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Chapter Text

Raymond never enjoyed the spotlight. He was dedicated, sure. He was diligent, of course. But Raymond much preferred the anonymity of the assistant, not the grandeur and show of the protagonist.

And, for someone as ‘high maintenance’ as Jean Descole, this worked well for both.

His love for work without reward was due to his upbringing. His mother raised him while performing her own duties to some mayor, always hitching young Raymond on her hip while she swept the floor or wiped the windows. It was only natural that he, a scrawny young lad, would pick up on a few things along the way, helping her fix the plumbing or patch up a dress. Of course, his mother made sure he never neglected his own fun – so very often had he run around with the other children, playing tag or pretend soldiers, dropping low to the ground and crawling over the mud-soaked fields. This then resulted in lengthy lectures on neatness and hygiene, which, as Raymond supposed, had made a lasting impression on him.

His entire life had been in the shadows. To a degree, in the shadow of other people. But while some found insecurity, truth be told, Raymond did not mind. A lot more could be performed in the shadow than in the daylight without the worry of inquisitive, curious or suspicious eyes.

So, when a shady man in shady clothes leaned against the alley wall and told him, “Listen, pal, you’re exactly what we’re looking for. We don’t want flash or anything like that, just a guy who gets a job done. Yeah?”, Raymond did not bat an eye or question too much.

Raymond shook his hand and took the job.

He was careful – of course he was careful – he made sure to never say too much about his family or make himself too vague, just enough to keep people uninterested in him. As it turned out, Targent were not the kind to care about all the personal details, just enough to keep a log of where he was at all times. Which for an employer was a little irrational, but not too much to bear with.

His wife and new daughter – a mere babe when Targent’s interest in him had become a little too intense to ignore – were safer elsewhere, his darling bride always careful to look over her shoulder for men in blue uniforms who showed a little too much interest in her surname. But she was intelligent, and Raymond was careful, and he was certain that they were safer over the ocean than in his arms.

He had been referred to as a ‘handyman’, a nickname which Raymond did not entirely enjoy but never spoke against to keep his head on his shoulders. He swept floors, fixed ships and, in case of emergencies, ‘fixed’ ‘problems’, although never in a way that demeaned him. While members like Swift tended to get a little excited, Raymond preferred the wad-of-cash-in-the-pocket and the plane-ticket-out-of-here method.

But there came a point in every man’s life that tested his natural state, whether it was to act different, or say different, or go beyond the norm. Raymond reached that moment much sooner than anticipated.

The other members of Targent, while skilled in the same proficiencies as he was, could be much more demanding than men of their positions should be. And when word got out of a Sycamore searching and discovering for more Azran legacies and of that same Sycamore rejecting an ‘invitation’ into their ranks, the other birds began to ruffle their feathers.

Raymond reached out.

It was nothing dodgy, nothing out of order. Just a friend – not even that, just a concerned citizen reaching out to someone in potential danger. And, luckily for Raymond, Sycamore – or Desmond as the man had prefer to be called by friends – had seemed rather open to discussions.

They had sat together in a small coffee shop in a seedier part of London, Desmond – or rather, Professor Sycamore as the man’s title had now become – frowning at the small man in front of him. “This… is all rather a lot, Raymond. Ah, you do mind if I call you Raymond?”

Raymond chuckled. “Aye, professor. I do not mind at all.” Raymond sipped at his coffee with his shoulders hunched low around him. “And I understand your disbelief. But I would not have reached out had I not had concerns.”

Professor Sycamore sighed, cleaning his glasses on a handkerchief in his pocket. The well-dressed, glasses-cleaning professor did look out of place in this cramped coffee shop with grime on the windows and cigar smoke choking the air. “I fully understand your intentions, Raymond, please do not think that I do not. But you… you say you work for them? Targent, I mean?”

“Aye, sir.” Raymond placed the mug down but kept his hands on it, warming his aging bones. “I have been a handyman there for years. I know their tactics.”

He glanced at Professor Sycamore’s hands, noting the ring on the left. “You have a wife?”

He nodded, sliding his hand across the table. “And a daughter.”

“As did I. Take care of them.”

There was a pause. Sycamore’s eyebrows rose. “You mean- they wouldn’t—”

“They have. They will again. I will do all I can to dissuade them, but someone of my position…” Raymond sighed, feeling the weight of responsibility deep in his bones, a feeling that did not sit comfortably within him. “I am not an action-taker by nature, professor. Contacting you has been the first choice I have made of my own volition in some time. But I promise, I pledge to do all I can to protect your family.”

Professor Sycamore’s eyes blazed with barely suppressed emotions. “Thank you, Raymond.”

“Of course, sir.”

Raymond had been distraught but not surprised when four months later, he received a message from that same professor. A letter, untraceable, written on a typewriter.

Thank you for trying.

Targent were known for not being kind to those who wished to fly free from the nest. It had taken a rather impressive amount of work, time and charm to remove all traces of himself from Targent’s logs. All mentions of his name, all records of his actions, anything that hinted a man named Raymond who worked as a ‘handyman’ had any influence on Targent were erased. And then, he fled.

He retired to Scotland for a while, finding honest work as a farmhand for a small family. He fed the animals, fixed the machinery, and drove the tractors when the sons fell ill. The farmers did not pay him much (although that mattered little to Raymond) but gave him food and shelter and an understanding that to ask someone’s past is to ask a lot of them.

He remained like that for years. A simple life, far away from the terror and secrecy of Targent and ancient civilisations, not that he was meant to know anything about that. He lived in persistent but never overwhelming fear of the men from his past and in constant wait of the future. However, he kept his present precise and easy – a farmhand’s job.

He learned to cook like his mother once did, he learned to call and yodel for the animals over the hills and mountains, he learned to survive off what he could find and what others were willing to share as a community. He learned to trust his gut if he thought it might rain and to feel for a storm in the soles of his feet and the electricity in his hair. He learned that no matter what job he found, he could make it simple or he could make it complicated. The choice was his.

And he still had a choice when he received another letter.

I want your help. You did all you could before, but you know you could do more now. Help me take down Targent.

Raymond had paused over the message, pondering for more than he normally did over decisions. That was a big ask of someone like him, who had only ever operated behind the scenes, as a helper and not an actor.

Although it would not be a big role he had to play. Just all he could.

I will do all I can.

Professor Sycamore – or Jean Descole as he now insisted – met up with him shortly after. Raymond had explained to the farm that he had to leave as he was going to help a troubled man and the farm had understood. Descole had bristled mildly at the notion of being a ‘troubled man’ although quickly accepted reality for what it was.

“So, master—”

“Master?”

Descole’s voice had gotten lower, more drawling with the transformation. Raymond nodded. “I am now in your debt and service, and so it has always been customary for me to call my masters as their title.”

Descole cringed softly. “Do you… must you?”

Raymond smiled more to himself than anything. “I am afraid so, master.”

“Right.”

Raymond fell into step beside him. Descole had an airship docked somewhere in some Scottish field, which somehow was not the most extravagant thing about this new persona. “So, master. I understand that my debt to you is insurmountable. My failures in the past cannot be remedied. However, I give you now my undying servitude for as long as you need it.”

A silence overcame the two of them. Descole reached up, hands fiddling with the mask on his face. “Raymond, I… hmph.” He paused, turning towards the shorter man with a swish of his cape. “I do not hold any grudge against you for what happened to my family. While I despise the cultish corporation you were a part of, I understand your intent and actions were what they were. I asked for your help because I would like it, not because I, or you, require it.”

Raymond looked up at Descole, unable to see the man behind the mask. “And I accepted because I am a man of my word, master. I will do what I can.”

A smirk played on the mastermind’s lips.

The airship rose without a hitch, Descole instructing the man to touch down in a small village in France. “Let us begin… we shall unlock the mythical Azran Legacy and beat those fools in Targent!”

The next few years were of a similar calibre.

