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There were moments where Raymond caught Layton staring at his master for much longer than the professor had any cause to. Though Layton did this, he did not seem to recognize Professor Sycamore as the man he truly was. No, Raymond thought. He reconsidered his previous idea. Though he’d known his professor and master for a great deal longer than the man tended to recall, his master was in fact becoming more and more like Jean Descole every time he put the mask on. While Raymond supported him, he sometimes did not like it. It worried him to see the man grow so far apart from who he used to be. But there were pieces of Desmond Sycamore that remained visible to him. He was seeing those pieces more often now than before.
His master could pretend Professor Layton had no effect on him all he wanted. It was plain to Raymond that Desmond Sycamore was more open to the company of Team Layton than he’d been with anyone in a very long time. Though the butler had never said nor implied having any notion of anything whatsoever, he was absolutely certain by the way his master stiffened under Layton’s scrutiny that something had had happened between them. There’d been a period between Targent’s assault on Descole and the invitation to come aboard the Bostonius where Raymond had not seen much of his master. He was positive he’d gone to visit Layton, despite everything Raymond had warned him about.
And Descole had not spoken of it. He hadn’t told him anything. Raymond had had to guess why his master looked guiltier than he usually did after a heist. He only knew this because the man was wearing the mask less and less. There was much left to Raymond’s imagination, and quite frankly he didn’t want to think about it. He’d reminded his master of what might be necessary in order for them to achieve their goals, but he’d seemed less responsive than before. He’d seemed less eager to defend himself and his feelings, or lack thereof.
The mask had become his crutch, and now he was walking without it. How long was he going to hold up before he needed it again?
Desmond couldn’t help how distracted he was by Layton’s presence. He found himself trying to find things to talk to him about, even letting him in on some of his most embarrassing moments during the creation of the Bostonius. Sometimes he actually forgot what he was doing here in the first place, especially when Layton took notice to his scent. Of all the things to notice, the man recognized the way he smelled. Desmond had been using cologne since that one encounter, even at the risk of getting made fun of for the strength of the cologne.
Every now and then Raymond would give him a look askance, and that would be enough to remind him. He’d straighten up and adjust his glasses, then proceed without so much as a blink. However, that did not mean he could escape his own thoughts. He thought of the situation he’d placed himself in often. He thought of that one night between Layton and himself even more often, though he wished to simply let it go.
He caught Layton staring at him one other time, and the situation could have very easily turned awkward. Desmond took the opportunity to talk about the decorum of his ship, changing the subject abruptly. Layton also seemed thankful for the change. Desmond almost wanted to ask why he’d been staring, but refrained. He didn’t want to risk his true identity coming to light too soon. When he had thoughts such as this, he found himself frowning deeply. This used to be the identity he considered true. He used to be Desmond Sycamore. Now he wasn’t so sure.
He’d lost touch with the man he used to be, but Layton and the others . . . their company made him want to be that man again somehow. For at least a few brief moments each day, he could pretend it was possible. When he was alone, though, it became clear to him who he was now. He’d changed entirely too much to go back.
Though Layton was the most distracting individual (Desmond wasn’t about to lie and say he hadn’t watched the man walk specifically to appreciate certain parts of the man’s anatomy), it was Aurora and Emmy he felt it was most difficult to talk to. Both reminded him of a point in his life he wished he could forget. They didn’t necessarily match the personalities of his family, but they were certainly the right ages. They had a similar bond. It all seemed too familiar to him, to the point that he’d rather risk exposing something to Layton than hold prolonged dialogue with them.
It was also rather easy to talk to Luke, which surprised him. He’d expected to be annoyed with the brat he’d almost killed (on accident, he believed) a couple of times. To his complete and utter shock, the boy was capable of holding an intelligent conversation. While he showed clear devotion to the other professor and loved talking of their adventures, Desmond could finally see why Layton kept him around. Luke was extremely smart, though the child had an obsession with animals. It wasn’t so much that Desmond didn’t like animals. He liked dogs. Any member of the canine family would do so long as they weren’t hyperactive. Cats, on the other hand, were utterly disgusting and he trusted them about as much as he trusted his own temper (and therefore not at all). The cat that had found its way aboard his aircraft, Keats, was very intent on . . . touching him somehow. Raymond was never going to let him live down the fact that Desmond had screamed like a teenaged school girl when he’d woken up with Keats wrapped around his head and staring down into his face with that insufferable feline grin. That was the only night Desmond had failed to secure the door to his room, and he vowed it would not happen again.
