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Chapter Text

Yucky. Oozy. Slimy.

My skin bristles at the sight of it, even when safely hidden away under several layers of clothing.

It inches along its little leaf, slithering and jerking erratically. There is no pattern to it. Always changing, unpredictable.

I shudder.

Gooey. Messy. Wobbly.

I remember the first time I ever saw a snail. I was four, and my mother took us to our favourite park. She was pointing out all the animals for me: “Look, Clive! A robin! A ladybird!” And then she gasped. “Look! A snail!”

I had never seen anything like it. A gummy in a colourful shell, as I saw it through child’s eyes.

I reached out a finger to touch it, giggling at the funny creature.

Slime! on my finger. A sharp cold! tingling. A thousand prickles on my skin. Weird! Icky! Awful!

I cried and cried, even after Mama shooed the snail away and wiped off the slime with her handkerchief. I was inconsolable the whole walk home.

Horrible, nasty thing.

Chapter Text

I had been to restaurants as a child, but had never heard of a personal chef until my time at Dove Manor.

My adoption had brought many changes to my life, the foremost of which was servants. People hired for every task imaginable: gardeners, chauffeurs, maids, footmen for the door… and a chef.

Chef Paillard had prepared special meals for me during the first few weeks after my arrival, making me basic sandwiches while the rest of the household got rich foods in a dizzying array of smells and colours. A small gesture of kindness to help me settle into my new home.

Paillard and Lady Dove let me try new foods at my own pace. Over the years I acquired a broad palette, even considering myself a connoisseur. My parents would be proud.

Paillard resigned his post a few months before Lady Dove’s death. His wife was with child, and he took a job at a nearby hotel to be closer to his new family.

It was five years before I saw him again. He had an energetic son in tow, but he still had the same friendly eyes.

“Master Dove?” he asked in surprise.

“I came to make a proposition.”

Chapter Text

The room is a disarray of colourful, childish set-pieces. A cardboard tree, a toy duck, a ramshackle house.

Judging by the professor and his apprentice’s reactions, this place is somehow familiar to them.

“I do seem to recall this place,” I murmur vaguely, in response to an unasked question.

It does not escape my notice that I am playing a part, and that this is a makeshift stage. The irony is fitting; for what was Future London, if not an elaborate stage for my carefully crafted play?

Perhaps I should be angered at this unauthorized intrusion to my city. Instead I am… intrigued, perhaps even pleased with this unexpected puzzle.

Who put this here, I wonder? I rarely stray into this part of town, content to let Dimitri and the Family run Chinatown as they saw fit. And yet this room is far too inelegant for the former, and too childish for the latter.

Who lives here?

I thought about that little house long after Chinatown was reduced to rubble.

Chapter Text

“That sure is a lot of card games,” Luke remarks as we wander through the casino.

“These are just the blackjack tables,” I reply. “There’s rooms in the back for poker, and the baccarat tables are away from the main floor.”

“Ba-ka-rah?” Luke parrots. “What’s that?”

“We can discuss it later, when we’re out of Family territory,” interrupts the professor. “Though I personally find such pursuits… distasteful.”

I laugh nervously. “Don’t worry, Professor. I’m not interested in gambling. I’ve just taken up the study of card games as an intellectual pursuit.” One of my few absolutely truthful statements.

In a fit of curiosity, I ask, “Do you play any card games, by chance? Bridge, perhaps?” Our battle of wits had given me a taste of the professor’s intellect, and I rather fancied the prospect of facing him as a worthy opponent in bridge.

But the professor shakes his head. “I have studied the rules of bridge, but I confess I’m out of practice. My friends tend to prefer more athletic pursuits.”

Disappointing.

-and a tactical error, even blunder, on my part.

Too late I hear the pounding footsteps approach us, and an all-too-familiar bellowing voice.

“Oh, there you are, boss!”

Chapter Text

It is another sunny day in Future London, and I am relaxing on a bench off Flatstone Street.

I was never one for people-watching, instead bringing along some books for company. Today I selected two of the professor’s works, bookending an illustrious career.

The contrast could not be more apparent. The first is a scholarly treatise on some obscure archeological find, and was acquired through not entirely legal means; the second a paperback memoir, purchased from a common bookshop by one of my associates aboveground.

I leaf through the memoir (“The Adventures and Discoveries of Professor Hershel Layton”). Some details have been delicately suppressed, of course. A certain Leon Bronev would not be pleased at being reduced to a footnote; likewise a certain masked individual fancying himself as the professor’s rival.

But apart from its distortion of the truth, the memoir is a most excellent and worthwhile read. The professor’s prose flows off the page; it almost feels as if I am the one exploring the lost city of Ambrosia, or witnessing the rise of the Akbadain Ruins before my very eyes.

I glance up from the book. My eyes fall on the statue at the other end of the plaza: an author watching over an eager young child reading one of his books. An everlasting friendship, enshrined in bronze.

I let out a long sigh.

Truly, the professor’s talents were wasted in archaeology.

Chapter Text

The light bulb flickers constantly, vacillating between wanting to burn out and keeping steady.

I scowl. The grime in here is just about tolerable (hardly worse than the Chinatown railway station), as is the thin layer of dust on everything (just when had the cleaning staff last been in here?), but the light bulb I simply cannot stand.

It hums. Quiet enough that my ears must strain to hear it, but loud enough that it intrudes on my focus and becomes an inescapable distraction. Truly the precise frequency to cause maximum irritation.

“We must stop your future self,” I tell the professor with more loathing than strictly necessary. I picture Dimitri’s face on the light bulb, complete with infuriatingly foppish top hat.

“That light bulb’s so annoying!” Luke suddenly blurts out.

“I know,” the professor says quietly. “Just do your best to ignore it, and focus on what your future self has to tell us.”

Somehow, their pointing it out made the light bulb all the more annoying.

Chapter Text

There was a knock at my bedroom door. “Do you need any help, young master?” came Spring’s voice.

“No!” I yelled as I struggled with my tie. I didn’t need servants to help me get dressed. They would get it all wrong anyway, making me do the right sleeve before the left, or dressing me in one of those scratchy fabrics I couldn’t stand.

With the tie finally in place, I slipped on a waistcoat, then stuffed my arms into a navy blue jacket.

Next I got to work brushing my hair. The servants had long given up on ‘doing it up all nicely’ (They didn’t do it properly! They yanked! It hurt!), but the least I could do for Lady Dove was make it look presentable.

I only glanced in the mirror long enough to check everything was in place. I looked all wrong without my favourite green cap on my head, and dressed up in clothes that cost more than the rent of my parent’s old flat.

Another knock. “Are you almost ready, young master?”

“Coming,” I called.

Spring ushered me downstairs and through the manor. Lady Dove was already waiting in the foyer; she smiled when she saw me.

I straightened my back, hoping I passed her inspection.

Instead she tutted, “Clive dear, your tie’s crooked.”

She fussed over me as she straightened out my tie. I squirmed, not meeting her eyes.

“There, all better. You’re a handsome little gentleman now.” She gently kissed me on the forehead. “I hope you have fun tonight, little dove.”

I flinched at her touch. …You’re not Mama.

It’s all wrong.

Chapter Text

I glance at the latest newspaper headline. “Shoot-out at Gilded 7 Casino”.

