Freedom Sentence

by KaileyF0x

In this PL fanfiction, I've written the epilogue to Clive's story in U/LF. It's a bit different than what's canon, but I didn't want to consider it an AU because it involves the same basic premise, just more from Clive's perspective.

17

Majestic. Resplendent. Imposing, even. Such imagery crowned London, with its bustling highways, multitudes of attractions, and excitement at every turn. It mattered not whether someone had lived their entire life in the city or toured it only once, for all were transfixed by its brilliance as it reigned capital of Great Britain.

However, no matter how noble, no matter how powerful, every reign comes to its eventual end. For London, that end was tonight. A sudden and ferocious war had assailed the metropolis like the infiltration of soldiers from an enemy country. Yet it was not another nation that had attacked. Rather, it was a machine—a colossal, towering weapon named the Mobile Fortress. And its mission was to dethrone the great city.

The Fortress had begun its demolition by blasting a hole in the borough and forcing its way onto the streets from underground, like a devilish monster clawing up from the depths of hell itself. The thing certainly was built like some mechanical abomination from Hades. Its main base was stout and firm to support its inestimable weight, but perched upon this sturdy frame was a jumbled mess of scrap metal, heaped together into some semblance of a tower. The contraption's head, dome-shaped, like an observatory, sat at the very pinnacle of this rickety turret, and a lighthouse, which had been used to mask the existence of such a massive weapon under a facsimile of the River Thames, was fixed at the top like an ivory horn. So massive was the machine that the lighthouse seemed to pierce through the evening sky, as though the mechanised beast were attempting to tear down what was above it as well as below.

While the thing continued its rampage, streets, buildings, homes, and people were mercilessly trampled under its four massive, spiked legs, and what wasn't destroyed by its sheer force alone was obliterated by the gunfire discharged from the many cannons that layered nearly every metre of its steel body. It had seemed the entirety of London would be wiped off the map as this inconceivable situation left the metropolis petrified and the Mobile Fortress unchallenged.

That was until one of the city's most famous mystery-solvers—Professor Hershel Layton—had done the impossible, but not without help from friends and rivals, some of whom joined him on the quest, his beloved crimson Citroën 2CV, affectionately named the Laytonmobile, and a massive amount of good fortune. His mission was to save both London and its Prime Minister, Bill Hawks, who had been taken captive within the weapon. And, indeed, these tasks were absolutely vital to him, but there was another that was similarly important in a more personal sense: He wished to confront the culprit, a young man named Clive, who had travelled with him and his apprentice Luke during their most recent mystery involving time travel and a Future London, or rather an underground London, and had betrayed them after revealing the Mobile Fortress and his plans to raze the real London. Something within the Professor—maybe it was that famous intuition Luke was always trumpeting about—told him Clive did not truly desire such carnage and destruction. Instead, he wished to be rescued from his own actions…

With this in mind, Layton delved into the depths of the weapon. Riddles, puzzles, and twisted conundrums awaited him and his companions, but none could outwit them and they wasted little time locating the heart of the beast where the Prime Minister was held, his own heart connected to the machine. His heartbeat was providing it with power, but unfortunately, that wasn't all. It was also stalling a detonation switch. The moment the Fortress sensed Hawks' pulse end, that moment the weapon would end as well—in an explosion that would ultimately destroy what was left of their city. Thinking fast, Layton utilised the ticking of a broken pocket watch as a replacement for Hawks' heartbeat and, with the Prime Minister in tow, the Professor set to work rearranging a few of the Fortress' gears, hoping to reverse its energy flow. His plan was successful. The mechanical monster soon came to a screeching halt, its tampered mechanisms battling against one another like cancerous cells, and as billows of smoke burst from its misshapen metal body, it began to move once again, its slow and lurching stomps leading it back toward the gorge it had come.

Certainly, the Professor was grateful for this, but relief was still quite some way out of reach as the pocket watch had only a ten-minute time limit before its ticking stopped and triggered the detonation. Fortunately for them, the lives of the city would be spared due to Layton's quick calculation that assumed the Fortress would explode after it plummeted into the chasm. But now they had their own lives to consider. If they didn't act fast, they would end up mere ashes, sprinkled amongst those already covering the city.

And so, the Professor ran with the others for the entrance, occasionally stumbling as the malfunctioning weapon shook and staggered, and located his trusty Laytonmobile, deploying the old car's newly equipped wings to flee the scene. He had to be quick, he knew. One of his companions had offered to stay behind and collect the culprit himself, who lay unconscious aboard the teetering Fortress. And after safely dropping off the Prime Minister amongst the crowds of people watching the scene from afar, the Professor set out to rescue the two, soaring for the weapon one final time.

