Where The Monsters Are

There were monsters in Paris, and the worst thing was that they didn't look like monsters until it was too late for you.

There was a boy in black leather, all Cheshire cat smile and bad puns, eyes glowing green in the dark. Rumors called him a bad omen, said if you saw him you should turn the other way, run and hope he didn't find you interesting.

They said he could bring down a building with a single touch, make you rot inside out with just a twitch of his finger. They said that his claws could cut through steel, and that nothing ever seemed to touch him.

They said the last thing you ever saw would be his teeth, sparkling white like the moon, as he cut you down.

There was a girl in a red jumpsuit, flinging herself down from buildings with a mad grin, catching herself in the nick of time with a yoyo of all things.

People liked her, at first, this fierce and brave girl they thought could protect them.

They liked her, until they saw her rewriting reality with a flick of her wrist, until she destroyed the town one day and made it whole again the next.

"I wanted to see what would happen," she said, her smile warm and sheepish but her eyes cold and calculating. "I swear I won't do it again," she promises, but everyone can feel it's just empty words.

Besides her, the boy smiles suddenly, white teeth gleaming, looking as sharp as his claws. "Wasn't it fun? I thought it was fun – we should definitely do it again, my Lady."

She laughs, clear bells ringing on a crisp winter morning, and they take of running, vanishing from sight like ghostly apparitions.

They call themselves Ladybug and Chat Noir, partners in crime and everything else, and no one knows how to stop them.

(there are no heroes here)