The journey was going smoothly. They were hunting the Azran eggs together, and everything was going according to plan for once. For a short time, Desmond remembered what it was like to feel content. No matter how much he told himself that he needed to remain distant, he couldn’t help getting closer to those around him. In a way, he knew that would be his downfall.
Emmy’s suspicions of the other professor continued to rise as the journey proceeded. She couldn’t put her finger on what had seemed familiar about him for the longest time. There were moments where his temper would flare and she could’ve sworn she’d heard such a tone before. Then there were moments where it was just his smile that reminded her of someone. Of all the things to tip her off to his identity, though, it was his shoes. She’d only ever known one man to wear such shoes.
She kept quiet for as long as she thought necessary. She did not tell the professor. She had her own secrets to keep, and revealing Professor Sycamore’s was the precise ticket to having them revealed earlier than essential. Of course, that required him knowing any of her secrets. She didn’t doubt that he knew something, especially since he was so utterly thorough in his investigation of Hershel Layton.
Watching them interact told her something of the two: they were hiding something. Both knew something the others didn’t. Typically, that would seem obvious to Emmy. Her professor was brilliant. If she somehow knew something he didn’t, it would stun her. But the professors both acted differently around one another. She wondered how Layton hadn’t picked up on Sycamore’s identity. She also wondered why Sycamore tended to avert his gaze from Layton as often as possible, or watch him when he seemed to believe no one was looking.
Professor Sycamore’s motives for allying with Layton were obvious to Emmy, but why did he look like he was in pain every time Layton brushed shoulders or accidentally touched him somehow? She sought to discover the answer along the journey. For now, they had a young woman from another millennium to concern themselves with, and five relics to get their hands on.
Desmond locked himself in his room, never having been so close to the edge of losing control. His hands balled up in his hair as he withheld his shouts of anger. He loathed Targent. He loathed it and its leader more than anything he’d ever felt contempt for. As they’d attempted to take the girl Aurora from them, he’d seen red and could have easily blown his cover. Fortunately, everyone else was just as focused on getting Aurora back as he. But now that Targent had invaded his privacy and stolen something he’d worked hard to find, he was very close to flying off the handle. Who? Who had come aboard? How had they stolen one egg, and how had they gone completely unnoticed? Who could he make pay?
A growl escaped his throat as he kicked over his nightstand before sitting on the edge of his bed. He huffed, frustration mounting as he failed at trying to catch his breath and calm down before facing Team Layton again. He needed to figure this out. He needed to remain calm. He couldn’t afford to remember just how much Targent had taken from him. He couldn’t afford for them to know before he was ready.
Just as his glasses were threatening to mist, he was interrupted by the voice of the professor’s assistant, “Things not going according to plan there, Professor Sycamore.” He was about to tell her to leave when he suddenly realized that she shouldn’t have been able to enter his room in the first place. Did she . . . pick the lock? His head turned as if on a wheel, stopping just shy of looking straight at her to keep most of his features slightly hidden. She sounded so pleasant, but as he looked her over her stance revealed she was confident. She wasn’t at all put off by the recent turn of events. In fact she appeared smug, and her question hadn’t been a question at all. It had been a statement. Something was off. Something was very off about her stance. Then she added, “Or should I defer to your other name?”
He froze, his breath ceasing mid-inhale. The first part of him to move was his hand, which slid to the crevice of his mattress. The second part was his mouth, asking, “What other name?”
“Jean Descole.”
Once the name passed her lips, his vision clouded and he pulled the sword he’d hidden in the crevice. Swinging toward her, he was taken aback by her response. She blocked him with a weapon of her own, but not just any weapon: an Azran-made weapon. Their blades crossed, he stared at her weapon for longer than he intended. Only one organization could have gotten their hands on that sort of weapon. His blood ran cold at the realization, and suddenly his veins were on fire just as swiftly as they’d frozen. “You,” he snarled, thrusting all of his weight into his blade and pinning her against the wall. She gasped at the force with which he cornered her. “You’re a Targent spy?”
She struggled against him as he twisted his blade against hers, the tip of his sword just grazing the skin of her chin. “It’s not what you think,” she defended herself.
He couldn’t believe her. Not her words, not her nerve. “You betrayed us! You betrayed Layton!”
“And what is it you’re doing, exactly? You’re the same man who almost had us killed more than once. You call me a traitor, so what does that make you?”
“At least I don’t work for those bastards. At least I’m not—,” he was shoved backwards by a surprising burst of strength from the woman he’d pinned. He stifled a shout, then had the air knocked out of him when she delivered one of her powerful kicks to his gut. He dropped to the ground, his sword slipping from his grasp and skidding out of reach.