Raymond fell back into his routine of before – working endless for his master. He would perform duties, normally simple things like pilot the ship or make the tea, a mixture of his life as a young boy and his time as a ‘handyman’ in Targent, although with much less of the moral guilt. And Raymond was happy to say that he enjoyed the mix of mindless, gentle labour and high-speed chases through the sky. He never grew addicted to the adrenaline rushes, although he was happy to comply to whatever his work demanded of him.

They were in the sky on their way back to London – although Descole insisted on leaving in disguises while in London in case he ran into ‘past vagrants’, the ship needed repairs. Not urgent, but enough for Raymond to gently insist that they at least make a brief stop there.

Raymond was not a man to make bold choices. Raymond was not a man to enjoy surprises. So it shocked him when, of his own volition, Raymond heard himself say “I don’t believe you ever told me your daughter’s name, master.”

The man behind him was silent. Raymond knew he was there – despite the apparent trust, Descole enjoyed dramatically gazing out of windows. “No. I haven’t.” He was silent. “Sycamore’s daughter.”

“Aye, master. My apologies.”

Both were silent. Raymond gently steered the ship, watching the clouds part around him. He coughed lightly. “My apologies, master.”

“It’s quite alright, Raymond.”

Neither spoke for the rest of the cruise, although eventually, Descole left to check on the supplies, leaving Raymond at the helm alone for the final hour.

Despite the strange conditions, Raymond quickly adapted to his new life of servitude. He could hardly call it that, actually – it was more like an around-the-world-trip, one that he did not book a ticket for, but his friend did and so Raymond was along for the ride. Raymond knew he was really a worker, an accomplice to some grand criminal, although he enjoyed his work far too much to betray him now.

And, although he would never admit it, he enjoyed the odd vacations.

The quaint village of Dropstone had reminded him fondly of the village in Scotland with all the fairs and love of livestock, allowing him to relish in simplicity once again. Of course, Descole had gone through his disguises, arriving as a Norwegian farmer named ‘Stig’ and insisting on talking in the heavy accent.

It was here that, sitting alone in a field with some sheep, that Descole and Raymond began to plot. Descole rose to his full height as the five feet two inch tall Stig, still refusing to break character completely. “Raymond, I believe it is time.”

“Of course, master. I have the map ready.”

Raymond slid the map out from his pocket, gently pushing away a sheep that had gained a sudden interest in the paper. Descole pointed his wrinkled Norwegian farmer’s hand to a point. “Misthallery. There are at least three different runes indicating that the first Azran Legacy is there. A beautiful garden, filled with indescribable treasures and healing powers.”

Raymond took out a pencil, circling the point indicated. “A Golden Garden, if you will, master.”

Stig’s eyes gleamed. “Ja, a Golden Garden. It is there we shall make our first grand entrance into the world of the Azran!” He paused. “Although, there is another aspect that we must make sure of.”

Raymond nodded. “Of course.”

“There is a man – Hershel Layton. My…” Descole paused. “An old acquaintance. He must bear witness to this. To my grand schemes.”

“Of course, master. How should we get him to arrive in Misthallery?”

A smirk rose on Stig’s face, a little too devilish to be that of a kind farmer. “Do not worry, min venn. I already have a plan for that.”

And when Raymond saw the plan, he could honestly say that Descole had thought of stranger ones.

The stage was set, Brenda and the real Doland firmly locked in the cellar with Raymond holding onto the keys. Descole fitted the mask onto his face, turning towards Raymond and smiling. “I trust you to act as I have asked?”

“Of course, master. I will do all I can.”

Descole nodded, then slowly left the room, heading out of the front door and to the Triton’s manor.

Raymond could easily say that his life was much more complicated than before. But he was still the same simple man he always was – with simple motivations, simple skills, and a simple outlook. Descole was certainly a strange man, but a man who he owed with everything he had. And besides, Raymond had more than enough sense for both. He was happy to let Jean perform all the insane stunts and the cape-swishing reveals. Raymond could be there with his duster and a set of keys, ready to jump in whenever needed.

And to be perfectly honest, the life of a sidekick was the life for him.

Chapter Text

Well, the first plan had failed.

Raymond had encountered failure before in his life. That was not the issue. The issue was that his new master was taking it hard, despite his grand exit. Descole had certainly mastered the flair, even if he had not fully gotten the hang of executing his incredible plans to the best of their abilities. Admittedly, the robots in the village had been a bit much, even for Raymond’s taste. And sure, it had weirdly stung when Descole announced that he had built then all without any mention of help, but that was not to be analysed.

He had a ship to pilot.

Raymond himself was taking the blow fine. The cloak-wielding ‘mastermind’ currently staring out of a different window was not taking it as well. “Master. Are you alright?”

Descole clicked his tongue. “Quite alright, Raymond.” The clipped tone suggested otherwise.

As any good servant should, Raymond remained quiet. If Descole wished to convey the message that his endless fury brewing inside him was ‘quite alright’ then who was Raymond to imply otherwise? He let the silence play out until Descole near exploded. “Do you know how infuriating it is to watch your plans dashed out from you? All because some pathetic whelp astride a manatee could somehow manage to master robotics?”

“It must be quite frustrating, master.”

The two fell back into silence, Raymond gently steering the Bostonius up and over a bank of clouds. It truly was peaceful up here – he never got to enjoy the spoils of flight with Targent, with too many men and too many guns and not enough time to finish the task before the next one. Besides, the Targent airships were rarely met with the same level of cleanliness and order that Raymond preferred. He had almost celebrated when Descole asked him to start vacuuming the carpets of the Bostonius.

But now, he had the time and the lack of energy to simply gaze as the world moved under him. Tranquillity was scarce but rewarding.

The sound of a cloak swishing against a wall and soft footsteps indicated Descole’s exit.

Raymond let a low grumble escape from his chest, not out of frustration, but to allow the air in the room to settle with the departure of the reputationally wounded. Descole just needed time, Raymond thought. He would be back with a washed mask and a new plan within the next week.

Gazing out at the world, Raymond mildly acknowledged that his determination was what he admired most about Descole. Were his plans nefarious? Sure. He had attempted to steal the Golden Garden from a sick girl, although in his defence, neither knew that garden would heal her. He should not think on that for too long. But no matter what he went through, no matter what went wrong, Descole always fought back.

And as someone who rarely fought for anything, Raymond thought that was incredible.

Sure enough, Raymond was changing the sofa covers the following week when Descole emerged, a new mask back on his face and a smile playing coyly at his lips. “Raymond.”

“Master. How are you feeling?”

“Quite alright. We have plans to deal with!”

Raymond smiled, quietly buttoning the cushion closed before placing it back on the sofa, pulling out the corners to make it sit nicely. He had docked the Bostonius in an airstrip somewhere in France, Descole apparently fluent (or at least good enough to bluff) in the language. “Old Raymond is happy to be of service. What must we do now?”

Descole slowly paced, moving past Raymond to wistfully gaze at the fields outside the Bostonius. Raymond had to admit, he suited the blackened villain. “I plan to play the long game, Raymond. There is a boy in the small village of Craggy Dale – I have reason to believe that he can… assist me in my endeavours.”

“What can I do to help, master?”

Glancing behind him, Descole remarked Raymond simply. It was difficult to tell his intentions behind the mask and the hat and the huge, ruffled collar. Raymond had accustomed himself to it, used to judging his temper levels from how curved his smirk was. Descole turned his attention back to the window. “When you go shopping, pick up a book and some ink. I have letters to write. Oh, and a chequebook. I have deals to make.”

And he once again swished his cape and walked away, ruffling the cushions as he did so before retiring to his quarters.

A part of Raymond twinged. Despite himself, Raymond wanted to know the plan, not just the methods. The other plan had been so grand, so dramatic, so (he would never say it or mean it in this way) unnecessary that his next plan had Raymond wondering. More robotics? Would he attempt magic? It was impossible to guess.

But the added shopping list had already engraved into his memory. Raymond sighed and promptly fixed the cushions before taking his wallet and setting off.

