The Management recommends playing "House of the Rising Sun" as performed by the Animals as you are reading.

The prison was very old fashioned. At least Harold thought so. All of the cells had the traditional barred doors, not the steel ones you saw in more modern prisons. Even in solitary, they were still quite literally behind bars. Harold didn't like it. You could see each and every psychopath and lowlife looking back out at you. Every eye in the place was staring at him with a special kind of hatred. The kind that only came to someone you wanted dead. He could hear them too. Muttering, whispering in their sleep. None of them shouted. Not in this wing... Harold really wished they would. It kept feeling like they were trying to make him feel safe to distract from the danger coming up behind him.

He couldn't fool himself any more. He wasn't a guard at a prison. He was the keeper of a zoo.

He made his way to through the cell block, keeping his head down. He didn't want to attract any attention. Then something attracted his.

“SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS—aaaaaaah...”

That couldn't have been a good sign. It was even worse when he knew what cell it was coming from. Incarcerated inside was prisoner number 77777. Jacques Bosquet.

He turned quickly to look into the cell. The lights were off. He could only see a silhouette of the maniac inside. But it looked... off somehow. It was definitely him but... He was in the wrong clothes. That was it.

“Don't you just love nights like tonight?” he hissed. “You can almost feel the electricity in the air.”

“Why aren't you in your orange?” Harold said, trying to sound intimidating, and failing.

“I'm going out,” Bousquet hissed. “I'm meeting some important people, so I need to dress nice. You always want to make a good first impression...”

“Very funny,” Harold said shakily. “Get back in the scrubs, and I'll pretend this never happened.”

“Why would I want you to do that?” Bousquet said. “I'm enjoying the time we're spending together.”

Then Jacques Bousquet opened his eyes. Normally this would be hard to tell when his face was obscured in shadow, but these weren't normal eyes. They were twice as large as any eye should be, to start with. Oddly enough, that was the first thing he noticed. Not the glowing. The eyes were flashing different colors and messages. As if they were some kind of tacky electronic billboard.

“Are you a gambling man?” he asked.

Harold knew what this was. Akumatization. There was protocol for this. He fumbled around in his pockets for the panic button to lock down the prison. Step one, keep him talking until the backup arrived. “On occasion,” he said, still searching for the button. “I've been known to try my hand at a slot machine...”

“Perfect,” Bousquet hissed. “Here's the bet... You take one spin and it might net you the panic button you're looking for.”

Harold froze.

“Oh I have it,” Bousquet smiled. “I have it, because you want it. So one spin. If you get it, you can call for back up. If not, I have a much easier time getting out of here. Deal?”

Harold couldn't say anything. He was frightened out of his wits.

“Good. Let's take a spin.”

Bousquet grasped a bar of his cell with his one remaining hand. The hand looked inhuman. It was dark gray and seemed to be made of some kind of reflective metal. The fingers were segmented to allow the joints to move. The hand was coming out of the sleeves of a maroon pinstripe suit jacket, and a mustard yellow shirt. That metal hand easily ripped off a two foot length of the bar of his cell.

Then he stepped through the bars via the newly made gap, and Harold let out a yell.

Bousquet's face had twisted. His red hair was gone, now replaced with the dark gray metal skin that covered his hand. He had a small pointed nose that struggled to be noticed between his billboard eyes, and his huge toothy grin. That was the worst of it. His mouth had taken up the entire bottom half of his face, and his teeth had doubled in size.

Across his chest, there were three slot reels. There was no lever to pull them until he slammed the cell bar into the stump of his left arm, which made an unnatural CLANK! as it went in.

“Round and round the reels go,” the monster pulled the makeshift lever. “Where they stop. God only knows...”

The reels spun an one stopped. The icon on it was a picture of a revolver. Then the second. Then the third. With a loud KA-CHING! Bousquet's lower jaw slid unnaturally downward, making his mouth open at a ninety-degree angle. He wretched forward, and from his mouth popped a handle of a gun. Inside his eyes, in a sort of led marquee, scrolled the message 9mm.

He pulled the gun the rest of the way out of his mouth. Staring at the black revolver, he shook his head. “Oooooh, tsk tsk tsk tsk,” he said in mock sympathy. “Not the Panic button.”

He cocked the gun and pointed right at Harold's face. “Now that's just bad luck.”

---

Alya looked down at the ground and she didn't look up until Marinette had finished her story. Tikki was looking out the window, watching the rain until it stopped. Marinette had let herself cry during explaining it to her, and was calming down.

“I'm sorry,” Marinette said. “I should have told you sooner. I understand if you never wanted to see me ever again.”

“What?” Alya said. “Girl... I get it. I'm not mad you didn't tell me. That had to have been a huge secret to keep, and the Ladyblog couldn't have made it any easier. Even if we are BFFs, you had only known me for a few months. Plus I had already turned into a supervillain once. The fact that you're trusting me with this, even now is moving. So don't worry...”