Currently, Layton was flying over what remained of his home city. The smashing that continued below from the damaged Fortress was nearly masked by the tranquillity of the cool breeze. Nearly… It was not enough to distract the Professor. When he had flown over London initially while rescuing Bill Hawks, he had been far too distracted by the vexing situation to notice. Now that the events had since calmed, his tension had calmed as well, leaving his emotions vulnerable and his attention to wander. He was tempted to glance down, to put to rest the niggling belief in the back of his mind that London's wound wasn't as fatal as he assumed. But he knew better. Though the city would recover with time—much time, indeed—it would never be truly restored to what he had once known and loved, and the urge to weep stirred in his agitated heart just then. He gripped the brim of his top hat, tugging it down slightly. This was no time for mourning…

Instead, Layton glanced around at those on board, carefully considering each person's status. His young apprentice Luke in the passenger's seat was unharmed, but unusually quiet. He seemed to be studying something… A mysterious woman named Celeste, who had provided him the pocket watch, sat silently behind the boy, seemingly preoccupied with her own thoughts. The final passenger Layton observed more closely than any other. He was the very culprit, Clive, whom they had recovered just moments ago. The Professor was not worried Clive would cause additional trouble, oh no. Rather, he was more concerned for the boy's health. All this madness seemed to be taking quite a toll on him.

Indeed, Clive's whole being ached as the Laytonmobile hauled his nearly lifeless body down from where he had once ruled in the dark, gunpowder-clouded heavens. He was slumped over, every muscle, every nerve screaming with unbearable fatigue, a splitting pain coursing across his forehead where he had been cuffed by a section of piping from his wrecked weapon. His empty eyes stared unblinking at the floor as his troubled mind reeled with blurred snatches of the horrific crimes he had committed: He was in command of the Mobile Fortress, his heart hammering with anticipation as his plans finally came to fruition. His fingers danced over switches and levers that fired the massive cannons, decimating streets he had travelled, houses he had visited, families he had known…

No, that couldn't have been him, he attempted to convince himself once more as he returned from the horrific visions for the umpteenth time that night. It must have been some other disturbed youth. Had to have been some emotionless, heartless bloke! Yet, no amount of denial would mask the truth: That his hands, and no one else's, had rent London asunder. He felt gutted of his insides. Cold. Dead. His shallow pulse, however, continued to quiver against his ashen skin, reminding him that he was, unfortunately, still alive.

This scientist should have left me to perish…, Clive thought with venom as he glanced at Celeste, or Claire as he knew her. How and why she had convinced the professor to return for him, he could never fathom. He shifted his eyes to his hands clasped loosely in his lap. They were peppered with only dirt and grime, but he knew they should have been sodden with the blood of the hundreds, possibly thousands of citizens he had slaughtered in his blind rage. It wasn't fair to them that the one who had taken their lives was allowed to keep his own…

And what had his judgment on London—on his ownhome city—accomplished in the end, really? he questioned as he crossed his arms, hiding his hands from view. Absolutely nothing. He had failed… His face knotted in a feeble wince.

This is the epitome of exhaustion…

Suddenly feeling as though he were being watched, Clive looked to the passenger's seat and noticed Luke's sword-sharp stare nearly piercing a hole through his skull. You caused this destruction, the boy's obsidian eyes accused, reflecting his own anger back at him. But Clive could see this rigid scorn was nothing but a façade, a shield used to protect a soft and vulnerable weak spot: The excruciating pain of betrayal. It was a pain he himself knew all too well… Throughout his years as a young, but diligent reporter and with access to the newspapers, Clive had gathered information on both the famous Professor Layton and his apprentice, Luke Triton. It wasn't long before he came to learn that someone as adventurous as Luke would easily embrace the idea he had travelled through time and met the person he would be ten years from now, and it was then his plans involving a Future London and a Future Luke Triton were set into motion. When Layton quickly revealed the sad and pathetic criminal named Clive beneath Future Luke's disguise, however, the real Luke had become unwillingly and painfully aware that his future equal, as well as Future London and time travel itself, were shams, and that this had all been a game of lies in which the boy acted as a mere chess piece—a pawn—manipulated to satisfy the elaborate, complex conditions of Clive's cruel plans. He had effortlessly played Luke for a fool. It seemed he truly was that emotionless, heartless bloke in the end…

Stare daggers all you wish, Luke, Clive silently challenged in defeat. A villain of my calibre is judged with such contempt for the remainder of his life, after all…

As he wearily hung his head, sighing, Clive's attention shifted from his internal turmoil to the external world around him. The rustling wind and the humming of the airborne Laytonmobile greeted him with their calming murmur and, after a few moments of simply listening, he nearly relaxed his rigid muscles…until this buzz grew into a soft trudging, and this trudging twisted into the crushing din of the stumbling Mobile Fortress. His jaw slowly clenched as his moment of peace ebbed. In an effort to cling to what was left of it, Clive consciously refocused his attention on the breeze, the engine, the quickening beat of his own heart—anything! But it wasn't enough. His mechanical monstrosity would not be ignored as its stomping continued to resound in his ears. Entangled with the smashing of its mighty limbs were the distant, frenzied cries for help from those that were swept up even now in the product of his hatred. He shuddered. They had been going about their day, carrying on with their ordinary lives, only to be wiped out unexpectedly by a twisted movement for progress…just as he nearly had been as a child…

Clive bolted upright with a sharp gasp as a sudden, piercing shriek tore through his thoughts. He recovered from the initial shock when he realised such clamour was emanating from the Mobile Fortress, but his face remained frozen in terror as he pressed himself back against his seat, his breathing reduced to hiccups, his figure quivering all over. The screeching of metal grating against metal raked across the decimated city once more, the miscreation crying out for its master to save it from its fate, but as Clive shakily glanced over his shoulder to survey the repulsive object planned out and commissioned by his own hand, no pity shown in his eyes. Rather, he watched with a strange mixture of emotions—regret and relish, anger and tranquillity—as the beast staggered toward the abyss from whence it had crawled—the origin of its construction. This same birthplace would also be its grave…