When he returned, the two promptly set forth on the Bostonius again, Descole with an ‘important meeting with the next pawns’ and Raymond with all the loyalty he could muster. The sun was low in the sky, a warm but piercing orange light filling the Bostonius. Descole was just behind, staring purposefully out of the window once again. Raymond wondered if the shadows over his eyes from the block could block the rays from the sun from damaging his vision. From all the gazing he did, Raymond hoped so.

“Raymond.”

“Yes, master?”

“What do you… like?”

With all his training as a servant, purpose as a resolute follower, and severity as a human being, Raymond almost let himself point and laugh at the bizarre man who asked the most awkwardly phrased question. But he kept his old eyes on the sky. “Master, I am not sure what you mean.”

Descole sighed in irritation, the sound short and filled with temper. “What do you do outside of… this? I have my robotics, but what do you have?”

Raymond felt the chuckle bury itself deep into his chest, his determination to remain civil overtaking his desire to laugh at the strange man. “I have little else. I mostly spend my time cleaning or fixing. It is how I have spent a grand deal of my life.”

“You’ve done this for most of your life?”

The incredulous comment did make Raymond turn around. Descole had not taken his mask off, his eyes shrouded in mystery and devilry, but his mouth was open in an unattractive gape. He had taken off his cloak a while ago, his surprisingly lean body now awkward and tense with what Raymond supposed was some kind of confusion. “You mean… as a child, you spent it, what, cleaning? And fixing?”

“It is what my mother did, so it is what I did.”

“Nothing else? Really, Raymond, just something, a hobby of your own?”

Raymond turned his attention back to the wheel. He knew airships well enough to know the degree of attention needed at any given time. And currently, according to the dumbstruck Descole, there were far more important things to be worrying about than crashing. “I suppose… I collected insects as a wee one. Stick insects, woodlice… my mother would let me borrow her handkerchief. Then I would put them all in a glass pot that the master let me take.”

“Raymond, that’s disgusting.”

Finally, the chuckle escaped, a tiny rumble. “Aye. By the next month, they were nothing but mulch in a mason jar. I learned my lesson and used my pocket money to buy a pin board for them.”

There was a low silence, the rumble of the airship underlying the words. “That was all you had? Deceased bugs on a board?”

Laughter turned into a deep sigh. “I enjoy my life, master. It is simple. The bugs were simple, easy to find and easy, although maybe not hygienic, to keep. Cleaning is simple.” He looked up through bushy brows at the somewhat deflated mastermind. “You do not need to worry over Old Raymond.”

Raymond distantly remembered his collection. He had always been a man of order and, with his mother’s influence, a man of cleanliness. The bugs had been a fun, childish way of dissolving the messiness of youth. It was by no means traumatic, but rather something that had happened and been left safely in the past, the jar washed, and the board eventually thrown out.

He felt a small pang thinking of his mother. She had long since moved on, now free to live a woman’s life in the skies beyond. A silly, deliberately distant thought occurred that she was there tending to all his bugs, pulling the pins out of their bodies, and using them to sew the next blanket. She always had been a woman of resource, no matter the cost. With a gentle thought, Raymond supposed it was simply another trait he had learned from her.

At Raymond’s soft melancholia, Descole said nothing more, tilting his head back to the open sky.

Chapter Text

Currently, they were zero for two.

Descole had thrown himself into even more of an upset, laying on the sofa in complete and utter defeat, arm trailing the carpet as Raymond piloted the ship. “I mean, ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. Three songs?! Three?! How in the heavens above could I have known that there was a third song that was upside down, hidden all this time? It certainly was not aided by that utter dolt, Whistler. God, people can be so sentimental.”

“Indeed, master.”

The sky was pleasantly clear, the clouds the normal distribution and the sun just off to the right, perfectly at an angle where the light danced over the keys without blinding Raymond’s already failing vision. It was a gorgeous day, with the atmosphere inside nothing but raining. Storming, Raymond dared to compare.

“If he had just—that stupid machine—” Descole suddenly sat up, leaning over the edge of the sofa, his face entirely desperate behind his eye mask. “Is it me? Am I the problem, Raymond? No, do be honest with me.”

In all his training, in all his life of servitude, Raymond had no preparation for this scenario. “… no, master. You are not the problem.”

Descole sighed, collapsing onto the sofa. “It feels like it sometimes.” There was a pause before he snapped back up again. “And to be unfoiled – again! – by my absolute pest of a brother. That is twice he has done this now. I know I invited him onto that blasted ship, but I did not expect him to know how to read sheet music! He is an archaeology professor, for crying out loud. Where did he learn all of this?”

Raymond paused, being careful to not turn around. “You have a brother, master?”

A silence hung over both, the internal storm stopping in a frost. Descole shifted behind him, but Raymond did not hear the tell-tale pattering of feet darting to attack him. “Yes, Raymond. Layton is my brother.”

Well, it surely was not the boy. “I had no idea, master. Do you know him well?”

The silence persisted. “Hm. Somewhat.” He leaned back on the sofa. “I have not told you much of my past, have I Raymond?”

“No, master.”

“I ought to change that.”

Descole pushed to his feet, walking up to the controls, and sitting in the large chair next to where Raymond was standing. Despite him revealing something very poignant, Descole sat rather flamboyantly, one foot resting on the arm of the chair while the other swung beneath him, his arms coming up to rest as pillows for his head. He looked up at the ceiling, expression unrecognisable behind the mask.

“Targent did not just attack me as an adult, Raymond. As a child, they kidnapped my parents, leaving my brother and I to be adopted.” Descole seemed to think through the words before he spoke them, tasting them on his tongue. “Hershel was supposed to be adopted. I switched names with him to make sure he went to a suitable home.”

Raymond did not let the frown cross his face but felt the confused sentiment all the same. “Apologies. Which one of you is Hershel then?”

“I am, technically.” Descole let out a long sigh, melting into the chair. “I was Hershel, at least. I gave him my name and he lived with the Laytons. They were lovely enough.”

Raymond remained quiet. Descole glanced at him. “If you have questions, spit them out.”

“What is his real name?”

A different silence overcame them. It felt somewhat more dangerous, an electricity as Raymond considered. “That is not information for me to share. Someone else’s name. Layton’s name.” Descole pressed his lips together. “I appreciate the curiosity.”

“Of course, master. My apologies for overstepping.”

“Nonsense, Raymond. I told you to ask.”

Descole somehow swished off the chair, his cloak settling around him in the perfect, performed way. “I will rethink. There are many paths to take, we must consider the most logical path moving forward.”

Raymond nodded, allowing his master to move as far away as he needed. He had learned very early on that when In A Mood, Descole only needed time to snap out of it and become the intelligent maniac Raymond knew him to be. This was only the second time, and although Raymond hoped this would not happen again, he had already formed a little routine.

With the Bostonius docked at an airstrip in Perth, Raymond cleaned. He swept the carpets and scrubbed out a tea stain that had been on his mind for a while now, dusted the controls thoroughly until there was no stick underneath them, and stocked up on the necessary groceries. Neither Raymond nor Descole were particularly avid chefs, although it never hurt to be prepared.

Raymond had finished wiping down the exhausts, hands covered in oil when Descole swooped down the stairs, the airstrip deserted enough for Descole to feel comfortable in his disguise. “Raymond, a new plan has been formed! That whelp from Craggy Dale is ready, he only needs a push. We must head there as soon as possible.”

“Wonderful, master.” Raymond paused. “I must ask for time, however. There is something I would like to do here.”

Descole looked surprised. Not in a judgemental, cruel-master-disgusted-by-strong-commoner surprise, but merely surprised that Raymond thought to ask. “Certainly. What is it?”

“I would like to visit my mother, before we leave.”

The shock grew stronger. “I did not realise that she lived here.”

“She is dead, master. I would like to visit her grave.”

Descole grew very still and quiet. Raymond felt that both were thankful for the mask hiding the majority of Descole’s expressions. Raymond chuckled. “My apologies. I should have specified first.”

