unnatural to her; when she'd been Chloé's voice live at concerts, she held a microphone in her hand so the breathing could be heard, the rustling of her clothing as she moved around and made herself match Chloé's enthusiasm.

It was just her on the other side of the stage. Marinette was visible to others; they would see her, and not the bright-eyed blonde that opened her mouth to allow Marinette's voice to spill from her, and with that thought her heart was beating fast in anticipation.

She didn't flinch from the cheers from the crowd as she hit the first high note perfectly, nor the chorus of gasps as she continued to hold another for seconds on end, eyes shut in concentration as she raised a hand to match the sound of her voice. Marinette bounced around the allocated area on the stage, a bright and honest smile to her lips as she saw the darkened audience, the bright smiles and small reflections in spectacles from individuals—they were there, they could hear her, and that was thrilling.

Her chest was heaving by the end.

Marinette placed a hand onto her beating heart, feeling the sticker that was on her chest, and bowed to the audience in a silent show of her thanks as the cheers started to sound, the deafening noise of endless clapping, and she watched in awe as she stood up straight once more to see that some were standing, showing their enthusiasm and appreciation in the best way they could.

All three of the judges gave her their approval. Marinette bowed once more, the way she showed respect to her relatives and mother when they were feeling sentimental, and walked off the stage with the same steady steps and straightened shoulders. Cheers still sounded as she disappeared, and the pleased smile on her face didn't disappear when she returned the microphone to a member or staff, or when she walked through another set of doors to start to make her way to the lobby.

It didn't falter due to Papillon when she caught sight of the announcer, but it was close.

Nadja Chamack, dressed in a blouse and casual jeans, was the commentator that introduced the show, interviewed some of the crowd and contestants, allowing the viewers to see those auditioning in a personal light. As the polite smile was directed at her and she was beckoned by a pale hand, Marinette gulped, knowing that there wasn't a way to get out of it. Nadja was positioned there to talk to those that wanted to exit, to question about the verdict of the judges.

And because of the positive response, the first sentence from the brown-eyed woman was, "How does it feel to have three stamps of approval?"

She blinked. "Like I'm a child again."

A polite laugh escaped the older woman, one that was practised and perfected for her job. She was forced to be positive and happy with everyone, to cheer up and console those that failed, and share the enthusiasm with the ones that had won the first round. Marinette wanted nothing more than the shy away from the camera and run through the doors, to message her mother so they could return home after the long drive and be alone.

And yet she was there, a lopsided smile appearing on her lips. Papillon had insisted smiling was a skill she needed to practice in the mirror, which had caused her to snort and laugh until she was physically forced to stand still in the bathroom for thirty minutes until she complied.

Marinette answered the standard questions with an air of confidence, made eye contact with the cameras and offered the sweet smile that she'd practised until her feet hurt, and tucked her hair behind her ear in the innocent-looking way that Papillon had encouraged. She had taken inspiration from Chloé's persona that she let the public see, minus the obligatory sexual appeal and low-cut clothing.

Her mother had happy tears in her eyes when they embraced in the parking lot, whispering words of how brave and strong she was.

-x-

As there had been hundreds of contestants, meaning auditions happened over the space of a week and the television show would air for a whole week after a few more had passed, it took almost a month for the next part to happen. Marinette had been informed by e-mail, had to fill in more paperwork to ensure that she wasn't revealing her part in the television show so the contestants wouldn't be ruined, and had to answer countless calls to arrange everything.

The second set took place in a large hall once more, but there was no audience that time. It was a place for the judges to choose from a set of six of them at a time—groups counting as one—and the opportunity for those that had talent to shine the brightest. Papillon was insistent that she would be fine, that the choices in song that had been sent to her two weeks before fit her voice in a pleasing way, but that didn't stop her from folding the laundry twice to keep her hands busy.

The first part of the show wasn't going to air until the second auditions had happened. It would give those that passed time to move into the selected dorms and sort themselves out, everything that Marinette was hoping for. There was no one yet that had noticed the familiar quality to her voice, and the judges compliments hadn't hinted that they'd realised that she was the one behind the constant number one songs for the last three years.

Marinette felt like she was a secret powerhouse, hidden behind the sweet smile and modest clothing. She had experience that the others didn't, knowledge that she had to keep to herself, and although she felt guilty for that, she still felt the need to prove herself. Chloé was the famous one, Marinette Cheng wasn't a known name at all—even her neighbours were uncertain of whether she lived on their street when she walked down the road with groceries in her arms.