One of the Fortress' enormous legs smashed into the very edge of the chasm and the weak layer of concrete gave way, the gaping hole swallowing up the spiked appendage as it slid into the darkness. Just then, Clive felt a sudden, swift twinge of urgency jolt through his chest as he observed the tower of cannons lurch backward, groaning under its own weight as it swayed with the momentum. But he ignored this impulse and clung to his newfound hope, eager to savour every moment of his weapon's fall. With this, he watched as a second leg followed the first and, unable to support itself, the Fortress' steel underbelly crashed down at the brink of the chasm, screaming in agony as it scraped along the upturned ground. The two limbs that remained free scrabbled at the lip of the fissure and as the main base edged closer, it slowly tilted upward like a sinking ship about to be engulfed into the depths. For an instant, the weapon's front legs desperately scoured the sky as though it could hook its spikes onto the sea of stars and pull itself free. But all of its struggling had chipped away at the concrete, widening the chasm, sealing its own fate. Nothing could save the monstrosity now as it released a piecing roar, toppling in and plummeting down into its tomb, its mechanical howls of despair following after it until they gradually died away.

The droning of the Laytonmobile's wings was all Clive heard now as an eerie calm haunted the wreckage-strewn London. It had happened so quickly… He expected to feel relieved, delighted even. But, as he surveyed the black, gaping hole far below, that earlier twinge grew until he could no longer ignore it and mutated into fearful uncertainty. Part of him wished to fight against this doubt and he dug his fingertips into his knees, willing, praying that his second-hand tyranny had come to an end. The other part of him, however, the logical, rational part, ultimately knew his contraption hadn't completely expired. And it wasn't going down without attempting to take the whole city with it.

An almighty explosion suddenly erupted from the mouth of the chasm, spewing forth a black mixture of dirt, rubble, and fragments of the Fortress high into the sky as if the abyss was purging itself of the impurity it had ingested. Buildings, streets, everything that was in the immediate vicinity that hadn't already been flattened under the foot of the mechanical beast or obliterated by cannon fire was annihilated by its last counterstrike as the detonation rocked the marred city to its core.

More demolition. More families torn apart. More lives lost. All because of him.

A sickening sound escaped Clive's throat. He instinctively pressed a hand to his mouth to muffle his gagging, but he knew it was hopeless. His stress had reached its peak. As he squeezed an arm around his stomach, he lurched over to the side of the Laytonmobile and dry-heaved, his body racking violently with empty chokes and sputters. Again and again he retched as if he, too, were trying to rid himself of the impurity—the hatred, the loneliness, the sorrow—that he had internalised since childhood, but his stomach produced nothing as it continually, painfully folded in on itself.

For a few moments after the spasms released him, Clive remained doubled over, too weak to do much else, and his forehead dropped against his arm on the hoodless car frame, his back rising and falling in staggered time as he gulped fresh air. His recuperation was stopped short when a hand set itself on his stiff shoulder just then and he feebly turned his head to see Claire leaning over, smiling gently at him.

"Are you carsick or afraid of heights?" she asked softly. With a tone of sympathetic humour, she added, "Or is it a bit of both?"

Upon hearing this, Clive knew she was purposely ignoring what had caused his nausea—the explosion that had blown apart another section of London that he had essentially triggered. He did not appreciate this.

"Certainly are…one in the same…you scientists…" he hissed with biting sarcasm, drawing in ragged breaths between his words. "Selectively blind…to the obvious though the very purpose…of your occupation…is to seek the truth!"

Claire gave his shoulder a soothing squeeze. "Sometimes our perception of the truth isn't the real truth."

This simple phrase acted like a crowbar, bringing a dead halt to the gears spinning in Clive's frenetic mind, and he sat there, holding Claire in his bewildered gaze. Maybe it was the conviction in her voice. Maybe it was the tender words she had chosen rather than quarrelling against his cheeky quip. Or maybe it was the concern in her eyes that completely contrasted with the disdain he had previously seen in Luke's. He wasn't certain, really…

But he could be certain of at least one thing, he realised as his bewildered gaze twisted into a furious glower. He loathed the pity of a hypocrite…

"Don't grace someone like me with your compassion…"

"Clive, remember, you can always—"

"Oh, shoveoff, would you?!" he shouted, nearly spitting the words at her. He straightened up from the car frame as he stared down upon her, the emotions he had bottled for so long finally bubbling over. "Would you kindly take a good look at London for me? Oh, but what a silly question! You can't find it! London no longer exists! And, please, tell me, who was it that eviscerated our great city?" He didn't wait for an answer as he jabbed his fingers into his chest. "Me! I did! I razed homes, shed blood, stole lives! And you…you saved my life—the life of a callous murderer! The life of someone who used, betrayed, killed! All without remorse! Don't you understand that kindness, or whatever it is you term your ignorance, cannot take root in a heart of stone?!"

A shuddering hiccup escaped Clive. He was vaguely aware of the cold, wet trail that streamed down his flushed cheeks as he scrutinised Claire, waiting for the moment she slapped him across the face, punched him in the gut, broke down and wept, something—anything—to prove he truly was a monster! But her placid demeanour was not disturbed. Indeed, she smiled at him again, like an understanding, forgiving mother.