Descole scoffed. “No—Raymond, I am sorry for assuming. It was—I’m sorry.” He awkwardly raised his hand as though to pat Raymond’s shoulder but quickly turned on his heel back up the stairs to the control room. “We leave whenever you want to.”

“No need, master, it is a fifteen-minute walk. The Bostonius is free to rest.”

The walk was simple, neither talking, although Descole did return to the clothes of Professor Sycamore. While the constant disguises did provide a certain level of entertainment for Raymond, he was grateful for the personal intent with this one. With the evening light streaming horizontally across the sky, Raymond found the small path that led to an even quieter route. Covered by arches of leaves and branches, the shrubbery had grown so much the path near hidden from view. Descole had to duck under the mass of greenery, much taller than Raymond himself.

Had the mood been brighter, Raymond might have commented on it.

The path opened to a small graveyard by a church, each grave with writing chipped into the stone. Everything was uniform, different only by name and the scatterings of flowers on some of the graves. Raymond sighed deeply. Descole shifted. “I shall stay here, Raymond.”

Raymond chuckled. “You can meet her if you wish. She was a lovely woman.”

Descole swallowed in what appeared to be nerves, something which Raymond faintly noted that he had never seen in Descole before. However, the glasses of Sycamore reminded him that this was not the first time Desmond had felt nervous.

Raymond slowly led the walk to a gravestone in the far-right corner of the yard. On the gravestone, there was no name that the public would recognise.

Old Ma Raymond
A woman loyal to her duties and her family.

Simple. Non-descript. Only an underestimation of the kind of woman she was.

Joining Targent had brought around certain paranoias, the first being the state of his family. Raymond himself had asked for this gravestone – no mention of her name or the family’s last name. Everything anonymous in case his life ever got too perilous that Targent thought to disrupt the dead from their gentle sleep. It was perhaps one of his less logical actions, although Raymond maintained his sanity and his grief in the anonymous gravestone.

Raymond sighed deeply. “Hello, ma. I hope you are faring well.”

A peppered moth fluttered from somewhere behind Raymond, settling on the stone. Its wings twitched, as though listening. It had missed his spiel, unfortunately. Raymond had said all he could in many years earlier. Raymond recalled that a peppered moth had been the first to go on his insect board. How charmingly fitting for such an occasion.

Slowly, Raymond kneeled, sighing once again into the air. He had brought no flowers, no trinkets to leave, only his presence and his words. He vaguely remembered the presence of Descole somewhere behind him, surely waiting as patiently as Descole could for Raymond to signal their exit.

He was a curious man, Descole. Raymond could not doubt or downplay the pain he had gone through, not only with his wife and daughter but his parents too. And for his own brother to be his distant yet highly prominent enemy – Raymond did not understand, but fully allowed the obsession with disguise and secrecy.

They both could understand pain just a little too well.

After a couple of minutes watching the moth flutter, Raymond rose to his feet, placing a hand on the gravestone to help his old knees move. The moth fluttered away in alarm. Raymond chuckled, turning to Descole. With the Desmond disguise showing his full face, he dared to think that he was concerned for Old Raymond. “Thank you, master.”

Descole raised an eyebrow. “No need for thanks.” Then, in a rather kind gesture that much more suited the kindly professor than the cape-wielding villain, Desmond held out an arm for Raymond, straightforward and inviting.

Raymond gladly took the arm, relieving the pressure from his joints. The two walked in silence back to the Bostonius, ready to set out.

Chapter Text

The world was blurry for just a moment.

In a memory not too distant, Raymond recalled shocks, panic, a pain crashing through his neck and spine enough to paralyse a less determined man. He recalled a hand on his shoulder, tense and harsh, gripping his bones with more strength than necessary for a friend and confidant. Perhaps there was something wrong that required his attention.

The very notion of something that required his attention gently brought Raymond out of blindness.

He was face down on the controls, his hand pushing against a joystick that it should not be. He quickly removed it, blinking to restore his already misty vision. Something was swirling, twisting, flipping beyond his vision – his brain was, unfortunately, still rather addled, a subtle but persistent pulse preventing it from focussing fully and calmly on the present situation. This was not normal, and something about Raymond’s natural alertness being compromised, in itself, brought it back, the feeling slowly inching back into his hands and memory.

Somehow, the first thing he noticed was a prone Descole on the ground. His mask was still firmly on his face, although he too was rising to his feet with a look of clear confusion, hands sweaty and unsure as he gripped onto the edge of the control panel to pull himself up.

A more pressing notice was the literal sinking of his stomach as the Bostonius fell chaotically through the sky.

Raymond collected himself before he could lose any part of him. “Master, oversee the controls.”

He heard Descole’s shriek of realisation just as the door clicked behind him.

The engine room was not dirty (Raymond would never let it be dirty) but it was not exactly the pinnacle of welcome. It was a maze of pipes and gages, a huge set of bellows pumping and hissing in the corner, protected by a quick fence to prevent wayward geniuses from tripping on their cloaks into it.

Nevertheless, Raymond was quick to analyse through the gloom, hearing the whistling of a burst pipe harsh and important in his ear. Even the air outside the Bostonius sounded wrong, sinking and pressing the wrong way against the floor. But he needed to focus, find what was wrong and—

Found it.

A couple of metres from the entrance, he saw a pipe bent at an angle unlike the others, a hiss of steam and energy escaping from the open end. He raced over, picking up a spanner he always had safely hidden in the room in case of an emergency like this. Now he was closer – the entire pipe had broken, bent out of shape to the point of no return.

Raymond was calm as the wind and pressure pushed his ears and organs. He immediately dropped to the floor, hands skirting over the metal until he gripped onto a spare pipe. Really, he ought to have put them in a more official position than scattered all over the floor. Something to do afterwards.

“Raymond! How much longer?”

Not a scream of expectation but of worry, Raymond could tell the difference well. He stayed silent, holding the spanner firmly in his hand, using every ounce of power left in his wiry fingers to grip on tight, tighten the spanner and twist, his forearms aching with exertion that he had not had to experience in a while. Descole normally performed the routine engine checks, Raymond’s eyes trained to the skies and Descole’s youth easier in the dark.

Not that he would be doing that without supervision for the next month or so.

Raymond quickly slotted the new pipe into position, taking the connector and snapping it into place. He could feel the buckle and pull of pressure and air and falling against his hands, bringing the spanner up and twisting with his entire weight, feeling the gaps close and close until the disappeared.

There was a crunch in the machinery, something changing, accommodating. A huge rumble bellowed through the pipes, occasional hisses or screeches coming from inside and around the engine itself. Raymond waited, listened, spanner tight in his hand, his other reaching out to cling to a metal bar as the ship dipped and swung in the air. The ground lurched beneath his feet; his hand desperately wrapped around his flimsy respite.

The ship settled.

Raymond stayed still, not ready to move yet. There was still a groaning, the ship patched up but still unhappy. He nervously watched the new pipe, waiting for the ship to fully accommodate it. It was a perfectly strong metal, but if the ship could not adjust herself quickly, they would have to make an unexpected crash.

But the winds slowly ceased, the panic slowly faded. Raymond let out a long sigh that deflated his entire body, popping the wrench back into its hidey hole and throwing the broken pipe into a crate of spare parts. Descole would surely need assistance back at the helm – poor man never quite knew when to stop panicking.

Raymond joined his master, seeing Descole’s white knuckles on the wheel. “Is it over, Raymond?”

“I believe so, master.” Raymond smoothly stepped in between Descole and the wheel, forcing the (still caped) man to step aside. “We ought to make a trip to the nearest airbase for better repairs, though.”

Descole checked the map stuck to the wall of the ship. “There is one in France, few miles south. I will… I will let you manage the flying.”

He promptly left the control room, presumably to find a disguise to wear while talking to contractors. Raymond was more than capable of doing the check-ups himself, although it felt disingenuous to not pay them for the space they were taking up. He watched over the sky, a more cautious beat in his heart as he listened, meditated to the hums and groans of the ship. Poor thing had taken quite a beating today.