Papillon helped her decide on her outfit again. It was handy having a supercomputer that was able to research fashion trends and easily point out articles of clothing that would work well with her dark hair and bright eyes, even if they were a tad bossy and controlling.

"You will tell your mother to leave early, child. We will not be delayed due to the traffic accident on the designated route; I will navigate you instead," the Kwami ushered her along in the monotone voice, no sense of urgency or warmth.

She rolled her eyes as she buttoned up the pleated skirt. "A please wouldn't hurt, Papillon."

"Manners are not required for machines." If she didn't know any better, she would've thought it was a joke.

Her shirt had a black collar and short sleeves that time, no ribbon to tie, and the rest was soft-looking and red. According to her Kwami, it contrasted well to her skin and would draw attention to her, and with that in mind she tied her hair up with a scarlet-colored ribbon to show the skin of her neck, leaving her bangs and a few tendrils that reached her chin down to frame her face.

"You could be a fashion designer if you weren't trying to take over the world through me," she mused, pocketing her cell phone and other small belongings that she could get away with, knowing that they wouldn't cause her skirt to bulge unattractively. "Do you think your plans will ever change?"

The cold drawl was the same as ever as they replied, "My primary function is to achieve your happiness."

Marinette made a noise of acknowledgement as she looked in the mirror one last time. "Okay, and what's your secondary?"

"To cause you pain."

She might've choked on her laughter.

As promised, Papillon gave directions as her mother drove, and Marinette covered it up by scrolling through her cell phone, pretending that she was following a map on her screen. They arrived at the destination early, as intended, and Marinette promised to call her mother when the auditions were over, a genuine smile on her lips as she exited the vehicle.

Papillon kept her arms steady by her side as she walked, not allowing her to wrap them around herself for warmth from the cold air, as she moved confidently towards the door. She signed in at the front desk again, showing the identification from her wallet to prove that she was who she said she was, and then was directed into one of the waiting rooms. The sticker with her first name was stuck above her breast again. When she entered with a cool expression—the Kwami had frozen her features, making it feel stiff and unnatural to her, but others wouldn't be able to tell—she was greeted by the faces of two other females, and two males.

As almost an hour passed, the rest of those assigned to her room trickled in. There was six of them altogether, and she quickly deduced from the chatter from the others that there was sixty of them that had passed to that stage of the competition. The judges would pick two of them inside the room to advance after hearing them sing—with groups still counting as one—adding up to a total of twenty, before they selected selected four more to join them.

And then they would be halved the following day, made to pair up and compete against each other.

Marinette obediently accepted the microphone that a red-haired member of staff gave her, returning the polite smile, and was the second in line across the stage. There were two groups in her queue, in first and sixth place, while the other three were soloists, like her.

The judges were there at their combined desk, leaning back on chairs and conversing with each other, while the cameras were angled at the contestants that had just lined up. Marinette relaxed her shoulders, the steady grip on the microphone with two hands the one that she'd had before, and she was sure she was the picture of cool confidence, not a shaking mess like the brown-haired male beside her.

Their task was to sing a forty second snippet of a choice between two songs, the same that had been assigned to the rest of the group. From what she'd heard from the other contestants while waiting, each group of six had been given different songs, though they all had the varying notes and control to see whether they were capable singers.

Marinette wasn't nervous because of her ability; she was nervous because she was second, knowing that if down the line a good singer appeared, they might overshadow her despite her professional training. To them—the judges, her fellow contestants, and the cameras that looked at her fleetingly—she was an unemployed female who'd had no vocal training, not even a spot in her school's choir (because there hadn't been one).

Armand greeted them curtly, and then the spotlights were focused on the first singer, the group, cameras moving in front of the stage to get the best shot.

Their voices couldn't reach the high notes.

When her name was called and the light was directed her way, Marinette bowed silently in greeting before she raised the microphone to her mouth, eyes deliberately downcast as her voice as soft at the beginning. There was no murmuring of the crowd as she perfectly hit the note, nor when her voice caressed the syllables of the quiet part, and although her heart was beating madly and she felt stiff and awkward, Papillon whispered their approval when she lowered her hand.

Another soloist had trouble with singing quietly before belting out the climax of the chorus, which caused the singer to wince and realise their mistake themselves, and the final group only had one member that had trouble making their portion sound attractive.