I nod in approval. I took a small detour before meeting with the professor and his apprentice back in Chinatown, and am pleased with the results of my handiwork.

The press here moved with astonishing speed. (Just another improvement to my version of London.) It hadn’t even been three hours, and news of the incident was available to all, complete with Family-compliant slant. All ready for the professor and the apprentice when they returned to my London.

Idly I take a copy from the newsstand and leaf through it, the date printed prominently at the top of every page. Most of the paper is of little interest, consisting of the usual Family-approved drivel, but there are one or two articles written by a capable hand. And the puzzle page would be good for five minutes’ diversion, at least.

Ah, and restaurant reviews at the back. All glowing, of course; I had taken pains to ensure Future London had only quality establishments.

Paillard’s restaurant was highlighted this week, on my orders; I wanted to put in a good word for him, as thanks to playing host for the professor and Shipley.

I check my pocket watch. Soon it would be time to meet back up with the professor, and I needed to get in place and appropriately prepare myself.

I carefully replace the newspaper, then head on my way.

Chapter Text

I glance up at the building, and its great gears.

Clickity-clack. The cogs spin, all mechanical and logical.

Clickity-clack. The sound is soothing to me. I never feel truly at ease without some kind of sound to keep my mind occupied, whether that be the bustle of the city, a ticking clock, or the whirr of machines. Otherwise it is all too easy to become lost in painful memories.

Clickity-clack. It had been child's play to convince Dimitri to use gears and machinery as a motif for our London set ten years into the future. It had a certain futuristic yet quaint and timeless quality that fit well for a city steeped in tradition, as well as with the grand antique clock we were planning to use for our faux time machine.

Clickity-clack. Perhaps Cogg was rubbing off on me. I had developed quite the liking for clockwork mechanisms, and cogs neatly meshed into each other.

Clickity-clack, clickity-clack.

Chapter Text

The centre of Future London has many noteworthy attractions, from the glitzy (some would say gaudy) Gilded 7 Casino to the quaint observatory. And yet, one of my favourite places remains the square of Flatstone Street.

I do slow laps on the cobblestones, lost in thought. It was no accident that the buildings around here looked so familiar; I based the design of Flatstone Street from my memories of the neighbourhood around my parents’ old flat.

We used to walk down to our closest Tube station, at a square just like this one. But that one had always been busy with traffic in the roundabout; it was so noisy, and my parents would never let me wander around on my own even though the square looked so inviting.

But here, vehicles were forbidden apart from the Family cars. Children were free to run around and play in the streets, unafraid of passing cars. In short, the kind of place I wished I had as a child.

With a sigh, I take a small pebble and skip it along the cobblestones.

Chapter Text

The lighthouse standing in the Thames was one of the first things new arrivals to Future London noticed, and inquired about. But few knew the answers; it had simply sprung up five years ago, and that was that.

The lighthouse was quickly adopted as a symbol of Future London by its residents. Just what it symbolized was a matter of conjecture.

To some, the lighthouse represented progress, the scientific advancement and triumphs of humanity.

To some, it represented the loss of the past, as old traditions fell away to newfangled machines.

To some, it represented a prison, where they were chained away from their loved ones and toiled away at research.

And what does it symbolize for me, its architect?

It changes depending on the day. When I was looking to the past, it represented memories. My parents lost in flames in the name of progress, my desire to repay the favour in full.

When thinking of the present, it instead symbolized the cornerstone of Future London, the single gear around which I designed the rest of the mechanism.

And to the future? It was rare I dwelled on the future, when all my energies were devoted to planning and meticulous preparation. But when I do, I see… tranquility, and finding rest after ten years of torment.

Perhaps that summed it up. To me, the lighthouse represented my lost past, my destructive present… and my unknown future.

Chapter Text

It was fortunate that Lady Dove was able to hire such an extensive staff, for there were a lot of rooms to keep clean in Dove Manor. Even so, there always seemed to be some specks of dust that escaped scrutiny, judging from my near constant sneezing.

I didn’t recall being nearly as bothered by dust in my parents’ old flat. The dust wasn’t the only irritation, either: there were so many unfamiliar, sharp smells in my new home. The foods, the flowers neatly arranged in vases, the polish for the floors…

It got to the point where Lady Dove became concerned about my health, and sent me to the doctor. First was an allergy test, and it turned out I was perfectly healthy in that regard; it seemed I simply had a more sensitive nose than average.

But upon inquiring about my past medical history, the doctor became concerned that my sensitivity to dust might be a symptom of lung damage, incurred from smoke inhalation during the accident. What followed was a highly unpleasant and unwanted hospital stay, and tests far more invasive and painful than those for allergies; all for inconclusive results.

Once I was discharged and arrived safely back home – no, to Dove Manor – my first whiff of dust brought up memories of smoke and fire and screams, and of hospitals and doctors.

I haven’t been able to stand the smell, even the sight of dust since.

Chapter Text

Although most of Future London was drafted by my hand, I had yielded the design of Chinatown and the Family headquarters to Dimitri, letting him do as he pleased. It was a satisfactory arrangement, for the most part (though Dimitri’s taste in décor was far too ostentatious for his own good, and tended towards too many golden dragons).

There was, however, one instance where I insisted on taking control.

“It’s too clean,” I said to his proposed design for the underground railway station. “Make it dirtier.”

He went livid at that. He argued vehemently against the decision, claiming that he refused to comply with the demands of a spoiled brat barely out of secondary school.

I calmly refuted him with cool logic. After all, if Chinatown was the heart of the Family, surely their comings and goings would leave years of wear and tear on their primary transport hub?

This fool had a romantic notion of ‘his’ city, of making it all perfect and beautiful. He did not understand reality, all the small details we needed to get right to preserve the illusion of a living city. I had been meticulous in my own designs: providing cracks in the pavement, planting weeds in a strategic manner, leaving signs of weathering on the buildings.

Eventually Dimitri relented, and I had my realistically grimy station.

Perhaps the whole thing was moot; within a manner of weeks, the relentless footfalls of commuters had done what my careful construction efforts could only hope to imitate, leaving a mess worthy of a true Tube station.

In any event, the inability to keep the railway station reasonably maintained became a joke of sorts among Chinatown’s residents.

And, perhaps, a small joke of mine at Dimitri’s expense.

Chapter Text

I had dreaded this part of our trip into Chinatown; given the professor’s excitable apprentice, it was inevitable we would visit the local toy shop.

Luke is admiring the display of toy cars and planes, featuring several favourites from my own childhood; Flora is cooing over ‘cute’ nesting dolls and the stuffed animals my parents could never afford; the professor is busy conversing with Checkers, the friendly shopkeeper.

Something catches my eye. I try to look away, but it is too late; my gaze settles on the handsome rocking horse in the corner.

The memories arrive, unbidden. Baby blue walls, a toy chest packed with picture books, a rocking horse slightly too small for me. My room at Dove Manor was, I found out later, a nursery for a child that never came; I was Lady Dove’s second chance at motherhood.

It happened a few days after my arrival. I threw a fit (over what I don’t recall), which quickly escalated to me yelling for Mama and Papa.

It didn’t subside once I was sent to my room. I cried and cried, and hit and pounded, until my hands were raw and the rocking horse was in pieces.