Alya held Marinette's shoulder. “You are my best friend. Nothing is ever going to change that. I'm just happy I know now. You're not alone in this anymore.”

Marinette gave Alya a soft smile. She needed to hear that.

“That being said...” Alya smacked Marinette on the forehead with a composition book from school. “What the hell were you thinking, leaving him up on that roof?!”

“What?” Marinette said, bewildered. “What?!”

“I have been trying for almost 14 months now to get you two together,” Alya said, pacing around the room and throwing her hands up. “You find out that you've been working closely with him, for months. He turns to you for a shoulder to cry on, and you get so inside your own head you leave him there?! Have you lost your mind?!”

“What the hell was I supposed to do?!” Marinette protested. “I used to think I was in love with Adrien, I don't even know who he is anymore!”

“Yes you do!” Alya shouted. “Now more than ever! You're closer now than anyone in your position could ever hope to be!”

“And getting that close to him, he's kind of a tool.” Marinette couldn't believe she was saying this about Adrien. “I mean, he's funny. Dependable, and yeah he still looks like Adrien, which helps. But not a day goes by when he doesn't annoy me to pieces.”

“So the guy you're head over heels for...” Alya looked up at the sky in mocking thought. “Also drives you up the wall... Hold on. Clinical test.”

Alya walked over to the trapdoor of Marinette's attic bedroom and swung it wide open. “Hey, Mrs. Dupin-Cheng?”

“What are you doing?” Marinette hissed.

Alya raised a hand to calm Marinette down. “Yes, Alya?” Marinette's mother called up.

“You love Mr. Dupin more than anything on earth, right?” Alya asked.

“Of course,” Marinette's mom answered. “Well... Him and Marinette.”

“Uh-huh,” Alya nodded. “And how often does he irritate you to near homicide?”

“On an almost daily basis,” Mrs. Dupin-Cheng answered immediately.

“Almost daily?” Marinette's dad responded. “I must be slipping.”

Alya gestured at Marinette who marched over to her.

“Thanks for the input, Mom!” Marinette slammed the trapdoor. “This is not the same thing.”

“It is exactly the same thing,” Alya shot back. “Here I've been trying to hook you guys up, and it turns out you've been married for the past year.”

“Alya!”

“Look, putting your romantic masochism aside,” Alya continued. “On a human level, that was a really crappy way to treat a friend. He just got through telling you that he saw himself as nothing. He was obviously in a really bad place, as his partner you should have at least tried to make him feel better. Tell him he's more than a mask.”

Marinette was about to retort, but every argument died in her throat. She put her hand on her forehead and tried to arrange her thoughts. “I wonder what was eating him,” Marinette thought out loud. “He seemed fine at school.”

“I don't know,” Alya said, taking out her phone. “But maybe I can find out. The Agrestes are the kind of old money that had to flee the country in the 1790's. If something happened more than normal teenage stuff, it'd be on the internet somewhere. Let's see... Agreste, October.”

Marinette looked at Alya. “Any information.”

Alya's eyes widened. “Did I mean Marie Agreste, October.”

“His mom?” Marinette asked. Then a horrible thought occurred to her. “Oh no.... No, no, no... Alya, please don't tell me...”

Alya looked up from the phone like it confirmed Marinette had a terminal disease. 'Tomorrow is the twelfth anniversary of her disappearance.”

Marinette flopped facedown on the bed in despair. “Oh my god,” she said muffled into the covers. “I'm a monster!”

“Don't panic, girl!” Alya said reassuringly. “We can still fix this!”

“If he hasn't thrown himself off his roof at this point,” Marinette wailed. “Or given up on love altogether... Oh dear lord, I've turned him into his dad.”

“Hot, and rich with a voice like butter?” Alya shrugged. “You can do wor- Woah...”

“Maybe I should call him,” Marinette said miserably.

“Uh... You can't do that,” Alya said. “You're busy.”

Marinette looked up to see that Alya was at her PC. Streaming a live news report of a Paris street. The ground was littered with gold coins. A crowd was fleeing from something off screen. Every so often a shot would fire, and a passerby would dissolve into coins.

“Where're you all going?!” someone asked gleefully from off screen. “The real show hasn't even started yet!”

Alya looked right at Marinette. “This looks like a job for Ladybug?”

“And Cat Noir,” Marinette nodded. “Adrien, I hope you're watching.”

“Wouldn't surprise me if he was out on patrol already,” Alya nodded, turning back to the computer. “Guys don't do the whole 'Cry over a tub of Rocky Road with your bestie' thing.”

“We can only hope,” Marinette sighed. “Tikki! Spots on!”

---

“Dude,” Nino laughed as Adrien hit the end of the Rocky Road. “You still don't get it?”

Nino Lahiffe's reaction to finding out his best friend was Cat Noir was simply to nod and say “Called it!” Apparently, Nino had put together certain gaps in his appearances lining up with sightings of Cat Noir. He had put the pieces together two months ago. When Adrien asked why Nino didn't confront him about it, he simply said that it was none of his business. Adrien knew there was a reason they were friends.