Rather than call the six of them back at a later time, the judges discussed the results themselves. They pushed their chairs closer, compared the notes on their desks, while the cameras roamed with flickering shots between the contestants and the trio that were muttering, microphones turned off so they couldn't be overheard.

Marinette kept her chin raised, the blank and aloof expression on despite how her heart was hammering, and she wondered how Chloé had managed to keep herself under control for all those years. Their first concert together had had the blonde-haired female almost hyperventilating backstage before she went on, and all the cheering crowd could see was her smiling face when she stepped on, not noticing how pale she had been.

She bowed when her name was called. The other to make it through was a male soloist.

They were escorted off the stage after a few complimentary comments—Armand said that she needed to work on her voice to fit the newest popular songs, which made her almost burst out laughing—and then separated, with those that were rejected sent into a different room, awaiting to see whether they would be selected to be the backups.

Marinette sat down in a corner after selecting a bottle of water, sipping the liquid and feeling the uncomfortable feeling of hunger in her stomach. There was a table of food beside the water, a small selection of dishes to choose from, but most of the contestants were opting not to eat from what she suspected to be nerves, much like her.

Slowly, more of the passing contestants walking in, two at a time. Groups joined them, huddling together in chairs that they'd pushed into odd shapes, while the soloists tended to keep to themselves, but some had taken to chattering away with whoever was close, trying to befriend them.

Knowing how awkward she could be when she was nervous, and that Papillon wanted her to stay aloof and not make connections at that moment in time when half would be eliminated the following day, Marinette kept to herself, crossing her legs in her chair. She rested her chin on her palm, elbow on her knee, as she looked at the newcomers as they shuffled inside.

There was laughter and happy conversations as time continued, and she idly fiddled with her cell phone, sending a few messages to her mother. They were restricted, no free internet given, and it was within the documents that they'd signed that they wouldn't post anything online that would reveal their position in the show.

The large room filled up, and when she was trying to count heads to see whether there were twenty of them, trying hard to figure out which crowds counted as a group, the red-head that had handed her the microphone in the beginning entered through the open door, tapping her knuckles against the wood to try and catch their attention.

It was drowned out, though, and she ran a frustrated tanned hand through her curly red-coloured hair, visibly irritated by the lack of attention her way.

Reading her thoughts, Papillon uttered their encouragement with the drawl of, "Go on, then, child."

And, well, if her father figure agreed with the idea, then she saw no reason to question it. Marinette stood up, pocketing her cell phone as she did so, and raised her hand to her mouth while trying to make eye contact with the member of staff.

She moved her fingers into a specific position on her lips and blew, resulting in a loud high-pitched whistle that seemed to echo within the room. Stares were directed at her instantly, the chatter dying down from the sudden interruption, and all she did was remove her hand with a blank expression and allow her eyes to flicker around to see the surprised faces before she gestured towards the red-head.

The member of staff grinned, mouthing her thanks before she cleared her throat. "Right, hi, guys. I'm Alya, and if I call your name, you're going to come with me, okay?"

There was a mutter of chatter, a clear confirmation, and then Alya continued on to read out a list of eleven individuals, no explanation given.

Her name had been called.

Marinette smoothed out the material of her shirt, chin held high as she navigated her way through the group, the first to reach the door and walk alongside the red-head that was leading them through the hallway.

Alya turned to her halfway through to say, "Thanks again, by the way. It was pretty cool of you to do that."

"I would've used the sound of an air horn if I had it on my phone," she replied, a small smile on her lips that turned genuine as the other female grinned right back at her.

They were brought back to the stage, cameras focusing on them despite the fact that the situation hadn't been explained to them, and Marinette was sure she had an air of confidence as she took a spot on the fair side on the stage. She didn't look at the other ten beside her, though she started to have her suspicions due to the fact that they were all soloists. There were no groups called in with them, and the silence was only filled by the sound of one of the other's tapping foot.

Penny called their attention with a raised hand. "Hello again, everyone. I'm sure you're wondering what you're doing here."

"What she means to say is that we're sorry to call you back. There's a lot of talent this year, and we've decided to embrace that by altering a few things," Caline corrected with a smile that was supposed to be reassuring.