Lady Dove came after that. I thought she would punish me; instead she held me with a sad smile as I sobbed into her chest.

Someone calls my name (no, “Big Luke”); I shake my head, startled from my memories.

The professor is facing me, frowning. He must have noticed my eyes misting.

“I am no longer a child,” I say quietly.

I do not know why I had that rocking horse made. Perhaps it is an apology to Lady Dove, after all these years.

I am glad when we finally leave the shop.

Chapter Text

I was never one to be afraid of heights. In fact, one of my favourite places in Future London was the observatory; I loved seeing the city spread out before me, with all the streets and buildings fitting together like a puzzle.

My lack of fear for high places worried my parents to no end, but it was ultimately to my benefit. Certainly it came in handy when navigating the treacherously narrow walkways of the Pagoda and research facility. It even saved my life once, when my bedroom window was my only escape from fire.

How ironic, then, that heights should be my downfall.

Looking out from my fortress was the first time I ever felt dread from being so high up. Not from the burning buildings and piles of rubble far below, oh no. It was the dread of failure, being close to despair when I should have been gloating in victory.

I only remember bits and flashes of those moments; I was rather not myself at the time. I remember being angry like a child whose toy was taken away, and banging and screaming at the window.

It was fortunate that my prison cell was on the ground floor, for I do not think I could ever handle the view from high places ever again.

Chapter Text

“Watch your step, Clive,” called Papa.

Chapter Text

I sit at the desk, pen in hand. A blank sheet paper lies in front of me.

I have sat like this for an hour now, carefully composing the words in my head.

After a few more moments of thought, I carefully dip the pen in the inkpot. Then, with a deep breath, I scrawl the first word:

“Professor,”

The letter forms in bits and pieces, often halting mid-sentence. “…You see, (...) the London we know and love (…) has been thrown into (…) absolute chaos…”

It is a routine familiar to me from my reporter days. It always took me a long time to compose my articles, far longer than any of my colleagues, although my supervisors were always impressed with my work. Even as a child I needed lots of time to write anything.

I needed silence, too. I had to be alone with my thoughts, constantly refining the words in my head until I was absolutely certain they were right.

Still, the letter is time-consuming to write, even by my own standards. I needed to be extra careful; after all, this would be my first contact with the professor, the switch that would throw my carefully-crafted mechanism into motion. Furthermore, I needed to perfectly mimic a voice that was not my own, and age it ten years further. I even dressed in my “Future Luke Triton” outfit to put myself in the proper frame of mind.

Finally the composition is complete. I sign off the letter, taking care to not make it too similar to my own signature.

“Your student,

Luke Triton”

Chapter Text

Future London stretches out below like a finely-crafted set of miniatures. 

I often come up here to the observatory to clear my head and admire the city. Below I recognize several landmarks carefully copied from my childhood: the roundabout I would pass as Mama walked me to school, the little corner shop where I used to get candies.

But there was one building that was missing, the single one I could not bear to render in facsimile.

It is not due to lack of familiarity. I revisit my parents’ flat every day, in practically every daydream. The memories have admittedly faded over the years; the living room is but a rocking chair and vaguely-placed bookshelf.

Yet all the important details remain as sharp as ever. It takes only a moment to conjure my old bedroom: the olive-green walls, chipped in a few places; the toy planes hung from the ceiling, dancing in the breeze from my window; even the squeaky floorboard just outside my door.

But… I can’t.

I can’t do this to my parents. I only have one true home; any reconstruction of our flat would be a cruel mockery.

I scowl and turn my back on the cityscape. Instead I close my eyes, and in my mind’s eye open the door to the flat, slipping off my shoes and running down the narrow hallway to greet my parents.

Chapter Text

I had quickly grown out of my childhood fear of darkness. Indeed, I even find dark rooms comforting nowadays.

What hadn’t gone away was my childish fear of thunderstorms. They were so unpredictable; one minute it would be a nice sunny day, the next the sky would turn dark and angry.

The rain pelting the walls of our flat was bad enough. But the thunder and lightning was the scariest part; huge blinding flashes, followed by a loud BANG! that rattled the walls and sent my toy planes flying. I spent many stormy nights whimpering under the covers, my little hands gripping the blankets tight.

It only got worse with age. The first time I heard the peals of thunder at Dove Manor, I didn’t see lightning, but tall angry flames.

During every storm I feared the rain would turn to thunder, and the thunder into another explosion that would tear my new family and home away from me.

After one particularly bad storm, Lady Dove found me huddled under my bed, hands clapped tight over my ears.

The next day she got me a record player for my room. “Use it to drown out the thunder, my little dove,” she said with a gentle smile.

I spent many stormy nights at my writing desk, lamp lit and a favourite record playing, as rain pelted the windows and lightning flashed.

Chapter Text

Lady Dove had a big garden that went all around the manor. I liked going there for walks when the weather was nice, but it felt lonely without Mama beside me.

Today a man dressed in black was working in one of the flowerbeds. I hurried up to him, curiosity overcoming my shyness.

“What’cha doing?” I asked.

He glanced up at me. “Oh, it’s you, young master,” he said. (I didn’t understand why the servants called me that instead of Clive.) “I’m pulling out some weeds.”

I frowned. “But they’re plants too, right? Why are you pulling them out?”

“See them flowers?” The man pointed to a row of flowerbeds, neatly arranged in colourful stripes. “The weeds compete wi’ them. They’ll choke ‘em out if ya don’t take care of them.” With a grunt he added, “And I’d rather some nice flowers over an ugly patch of weeds. The missus too."

“Oh, I see!” I said. “Here, let me help!”

I plopped to my knees and started tugging at the weeds. The man kept trying to shoo me away and insisting I mustn’t dirty my hands, but I didn’t care. Besides, it was fun yanking them out of the ground!

A few minutes later, we finished de-weeding the flowerbed.

I got up, my legs sore.

“Thanks for letting me help!” I said, brushing the dirt off my clothes. “Oh, I almost forgot – my name’s Clive! What’s yours?” Introducing yourself was the polite thing to do, just as Mama and Papa taught me.

“Shipley,” the man replied.

I started back towards the manor. “Nice to meet you, Shipley!” I called over my shoulder.

“You too… Clive.”

Chapter Text

“Midland Road is just on the other side of that door,” I say.

Luke runs ahead to open it.

“It’s locked!” he exclaims.

“Locked? That can’t be right...” I mutter.

I try the door for myself. It is stuck fast.

How can this be?

My eyes fall on the puzzle lock; perhaps that's source of the problem?

My hands fly through the puzzle; the lock opens with a satisfying click. And yet the door refuses to budge.

“This doesn’t make sense.” My breath quickens. “Why is the door still locked?” I clench my fists.

No... this isn’t how it’s supposed to go… everything is supposed to be ready for the professor…

Why isn’t it going according to plan?

“Calm yourself, Big Luke.” The professor wraps a comforting arm around my shoulder. “We’ll find the solution yet, my boy.”

I nod, the professor’s reassurance steadying me. I take a few deep breaths.

“Right. It’s inelegant, but I suppose it’s time for Plan B. Would you two help me shove this door?”

Chapter Text

It is very near to the professor’s arrival, and the final details are falling into place: my final letter planted in the replica Laytonmobile (such a charmingly idiotic name), my accomplice appropriately instructed and posted at Green Hospital. All that remains is to arrange delivery of the initial letter.