A side effect of this, however, was Nino being unable to control his laughter when Adrien told him about Marinette's reaction to his true identity. Adrien didn't see it as mocking, but as if Nino had caught on to something obvious that Adrien just couldn't see.

'What?! What am I missing?!” he said through a mouthful of stiff ice-cream. He swallowed hard and continued. “We both agree to drop the masks, we've moved past the argument, we both see who we really are, all of the sudden she's all pissed. What did I do wrong?!”

“Okay,” Nino leaned forward. “What were you two talking about right before you switched back to normal.”

Adrien shrugged. “Some guy she had the hots for,” he said. “Like I told you.”

“Did she describe him?” Nino asked.

“What?” Adrien was completely lost. “Yeah... Tall, blonde, top of his class... I think he wears skinny jeans because she almo-” Something clicked in Adrien's brain. “Oh my god.”

Nino broke down laughing.

“No, what?” Adrien felt like someone had just told him he was secretly a martian. “No, no way. What?!”

“What kills me is the jeans,” Nino breathed. “Like, you wear the damn skinny jeans every day and it doesn't even occur to you that it might be seen as baiting a hook?”

“But Marinette has made no indication to me or anyone else that she was interested,” Adrien said with confidence. “Right? Back me up here.”

“Are you serious, dude?” Nino said in disbelief. “Did she have to club you and drag you back to her cave?”

Adrien buried his face in his hands. “So she was both interested, and completely uninterested, all at the same time?” Adrien asked miserably. “Dual identities are bullshit.”

“Sounds like it,” Nino sighed.

“Like I didn't feel like enough of an idiot this week,” Adrien muttered.

'Listen,” Nino said, moving aside. “Forget it for tonight. Just sit down, chill out, we'll take in some TV, alright?”

Adrien thought that sounded like a wonderful idea, so he flopped down on the couch next to Nino. When Nino turned on the television, Adrien sat bolt upright.

If it weren't for the various watermarks and headlines, Adrien would have mistaken the news for a horror movie. A monster with a gunmetal gray skin crazed smile, multicolored eyes, a pinstriped suit and a two foot metal pole for a left arm was standing near a broken shop window, holding the left arm of a mannequin. He slid the plastic arm over the pole, seemingly attaching it to his shoulder. The plastic facsimile began to move like a natural arm, as a pinstripe sleeve grew to cover it. Then he turned to look at the camera. Seemingly right at Adrien.

“You!” he said over the panicking crowd. “With the camera! I need it.”

The cameraman started to back away. The monster rolled his eyes, and took a revolver out of his belt. There was a bang, then a sound like a hard rain as the camera fell to the ground.

The monster picked up the camera in his plastic hand and pointed it right near his grotesque skull-like face. “Is this still working?” he said quietly. “Seems like... Hello, dear Paris! You may remember me from the trial that ended a few days ago! The most high-profile serial killer Paris has ever seen! The one and only Jacques Bousqet! Now, the media never came up with a good nickname for me. 'Casino Killer' was just to generic...”

“I prefer...” He let out a sickening grin. “The One-Armed Bandit.”

He swung the camera to look out over the flaming street and the people desperately fleeing the scene. “Some mess we got here, huh?!” the Bandit asked with sickening glee. “I mean look at all this! Kids searching for their mothers, wives looking through the pile of change that used to be their husbands, it's a madhouse down here. The question on everyone's mind is... Who could save us now?

“Well,” he swung the Camera back into his face. “I have two people in mind... Ladybug, Cat Noir... I hope your watching. See... We need to have a little talk. Something important we both need to take care of...

“And I'd hurry...” His normally high voice was turning into a guttural growl. “Because the question isn't weather or not I'm going to make any of these people cash out before you get here... The question is how many.” He dropped the camera on the sidewalk. The feed showed him walking off, firing more shots into the fleeing crowd. Adrien could still hear him laughing.

Nino's jaw dropped. “I think you should probably...”

“Way ahead of you,” Adrien nodded. “Plagg! Claws out!”

---

The Bandit didn't like to be kept waiting. The worst part of any bet was those split seconds waiting for the die to hit the table. Luckily, he didn't have to wait long. He heard a thud behind him, and he gave another wide smile.

He turned around to face her, pointing the revolver right between her eyes. She looked at him with a special kind of content. He laughed at that. She had no idea what he was up to, but she still hated him for it. She should wait to see what comes later.

The hands have been dealt. Place your bets. There can only be one winner.

“Are you a gambler, little Ladybug?"

Logic:.... Okay, so the villain for this story is a serial killer slot-machine with a prosthetic arm?

Me: Yep.

Logic: Why does the description sound familiar?

Me: He's basically the Big-Head Killer from Dark Horse comics "The Mask" with grey skin instead of green.

Logic: Right... Oh, BTW, good ass coverage on the complaints from the last chapter's comments.

Me: Shut up.

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