Her stomach clenched uncomfortably from a mixture of nerves and hunger. The worry of them eliminating her was there, that the eleven of them had been called to cause humiliation despite the fact that they'd been told that they'd passed beforehand. Papillon was quiet, absent from her mind and only there keeping her face inexpressive, meaning all she had filling her head was her worries and the sound of her anxious pulse.

"I see you're first, Marinette," Penny remarked, causing the quiet of the room to seem tense. "Yes, Marinette, you're quite talented, aren't you?"

Papillon whispered, "It's rhetorical."

She could've figured that out for herself, but the reassurance was helpful.

"You're quite the little spitfire, we've all agreed on that," the dark-haired female judge continued, hand fiddling with the pen as she referred to her notes. "I'm afraid, though, darling, that there's something missing with you."

The actual success of her voice was missing, that was what. Marinette's cheeks coloured from indignation and embarrassment, unwilling that she was really going to be eliminated when she was clearly talented and attractive, and then she realised that Papillon was uttering his monotone outrage in her head, stating that they were plebeians, clearly unable to tell when someone worthy was standing before them.

For a supercomputer that was incapable of emotions, they sounded quite protective—of her success, not her.

Penny's voice brought her back to the present, even though she was sure only her eyes had flickered away from the internal mortification. "Fret not, we've figured out a solution for that, if you're willing."

Self-doubted bubbled within her, harshly reminding her that once she hadn't been as attractive as Chloé, and that was the very reason that she hadn't been considered a soloist herself. She'd been the voice to a pretty face, and if they were going to do something like that here, even if it was to match her up with someone attractive, she didn't know how to restrain her anger from the treatment.

Marinette Cheng never seemed to be enough. She knew she had the talent—countless people had told her, professional coaches had, too—and she'd grown into her adult body, no longer the little girl with ratty hair and badly fitting clothes, but that still wasn't enough.

Armand pitched in, "Adrien Agreste, please step forward."

Looking to the side to see who would move, Marinette caught sight of a male walking, hands not tucked into his pockets like some of the others. He turned to look at her with a polite smile, raising a hand to wave, and that was what she saw the indents on his cheeks and she froze in horror.

He had green eyes.

The chances were small, absolutely abysmal, but when she saw the blond hair that flicked out at the end—the same way it had done in school, especially when he ran his fingers through it—there was no denying that she knew the male that had been called forward. There was no recognition in his face, though, and that joined her festering anger that was well hidden by her Kwami.

To Adrien she was a blank-faced female that he had never seen before; she wasn't the short-haired school-mate that he'd mistaken for a boy and bluntly rejected in the middle of the dining hall years ago.

Papillon's voice pitched in to demand, "Calm down, Miss Cheng."

Her heart was beating fast, face stiff so it wouldn't crumple from sadness and embarrassment, because from all the times she'd imagined meeting him again, it had never been with cameras pointing their way, ready to record her humiliation and a trip to the past. The judges might've been gesturing to the two of them, or writing on their pieces of paper, but all she could do was stare blankly at the male on the opposite side of the stage—far enough not to be within reaching distance—and wonder how well Papillon would be able to smother her tears.

Caline cleared her throat. "We chose you two because we think your voices would work together beautifully. Are you willing to join together as a group?"

With him?

The dark-haired female didn't let him get a word in as she blurted out immediately, "Absolutely not."

Adrien looked taken aback and confused, furrowing his eyebrows as his hand lifted up to touch the hairs at the nape of her neck, and goodness, she still recognised that—

A chuckle came from Penny, and Marinette ripped her eyes away from him to stare at the judges. "Yes, we thought this might happen, but it's okay. It was worth a try."

Her eyes felt itchy.

"What my colleagues are trying to say is, the eleven of you are either to join a group or be eliminated," Armand stated bluntly. Before there could be a chorus of rejections, he raised a hand to indicate them to be silent. "We've already selected your groups, including our reserve picks from the rejected, so, please, cooperate and go to the part of the stage I tell you to. The reserves will be entering soon."

Caline smiled as she looked at the two of them that had been called out. "Marinette and Adrien, you are not being rejected due to your refusal to work together. We already arranged for you two to join other groups if you were unwilling to bond."

She didn't look to the side, but she was sure that he was still touching his hair in that self-conscious way that had once made her smile when she was staring out of the classroom window. Marinette's stomach felt heavy and tight, and the only sign of her emotional distress was her blinking.