I cannot help but feel nervous. After years of preparation, it is finally time for my schemes to come to fruition. To factor in other people, and the corresponding chance of failure.

I take a stroll around Future London. Officially I am checking that everything is ready for the professor’s arrival; the closer truth is that I need a walk to clear my mind.

A flash of grey brings me to a halt in the middle of the street.

I blink my eyes, then look again. I glimpse a figure in a grey hat and matching jacket turning the corner.

Could it be? Just for a moment, I swear I saw…

I quicken my pace, hoping to catch the figure.

I turn the corner and find myself in a drab alley, a lone Family goon leaning against the wall.

“There’s nothing there,” I murmur in surprise.

My imagination must have conjured up images from a half-seen Family uniform.

It was easy for the mind to be fooled, especially when under mental duress; I had certainly been stressed lately, and hardly remembered when I last had a good night’s sleep.

Still, my mind would not be at ease. Papa…?

I yearn to see him again. I should have seen him again; he would still be here, if the world was just.

“There’s nothing there,” I repeat firmly.

Chapter Text

“What an unusual building!” Luke exclaims.

The building in question is nothing special; I passed through this gate whenever I needed to visit the Towering Pagoda. Yet Luke seems quite taken with it.

“Those roofs are stacked on each other! It’s like a whole family of roofs!”

To my surprise, I chuckle. “Yes, it does seem that way, doesn’t it?” I even add, “Say, this talk of families reminds me of a puzzle I once heard. Care to hear it?”

Luke accepts, of course, and I describe a brainteaser my mother shared with me.

My mind buzzes while Luke ponders the answer. It occurs to me I am enjoying this moment.

At first I found Luke’s presence immensely irritating; my plan was meant for the professor, and the professor alone. But at some point I began to genuinely enjoy the boy’s company, his childish enthusiasm making me smile instead of scoff.

And so it was with my other companions. The professor’s quiet yet supportive presence reminded me of my father, while Flora was like the little sister I never had.

This wasn’t part of the plan. I’m supposed to be manipulating them, same as the scientists and workers I lured to Future London.

“I've got it!” Luke exclaims. “The third youngest’s a boy!”

“That’s right!” I say proudly. “I told you at the beginning to imagine you’re the eighth child, or in other words, the third youngest. And I know better than anyone that you’re a boy!”

I flash a brief smile, then turn away. “Now, we need to get to the Pagoda. Shall we talk to that man at the gate?”

I shall sort out the puzzle of my companions later. I must stick to the plan.

My loyalty remains to my true family.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The professor bows his head.

The wreck is in a sorry state. Dirt and grime obscure the car’s cheerful red coat of paint, while carefully applied rust ensures the engine will never run again.

It seems pitiful, even pathetic, to mourn the loss of a machine. It was almost an insult, when I had suffered the loss of my loved ones at such an early age.

And yet, I am sympathetic to the professor’s plight. I found it easier to attach myself to my own creations than other people, a habit that only strengthened in the wake of Lady Dove’s death. Certainly machines were easier for me to understand than people.

Perhaps the professor is the same way. I had extensively researched his career, and knew he had experienced several painful tragedies; perhaps he too saw less risk in befriending machines than people.

Perhaps the professor and I are more alike than I would care to admit.

I wait for the professor to finish his moment of silence, then follow him back through the hospital.

Chapter Text

“All the players in our mystery are gathered here,” announces the professor.

I tap a finger against my folded arms. “Just what is the professor getting at?” I murmur, mimicking the confusion in Luke’s eyes.

In truth, I know full well what the professor is up to. I studied enough of his cases to know his penchant for dramatic reveals; how ironic that he shares Dimitri’s flair for drama.

Part of me is surprised, even impressed I maintained the façade this long. Idly I wonder how long the professor has known the truth; he would certainly have pieced things together once he set foot in the research facility, and witnessed the stockpile of weapons built right under Dimitri’s nose.

I follow the others into the Thames Arms. Dimitri is waiting in his bartender guise; all the players are gathered, indeed.

I order a cup of tea and take a seat at a corner table, observing the rest of the restaurant as I would a stage play.

The professor paces the room, slowly unspooling his revelations rather than accusing me outright. Surely he’s enjoying this, as I’ve enjoyed toying with him in turn.

Very well then. I shall permit the professor to indulge himself a little while longer.

Let this be our true battle of wits.

Chapter Text

Although my parents had taken a cup of tea almost every day, I never truly appreciated the beverage until my time with Lady Dove.

Though admittedly an acquired taste, under Lady Dove's guidance I came to enjoy several varieties of tea; she took extra care to find flavours I might like, and smells that wouldn’t be too harsh for my sensitive nose.

I quickly began to look forward to our tea hour, as I childishly christened it; at first merely from the comforting routine it provided, then later from genuine enjoyment of Lady Dove’s company.

Our tea hour was one of the few activities we could do together, especially as her health deteriorated over the five short years in which I knew her. Some days we would have quiet conversation; other times we would play cards (Spring and Cogg joining us if we needed a foursome) or read books by the fireplace. Her favourites were mystery novels; to my surprise I quite enjoyed them as well, even though I can hardly stand fiction.

To this day, a cup of tea always makes me think fondly of my adoptive mother.

Chapter Text

“You look tired, Professor,” I murmur innocently. “Is the London of the future too much for you?”

The professor fiddles with the brim of his hat, one of his habits when nervous or uncertain. “No, I am fine. Though I must say, this new London is quite peculiar and disorienting. Yes, quite.”

I smirk once his back is turned. How do you like my London, Professor?

Ah yes, the famous Professor Hershel Layton. Even without my experience as a reporter, I would be well familiar with the name. He was an idol (or, perhaps better put, rival) to puzzle lovers everywhere. A true challenge to my intellect.

Now he was in my city, playing by my rules.

Admittedly he is a threat to our… no, my plans, and needs to be managed accordingly. I am playing a very dangerous game, which makes it all the more thrilling. 

But I shall enjoy tackling this particular puzzle, the puzzle of fooling the great Professor Layton.

Yes, I shall enjoy this very much indeed.

Chapter Text

“Be careful, everyone. We’re in the heart of the Family’s territory.”

I must be extra careful here. I need to lead the professor to the Pagoda, to fulfil my end of the bargain. Once Dimitri has his precious memories, he should get off my case.

“The Towering Pagoda is just ahead.”

I could only hope Dimitri would uphold his end of the bargain, and play along with my act. A single word would betray me to my companions.

“The prime minister should be somewhere in that building.”

I was not looking forward to meeting our hostage. Would I be able to hold back ten years of anger? To hide sheer loathing under a mask of shock?

“Ah, there you are, Professor. Shall we crack the puzzle on this door?”

It is exhausting, having to be constantly on guard and acting like someone I was not. Yet this would be the most trying task of all.

“Solved the puzzle already, Professor? Impressive.”

Yes, I would have to be very careful, indeed.

Chapter Text

I brush a bit too close to the wall of the alleyway. I grunt in disgust; I stop mid-stride, sweeping the dirt and unidentified grime off my sleeve.

With a pang, I realize Mama would hate this place.

My parents’ flat was always clean; likewise I kept my room neat and clean (which was, I found out later, highly atypical and only made me stand out further from my peers).