He snarled, but was forced to listen to her given the position he was in. With her weapon pointed at him, she said, “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I don’t have to. You’re loyal to them.” He fought to regain his balance, anger boiling over.
“Wrong.”
He didn’t think it possible, but his vision actually turned even more crimson. “You’re loyal to him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Desmond was seething at this point. As was Emmy, but she seemed to get calmer the angrier she got.
“Because he raised me.”
Desmond stopped moving, glaring up at her. He still saw red, but he was listening. He was listening very intently now. “He had a family. Why’d he take you in?”
“For exactly that reason. He had a family. He managed to save his children, but his wife—”
“Died of a terrible illness he couldn’t save her from. I’m aware.” Desmond stood slowly, his eyes never leaving Emmy’s. She stiffened as he moved, but made no move to attack. “But don’t for one second think he did anything kind for his sons.”
“Sons?” Emmy tilted her head. “You know—”
“Intimately.” He straightened up. The weapon in Emmy’s lowered slightly as she became more intrigued, as he opened up more. She had no business knowing these things, but he wasn’t entirely positive she knew the nature of the beast she was working for. “He only has one son now.”
She squinted skeptically. “And the other?”
His heart hammered in his ears. “Dead.” It was a lie, but she didn’t need to know that. “Like his family.” That was the case as far as Desmond was concerned.
Emmy caught on immediately, either acknowledging his evasiveness or simply trampling it underfoot. Perhaps she’d been more perceptive of his musings about Aurora and how much she’d resembled his daughter. Perhaps she’d researched him as he’d researched Layton. He didn’t know. He didn’t care to. He just hated the way she stared like she’d been the one to commit the act against him. Even he couldn’t fault her. She would have been too young. “I didn’t—”
“Stop. Don’t justify him.”
“I can’t!” she snapped. “I truly can’t, and I won’t—”
“And yet you continue to work for him,” Desmond growled as he advanced on her.
She raised her weapon again, forcing him to a halt. “I just want to save him.”
“There’s nothing left to save.”
“You can’t know that.”
“The only person you should save is yourself, you fool.” The statement was genuine. The only person she was capable of saving was herself, but she didn’t seem to believe that.
She glowered. “Hypocrite,” she retorted through grit teeth.
Desmond’s gaze reddened again. “What did you call me?”
“Talking to me like that, and yet look at what you’ve done. Look at what you’ve done to us—”
“I’m not Leon Bronev—”
“Look at what you’ve done to Hershel.” He hadn’t expected that name to lay him quite as low as it did. Before he knew what was happening, his vision cleared and his legs were weak. He couldn’t remember if he’d dropped onto the edge of his bed or if she’d pushed him. He sincerely doubted it was the latter. His eyes never left Emmy’s, though. Hers never left his either. They continued boring into him without remorse. “What happened between the two of you?” Desmond felt his face color, but he refused to answer or look away. She didn’t seem to catch on. Good. She really didn’t need to be privy to that tidbit of information. “Is it true, though. Is he your—?”
“No, not . . . quite.” There were details of his backstory he’d prefer to keep to himself. At least for now. She wasn’t the one who should be listening.
She didn’t stop questioning, though. “What do you want from Layton?”
Desmond’s shoulders sagged. He used to know the answer. Now he didn’t, and that pained him. “I—”
“You used him to get the eggs, clearly. What happens when all of this is over?”
He couldn’t give her the answer she wanted, because he hadn’t thought that far ahead. He found himself drowning in the biggest mistake he’d made: allowing them to get too close. “I’m . . . what do you plan to do after this?” he turned it around on her.
He didn’t expect her to answer quite so honestly, but she was prepared for that question. “I will have an organization to disband. Once my uncle realizes the Azran can’t mean us well, he’ll—”
“What? You plan on turning him in?”
She actually looked tearful at the notion. “If I have to.”
After that, he could not hate her. He could hate Targent, but not Emmy. Seeing as they both knew each other’s biggest secrets, he had to make her understand, though. “Bronev stole everything from me. I once planned to show him the same courtesy. But only one thing matters to him, Ms. Altava.” A tear actually spilled down her cheek. “I’m sorry, but that’s not you. Hurting you or anyone else who might be similarly close to him would only make him more determined. The most I can do now is make sure he doesn’t get his hands on a power he would abuse.”
Again, she managed to see through him. “You’re afraid of what he might do to Layton.”