They landed without worry, Descole emerging in a beautiful, collared dress and a high blonde wig, face immaculately changed into that of a Southern French darling. “Madame Lorraine Suchet.”

“Indeed, master. Madame?”

Descole nodded, the mountain of blonde curls bouncing atop his head as though it were his own. He picked up a parasol from the basket (so it did belong to Descole!) and moved to the door. “I will handle all financial and social aspects. Fix whatever you need, I shall deal with the cost after.”

“Of course, madame.”

With a flourish of skirts, Madame Suchet exited the Bostonius with her companion close behind (how did he fit in that corset?) and talked to the contractors with a high, pretty voice and a fluency in French that Raymond could not follow. Part of his mind still disconnected the flirty Madame Suchet from his master plotting on the Bostonius’s sofa. But it had been around three years now, so the disconnection did not come at a too high price.

A conversation happened, Raymond understanding just enough to know that the contractors would provide whatever parts they needed, and Madame Suchet would gladly cover the cost after. Given the grand airship and the wealth that the rich baroness exuded, they believed it without fault. And so, Raymond retired once again to the engine room, hands still a little greasy from earlier, to work through the pipes and valves more intimately.

He was not lonely in the engine room. Truthfully, he was a lonely man by nature, so pointing out this instance meant little. Although now the panic was over, the ship landed and in much safer hands, Raymond could not help but feel a little out of sorts, a feeling he normally listened to deeply. Feeling unsure in the past resulted in bad men doing terrible things under his nose, without his permission, without a choice.

So, he listened.

He followed the feeling to another pipe, promptly replacing it and adding up the cost in his head. And when the feeling did not go away, he patched up a connector that had gotten a little too rusty. And when he could not scrape the feeling until it was clean, he purchased a new spanner from the contractors and tucked it in the control room, in case the wheel broke one day.

And the feeling did not fade.

So, he grabbed the broom and swept the engine room floor until you could eat off it. He picked up all the broken parts and traded them to the contractors who understood enough English to pay back a fair price for them. He bought a new crate to place a whole new round of spare parts in. He checked and rechecked the pressure valves, resetting them when he still was not happy.

When he took his one trip into the airbase itself, he checked the weather for the next week, fortnight, month, making sure he knew as much as possible. He updated the ship’s log, recording the incident in as much detail as his old, careful mind could muster.

And it just did not end.

When Madame Suchet returned that evening, Raymond acted as normal as possible. “All well in town, madame?”

She looked at him, puckering her red lips in thought. “Indeed. Les citoyens were remarkably kind. I am just rather glad that this disguise is not recognised down here.”

Raymond reorganised the pillows on the sofa. Maybe they were out of place. “You have been here before, madame?”

“In France, yes.” Madame Suchet sighed, twirling her parasol around her hand before slotting it back into the basket. “Although I fear to say I, ah, had a certain rendez-vous with a baron who I doubt would be happy to see my face again. Quite a scandal.”

This was still probably the least abnormal thing Raymond had heard from Descole’s lips, even if it was not in his voice. “I have done a full scan of the ship, madame. All the pipes are fixed, and I have restocked on everything. Food supplies, tools, fuel. With all luck, this should never happen again.”

Madame Suchet’s perfectly plucked eyebrow raised. “And if it does?”

“There is no doubt that we will be prepared.”

She smiled. “Bon. I shall retire to my quarters; we shall head off in the morning.”

“Very well, madame. I shall see you when the sun comes up.”

“Oh, before I do.”

She reached into her bag, pulling out a neat, clipped book. Raymond gingerly took it from her, opening it to see not pages, but two cork boards inside with clear cases protecting them. In one, there was a small, cardboard box that rattled gently. He looked at his madame curiously as she explained.

“It is a miniature insect board. Obviously not an ideal size, but I could not think of a place to hang it where it would be safe.” She gestured at it with a manicured hand. “That one would fit in any bookshelf, the seller said. Something to… I don’t know. Collect from our travels.”

And the feeling went away.

Raymond examined his new possession, turning it over in his hands. Whoever made it clearly had done so with care, the green-dyed leather case soft and pleasant to look at. It was clearly hand-stitched, the yellow twine neat and tight around the perimeter. The smoothed glass casing rounded just enough to avoid accidental cuts and it easily had enough space for a sizeable number of finds.

It was incredibly thoughtful.

He pushed the new swelling down into his chest, stopping it before it reached his throat. “Thank you, madame. This is… rather kind of you.”

Madame Lorraine Suchet’s face was inscrutable. “Hmm. You are quite welcome, Raymond.”

And she swept away without another word, leaving Raymond to retire to his own quarters for the night.

Chapter Text

Their track record was looking more pathetic by the day.

Descole, once more, was silent on the sofa. Raymond, once more, gently guided the Bostonius through the skies. They were truly beautiful at this time of day – a crystalline blue, crisp and solid, peppered with wispy clouds. Like candyfloss, ready to be plucked from the sky by a hungry child eager for a kick of sugar. There was truly nothing more settling than this.

“Master—”

Descole rose and threw his teacup, the porcelain shattering against the wall. He let out a strange, strangled noise of indignation and fury, laced with a little sickness. Dutifully, Raymond kept his eyes on the skies, twisting the wheel just a little too harshly to make Descole stumble back onto the sofa. If he was going to make a mess, he would be forced to sit down. Whether he knew it or not.

“Why does this keep happening?!”

Raymond pressed his lips together, shifting the Bostonius’s gear. This was more than just an expertise in aeromechanics coming into play, but a practiced patience for the antics and tantrums of his beloved master. “Randall was perfect! A willing puppet, an idiot with a flair for the dramatics, all over that woman! I mean, it was perfect! But no, turns out bloody everyone knows Layton. Ridiculous! How is he everywhere?”

The telltale stomps of a Descole storming to his quarters reached Raymond, who set the Bostonius into an idle float before turning around. “Are you certain that is all that you are concerned about, master?”

Descole paused at his door, back to the controls. His shoulders were tense, rising and shaking as though his lungs were close to exploding. But soon, they eased down into a defeated slump. He turned sharply on his heel, expression free and unhidden by his mask, still in the hands of Bronev. In a couple of purposeful strides, he sat back down on the sofa, hunched over with his arms resting on his knees. Raymond cautiously walked down the steps, happy the Bostonius would trundle along without interference.

“I will not pry, master. But this is more than what happened in the Monte d’Or square, isn’t it?”

Descole remained quiet. He closed his eyes, soothing a hand across his brow. As he stewed, Raymond quietly moved to the makeshift kitchen, brewing up a pot of soothing tea and placing it on the table before him. Descole took a grateful sip, hiding his eyes from view with a hand. “It is partly due to what happened in the square.”

“Undoubtedly. You did well to escape with such grace.”

“Tosh, Raymond. It was embarrassing how far Layton was ahead of me.”

Perhaps silence was a better tactic in this moment. Descole sighed once more, removing his hand. He looked exhausted. “I still have not told you everything, have I?”

“Only as much as you have deemed necessary.”

Descole nodded slowly, picking up his tea. “Bronev is my father.”

He downed the tea in one.

Raymond raised his eyebrows. “Leon Bronev… your father? And Hershel Layton’s?”

“Indeed. More tea please.”

Raymond calmly refilled the cup. “I… understand your distress.”

“Quite.” Descole sipped the tea much calmly this time. “I don’t believe he knew I was… who I am. Hence my eagerness to flee once he had uncovered my face.”

“Once again, quite understandable. I am only happy I could have been of service to you in that instant.”

Descole hummed in thought. Raymond examined his face – he really was quite a handsome man, although clearly aged and weathered by his past. A lost family, a new family, taken by a man masquerading with his DNA. Raymond also had little sympathy for the leaders of Targent, although his position was more comparable to a bystander than someone with a personal connection. He reached under the table, pulling out the emergency stash of biscuits. It called for some.

With a huff, Descole snatched a rather beautiful-looking shortbread. “You’ve done more than enough, Raymond. But… yes. Thank you for removing me from that situation. It would not have been… beneficial to our cause to have had my identity revealed.”