The habit stayed with me into adulthood. I work better in clean surroundings, without any clutter to serve as distractions; it mirrors the clear organization of thoughts in my head.

How ironic that I should be so neat and meticulous in my personal life, yet actively work to maintain a dirty city. But then, ‘meticulous’ could also refer to my attention for details; it would simply not do for Future London’s buildings to appear shiny and new, betraying their being years as opposed to decades (even centuries) old.

Ten years ago I lost my home and my parents, and with it all traces of my old life.

My habit for cleanliness is one of my last remaining connections to my parents, one of the ways I could do them proud.

Chapter Text

It was a lovely morning, and Mama and I were out doing our shopping.

“Come, Clive,” she suddenly called.

“But we haven’t finished!” I protested.

I caught sight of a strange man on the pavement. He was lying on a dirty blanket, and holding out a faded cap with a few shillings lying inside.

“Come,” Mama repeated, wrapping an arm around me as she hurried down the street.

I squeezed my hands together; I didn't like it when Mama sounded so worried.

“Why did you run away, Mama?” I asked once we finally slowed back to a stroll, several blocks away.

"Nothing, Clive,” she said quickly.

“But-”

“Hush.”

I finally had my answer many years later. It was one of many bitter truths I learned as a reporter, coming face to face with the ugly consequences of rampant inequality.

It only fuelled my anger at the injustice of the world.

Chapter Text

The smoke is visible from the other bank of the Thames, casting an eerie glow over the burning city.

I look up. Even through the smoke and haze, a few stars are faintly visible overhead. They twinkle away, uncaring of the destruction strewn to the city far below.

Stars... There were no stars in my London, only a few small bulbs suspended from the cavern ceiling. I needn’t have bothered, with the ever-present cloud of haze and pollution carefully shrouding the artificial sky; even on the darkest of simulated nights, one could hardly catch so much as a glimpse of the false stars.

And yet, here the stars are visible for all to see. Not painted on, nor some elaborate mechanical contraption; simply pinpoints of light in the sky.

I silently chide myself. I had spent far too long in my artificial city, if I was looking for an illusion that wasn’t there.

How long was I underground? It must be months (no, years) since I last set foot in the real London. All along I told myself I preferred my mechanized London; now, it pains me to realize how much I missed the true London.

One of the constables jostles my shoulder, startling me from my thoughts. I stumble along after my escorts, to whatever fate (no, punishment) awaits me.

How ironic that so soon after seeing the stars, I am to be shut away from them once more.

Chapter Text

What I wanted more than anything else in the world for my eighth birthday was a pet, a friend of my very own. Maybe a cat, maybe a dog, maybe a bird that would make pretty music like the records Mama would listen to.

A week before my birthday, I shyly asked my parents over dinner if I could have a pet for my birthday. Papa said nothing; Mama gently asked if maybe I wanted another toy plane instead.

I shook my head; I loved planes, but this time I wanted a pet!

Mama and Papa tried to talk me out of it. A pet would be too smelly and noisy for me; I wasn’t ready for the responsibility of caring for a pet; pets weren’t allowed in our building.

I pleaded with them. I was almost eight years old! I was ready for more responsibility! I could handle the noises and smells! And surely a small pet would be allowed; at least a bird, even a goldfish! Please, could I just have one?

My parents finally dismissed me from the table, saying they’d think about it. I could hear the rumble of my parents’ voices as I settled into bed that night.

I was nervous all throughout the week, and so excited when my birthday finally came. A present was waiting for me on the dining table, all wrapped up with a ribbon from Mama’s old dress.

I eagerly opened it; inside was a small stuffed animal.

I cried.

Chapter Text

Despite the gaping dragon on guard, the entrance has no tricks or traps apart from its cursory puzzle lock. Nevertheless, the Towering Pagoda is well protected with confounding puzzles at every turn, as one would expect from Future Layton’s throne.

In reality, the Pagoda is but an empty shell; outwardly a symbol of dominance over the populace, its interior is merely a vessel for a carefully orchestrated path of puzzles. Even Dimitri’s office at the top is but an elaborate ruse; our true headquarters lie elsewhere.

Steadily we climb. The professor solves the first puzzle (a certain tricky one requiring goggles), Luke the next, while I handle the third; even Flora wants to join in.

With our combined wits, it is not long before we find ourselves at the ornate doors to Dimitri’s office. At some unspoken signal, the professor and his apprentice shove open the doors.

I smirk while their backs are turned.

The entrance to the Pagoda had no traps, but beyond these doors lies a very nasty trap indeed.

And the professor is stepping right into it.

Chapter Text

It’s dark in here.

Light is scarce. There’s a small opening (so small I refuse to call it a window) ten feet above the floor of the room, letting in precious glimpses of sunlight.

After sunset, the only source of illumination comes from a small, dull lightbulb, safely screwed far beyond my reach. Even that is entirely at the mercy of my captors; lights out is at ten o’clock sharp.

I curl up tight in the corner. There’s little else to do in this room during my waking hours, apart from counting the hours between meals and the occasional visit from the therapist. Little else to do but face my own thoughts in the gloom and oppressive silence.

I was in solitary, of course. Officially it is a punishment, but I suspect it is for my own safety; I wouldn’t last a day with the other maximum-security inmates.

But here, I’m safe. Perhaps even safe from myself, and my all-consuming madness.

Here, I won’t hurt anyone ever again.

Chapter Text

The iron bridge stretches across an arm of the artificial Thames, connecting central London to Chinatown.

It is one of the few components of Future London not personally designed by me; Dimitri was quite insistent on this particular design, apparently modelled after a bridge near his old laboratory.

The bridge quickly became a favourite gathering place for our captive scientists, a place to enjoy the breeze and sunlight on their all too infrequent breaks.

Once, to my surprise, I even saw Dimitri hovering on the bridge.

I drifted back into the trees, not wishing to deal with accusations of spying.

It likely wouldn’t have mattered; Dimitri was staring into the distance, with the same forlorn look I had on the day I lost everything.

“Claire,” he mouthed. He was clutching a tiny white box in his hands. “Oh, Claire…”

I hurried away through the trees.

Chapter Text

I pause on the dock of the Thames Arms, enjoying the breeze off the Thames.

Most days are sunny and pleasantly cool in Future London. It suits me fine; I had never liked rain, even notwithstanding my fear of thunderstorms, and found London far more enjoyable without its perennial fog and notoriously dreary weather.

The residents like to speculate that Future Layton’s iron grip extended to the weather itself, bending the climate to his will. They were partly right, in a sense.

I grudgingly admit to admiring the work of Dimitri’s scientists, and their machines capable of perfectly mimicking the sun’s heat, or snow and rain, or even the very air. Their machines are wonders of science; I would even call them works of art.

Truth be told, it is not science itself I hate; it would be hypocritical, given my background in mechanical engineering. What I hate are scientists who put their selfish ambitions above all else, and pursue knowledge and success at any cost.

It is no wonder I preferred impartial, uncaring machines to humans.

Chapter Text

I am grateful when we finally stop for a break on our tour of Chinatown. My legs ache; I am used to talking the underground railway for any excursions outside of the city centre.

Luke, on the other hand, is energetic to a fault, fidgeting impatiently in his seat while we wait for our orders to arrive.