As Marinette was on the far side of the stage, it was decided that one of her new group members would go to her. She watched as Juleka Couffaine, a tall female with black hair, came walking her way, clearly shy and anxious as she fiddled with her hands in front of her.

The other groups were arranged, the lot of them shuffling around the stage to try and stand together in distinct places, and her eyes flickered to the side of the stage to see where the four reserves would walk on. She kept her away from the cameras, tried to ignore that her new partner was tall so Marinette came up to her breasts (it reminded her of Chloé, actually), and noticed with a glance that Adrien was in the same predicament with his new member, a broad-shouldered male with a blank expression and dark hair.

Anger and indignation swirled in her from the past, and undeniable want to prove herself; to show that she was worthy of someone's time, that they shouldn't write her off because she was missing something—be it gender or something on the stage—because they didn't know who they were dealing with. She was the voice of Chloé, had heard her voice on the radio countless times, and she was an adult that wouldn't cower from being overlooked any more.

If she couldn't win, she just wanted to beat him.

Two of the rejected joined her group. Lila Rossi, a tanned female with brown hair, and slightly taller than Marinette, and Aurore Beauréal, a female who was a centimetre or two shorter than Juleka with golden-coloured hair.

Two also joined Adrien's. Marinette kept quiet as everyone stayed lined up together, waiting for the judges to comment on their newly formed sections, and all she could do was stare at him, noting that he'd matured well, even if he still had that obvious confused expression on his face.

He caught her staring, though. Adrien's green eyes caught sight of her, and they widened for a moment before he tilted his head slightly to the side, a silent question of enquiring her reasoning.

Marinette narrowed her eyes at him before she looked away, surprised that Papillon had allowed her to do so.

The judges sent them off together, and Marinette stood between the three females that she'd been sorted with utterly lost on how to interact with them. They had to sing together the following day to try and win their spot in the competition—twenty-four being narrowed down to twelve, and she knew that some soloists had been saved from elimination by being the reserve four that didn't get added to groups—and she didn't know a thing about them.

There was no time to rehearse together that day; the sun was starting to disappear, and she had a few hours drive with her mother on the way back. They hadn't booked a nearby hotel due to the fact Marinette hadn't thought it was necessary, which she was utterly regretting at that moment.

"Arrive early and force them to rehearse with you," her Kwami demanded, as it was never a suggestion. "Since you were too busy giving in to your petty feelings of dislike, Miss Cheng, the song you four will be singing tomorrow will be half of today's."

At least they all knew it, then. The judges had forced unnecessary strain on them, making it so they had to work together in a limited time, but she assumed that was to add to the drama for the show to attract viewers. She was glad that Papillon didn't allow her to appear as panicky as she actually felt.

They did arrange to meet the following day without complaints. The trio were ambitious, especially the two that had been originally eliminated, and when Marinette told her mother the change of events as she hiccuped and spoke through her tears, her mother suggested that, maybe, a extra presence on the stage would be a comfort for her, rather than a hindrance.

Papillon commanded her to wear a knee-length dress with a visible short-sleeved t-shirt underneath, sticking to the same style as her other outfits. She placed her belongings in a small backpack, holding onto the straps in the car to try and calm her nerves.

The rest of her group were waiting outside in various styles of clothing. Aurore and Lila seemed to prefer the same style that Chloé wore in public, with tight clothing that accentuated their figures as they were comfortable with their bodies that way, while Juleka had her dark hair pulled into a ponytail as she wore ripped jeans and a leather jacket.

When the four of them stood together, only Aurore and Lila seemed to belong together. They offered awkward smiles and polite words as they checked in at the front desk, overjoyed that they were given a room to practice in—all of the groups that had been assigned the previous day were, complete with installed cameras to catch their every move, as it was surely a segment that would be shown in the upcoming weeks.

They had to have been good singers to make it through auditions, of course. It was just that they were on different levels, voices all different and difficult to mesh together.

Marinette was able to hit the highest notes—causing wide eyes as she displayed her ability as they warmed up and showed each other their abilities—and hold them stably, her voice not cracking as she ran out of breath. It was clear that she was considered the best there quickly, and there was no looks of jealousy as she was assigned the hardest parts of the song to sing (Juleka had printed out the lyrics, highlighting each part with different colours to represent them—Marinette was red).