Like his understanding, forgiving mother…

"You're crying," she said. She reached out a hand, attempting to wipe his tears, but as Clive became painfully conscious of his emotions, he pulled back, shaken, humiliated, and turned his face away as he muffled another trembling gasp with his palm. After she had given the young man some time to himself, Claire began again, "You know, Clive, even a stone can be broken to reveal something beautiful and valuable inside."

Clive did not respond, too drained to engage in this pointless repartee any further. What could he learn from someone who chose to be ignorant, anyway? he thought as he brusquely wiped his eyes. Nothing of value. In fact, it was an additional weight piled onto his already crushing apprehension… To calm his nerves, Clive shifted in his seat, attempting to rest his weary muscles, as he focused on the sensations of his body. The blood pumping through his veins. The goose pimples dotting his clammy skin. The smoky wind brushing through his dishevelled hair…

Smoke…? He froze as his eyes fluttered open, renewed fear glinting in their umber depths. One timid sniff confirmed his suspicions when he detected a hint of the sharp, acrid stench and, upon instinct, he threw his arm over his nose and mouth in an attempt to stop the smell from infiltrating his senses. The smoke must have finally found its way up to the Laytonmobile from the destruction below… He wouldn't allow it to drag him back under, he urgently decided. He couldn't. Not like it had during those last agonising minutes aboard the Mobile Fortress…

But, then again…this was what someone like him deserved, wasn't it…? he queried silently, uncertain, his hold loosening.

It was too late, however, for Clive to decide whether he should fight or not as the wisp of smoke grew into a stifling haze that quickly encased the car. His chest became tight. His heart began to race. He gasped for air as if the tendrils of the smouldering odour were a noose around his neck, but each wheezing breath only drew in more of the aroma, fuelling the flashbacks that began to plague his mind. From the floor of the Laytonmobile, Clive witnessed an entire borough of London emerge, rampant with chaos. Citizens surged out of homes and buildings, their screams melding with hundreds of trilling alarms. A destroyed research facility crumbled beside a block of flats that was devoured by flames and obscured by smoke…so much smoke… A young, frightened boy raced down the street, his sights bouncing in all directions as he twisted his head this way and that, occasionally stumbling in his haste to reach the burning flat.

Through this boy's eyes, Clive received yet another vision portraying a vaguely familiar man whose outline danced in the flames that surrounded them, his face hidden from Clive's memory for the moment. But this indistinct figure was soon replaced by two others he could have recognised anywhere, anytime, no matter if his befuddled mind had tried to conceal them.

"Mum… Dad…"

They were standing amid a growing pillar of flames. Frantically, he extended a hand for them and they mirrored his actions, their faces twisted in terror as they attempted to grab a hold. Even as the Laytonmobile's carpeted floor stopped Clive's progress, he continued to push, convinced this barrier could be broken and he would finally rescue his parents this time around. But, before he could enfold his family in his arms, the flames completely encased them, claiming them once again, and the scene began to melt into the car's interior as the flashbacks released their grip on him. Forced to return to this harsh reality in which his mother and father no longer existed, more tears brimmed at the edges of Clive's eyes and he swallowed back the lump that had formed in his constricted throat. He had been wrong before. This was the epitome of exhaustion.

Please, end me…

Clive shifted his lifeless eyes to look past the outside of the Laytonmobile, staring at the destruction far below. Somewhere mixed into the debris were hundreds of bodies that he could not see from this height. And from this height, it would be so simple, so effortless to join them… One move and he'd have the door open. Then he could plunge into the borough and become just another piece of the wreckage, just another corpse among those scattered in the mess. The idea toyed with Clive's mind. He raised a shaking hand. Wrapped his fingers around the cold handle. Pulled slowly…

"Are you all right, my boy?"

All thoughts of his gruesome death disappeared as Clive instantly released the lever and shot a surprised look at Layton. Had the Professor actually enquired of his condition…? Why would he dare even speak to him let alone express concern for him? The man had been nothing but another game piece, just like Luke, another pawn to be shifted and rearranged as he pleased, all to complete his revenge… Surely, the innocent needn't waste their time fretting over the guilty!

With this in mind, Clive found he was unable to respond as the lump in his throat swelled. A wry smile tugged at his trembling lips. Someone as astute as the Professor would know the answer to his own question, anyway…

Disgruntled with everything—his incalculable mistakes, the forgiveness Claire and the Professor offered despite his unforgivable transgressions, his own emotions that he couldn't allow to resurface—Clive shifted in his seat once more and bitterly located a quiet place in his mind where he could escape from it all, hoping he might be successful this time. Within a few moments, his unremitting fatigue overwhelmed him, dragging him under the surface into a deep sleep. His slumber, however, was not restful. He was tossed about from consciousness to unconsciousness and back again, his head swimming with images of weapons of destruction, collapsing cities, screaming families, smoke, fire, blood, and tears… He could only hope they were nothing more than the nightmares his mind made them out to be and, once he awoke, he would find himself nestled safely under the quilts his adopted mother had once provided for him, London's brilliance completely untouched. But, he knew each time his troubled mind forced him to return to awareness, this was reality.

And he—who had once been so kind, so gentle—was the cause.