Naïve though he was, it is moments like these that make me quite envy my supposed younger self. He has far more stamina than I had at his age.

Luke gets up for a walk around the restaurant. He stops by the window; a cursory glance reveals he is chatting with a small cat resting on the sill.

Ah, yes, Layton’s self-proclaimed apprentice was famous for his ability to communicate with animals; an ability that, until recently, I had shrugged off as a childhood fantasy.

I am not Luke.

I would never be.

Chapter Text

“A clock shop, you say?” Cogg exclaimed.

I nodded. “A beautiful place in Baldwin. You always loved tinkering, did you not?”

“Yes, but an entire shop? Why, young sir… it’s an honour that you’re so concerned for our welfare, but the wife and I can always find work at another house-”

I held up a hand, cutting him off. “No, it’s not out of pity. Truth be told… you’re the only one I can trust.”

I carefully recited the speech I memorized. All the while I fiddled with my teacup; the parlour would be oppressively silent otherwise.

Even that did little to dispel my anxiety; the room (no, the entire manor) felt so forlorn and empty without her.

“Young sir…” Cogg mumbled once I’d finished. “I… I had no idea you’d set your mind to such a thing…”

“I needed to keep my mind busy,” I said blithely. But then I bowed my head. “Please, Cogg. I… I need this. I could hold back the pain and grief when L…La… the mistress was here, but now…”

I fell silent.

Cogg’s comforting hand patted my shoulder.

“There, there. I understand things have been hard for you after the mistress’s death, when you’ve already suffered so much… But you can always rely on us for help.”

“Then you accept?”

“Why, I could hardly refuse when you asked me so nicely for help!” He chuckled lightly. “Spring and I will be here for anything you need. We’ll always serve you… little dove.”

Chapter Text

The metal chair is hard and uncomfortable, doubly so with my arm handcuffed to the constable’s. I almost prefer the conditions in the holding cell.

Mercifully it is quiet here, though my mind is in uproar. My entire body is tense and on edge, ready for some unseen threat; the same as during my façade as Future Luke, except far more intense and precarious.

I glance over at my escort, a short and rather portly constable. I recognize him as one of the officers from my arrest, and by far the friendliest.

He keeps attempting to engage in idle chatter, murmuring vaguely about the weather or, for some reason, food. (He would get along quite well with Shipley.)

After a particularly long silence, he says, “You’re not the only one who lost someone due to that explosion.”

I can’t even muster up a blistering retort.

“My father was investigating the case. Died from fatal injuries sustained in an attack from ruffians. It’s fortunate I had Inspector Chelmey to look after me, or I… I…”

He looks away; for once the little man is at a loss for words.

“Sod the prime minister,” I mutter.

Another long silence.

“Just try to relax for a bit. It’s no use going in so uptight.”

“I haven’t relaxed in ten years.”

I need constant vigilance; I can't afford to let my guard down for a single moment. Certainly not where I’ll be going, after this.

“…They may shorten the sentence, you know. Once the facts come out.”

“Not bloody likely.”

We return to silence.

Chapter Text

“Are you certain this is the correct place, young sir?” Spring asked while we walked. Cogg was waiting in the car, while Lady Dove was not well enough to make the trip to London.

“Yes!” I insisted, carefully reciting the street address and flat number ingrained in my memory. “And it’s beside the In-sta-suit of Polly-dimensional Fiss-sticks!”

“Institute of Physics,” Spring gently corrected.

Before us was the same row of flats and shops I passed (no, used to pass) on the way home from school; the scene had hardly changed, one year on.

I gasped in dismay once we turned the corner. We had reached my old block of flats.

The entire building was fenced off, with a gaping hole along one wall. The scorchmarks were still there; likewise on the fancy building next door.

I trembled, then buried my head into Spring’s chest.

“There, there,” she said gently as she patted my back, just like Mama used to. “It’s all right, you’re safe now.” She held me as I cried. “Shall we head back to the manor?”

I could only nod in pained silence.

Chapter Text

Lady Dove believed that the fine arts were an integral part of any child’s education; it was no surprise I was duly enrolled in several such pursuits.

It quickly became apparent that I had no interest (or, alas, talent) for painting. Likewise for music, where I was far more interested in how the instruments were put together than in learning to play them.

I couldn’t even appreciate art, despite the paintings hanging in every room of Dove Manor. The whole enterprise seemed to me pointless and arbitrary, with no rhyme or reason why one landscape should be deemed a masterpiece and another as merely mediocre.

And yet, theatre came as a pleasant surprise. Paradoxically, I had both a love and talent for acting; having a script to work from, working to pull the audience into our narrative, turning fiction into reality.

Even the setbuilding was worthwhile; it was fascinating how simple wood and cardboard could be transformed into a convincing skyline, or an alleyway of London.

Lady Dove had wanted to nurture a love of the fine arts in me. In a way, she succeeded; I was an actor on the largest stage ever created, and managed my setpieces and cast far more carefully than any director.

I wonder, would she be pleased, or appalled?

Chapter Text

I run my hand along the metal walls. Cold, smooth to the touch.

My mind automatically notes the materials. Steel-titanium alloy, strong and durable, resistant to attack. Perfect for my purposes.

The tang of metal fills the air; a small whiff is enough to put me at ease. How ironic that I should hate most smells, yet this one intolerable to most others should be soothing for me.

My critical eye falls upon a pair of misaligned plates, cobbled together in haste. But for once the imperfections do not matter; I feel nothing but affection.

The fortress was not personally built my hand, of course (and certainly not with that shoddy craftsmanship). Yet it felt almost like my own child. I had spent years tinkering with the designs; it was the first I started, and one of the last to be completed and brought to life.

This place felt like home to me, the closest I had in Future London.

Chapter Text

I remember when I first visited an arcade.

It was a warm spring evening, dusk starting to fall, streetlamps coming aglow. Papa was with us, and took us out for supper; afterward we took a stroll about the city.

I had never seen anything quite like it before: a long tunnel lined with wide shop windows and colourful lights. A whole street’s worth of shops, except covered with a roof!

It was fortunate we turned to walk down the arcade, for we found a most wonderful toy shop there that made my eyes light up. Papa got me a toy plane (a lovely wooden one, painted the same olive green as my coat), while Mama got me a pack of cards that caught my eye. She promised to teach me some of her favourite games one we got back to the flat.

Afterward we stopped for dessert in a small café at the other end of the arcade; I had the most scrumptious Yorkshire pudding.

That arcade remained one of our favourite places, and we went back often; even if we didn’t end up buying anything, it was a pleasure just to stroll up and down.

It remained just as magical as during my first visit, whether in the falling dusk of summer or lit up in the morning sun.

Chapter Text

“BIG BEN HAS STOPPED RINGING”.

The headline piques my interest, far more so than any of the other happenings of London above. (Though my plans are sufficiently advanced as to require my constant supervision of Future London, I like to keep informed of London’s affairs via the Times collected from my associates aboveground.)

My interest only increases when a throwaway line catches my eye: Professor Hershel Layton has been called onto the case. Truly, his profile has risen astoundingly over the last few months.

I read further, though there is little else of note to the affair. I nearly chuckle when I read that Parliament is on the verge of panic. How delightfully inept; those narrow-minded fools know nothing of what is to come.