Desmond’s chest felt like it might collapse. “Extremely.” Desmond struggled to swallow the lump in his throat. He wanted to get angry at how pathetic he felt at the thought of Layton getting hurt, but it seemed impossible now. “He almost hurt him once. When Hershel was seventeen. He was looking for me, but Bronev found him instead. Fortunately, he was left alone.” Emmy lowered her weapon as Desmond lost composure. Oddly, he wasn’t thinking of a seventeen-year-old Hershel Layton. He was thinking of the scar he’d left on the man’s chest in the City of Miracles. Suddenly, he couldn’t stop talking. “I resented him. I resented Layton for having escaped the clutches of Targent, for being ignored for so long. But that’s what I’d wanted. That’s what I’d planned when I’d kept track of him, kept in touch with his adoptive parents. But once he was involved . . . .” He couldn’t finish. His voice threatened to break.
He fought with another lump in his throat as Emmy sheathed her weapon. “You couldn’t stay away from him.” Desmond squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at her any longer. He felt a dip in his mattress as she sat down beside him. He should be more on edge, but he couldn’t bring himself to be wary of her. She now knew too much about him. “Neither could I.” They were still for a while, giving Desmond enough time to reassess his current condition. With a heavy sigh, he managed to assume a role of one less emotionally attached, if but for a moment. He turned back to Emmy when she said, “But we’ll have to. When this is done, we’ll have to.” Desmond nodded in agreement. Certainly, Layton wouldn’t want anything to do with either of them anymore after he learned of their true identities.
Which reminded him. There was that issue to account for. “Will you tell him?” he asked her tentatively.
She shook her head. “Seems we both have our secrets.” He nodded, catching her meaning. “We stay quiet, then leave when it’s over.”
“To protect him.”
Emmy glanced at him. “When did it stop being a rivalry for you? When did—?”
“It never stopped being a rivalry,” the professor grumbled, trying to regain some of his earlier footing.
It didn’t work on her. “Something changed. It had to have changed. You resented him, you said so yourself. When did the resentment start becoming . . . whatever this is?”
Desmond didn’t know. He couldn’t give her a straight answer. That seemed to be a running theme in this revelation. None would come save for the slight shake of his head. They sat in silence, almost in shock at the sudden turn of events. Everything that had just happened had truly been sudden. Emmy had been too easy to open up to, and he blamed the time spent with her. It appeared they shared more than he’d originally thought. Their similarities aggrieved him, reminded him of what he was doing and how he should feel about his actions. No. Their similarities would remind Desmond of the guilt he should feel. Descole does not feel guilt. He couldn’t afford to feel guilt. He needed to put Desmond away soon. It was no longer safe for Desmond to exist.
Once Emmy had gone, he immediately sought to forget all the good Team Layton had done for him on this journey. He knew it would be near impossible, but he had to in order to survive. He was about to lose all he’d gained. He needed to be ready for the loss, for there was no other way to go about this. He’d been foolish. He’d been absolutely idiotic to think that forming these bonds would not end with him feeling for these people. The fact that thinking of Layton made him feel frail was unacceptable. He’d gone too far. He’d cared too much. What had he been thinking? He would get them out of this, then he’d never see them again, and that was final.
It was resolved. He would let them go. He would be the villain they needed him to be, then he’d disappear. But why did it hurt so much to think of never seeing them again?
The Bostonius was descending. He needed to be ready to end this once and for all.
A mere few days later, the truce Descole had formed with Team Layton while disguised as Desmond shattered with a laugh. Layton was devastated, as was Luke. But no matter how much his master had tried to sever his feelings for the group, Descole still came away with devastating injuries Raymond knew he received while defending Layton and Luke. Raymond tried to pull information from his master, tried to figure out what all had occurred within the Azran temple, but the man’s lips were sealed shut. He’d only seen the professor like this once: after he’d found the bodies of his wife and daughter. Raymond feared he would never speak again.
He did though. He spoke enough to say they were both free to press on. Free to choose different courses. At this point in Raymond’s life, Raymond felt it futile to search for any other employer. He cared for his master too much to abandon him, and his master was in no state of mind to handle abandonment.
Raymond walked into the professor’s room one day to find the man sitting on the edge of his bed. The cape was tossed lazily beside him, hat on the bedside table, and boa missing. He wore the mask, though. He cradled something in his hands: his glasses. Desmond Sycamore’s glasses. After watching him for a moment, Raymond’s heart sank and his throat clogged. His stomach knotted as he realized what had been lost.
It took his master a few moments to notice his presence. In one fluid motion, the glasses in the professor’s hand snapped in two and fell on the floor. Raymond hid his despair, as he’d always done, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t grieving.
Desmond Sycamore was gone. All that was left was a shell of a man once called Jean Descole.