The Laytonmobile soon landed on the outskirts of London, the bump of its wheels against the road forcing Clive awake for the final time. He looked around the area in a daze as he fought off his persistent grogginess, but once his mind cleared and he realised just where he was, he desperately wished he'd remained lost in his malicious visions forever. Not even they compared to the details of the distant wreckage he could observe so much sharper at ground level. There were mountains upon mountains of rubble, bricks, mortar, shattered glass, and upholstery that layered the vicinity as far as the eye could see. Fragments of picture frames, burned photos, soiled children's toys, and many other personal belongings were either scattered atop the mess or buried underneath, never to be cherished again. Despite the state of the city, a few pieces stood defiant. A single, splintered wooden board remained upright in an attempt to keep the shape of a once whole house. A ragged couch and a smoking television set held the place of a long lost living room. A tilted tea table missing one leg hosted two shattered cups for two absent citizens. It was all pointless, however. These remnants would never recreate what had once been.

At the centre of the wreckage gaped the Mobile Fortress' grave like an open maw, as if the abyss wished to devour what remained of the metropolis' innards. Really, though, the chasm was more akin to a giant chest wound where the very heart of London had been gouged out. This bit of the city certainly was more dead than alive…

While Clive observed these results of his mistakes, they seemed so piercing, so vibrant, they nearly etched themselves into his brain. Even so, this disaster absolutely paled in comparison with something else that caught his eye: The bodies sprawled about. He cringed. Just moments ago, he had desired—longed—to become one with them. Now that he was actually witnessing those he had so carelessly butchered, giving each victim a face—an identity—he was repulsed, so repulsed, in fact, he could not look away. They had been nobodies to him… he thought, swallowing. Just as he and his family had been nobodies to the Prime Minister who had destroyed them and their home. How ironic that he had grown up into the very villain he had loathed all these years…

Certainly, Mum and Dad wouldn't think to look upon me. Clive clenched his teeth as he glanced from lifeless corpse to lifeless corpse, his pulse quickening as panic crept into his heart once more. Wouldn't even dare accept me as their son were they here to witness my cruel acts meant only to avenge them, meant to bring about something I had so foolishly called justice…

Why would you do this, Clive? a reprimand suddenly broke through his thoughts. He gasped. It was his mother's… At the same time, he realised his sights had settled on the pale body of a mother, a dead new born limp in her arms.

Why would you betray your family, Clive? That was his father's voice now… He glanced to a man who had been burned alive. His breathing grew erratic.

Look at me, Clive, the voices demanded in unison as he beheld a child lying face down in the dirt, still and pale. His whole body trembled. Look at me, Clive!

"Look at me, Clive!"

Claire leapt forward in her seat, cupping Clive's cheeks in her hands and turning his face to hers. "Look at me!" she tried again. "Look at me!"

When the words finally penetrated his terror, Clive fixed his horror-stricken eyes on Claire. But the scientist was not the one to return his stare. Rather, it was his own mother.

"M—Mum…" The word slipped from Clive's lips in a shaking whisper. "I…I thought you were…" His voice trailed off. This couldn't be happening… His mother had been killed! So, why…? He shifted his bewildered gaze to the Professor. Surely, he'd have an explanation… This feeble hope was quickly crushed, however, when he noticed Layton's kind and compassionate regard replaced by his father's stern and disappointed glare.

"Dad…" he whimpered. "Don't…don't look at me…"

Clive shook like a scolded child and lowered his gaze, ashamed. He could feel the earlier pressure of prying eyes weighing upon his mind…but there was someone who was more chagrined, more humiliated than either of his parents. He hesitantly peered at the passenger's seat where Luke once sat…and grimaced. The boy clad in blue had been replaced by a boy clad in olive-green—a younger Clive. The child's piercing sights prodded his older counterpart with judgment sharper than his own father's.

You caused this destruction! the boy reproached. If you're who I become in the future, I don't want to grow up. I'd rather die!

These words came as such a shock to Clive, he flinched backward out of Claire's hold and wilted in his seat.

"Forgive me…," he breathed, crossing his arms over his head as if the three were planning to beat him. "Forgive me! My only wish was to avenge your deaths…and rebuild London as a city run by competent, truthful leaders… I see now how wrong I was…that I was driven insane by my own hatred!" He peeked through his arms at his family, their features beginning to blur as fear overpowered him. "If only I had died in your place… If only your miserable son…had been locked in that flat while you scoured the streets! Then London…and all those within it…would not have…would not…have been…"

Clive watched through drooping eyelids as his family swayed before him, then their bleary faces smeared upward across the overcast evening sky and everything was swallowed in darkness. There was the sound of a sharp creak. Someone urgently called his name. A sickening thud followed as well as a dull pain that radiated from his shoulder to his back. His hearing soon followed his sights, disappearing almost entirely, and, for a moment, he teetered between awareness and oblivion, until his sense of sound returned to a distant, jumbled noise. This uproar only grew louder and more chaotic as he gradually came to, and he soon realised it was emanating a few metres away from what he assumed were the fuzzy outlines of many people clustered together. Some were chatting idly. Some were yelling. Many were weeping. All seemed to tower above him, and it was then he remembered his momentary black out. With this recollection, his stiff muscles detected the cold, hard ground he currently lay upon. This certainly was an appropriate place for him, he supposed, pressing his fingers into the grit of the heavily trodden road. A criminal was as low as dirt, after all…