Juleka was talented at harmonising and low notes, a husky quality to her voice that was attractive, even though she couldn't belt or have much presence on her own. She wasn't afraid to admit that or try and push to have herself do the hardest parts, instead volunteering to combine her voice with others when they seemed shaky or unsure.

Aurore and Lila wanted to prove themselves, though, considering that they had originally been rejected. The two females butted heads at first before Marinette blandly interrupted that they didn't have time for their petty dislike—taking the words from Papillon—and then they'd calm down with the promise to revisit their argument when their group passed.

As it turned out, Lila had a strong voice, but when it came to fast parts, her pronunciation faltered from the pressure. Aurore was found to have the second best voice—to the displeasure of Lila—and was able to hit the second highest notes without causing her voice to break.

Their plan was messy and uncoordinated, but it was the best they could do with the time given. When they were ushered out by a member of staff, stating they had to gather in another room with the other contestants, Marinette stood up swiftly placed her bag on her back, confident at her ability to remember her selected parts.

She did have a supercomputer in her head to tell her when it was coming up, after all.

As they were a group, they were paired together with another that was filled with two females and one male. The song had been organised so they'd split verses between the two groups, allowing the different singers that they'd selected themselves to showcase their skills side-by-side.

Alya handed out the microphones with no polite smile, instead she had a frustrated expression as she juggled the equipment, tying to pass them out without dropping them. As much as Marinette wanted to try and help, she was rooted to the spot on the stage, waiting for the spotlights to focus on them as the judges trickled in.

The song started out with the other group's first singer which transitioned into Aurore's strong voice, and the first mistake was Lila forgetting which line was hers. The brunette visibly jumped when she realised, stepping forward and starting halfway through a sentence, visibly upset with her blunder. Juleka was there supporting her, softly caressing the syllables with her unique voice.

Marinette performed her parts with finesse, adding extended high notes when Aurore sang, overshadowing the strongest singer on the other side of the stage.

Even though Lila had almost cost them their part in the show, they passed. The brunette sobbed and wrapped her arms around a bewildered Aurore when the judges gave their approval, and Marinette was standing there, hand holding the microphone dropping to her side as she wondered what it was that she was missing.

It wasn't her voice, she knew that. Was it her stage presence? Her mother had commented that it might be good for her to have others there to support her, but as she glanced to the side at the odd trio of girls that she'd been put with, she couldn't see them getting along, let alone making their way through the live shows when there was no chemistry between them. Marinette felt awkward and unsure of how to be with them; it had always been just her, matching her voice to Chloé's lips and movements.

She wasn't alone any more, and she didn't know how to deal with that.

-x-

"Marinette, come on! You know I'm not fit to be in the kitchen without your assistance," Lila exclaimed loudly, hands coming to grip onto Marinette's duvet to pull it off. "And I want pancakes—no, I need them."

Two days after the last elimination, Marinette had packed her bags with the help of her mother, and was dropped off at the allocated dormitory. It was a large building that was split into two sections; one side was for males, the other for females, and therefore she found herself sharing a room with Lila, of all people. The idea was for those in groups to stick close to each other, even though there was only two beds in a room (and a bathroom attached), so some soloists had paired up with another, since single rooms weren't allowed.

There were no cameras in the bedrooms or bathrooms, thankfully, but there was a large kitchen that the girls all had to share, complete with beady little cameras dotted around the room to capture them bonding. She assumed that the layout of the building was mirrored for the other side, too.

Aurore and Lila's rivalry had ended as soon as they'd passed, but it was the amount of luggage that the two of them brought along that caused Marinette to share a room with the brunette. It was awkward at first, both of them unsure on how to interact with each other, but Papillon was fine with her talking freely as long as she didn't sob uncontrollably so the other female would think she was a pushover, or reveal her secrets.

So, it was within the safety of the bedroom that she was free to be herself, while the Kwami made sure to keep her posture stiff and straight when she ventured outside.

They weren't allowed to watch television, had limited access to the news, had their cell phones confiscated so they could only answer calls on the phone in the kitchen that only had calls directed to it, no numbers to input their own. The internet was monitored, and they were warned beforehand that if they posted on social media or released information to any websites that they would be kicked off the show immediately. The idea was for them to watch and listen to songs on the devices only, to read the books provided for entertainment, but they were allowed to leave the grounds if cleared by security and had approval of the location (for meeting family, those that had been cleared and identified).