Sounded like a very formal way of saying ‘thanks for bailing me out’, but Raymond was never one to use such rude phrasing. “Of course, master. I am appreciative that you trust me enough with your entire intentions.”

Descole scoffed. “As if I did not trust you before.”

With his mask off, Raymond truly realised how expressive the man was. Not that it was a total surprise, but there was a certain clarity to Descole’s being now. The furrow in his brows, the sharpness of his gaze, the mouth that never seemed to rest in one position. Truly, thank goodness for the mask – he had a terrible poker face. “We’ll make more plans. I will not let Bronev’s corruption ruin any more than it has.”

“Aye, master.”

Raymond picked a gingernut from the biscuit box, chewing on it thoughtfully. “Was your father always like this? I don’t believe he came into ultimate power during my duration in Targent.”

Descole sighed, brow soothing out into something pensive. “No. Targent originally kidnapped him and my mother for research. It was only later that I… It was only later that he became who he is now. I assume due to our mother’s death.”

Raymond nodded. “The death of a good woman can undo a decent man.”

“He should not have been merely decent. He should have been wonderful.”

His face was contorted with grief. “That man did not lose his family. He could have fought to get his sons back. Instead, he went mad, rose through the ranks of the most corrupt organisation in recent history, abandoned his own family and took away mine!”

A hand slammed into the table. The teacup and biscuit box jumped with the force, which Raymond calmly shifted back into their proper positions. “And I believe we can stop him. Don’t you?”

Descole calmed, a hand reaching once more to hide his eyes. “I want to, Raymond.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer. “In our first conversation – in your first conversation with Sycamore. You mentioned a wife and daughter.”

“Yes.”

He paused. “Are they…?”

“Alive and well, although deeply hidden away. They travel frequently to keep Targent away from them.”

Descole let out a sigh. “I am glad. I… do not know how I would have felt with the knowledge my father took away your family too.”

Raymond chuckled softly. “No, master. Merely their freedom, not their lives. When all of this is over, I shall catch up with them again. My daughter will have finished her education, my wife ready to retire with me. Or perhaps we shall travel all together, as a family.” He smiled. “I am certain my daughter would love the Bostonius.”

Descole was curiously still. “I would let them on board. If you wished.”

“In due time, master. But I thank you for your kindness.”

He calmly put the biscuit box back in the little drawer under the table, clearing away Descole’s used teacup. The one he threw earlier would need sweeping, although Raymond hardly wished to draw attention to it with the very man who threw it in the room. But the air was much clearer, the horrid haze of a failed mission gone. Perhaps revelation was merely a different miasma, although Raymond much preferred it.

At least now he understood the man he served, fully and completely.

On the sofa, Descole slowly removed his hat. “We will need to plan for the next section of our adventure, Raymond. I will be studying for these next few days – Targent may own all three of the Azran sites, but they do not own the knowledge. I hope to find the secrets they hold before they do.”

“As you wish, master. I shall inform you of any stops we shall need to make.”

“Perfect.”

Without the hat and mask, he looked just like Professor Desmond Sycamore. And that kind, tensely curious look came onto his face – that same expression he had when Raymond warned him of just how much danger he and his family were in. “What is your daughter’s name, Raymond?”

“She was named after my mother, master.”

“I am quite certain you did not call your daughter ‘Old Ma Raymond’.”

Raymond chuckled. “I leave that puzzle with you.”

Descole’s face twisted in something almost annoyed, almost shocked, but definitely proud. He opened his mouth—

And the Bostonius lurched violently.

Instantly, Raymond was dashing for the engine room. “Master, man the controls!”

Descole let out something akin to an expletive and rushed to the wheel. “This again?!”

Chapter Text

The cave was vast and bloody cold. Unfortunately, there was rather little to do.

Descole – or Desmond? – had made his camp, setting out the sleeping bags and the journals and all the other little scientific knick-knacks that Raymond need not pretend he knew of prior. His master had done the pleasantry of giving Raymond a pop-up mattress, granting his old bones some reprieve from the horridness of a frozen floor. But no matter how he dressed it up, Raymond was still sleeping in an ice cave.

There was a beauty to it though, Raymond would never deny. The crystalline surface of the ice wall, the shimmering flora voraciously growing from the cracks in the rocks, the careful, iridescent light slanting in from slats and holes high up in the rocky ceiling. A true testament of time, of nature, of determination against the odds. A more forward man would make the comparison, although Raymond kept those thoughts honourably to himself.

Despite the beauty of the place, none of that had stopped Desmond from taking pieces from it, an untouched escape from the blizzard, now in test tubes and concoctions carefully balanced on the floor. Raymond had dutifully held samples as Desmond walked around, scraping droplets from the ice wall, gritting ancient moss between his fingertips, logging everything in a journal looking more misshapen by the day.

And the girl trapped beyond the wall, eyes closed, as if perfectly asleep.

“Can I make you some tea, master?”

Desmond did not even raise his head from the book, pen working faster and more frantically than Raymond had ever seen. There was a telltale splatter of ink against his cuff. “No thank you, Raymond. And besides, there is no kettle in here.”

He was right, of course. There were little amenities other than the lap and the bed and the food Raymond brought in every day. There was no broom to sweep with, no clothing to scrub, nothing to do except wait.

And Raymond could do that – of course he could. He had spent his entire life waiting on and for other people. He could wait. Yes, he could definitely wait. Waiting was easy.

But goodness, it would be nice to clean something around here.

Desmond reached his other hand up to his face, sneaking it under his glasses to rub his eyes. Raymond, admittedly, slept poorly in this place. He was surprised if Desmond managed even two hours of sleep per night. “There is a knack here. A puzzle of some kind – there must be a reason why the girl is up there. The Azrans led me here for a reason.”

Raymond remained quiet, all too intuitive to the moment when the rambling became a self-serving monologue and not an invitation to include his own thoughts. Luckily so, for Raymond had truly no inkling who the girl was, nor why she was trapped behind the ice.

There was an etherealness to her. The way her face relaxed in pure rest, her arms outstretched as if floating, her hair resting in perfect, soft waves around her face. His opinions on the Azran had admittedly soured over the years, able to intoxicate anyone with a droplet of curiosity, but they certainly knew how to make a mystery.

But Desmond snapped the journal shut, trapping the pen inside. He tossed it half-heartedly at Raymond, dashing from his spot up to the ice. He pressed a hand against it, smoothing it as though writing letters. When he pulled his hand away, water dripped from his palm.

“Raymond, she’s alive.”

Raymond raised an eyebrow. “Please, do explain.”

Desmond wiped his hand on his jacket, rushing to take the journal back again, flicking through equations and notes. “This compound – it’s extremely specific. Too specific – because it’s not just water. It was made from the same base, but the Azrans have added certain elements to it to make it more than such. Minerals, ions, some traces of metals and vitamins… this ice was meant to sustain life.”

Raymond looked up at the girl. Still, frozen, unmoving. No room to even breathe. “You think the ice has been… feeding her, master?”

“Feeding, breathing, everything. Wait—”

He rushed over to the lamp he had brought, a fidgeting little thing with more gears and buttons than necessary. He carefully switched off the gas to it, dropping some of the cave’s water into the spout. Immediately, the flame lit back up again – for a second – and dropped down, fizzling out.

Desmond looked as though he had discovered immortality. Potentially he had. “Incredible. They have managed to make ice not only a power source, but a way of preserving a human, completely alive and intact.”

Raymond noticed a gloss in his master’s eyes as he looked up, a near dopey smile on his lips. A frail girl, trapped for millennia in the ice, unknowing of the time passing nor of the role she was about to serve. Desmond sighed, resetting the lamp before rising to his feet. “We move now. I’ll need to send a letter to Layton.”

“Are you certain, master?”

A look of annoyance appeared on Desmond’s face, as if Raymond had belched. “Yes, Raymond. Why would I not be?”