Slowly, feebly Clive peered around, allowing his vision to adjust as he attempted to understand his surroundings. He spotted a large opening in the crowds through which he could see a bit of what was left of London, a bit he hadn't previously seen, and it was buzzing with much activity. There were police cars packed together in a blockade on the fractured streets, their red and blue lights shuddering across the heaps of remains they cordoned. There were firefighters pouring from the fire engines scattered about the scene, extinguishing any additional burning buildings and clearing out lingering smoke. There were ambulances with doctors and nurses, dark vans with coroners, helicopters with more constables…and then, there they were, his own kind—reporters—fighting against the line of officers holding them back, hungry for the biggest scoop of the century. A dry smile played on his lips once more as he observed them shoving against one another, pens scrawling furiously on messy notepads. He could remember those days well. The early mornings, the late nights, the many people he had interviewed. Now the tables had turned. What would the innocent interviewer feel as he became the guilty interviewee, he wondered.

But, as he fully recovered his consciousness, Clive's smile vanished. Yes, he would be the guilty interviewee this time…while he was carried off to court by the police, found guilty, and sent to prison. And that's where he would be held with other criminals. Criminals whose crimes wouldn't even compare to what he had done. Criminals who would appear nearly innocent standing beside someone as filthy as himself. He didn't deserve a place like prison where he would still receive food, exercise, a means of survival. No… He deserved execution… His life was no longer valuable.

With this in mind, Clive pulled in his arms and legs and shakily picked himself up to his hands and knees. Even this slight ascent made his head throb, causing his sights to fade, his ears to ring, but he had to push himself, he knew. He couldn't stay here. If the police caught him, there would be no escape and no redemption for the city of London.

"Somebody, apprehend that man at once!"

Clive halted at the unexpected call. It sounded distant and muffled due to his weary state, but the voice was recognisable, very recognisable, indeed, and it sent a familiar hatred jolting red-hot through his gut. As he lifted his face to see standing before him Prime Minister Bill Hawks, the very man he had tried—and failed—to abolish alongside the city he had led in corruption, his loathing only grew hotter, like the flames that had claimed his parents. This man… He had used a human subject, his own colleague—Claire—to test a time machine he knew was not complete, both sending her forward in time and killing her… He had recklessly demolished his own research facility as well as many homes and lives in the resulting explosion. Had obscured his involvement in the incident by bribing the press. Had blinded himself to his own actions to scale the governmental ranks. All for money. All for fame. All for twisted, tainted power!

Clive clenched his teeth, consciously but reluctantly withdrawing his sights from their wicked Prime Minister. This hatred had caused his initial descent into insanity, after all, and look where it had landed him… Besides, his loathing was pointless now. As the Professor had divulged to him aboard the Mobile Fortress, Scotland Yard had learnt of Hawks' actions. The agency would deal with him accordingly and the leadership of London, once the city was rebuilt, could finally be restored. Yes, this was his focus now, Clive thought. The future good of a new London. At least he needn't worry about the city's government. But, in order for justice—actual justice—to prevail in the end, one last issue needed to be put to rest: Erasing the very existence of a lunatic named Clive. Now, to run…

Before Clive could take action, however, a powerful hand seized the collars of his ragged clothing and jostled him to his feet. He was nearly overwhelmed by the instantaneous, icy waves of adrenaline that flooded his body just then, his head spinning, dark spots forming at the corners of his vision, threatening to pull him under the surface once more. But even as his mind grew muddled, even as his consciousness drained out through his feet which now dragged along the ground as the officer shuffled him forward, the urge to escape howled and writhed within him like a dying animal fighting its last battle.

Release me at once! he shrieked internally, though the defeated cringe that began to pull at his ashen lips did not reflect his silent demand. There is no reason to preserve the life of someone so vile… I must do this crushed city a favour… I must end myself!

He attempted to kick, to thrash about, to scream in protest. But he couldn't. His body had become nothing more than a ragdoll in the officer's hold, and as he was forced to give up the fight, he helplessly watched as the darkness slowly claimed his sights and thoughts alike, swallowing him into an unconscious void once more. A few moments passed before Clive came to, awoken as the officer abruptly halted. He blinked once, twice, then feebly lifted his head to see Inspector Chelmey, a stern lawman of Scotland Yard, standing before him.

"You're coming with me, boy," the moustached man barked. "And I don't want any trouble!"

Clive's vision failed him again, Chelmey quickly fading to black. Surely, he was dreaming… Surely, he'd not been caught already, not been defeated so easily…

"Inspector, a moment, please?"

That was the Professor's voice, Clive noted somewhere in the back of his clouded mind. And he wished to speak with him… For a man of his esteem to continue involving himself with a rubbish lowlife… Why…?

Before professor and criminal had an opportunity to converse, however, the Prime Minister forcefully shoved Clive to the side as he marched up to Layton.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Hawks questioned, his voice infused with apprehension. Clive righted himself but lacked the strength at the moment to lift his head and watch the conversation, so he listened intently instead as the Prime Minister blustered on. "This man poses an imminent threat to our national security!"

"I cannot deny the damage Clive has done to our city," the Professor confessed.

The rasp of a humourless chuckle escaped Clive upon hearing this. It seemed they could agree on something in the end…

"But," Layton continued, "we can't forget that he's also a victim of a political agenda for progress, no matter the cost."