Still, it is curious; to rob the sound of London’s iconic bell tower, and with it some of London’s very essence. It is almost poetic.

For a moment, my ears ring with the imaginary peels of Big Ben. A half-formed memory emerges; sitting on a bench with Mama in a small park by Westminister, listening to the chorus of chimes at twelve o’clock in quiet astonishment.

The memory is happy and wistful. Nevertheless, I dispel it with a shake of my head, freeing myself from the past.

Once more I harden my resolve.

Stealing the sound of Big Ben? How quaint.

Once I’m through, I shall silence all of London itself.

Chapter Text

“I can't find my hat!”

The episode stuck with me, even many years later. I remember searching my room (no, my new room) several times over, frantically checking all the spots it should have been, as if that would make it reappear.

I loved that hat. If I lost it – the only thing I had left from my par- the accident… I couldn’t bear it.

The entire staff joined in the search. I waited anxiously for hours, as every room in the rambling manor came under scrutiny.

Cogg was the one that finally found it, beside some rose bushes; it must’ve fallen off while I was exploring the garden earlier that day.

I held my hat close that night; I clutched it tight as I went to sleep, as if it was a comforting blanket or favourite stuffed animal.

I kept that precious green cap close ever since. Even as it frayed over the years, and deteriorated to the point where not even my clumsily-darned patches could salvage it, I just couldn’t bear to throw it away.

Spring and Cogg kept it with their other possessions, like grandparents keeping clumsy yet cherished crayon drawings.

I still go up to look at it, sometimes, in its pride of place among the photographs of my two families and prints of some of my especially polished articles.

I purchased a more professional cap for my reporter job, and of course a bespoke blue cap for my “Future Luke” guise, but… it just wasn’t the same.

Nothing was the same, really, not since the accident.

I found a new life, a new family, but it just wasn’t the same…

Chapter Text

Idiots.

My ears are ringing, echoing the pounding of my heart.

Idiots!

Meeting the professor in person (or, I suppose, seeing him again) was cause enough for anxiety; the slap across my face was beyond upsetting, and the gunshots nearly made me cry like a child.

Dunderheads!

This was not how it was supposed to go. It was supposed to be a distraction, a setpiece to emphasize the desperate, crime-ridden atmosphere of the London of my time.

They weren’t supposed to threaten, even so much as involve innocents. And they certainly weren’t supposed to shoot up their own blasted casino.

Rot-ridden fools! Complete, utter imbeciles!

Had Dimitri put them up to this? Was this his way of punishing me for the many jabs at his expense?

Stupid, blasted fools!

Well, I suppose what is done is done. Nothing to do but regain my composure, and send along some pointed words to Dimitri.

And, of course, never entrusting the Family with anything important ever again.

…Idiots.

Chapter Text

I would never begrudge someone for their illness. And yet, broken bones can be mended, and a cure for the common cold is but some rest and warm soup away.

But what is one to do when the illness is in the mind? When outside you appear fine, but you know you’re not normal, that there’s something… broken.

No… the therapist admonished me to think of happier things.

The hospital is… fine, I suppose. I never liked the hospital as a child, especially as someone so sensitive to unfamiliar touches and smells.

It’s not like a regular hospital, it’s… a hospital for the mind. Everything here is white. Not like the cell, all greys.

I… I had lost track of the days in the cell. A year, I think; I was transferred when it became apparent my health was deteriorating. Mentally, I mean; deterioration of the mind.

(Took them bloody long enough to realize a gloomy cell is no place for a madman.)

I… I am grateful, I suppose. There is more here to keep my mind occupied.

The workers here are kind enough, though it is all too easy to sense traces of fear - or pity. Worse still are the ones that treat me like a sick curiosity, priding themselves on curing the madman of London.

I take some medication every day. It's supposed to regulate my mood and thoughts, keeping the madness at bay.

I'll be safe here.

I can heal here.

One day, I'll be healthy enough to rejoin society, and atone for my crimes… I suppose.

Chapter Text

The hum of the underground railway is soothing; nevertheless, I sigh in relief once we exit onto the familiar square of Flatstone Street.

Flora was silent the whole journey back; I sense some comforting words are in order.

“Are you all right? That was quite a scare, wasn’t it?”

“Y…yeah,” Flora mumbles. “We were trapped in that horrible cage, and then the professor wasn’t the professor, but D-don P-Paolo, then we had to go through that dark tunnel…”

Suddenly her eyes light up, and she claps her hands together. “But it was exciting! We got to solve our way up the Pagoda, and the real professor showed up to save the day! It was like something out of an adventure novel!”

I laugh nervously. “That’s… an interesting way of putting it, I suppose.” Interesting indeed; that cage was decidedly not part of the plan.

“You never let me go on adventures with you and the professor,” Flora adds in reproach, but soon blushes. “Er, your younger self, I mean.”

“Ah, yes, sorry about that,” I murmur, distracted.

So excited and inquisitive, just as I had been as a child. She looks so young, hardly any older than Luke… hardly any older than I was when…

Why did you bring her here, Professor?

This wasn’t part of the plan.

I become aware of an uncomfortable silence.

“…Oh, what’s wrong, Flora?”

Her brown eyes peer at me. “It’s just… you never would apologize to me.” After a moment, she smiles slightly. “You did get all flustered like that, though.” Her cheerful laughter rings through the streets.

“Er. Right. Well, the others should be soon behind us. Shall we head to the hotel?”

She nods.

I lead her through the streets of my childhood.

Chapter Text

I peer through the tiny opening generously called a window.

Even after all this time I expect to see the Towering Pagoda. It was omnipresent in Future London, like a fell Big Ben; always looming, watching.

How long have I been here? Surely not as long as I was underground. Every day here creeps by so slowly, yet it seems only yesterday I was locked away.

They call this a penitentiary, a fancier word for prison. A good reporter ends up learning a lot of words, and I was one of the best. Words are so interesting, don’t you think?

Take 'penitentiary', for example. That comes from penance. How quaint; it’s all I wanted. A place to do penance. It sounds like a nice, contemplative kind of place. So why was the penitentiary so dark and gloomy?

We’re locked away here. There’s no penance, apart from brooding away. What purpose does it serve, but make us suffer?

Is this truly justice?

I have no right to speak, of course. Justice, another intangible word, impossible to pin down. It’s not revenge; that’s one word I learned far too late. But surely this isn’t justice, either.

So many deceitful words.  Like ‘conflagration’. Doesn’t sound like what it means, either. The great fire that tore my family and home away from me, reduced to a stolid ‘conflagration’. It’s enough to make one laugh – at the sheer cruelty of the world, that is. At corrupt politicians, sheer hypocrisy, even my own deteriorating grip on sanity. Ha!

Fine. Call me a madman.

I hear footsteps. It’s too early for my midday meal; the routine is ingrained to me like clockwork. A visitor, perhaps? It’d be nice to have someone to talk to for once.

Perhaps they can tell me what justice…no, what penance is.

Chapter Text

I remember when we went to the fair.

Mostly I remember bits and pieces; a motley of colours, the bright balloons and Union Jacks flapping in the wind.

It was a bright and clear morning that day. We went early, before the crowds came.

Papa took me on the rides while mama watched. My favourite was the Ferris wheel; we went so high up!