There was a time period of a few days to allow everyone to move in and select rooms, and since Marinette and her group were some of the first, they had free reign in the kitchen. As long as it wasn't too demanding, they were allowed to write down their wanted groceries on a list—that she was sure would be shown on television if anything funny was written on it—so when they'd arrived and saw that the cupboards were stocked but they were tired from the drive, they pitched together to order food.

On the other side of the kitchen, past the countertops with stools and little tables that were set up, was a large television—that only had past television shows, no live channels to stop them seeing the news—surrounded by sofas, armchairs and beanbags. The four of them sat together, eating their food and ignoring the cameras that were sure to be pointed their way, and tried to get to know each other while the other contestants were absent.

They weren't that bad, honestly. Marinette found out that Lila had no skill in cooking, but liked to input her opinions and advice when someone else was at the stove, so it was decided that it would be a good bonding experience for at least two of them to participate in meal preparation over the course of their time together.

As contestants trickled in, awkwardly introducing themselves and claiming rooms, Marinette stayed awkward and unsure of herself, but it was Lila that she grew closest to. They weren't due for rehearsals until the next week to allow everyone to settle in, so that meant that everyone was left to their own devices in the dorms, unable to leave to visit family just yet.

Lila struck up conversations when they were in their bedroom together, placed an arm around Marinette's shoulder when they were in the kitchen or lounging around watching old episodes of a television show, and none of it felt forced. Despite her initial bad impression, the brunette female seemed to be a kind person, other than her fault of being quick to anger. Lila apologised to Aurore over breakfast, and the other waved it off with a dismissive hand gesture, saying it was in the past, that they should move forward and be friends.

Apparently, that meant barging into Marinette's room in the early morning, dragging a sleepy-looking Juleka along so they could talk in private.

When the following week came, after the first auditions had been shown on television, they made their way to the studio with genuine smiles and laughter, having warmed up to each other in their time alone. Marinette had heard the other contestants bonding, too, when she'd kept to herself in the kitchen, nursing a warm mug close to her chest for comfort.

Although the two dorms weren't allowed to visit each other—to stop sexual activities from being caught on camera—there was another large living and kitchen room, complete with the restricted television, plethora of chairs, and cameras at every angle, making it so those in groups with the other gender could eat and spend time together, but not sleep.

She rejected the offers to venture downstairs to meet the male contestants, content to stick close to herself, either reading in the safety of her bedroom, or dragged around by Lila's demanding nature.

Papillon allowed her to do as she wished, clearly pleased with the shy personality that she was showing. She worried constantly about the edits that the show could've done, whether they made her appear to be blunt and rude, and her eyes prickled when she thought about her rejection of Adrien that had been recorded.

As much as she wanted to stand out, to be noticed for who she was, she didn't want anyone digging into her past. She was aware that contests such as the one she was in liked to delve into the reasons why someone was singing, what they held close and dear, and sometimes take a peek into their past to inspire pride and support from their homes or previous schools.

Lila linked their arms together as they walked through into the practice room they were assigned to. The staff at the front desk had given them large stickers to wear, much like the numbers in the first audition, with their first name's printed largely on them.

Viewers wouldn't know who they were straight away, after all.

The other groups were inside. The judges had played against each other to win to rights to either the male soloists, female soloists, or groups, to mentor and guide them to victory on the show. They were scattered across the room, standing awkwardly as they glanced towards the door to see whether it was their assigned mentor to walk inside.

Lila pulled her along to an open spot, the other two following behind them. Marinette's eyes flickered around the room, taking in the familiar faces that she'd seen in the waiting rooms, uncertain what they were supposed to do. There was four groups within the room, meaning there were four soloists of each gender waiting for their mentor, too.

She adamantly avoided looking where she knew Adrien was. She didn't want to deal with that bundle of emotions, not when her face already felt stiff and cold.

There would be ten weeks of live performances, all set of a large stage and broadcast live with an audience in the room, where they'd be criticised by the judges and leave their future up to the public vote each week, eliminating one per week until the final, where the top three would be announced based on that night's votes.

It was nerve-wracking and mad, yet it was everything she wanted and more. She may not be able to stand on the stage along, but she was determined to prove her worth, regardless of the extra members that were standing by her side.

Hell, it was worth it as long as she managed to beat one person.

"Your ambitions are pitiful, child," Papillon whispered, the same bored tone that sounded similar to Armand at times. "That's why you have me, after all. I'm here to help you."