Clive's wry smirk vanished. Not only had the Professor insisted on speaking to him, but now he insisted on defending him… Surely, he didn't have a logical reason for protecting a monster?!

Well, no matter… Clive thought, his desire to flee returning, the banter from Layton and Hawks fading into the background as another plan began to take shape in his mind. If this innocent man was so willing to mingle with the guilty, to dirty his clean hands, then so be it. He had manipulated him once. He could do it again. Very easily. And once the Professor unknowingly helped him abscond, he would use what remained of the inheritance money he had earnt from his wealthy adopted mother and his contacts as a reporter to bribe the lawyers, the police, the newspapers—everything—to obscure his involvement with the Mobile Fortress. Yes, and when he took his own life, London could be rebuilt upon his remains… Then the memory of the great city's destroyer would be nothing but a fable, a tale told to naughty children if they stayed out past bedtime. He would fade away entirely from this earth and from history itself…

Fleeing… Obscuring your involvement in a criminal incident… Hiding from the truth… a voice in the back of his mind listed cynically. Who would that make you?

Clive ignored it. He couldn't have his conscience interrupting him now. Not when such a golden opportunity had been presented to him. A criminal like him no longer had a conscience, anyway…

As Layton finished his debate with the Prime Minister, Clive leant forward in the officer's hold, his eyes boldly trained on the man he would deceive one last time. His first order of business: Freeing his hands.

"Professor, I—"

"Constable," Layton cut the young man off as he addressed the officer who restrained Clive, lifting a hand in a halting gesture, "could you give us a moment, please?"

"But, Professor Layton—"

"We won't be long," the Professor said with finality, allowing no room for argument.

The officer was a bit concerned leaving Layton alone with the criminal, but he had helped Scotland Yard with many cases and all of the police force trusted his judgement. The constable nodded to the Professor, releasing Clive's arms and walking a few paces away, though he kept a sharp eye on the culprit from afar.

Well… thought Clive as he gingerly rubbed his wrists, that was quite a bit easier than I had expected…

"Now, before you attempt your grand escape," Layton began, an amused glint sparkling in his eye as Clive shot a bewildered look at him, "I'd like you to answer me one question. You knew full well I'd stand in the way of your plot to destroy London, so why did you send for me?"

The confidence that had flooded Clive's body quickly drained away again upon hearing this. The Professor's sharp intuition had pierced right through his flimsy plans already! Worse yet, Layton seemed to know something he himself did not… Unbelievable, this man! But, if he was honest, there was something even more frightening than the Professor's matchless deductive skills. This, he gravely realised, was his own inability to answer the man's simple enquiry. During his travels with Layton and Luke, he had worked out every event, every conversation, every miniscule detail in order to satisfy any curiosity the two could have possibly brought to his attention. This failure to respond now…this vulnerability…it made him feel nearly transparent before the Professor. As if the man could see into the very depths of his filthy soul… If he was to escape and save London at all now, he'd need to be rid of this far too perceptive man. And fast. Maybe a truthful explanation about the former accomplice he had worked with for a bit of his plot would suffice.

"Dimitri was sure he needed you for his project," Clive began, fixing his facial expression to appear unreadable as his mind frantically sifted through makeshift scheme after makeshift scheme, crafting something that would get him out of here, something even the Professor wouldn't detect.

However, his strategizing immediately halted as a memory came to him. Or rather, came back. This same vision had flashed through his mind while aboard the Laytonmobile—the blazing flat, the crumbling research facility, the young boy—him—and…the faceless character outlined in the dancing flames… Who was this…?

"I…I knew of the threat you posed to my plan…" Clive spoke slowly as his memories focused on that mysterious figure, restoring its facial features. "Though, I suppose I still led you all the way to the heart of my base, didn't I…? Initially, I was just toying with you. But, at some point…I realised I was enjoying our time together… Maybe…" he looked up to Layton, his eyes widening in surprise as the figure—a man—took on a more familiar appearance, "Maybe part of me wanted someone to save me from my all-consuming madness…," and finally, as the vision fully returned to him, Clive realised the man was none other than the Professor himself, "as you did all those years ago…"

Hearing this, Layton blinked in utter surprise. Clive had never seen the Professor's face imbued with such shock upon understanding something he had not yet pieced together himself, and his gaze stared off in the distance as he remembered a tragic memory of long ago. Clive, too, recalled that same fateful day one last time. Again, the awful reek of smoke assaulted his nostrils and he watched as his child counterpart aimlessly paced the frenetic streets, searching for his parents, hoping—praying—someone had saved them from the scorching flat. As he began to realise they were trapped inside, he tore off blindly for the fiery building, planning to rescue them, to sacrifice his life for theirs… But then the figure framed in the fire's light—the Professor…he had been there to save him…

"I need to go back!" the younger Clive shrieked as Layton wrapped his arms around the struggling boy's waist, withholding him from charging into his collapsing home. "My parents are still inside!"

"Pull yourself together, boy!" Layton cried as he whipped the child around to face him. He raised a hand into the smoke-infused air. SLAP! The hard smack sounded above the screaming masses, the emergency alarms, the crackling flames, so painful, so intense, Clive could feel it radiating against his left cheek even now. "There's nothing to be done." Layton gripped the boy by the shoulders, shaking him from his emotional stupor. "Jump back in there, and you'll die, too!"