Lots of booths were set up. I mostly browsed, gaping at all the colours and wide assortment of goodies, though I did purchase a few candies.

I even tried my hand at the ring toss and some of the other games, though I was clumsy and didn’t win anything; funny, I’d always considered myself a lucky child.

There was even a small petting zoo to visit, with cows and pigs brought in from the countryside. They smelt, though, and they weren't as soft as they looked.

We only went once, when Mama and Papa had money to spare, but the memories stayed with me.

It was fun to go back and relive those moments, and remember simpler, happier times.

Chapter Text

“They’re off to their ‘present’,” I announce. I keep my posture upright and my hands neatly folded, just as my adoptive mother would’ve wanted.

"Off to Scotland Yard," I add. Even the mention of Chelmey, the man who utterly failed to find the culprit behind the explosion case, doesn't merit a reaction.

“They should head directly to the Pagoda once they get back. You have two hours to prepare yourself, I reckon.”

Dimitri lets out a harrumph across the office.

Fine, let him brood.

I take out my pack of cards and deal a round of patience, same as whenever I have idle time on my hands.

Though not the intended effect, it rouses Dimitri from his stupor; he sweeps the entire deck off the table.

“You insolent brat,” he hisses. “You think you can order me about? I suppose next you’ll deign to tell me my exact movements for the next hour? Perhaps what I am to have for lunch?”

“I was going to suggest you wait atop the Pagoda,” I say crisply, picking up my cards. “The professor is quite eager to meet you.”

(Dimitri would instead take a stroll along the Thames, and have the gall to pull a pantomime besides.)

Dimitri slaps my cheek. “Tell me, my golden goose, is there any reason why I should give in to your incessant, absurd demands?”

“Because you need me.” We played this game far too many times, reciting the same trite phrases. “You're desperate for money, and no one else is deranged enough to finance your impossible time machine.”

“You dare - impossible-”

“Fine, let us say improbable.” I yawn. “I must leave you now. There’s some chores I must take care of before I rejoin my companions.”

I turn to the door, leaving a fuming Dimitri behind me.

Chapter Text

“Are all the bus stops like this?” Luke asks. “Abandoned, I mean.”

“Pretty much,” I reply. “All the buses were decommissioned several years ago.” (Though of course, they were never here in the first place; the exhaust would compromise the air pumped into my underground city.)

“All of them?” Luke’s eyes go wide in dismay; you would think this was Future Layton’s most egregious crime of all.

“I’m afraid so, although it must be said most of the residents here prefer the underground railway over the former bus system.”

“But you don’t get a view!”

I chuckle. “Alas, my tastes have changed with age, Little Luke. Though perhaps not offering the best view, the railway does provide a more direct and convenient route to one’s destination. And in any event it’s far less hassle than driving by car.” If your parents could even afford one.

Truth be told, busses were every bit as viable as the railway. It came down to personal preference; but then, so much did when designing my city.

I had many happy memories pouring over the Tube map, and travelling different lines with Mama to check out different parts of the city.

Perhaps some part of me wanted to provide the same for Future London’s many families, and give them a chance at happiness and simple pleasures long lost for me.

Chapter Text

“I’m so glad you fulfilled your dream!”

I turn to Flora; the professor and his apprentice are currently sidetracked by a makeshift puzzle in the landscape.

“Beg pardon?” I ask, not quite understanding the meaning behind her words.

Flora giggles. “Isn’t it obvious? You’ve grown into a fine gentleman, just like the professor! And such a dapper and dashing one, too!”

I nod. “I… I suppose.”

It makes sense, given Luke’s insistence on learning how to be a 'true gentleman', and given Flora’s cheerful optimism - or, perhaps, naivete. I add that to my growing list of observations on her, the unknown variable.

Still, it makes one ponder; am I a gentleman? Lady Dove would surely think so, as would Spring and Cogg and Shipley and all the other servants. I could certainly act prim and proper, if I put my mind to it. Yet I could simply not reconcile the refined image of a ‘gentleman’ with my humble beginnings in a sardine-tin flat.

Could a gentleman be made, not born?

I am cynical enough to think not. Though my years as a reporter, it became all too clear the strangehold held by the wealthy and the powerful. The optimistic daydream of overcoming one’s place in life through sheer talent and grit is just that, a hopeful but ultimately deluded dream.

Gentleman I may be, the world remained corrupt and unjust.

Chapter Text

“This reminds me of my graduate days,” Dimitri said.

I ignored him, already buried in the next tome (concerning Victorian-style arcades, more than ripe for a revival).

Books were sprawled across the floor, along with journals filled with copious notes. The social history of London, sewage systems, architecture and urban design… so much was needed to plan a city. I paid particular attention to the technological leaps and shifts in design between decades; one must understand the past to predict the future.

In some ways it would be easier to build a facsimile of London from ten years in the past. But then, perhaps not; the future offered the luxury of not being constrained by a populace’s worth of intricately detailed memories.

“How do you keep this up with your job at the paper?”

“None of your business,” I snapped; he had interrupted a particularly fruitful line of thought. “You keep to your side of the project, and I’ll keep to mine.”

“Hmph. I suggest you hold your tongue, boy. All the book-learning in the world won’t give you a time machine – or the chance to save your parents.”

“Same to you, if you want the bankroll to pay for it.”

Dimitri scoffed, then continued his calculations.

I returned to my chapter.

“…I can do the research for Chinatown. Hershel always liked Asian architecture. Claire told me… they were going for a fortnight to China… after their…”

I kept my gaze on my tome; nevertheless I tossed him a book on Chinese architecture.

“I’m not doing this out of pity,” he said as he picked it up. “I won’t let my golden goose exhaust himself before we even get our city off the ground.”

“How utterly calculating of you, Future Layton.”

That got a weak chuckle from both of us.

Chapter Text

“They look lonely in those cages,” Luke says as he stares into the pet shop.

The remark surprises me, though on further inspection it is perfectly in character. Just as I found comfort in machines, so did my supposed younger self get on better with animals than people.

Luke fiddles with his hands. “Will I… er, I mean, did you ever get a pet?”

“I did consider it, once. But it… didn’t work out.”

“Hmm.” Luke fixes his gaze on an especially plump hamster. “It doesn’t feel right to me. Having a pet, I mean. Animals should be free to roam and go wherever they want to go, just like Toppy… you remember Toppy, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I lie.

It is several heartbeats before Luke speaks again. “Do you… still talk to animals?”

I knew the topic would come up eventually, and hope my prepared lie is sufficient. “I’m afraid not, Little Luke. I’ve… lost it with age.”

Luke looks away, expression pained. “But… you still like animals, don’t you?”

“Of course, Little Luke! My favourites are reptiles - snakes and turtles especially.”

Already I see my mistake; my guard slipped, betraying my own preferences.

Luke flinches. Any moment now he’ll surely expose me for the fraud I am.

But then his eyes light up. “Wow, snakes? I’ve never talked to a snake before! Or turtles, either – they must have loads of stories to tell! They live to be a hundred, don’t they?”

“They sure do,” I say, back on safe ground. “But that must wait for another time. I’m afraid we’re making the others quite impatient.”

I glance over my shoulder, noting the professor’s slight frown and Flora irately tapping her foot.

“Oops,” mumbled Luke. “Sorry, Professor! We’re coming!”

Chapter Text