Raymond bowed his head. “Merely confirming, master. I am but a humble servant—”

“Oh, don’t start with that nonsense.”

Desmond flicked back through the journal, ripping out a page and setting it on the top. “I… cannot let this opportunity go to waste. Targent are already on our tails, we must not dawdle any more than we already have.”

Raymond slowly sat down on the pop-up bed, old hands resting on his old knees. “Master, your personal interest is becoming more prominent than your academic interest.”

Desmond slowly raised his head again. “I… fail to see your point.”

“I worry for you. This has been a point of your career and life, and I merely wish that you spend the time to do what is right, not what you must. Many men have been driven to extremes for much less.”

Of course, the robots in St Mystere, the robots in Ambrosia, and the second-degree crimes in Monte d’Or were fairly extreme. But he had yet to reach the levels of Targent, no matter how convoluted his plans become.

But it was only one rash decision away.

Desmond nodded slowly, swallowing as he set down his pen. “I am not like Targent.”

“I know, master.”

“Good.”

He set his pen to the page again, then back down. “I must see this to the end. I have done so much, I… have lost so much. If Targent get their hands on the girl, I don’t know what they will do.”

“With her?”

“To her.” Desmond sighed, gazing up at the ice once more. There was a clear crevice in his brow. “Device, guide or emissary, she is still alive. I want her to help me willingly, not be the point in a compass.”

Raymond settled back. “And you believe Layton will be able to help?”

Desmond nodded, cringing a little. “And his crew. The boy is… unendingly positive. And that tall one, what’s her name? She kicks things a fair amount.”

“Emmy?”

“Her. She’s quite spritely, I have no doubt she will be able to hold her own. And Layton, he…”

There was always a bite in the way Desmond spoke his brother’s surname. A spit, an undertone of malice even in the most innocent of moments. But he relaxed and tried again. “He has one of the most dedicated moral compasses I’ve ever witnessed. I have no doubt that in… trying times, he will be able to keep me from becoming as my bloodline dictates.”

Raymond smiled. “Very well, master. I believe in this plan.”

Desmond scoffed. “Thank you for your affirmation, Raymond.”

“You’re welcome, master. But may I make a request?”

“Of course.”

“Let us have dinner in the town. I would much rather eat nearer to civilisation tonight.”

Desmond grinned. There was a pause, the grin on his face instinctual rather than deliberate. Then, he tilted his head back in a great, exaggerated laugh. “Yes, lets! Goodness, I can’t feel my toes.”

Raymond hummed, gently rose from the pop-up mattress and neatened the cover. “That would be the beginnings of hypothermia. I would encourage bringing more heat sources.”

The two made their way out of the cave entrance, Desmond kindly offering his arm once more to guide Raymond through the snow drifts. Of course both were capable individually, but it had become something of a routine for the first touch of snowfall to hit Raymond’s nose, and for Desmond’s arm to reach for his at that very moment. It had grown beyond mild amusement to a natural occurrence. If only it naturally occurred to the professor that spending two consecutive weeks inside a cave would make you rather malnourished.

The restaurant was briskly warm, the kind that flared goosebumps all over your skin as it welcomed them in from the cold. Nevertheless, the heady smell of venison stew was like a prayer answered, Desmond quickly guiding them both to a table and ordering the biggest items on the menu. Demanding work made an honest man hungry.

“I ought to thank you, Raymond.”

A few tables had people sat – various people who had instantly questioned the arrival of the suave professor and his old, Scottish butler and turning to all sorts of gossip – but none too close to warrant paranoia. Raymond raised an eyebrow, carefully stirring his bowl of stew. “How so, master?”

Desmond frowned, his own bowl half-finished already. “You have kept me… sane, these past few years. I understand that some of my plans are rather…”

“Complex, master?”

“I was going to say rash, but ‘complex’ works. All necessary to keep myself safe from the various powers working against me, but I digress. I believe very few of my preparations would have been accomplished if not for you, Raymond.”

He inhaled slightly, letting his spoon rest against the lip of the bowl. “I come from a troubled past. You are aware of this. And I know my emotions stemming from that often lead to… impulsivity. Brashness. Poor regulation.”

A very convoluted way of saying he was a bit of an evil mastermind due to his tragic backstory, but Raymond did not mind. “I only live to serve, master.”

“I am aware. But… I thank you for serving me.”

A small smile appeared on Desmond’s lips. It was unlike the professor to show such softness – even his happiness was more like hysteria. But the smile was private and genuine, an appreciation carefully controlled behind his glasses in a way Raymond had rarely witnessed. Or perhaps he had rarely appreciated Desmond’s form of thanks.

“I only thank you for giving me a chance to redeem my past failures. I have never… taken, before, in the way that Targent has in the past. I only hope that you succeed, so we may both close a chapter of our lives best left behind.”

Desmond nodded, returning to his meal. Raymond copied, chewing the beef around in his mouth. Harald over by the corner was staring at them, so Raymond simply turned his head to scare the old codger away. Goodness, he hoped he would not become that kind of elderly man when he retired.

They ate in silence, before Desmond sighed. “We ought to send correspondence to Layton soon. No doubt the man is going stir-crazy without an invitation to some bizarre mystery.”

Raymond chuckled. “What shall you ask of him?”

“I shall speak of the living mummy I have found, and little more. At the very least, if Targent are as close as my nightmares have been predicting, they have little to go off.”

“Layton is a rather intelligent man.”

Desmond smiled again. “Very true. Give him a map and five minutes and he could tell you my exact co-ordinates.” His smile shifted into a wicked smirk. “Actually, do that. Who knows how many desperate fans are cosplaying with his top hat as we speak? When you meet him, give him a map. If he can’t tell you where he is meant to go, send him away.”

Raymond chuckled again, reaching over to take a long sip of his eggnog. He had never been a true fan of eggnog, always preferring to be able to see the bottom of the cup when drinking, although Froenborg made theirs correctly. “Very well. Once you send the letter, I shall take the Bostonius back to London. Unless he resides elsewhere?”

“He could be in the jungle for all I know, the man goes anywhere his instinct leads him. Go to London, I don’t want him to think we’re stalking him.”

For all Desmond spoke critically of his brother, the similarities in the bloodline were not lost on Raymond. But again, he was not a forward man and so chuckled at his own thoughts and resuming his hearty meal.

When the meal was finished and paid for (“You forgot your glasses, Professor Singleclaw!”) the two walked through the town. The Bostonius had been set cautiously in the nearby field, far enough away for any prying eyes to truly have to search among the trees. Fortunately, the blimp blended into the surroundings, much less gaudy than Targent’s horrific metal deathtraps they dared to call planes (as Desmond had once critically described them as).

They both went inside, Raymond gratefully breathing in the familiar scent of the powder he used to wash the sofa cushions. Desmond carefully packed away Raymond’s things into his quarters before meeting him at the entrance. “I suppose I won’t see you for a few days, just while Layton takes his sweet time arriving.”

“I imagine so, master.”

Desmond smiled. “I bid you safe travels, my friend.”

“I bid you safe waiting, master. Take care of the girl in the ice, when she arrives.”

Desmond clapped Raymond on the shoulder. A look of pure determination, of a protective instinct Raymond had unknowingly triggered firm across his brow. “I shall, Raymond. I shall.”

He turned to leave down the stairs. He paused just before he stepped foot back onto snow, looking up at his dear, devoted servant.

“My daughter’s name was Clara. Not after her mother, nor my own. Just a name my wife and I both liked.”

Raymond smiled back. “It is a beautiful name.”

“She was a beautiful girl.”

As Desmond Sycamore walked alone through the streets of Froenborg, he watched the Bostonius fly through the sky, disappearing between the clouds.

Chapter Text

Finally, it was over.

The remains of the final Azran sanctuary were miles away, still falling from a frozen sky, smashing through lakes and homes. Targent’s legacy, a syndicate built on the cause of greed, was in chains and picked apart by an inspector known for efficiency and honour above all else. Far below on the ground, those who had left the ruins were tended to by paramedics and journalists, flashing cameras and calls for a disturbed professor to tell the story.