As Clive returned from his past, he became aware of the cold tears trailing down his face. He didn't try to stop them this time, however, for they were…different… Almost liberating… He pondered these curious feelings and how they could possibly relate to such a disturbing memory. For many years, he had harboured a hatred as hot as the flames that had devoured his everything, and for many years, he had plotted London's destruction and supposed restoration. This anger had backfired…but why…? Not because he hadn't been willing to carry through with his plans…but because, he began to realise, he had unknowingly put a stop to them…by wishing for someone to rescue him, just as someone had rescued him as a child… That someone had been Professor Layton. This desire for a saviour, someone stronger than him…like a replacement father… This must have been what the Professor had known when he'd questioned him minutes ago.

Well met, Professor, Clive thought in light-hearted defeat, it seems I now have a suitable answer for you.

"That…was you…," Layton uttered as his own visions subsided. One of the biggest mysteries in his life had concerned the identity of the boy whom he had saved all those years ago. Now he knew.

"Deep down inside," Clive began, now confident in what he had hidden away in his unconscious for so long, "I'd hoped you might be able to talk me down from the edge of insanity again. This is the second time you've saved my life now. Thank you."

And what of his plans to escape? Clive thought just then. He was nearly free. If he fled now, he'd still have a chance to bribe the press, take his own life, let this broken city rebuild itself without the identity of its destroyer haunting its past, present, and future… Well, as his conscience had questioned, who would that make him? Not just a felon, but a felon as low and pathetic as the Prime Minister who had also used his money and power to conceal his mistakes.

No, thought Clive as his foggy sense of judgement began to clear after all this time. No, he was a criminal, that was certain. But he was a criminal who would uphold the truth. He'd not run. He'd not hide. He'd boldly accept what he had done. The people of London would label him terrible things—Prisoner! Delinquent! Killer! Lunatic!—and they would treat him like the very dirt they walked upon, but he would slowly make amends and learn from his mistakes. After all, before she had saved him from the collapsing Mobile Fortress, hadn't Claire told him this, that he could start anew? And then she had made an attempt to explain this again while aboard the Laytonmobile. He'd not believed her, dared not listen to her, for he had thought his sins were unforgivable, but now… He smiled on the inside. He would accept her offer. Maybe she was right. Maybe he hadn't been seeing the real truth. Maybe even the heart of a criminal could reveal something worthwhile.

"Clive…" Clive looked up upon hearing the Professor address him. Such concern in the man's voice… he thought with embarrassed reprieve. All because he was tearing up again…

"Don't worry about me," he reassured. "I intend to atone for my crimes." That smile he had withheld tugged helplessly at his quivering lips now. "I look forward to the day we meet again. Until then—"

"Professor!" a sudden distant call interrupted Clive. Both he and Layton looked to see Luke running up from the crowds. "Professor, there you are! The Inspector would like to—" But when the boy noticed whom Layton was speaking with, the words caught in his throat. As he came to an abrupt halt beside his mentor, Clive watched into the boy's hard eyes. They seemed to size him up, as if Luke would like nothing more than to take a nice swing or two at his face. "Oh… You're still talking with him…"

Or maybe it was more a kick in the stomach…

"Now, see here, Luke," Layton addressed his apprentice sternly, offended by such an ill-mannered rejoinder. "A gentleman is not so quick to judge!"

"Professor," Clive began softly, knowing he would have had to address this sooner or later, "allow me." He turned his full attention to Luke, regret swimming in his umber eyes. The boy had meant nothing to him when he had initiated his plans, but as irony would have it, the longer he travelled with the two, the more he saw them as another family. Just as he had begun to revere the Professor as a father, so too had he begun to revere Luke as a younger brother. And what older brother severely hurt a member of his family without apologising? "Luke… The people of London will never forgive me for the unmitigated suffering I have caused. I know this must very much include you. I used your name. I made you believe time travel, a Future London, a Future Luke truly existed. I lied to you…deeply betrayed you… But, I want you to know, whatever feelings you have towards me, I am very sorry." He watched the boy almost pleadingly. "Someday, when you've grown from Little Luke into Big Luke…promise me you'll be the gentleman I never was."

Luke watched the person he had come to both admire and hate all within such a short amount of time and slowly, his rigid expression softened. He could see something about the broken man—something in his face, his eyes, his very posture—that led him to believe Clive was telling the truth this time, that he really was hoping he would understand.

"I…I promise," Luke said and gave the poor man a smile. He couldn't admit it was a smile he really felt, but he knew Clive needed this simple kind gesture more than anything. He was beginning to grasp that whatever information had been exchanged between him and the Professor had contained very sensitive events that absolutely paralysed and devastated the formidable and confident Future Luke he had come to know. The Professor was right. A gentleman was not so quick to judge.

Reassured by Luke's words, Clive turned back to Layton, giving him a nod.

"I hope life treats you well…Professor Layton."

"And you too, Clive."

Clive gave the Professor one last smile before the police bound his arms once more. And as he was led away, he couldn't stop beaming. Certainly, he would be locked up in prison where he'd remain for decades, possibly for life, but though he'd be shackled physically, his mind, his heart, his very soul felt the constricting chains of the hatred and sorrow he had dragged with him for so long completely fall away as he stepped from the prison created by his own past. Finally, he was free.