Jail wasn't really what Clive expected. Of course, he had grown out of those childish fear of being locked in some deep cavern with dripping water and one small crack of light glittering through the rocky wall, but he would have much rather preferred that to this dump. The whole place reminded him of some large warehouse, painted a horribly bland tan-ish color and always smelling of fish. It was, to put it simply, like going to hell early. Sometimes he wished that that woman—Claire, was it?—had left him to die in his mobile fortress.
No, that wouldn't be good. He would have had no chance to say "I'm sorry" if he had died there. He couldn't be saved. If staying in this fish-smelling criminal-hole could redeem him, then he would stay here as long as it would take. But salvation was sure taking its sweet time.
Clive grunted slowly and began to stare at the tan wall in front of him. He wished he had a small bit of chalk with him so he could count the days, but what's the use when you're here till you die? So Clive started his daily routine of regret. Where would he be right now if he hadn't been so arrogant and self-centered? The next Prime Minister? It hurt to think about it. He'd never get a second chance now, no, not after what he'd done.
And so it went, day after day, sinking deeper into depression. One particular day, before he could begin to think about chalk or Prime Ministers, a shadow slunk through the bars of his cell. It lingered there for a while until Clive looked up, expecting to see an officer or guard.
"Dove, is it? I have some business I must discuss with you."
Clive blinked once, then twice, trying to figure out what he was looking at exactly. The figure wore a dark cape around himself with a matching, oddly-shaped hat on top of his head. Around his neck he wore a large white boa. Despite his choice of clothing, the man appeared deadly serious. It almost shook Clive.
"My name… is Clive. Who are you?" Clive hated how helpless he sounded. It'd been a long time since he'd spoken more than two words.
"Clive Dove? Well, whatever your first name is, I still must speak with you."
"Name?"
"That is not important right now."
Clive sighed and brushed his overgrown hair to the side. He raised his eyes again to meet the man's.
"Look, I might not be able to help you; mainly because I lost everything, and I'm also trapped in here."
The caped man smirked, which irked Clive even more.
"That can be fixed," he said, "if you will join me."
Clive said nothing.
"You see… I've been fascinated with your work; the machine, I mean. I myself have had my share in mechanics, but yours beat all of mine. If it wasn't for that little, ehem, mistake, you could've fulfilled your plan."
Clive hummed silently to himself. He didn't like this guy. He seemed…evil. Maybe even more evil than himself.
"Listen, Mister, I've given up my plans. I never meant to ki—" his voice cracked, perhaps out of guilt, "I mean, I didn't mean to destroy London…"
"Don't play games with me. I know exactly who you are."
"I don't want to help you. I don't want to go through that experience again." There was a pause on the man's side. Finally, he angrily swung his cape around him and proceeded to exit.
"Hm. And here I thought I could rescue you from this rotting death-hole," he said smoothly. Clive watched him leave. He caught himself about to call to the stranger to take him out of jail. Instead he bit down on his lips and repeated a single word over and over in his head, "redemption".
A loud thud indicated that the man had left. Clive let out a long breath of air. He knew he had done the right thing, but it didn't seem fair.
"That was a complete waste of time! You hear me? A waste!" The caped man laid his hand down firmly at a secluded police-department office. A startled, and somewhat overweight, police chief looked up at him.
"Mr. Descole, I thought that he'd consent! After all, I did exactly as you said! Lowering the food rations, bringing him to a dirtier cell… He must be insane if he isn't going to accept your offers!"
"Well, he didn't, did he?" Descole shouted. His temper was turning him red from anger. "What's your next move, Mulkey? I need those blueprints soon!"
"Uh… well, I can lower his rations even more, then he might consider—"
"Fool! He's still regretting his attacks! Giving him food will do nothing! He probably thinks he can be 'liberated' by staying in here! What if—"
Jean suddenly pulled his hand to his chin, deep in thought. He turned around for a split second, then, just as quickly, turned back and looked Mulkey right in the eyes.
"You're the Chief of Police. I'm sure you can arrange for Dove's release."
"Y-Yes, but I can't just let him roam around alone. He would need a responsible adult to watch him and see if he does anything suspicious. Besides, he has nowhere to stay. He'll turn into another homeless bum on the street."
"Heh…" Jean laughed to himself quietly. "Set him up for that. Make sure a certain 'Desmond Sycamore' gets to watch him." Smiling slightly larger than last time, Descole flung his cape around him again and left the office. Mulkey, who was glad that his boss's mood changed from deadly to pleased, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.
"Now… who'd he say was supposed to get Clive?"
Hershel Layton sat at his table, enjoying a rather large cup of British tea. Behind him he could hear Luke and Flora playing a game of chess. Despite her age and experience, Flora was losing dreadfully to Layton's apprentice. Luke, although only 15 now, had practiced more puzzles than Flora ever had.
"Checkmate!" he said gleefully, sliding his rook for a direct hit on Flora's king. The brunette sighed, becoming bored of always losing. She wasn't one to get discouraged easily, but this was ridiculous!
Just as Luke was about to set up another game, the phone rang in the adjoining room.
"I'll get it, Professor!" Flora called, anxious to get out of losing another game. She skipped to the next room and daintily lifted the phone.
Luke pushed the chess pieces into the box and fixed his cap. Flora walked over to the professor as far as the phone cord would reach and attempted to hand him the phone.
"It's for you," she said. Hershel smiled and stood up, taking the receiver into the other room.
"Hershel speaking," he said as Flora joined Luke in cleaning up the chess pieces.
"Hershel…" a voice that the professor knew only too well spoke on the other end. "It's so good to hear you again. But that's not why I called…"
"Emmy? Is that you?" the professor lowered his voice.
"…That's not important. Something big is going on right now. Do you remember…around three years ago?"
"Emmy, where have you been? Are you sa—"
"Professor, please! Do you remember?"
"…Yes, the…erm…time machine incident?" Hershel rubbed his head anxiously.
"Yes. You remember Clive, then? He is in some need of assistance. Go to the police station and pick him up."
"But, Emmy,"
"Professor, I've got to go. It…was good to hear you again. Goodbye," Click.
"…Emmy? Hello?" Hershel stared blankly at the receiver in his hand. What in the world was going on?
"Professor?" Flora said, glancing at the distressed professor. "Are you ill? Would you like some tea?"
"No, no, my dear, I'm quite alright," he said, "Let's…ah, let's go to the police station."
A/N: They have noooo idea what is in store for them ahaha. Honestly I don't either… This is one of my first stories with the professor Layton series, so I hope you enjoy~ Reviews are appreciated!