Poor Descole had only Old Raymond.

But the bruises would heal. Any cuts or marks left from the toil were superficial, a stark reminder of what had happened but not a new endeavour altogether. Beneath the suit, a horrid, shining mark was etched in pale tissue on his chest, as though a tower-size rapier had thrust through his heart, yet it showed no signs of other trauma.

Upon his old butler’s concern, Descole had allowed him to wrap it in a bandage and ointment, if only for Raymond’s own sanity.

“It was remarkable, Raymond.”

The man of the hour lay on the sofa, head resting on the cushions as his chest struggled with each breath. Scratches had dipped into his voice, outlining the words in an unforgettable pain. “Aurora… she was so much more than what she was meant to be. An emissary of the Azran, a child of humanity…”

Raymond smiled softly, working another bandage of a slice on his wrist. There were similar ones over his knees and palms, shredded from the ordeal. “I am sorry you could not save her, master.”

Descole’s eyes were closed, but unhidden by the mask. Raymond saw the flinch at the pain, another flinch at the loss. “She was not meant to be saved. But I saved the world.” He laughed. “Funny. And here I thought I had been willing to take it.”

Raymond turned back to the medical kit at his side, working through bottles of alcohol and antiseptics to decide which would be best. “If I may be blunt for a moment, master?”

“Speak your mind.”

“I don’t think you were ever capable of taking the world. Only of preserving it.”

A hum that caught on his throat escaped Descole’s chest. “I… agree. Tentatively. Let us not pretend I am some martyr.”

His previous actions rather contradicted his words. From the difficult, heaving way Descole had recounted the events, he had not only thrown himself in front of a statue to save a boy he had previously described as ‘a loud, infuriating whelp,’ but willingly gave his life to save the world. Others had been heralded for less.

“Very well, master.”

Something pressed against his leg – insistent, yet kindly soft. With a nod of permission, Keats hopped up from the floor and sat by Raymond’s side, purring merely at the proximity. Descole’s eyes opened, his bleary focus resting on the cat with a smile. “He’s still here?”

“He is. I quite enjoy his presence.”

Keats purred a little louder, tapping Raymond’s knee with a paw. Descole chuckled, working through a coughing fit as he did. Raymond gently poured a glass of water, setting it to the side for when he was ready. “We should be almost a hundred miles away from Froenborg, master. I have not selected a destination yet, although I eagerly await your decision.”

Descole sighed, resting against the sofa cushions. His eyes closed once more, brow resting in a perpetual furrow. “I don’t know why you’re asking me that. You’re the one who knows how to fly the bloody thing.”

“The Bostonius is an easy beast to tame. And I seem to remember you proving yourself quite useful in terms of strife.”

An eye cracked open, the gaze jokingly critical. “Quite useful? I am glad I have proven my worth upon my own damn airship.”

He sighed again, reaching over to scratch underneath Keat’s chin. The cat purred louder than the Bostonius’s engines. “I don’t know. Whereabouts are your wife and daughter currently?”

Raymond raised an eyebrow. “I believe Austria.”

“Austria then. Let’s… climb historic mountains and eat strudel. And forget all about the bloody Azran.”

Raymond finished working over Descole’s cuts, rising with a nod. “As you wish, master.”

He walked back up to the controls, perfectly happy to let Descole rest and rise in his own time. Raymond was hardly a doctor, more a makeshift nurse who had learned more through experience than study, although even he could see the toil Descole’s body had taken. The shaky arms, the singed skin around the face, the frayed clothes and fingernails. No man should ever have to suffer what he had.

And then there had been that moment, just before Raymond swept in, ever attending to his beloved master. When Descole stood at the ruins, gazing down at his brother and father. It had just been a moment, everything passing far too quickly for Raymond to stop and take notes.

But the softness in his expression had been mortifying.

“Farewell, Layton.”

And he watched his brother disappear behind mortar. Layton’s grief-stricken face had almost broken him, the horror of Aurora and Bronev and the world beneath him collapsing far too much to bear. But nothing was worth more than a fantastic exit.

Trust was a finicky word, worshipped more often than Descole desired. But he could trust Layton to take care of whatever business was left on land once their feet were stable, not just a man of discovery but a man of his word. He could trust Luke to never forget the memories of those he had lost, as horrible and soul-wrenching as such memories were. He could trust Emmy to break free of the hallucination of greatness Targent had trapped her in.

Hell, he managed to trust Bronev to do the right thing, just once. They were better off without the bureaucracy of Jean Descole to deal with.

And so, he let himself disappear, as he always did. Pushing from rock to rock, keeping himself as cautiously high as possible, making sure each hand gripped onto the next platform. He could trust a few select people in his life, and he could make sure it was worth it.

When the familiar red airplane came into view, he was not even surprised. Only daring enough to leap from the outcropping, tucking his head down as the Bostonius swooped him up.

Raymond gently curved the Bostonius around, the land hidden underneath the blanket of clouds that always cushioned them so kindly. Something next to peace settled in him – an unacceptance that things were over, but an unrelated relief that had no nameable cause.

Hopefully soon, they would be picking up the papers to see the Nest being dismantled, the honest scientists freed, and the dishonest mercenaries stripped of their honour. Somewhere, his wife and daughter would be watching the news with bated breaths, not yet knowing if they were safe to be a family again. Perhaps Descole’s father would earn an article or two about his actions, and Descole would light a fire with them in some Austrian bed and breakfast.

Raymond was a simple man. And he simply liked the sound of all those possibilities.

As Descole slept on the sofa, Raymond found his lap was filled with a purring cat. Keats nestled down happily, the warmth of the controls certainly enough to make for a satisfactory resting spot. Raymond removed a hand from the wheel to gently stroke between his ears. “Hello there, little friend. Will you be coming with us?”

Keats rumbled like a furnace.

“I’m afraid I never met your owner, although the professor and Luke often told me some rather interesting stories about her. I am not yet a grandfather, but I would be more than happy to find some more cat-friendly posts around the Bostonius.”

Keats tilted his head.

“I would be rather appreciative of your company. I have been dealing with that man’s antics for many years now. A presence such as yourself may calm his temper somewhat.”

Keats nuzzled Raymond’s hand, perfectly tilting his head to make Raymond scratch his jaw.

“You’re quite right – his family was certainly a cause of that. Let’s hope that with certain chapters closed, he is more amenable to a new story. I certainly know I am.”

Keats meowed, hopping off Raymond’s lap to sit directly on the console, tail curled perfectly around him, gazing out at the sky beyond. Raymond settled back into his seat, slowly following the coordinates on the screen until the correct ones for a nearby Austrian air base appeared. It would take another few minutes of flying, although he certainly did not mind.

Ah, who was he kidding. Raymond adored the adrenaline, being the sidekick to whatever machinations people desired of him. He had the skills and experience to do anything – why would he ever settle for less? Targent had been a warm-up for the likes of Jean Descole, or Desmond Sycamore, or Stig the Farmer.

Although something potentially less apocalyptic would be preferable for the long run. Raymond did only have so many years left in him.

The sky was vast, peaceful. Keats acted as a sentry on the dashboard. Behind him, he heard Descole mumble before getting to his feet. And when he stood by Raymond’s side, Desmond Sycamore smiled back.

“It’s all over, Raymond.”

Raymond nodded. “It is, master. After many years, it is all over.”

Desmond smiled. “I have met your mother already. Would you do me the kindness of letting me meet your wife and daughter?”

Raymond chuckled. “They would be delighted for the kind company. And, hopefully, my own.”

Keats meowed again. Desmond reached over, stroking his back until the meowing stopped. “I know I mostly set off on… personal terms. But let it be known, without theatrics, that I am just as delighted that I have helped you, Raymond.”

The old man smiled. “And I am forever grateful to be your constant companion, master.”

“A new adventure awaits. Right, Raymond?”

“Indeed it does, master.”

And the Bostonius fell through the clouds, a free world waiting for both of them.