I'm personally not that fond of this fanfiction... But I finished it quite a while ago so I thought, eh, why not upload it? Someone might enjoy reading it.

"So, Hershel Layton..."

The English gentleman squirmed and fumbled with his seatbelt as the plump woman and assessor next to him ticked another box. When she looked into Hershel Layton's eyes, her specs slid down her nose; he hoped that meant she couldn't see the beads of sweat running down his face, and the tight expression he wore. Composure, Hershel, composure...

"Okay, Mr. Layton," the spectator said at long last. "You can begin."

Right, Hershel, it's go time. He twiddled his fingers in anticipation. One, two, one, two...

The spectator leaned forward, eyeing him suspiciously. "Mr. Layton?" she croaked. "Are you sure you're prepared for this task?"

Layton bit his lip. Was he? The wheel suddenly turned to butter beneath his sweating palms, feeling as if it would slip away the moment he tried to turn it. His pulse pumped in his ears and his vision grew blurry, his head spinning. Regardless, he couldn't return as a failure - at least, one that hadn't even given a good fight beforehand. That would be completely and utterly becoming of a gentleman.

He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his brow, and nodded, foot pushing down on the pedal. Slowly, the car began to move under his weight. Maybe it could go well. He prayed it would go well. The first turn was coming and there was not much distance between it and the vehicle. A primary obstacle.

Much to Layton's surprise, he drove perfectly around the bend and began to loosen up once he had done so.

His spectator watched him as he drove with a newly found streak of confidence, jotting notes down on to the paper. Hershel was too pleased with himself to care what she wrote. He also knew he mustn't avert his eyes from the road if he was to successfully and, most importantly, safely, complete the task at hand. Though in the back of his mind he began to think of what car he would like to get if he was successful. The colour red would be quite suiting for a gentleman's vehicle, he thought, but the choices in design were seemingly endless... Perhaps he would have to ask Claire for her opinion first, see what she, a lady of style, was comfortable with.

He couldn't wait to see her face when he came back with his license. Prepared for the road, at long, long la-

"Watch it, Mr. Layton!"

Hershel aruptly awoke from his fantasties. Oh dear. Just a meer few centimetres in front of the bonnet was a cardboard person set up as an object for the test. Hershel eyed it in disgust.

"Thank the heavens that wasn't a real person, Mr. Layton," the spectator tutted under her breath, "or else you would have been in unspeakable amounts of trouble. Get focused."

"Get focused." Was that all she had to say? She was getting him into gear by being firm - that of which he was sure - but now he felt disheartened, and quite scared of what the woman next to him would do.

He strained his eye's focus on the road as he started the car again. Come on, Hershel. You can do this.

Eventually, the spectator had written so much, she had to turn the paper around in search of more space to write on. From the corner of his eye, Layton watched her do this, and the knot in his stomach tightened. Neither of them had noticed that for a while, but the road's course had been relatively straightforward. Of the few things Hershel did notice, one was how "cleverly" set up the course was. It looked like an actual American neighbourhood peeled straight from a movie concept board. There were even the miniscule yet charming additions, which showed a clear eye for detail: battered red postboxes, newspapers on doormats, a lost dog poster... A lost...dog...poster...

That dog poster reminded someone of a puzzle.

The car lost control.

Layton grimaced as he left the building. What an eventful trial that had been - and an unsuccessful one all around.

As soon as he had opened his eyes after the car crashed, he wished he hadn't. Smoke billowed from the open, trampled bonnet, as it awkwardly pressed up against a tree trunk. Everything was silent.

"A-Ah! O-Oh dear!" he cried. "A-Are you o-o-okay, m-ma'am?!"

The spectator rose from her seat; her clipboard was still in her grip, as was her pen, but ink from it had splotted her dress and the windows of the car. She didn't bother to make anymore notes. No more notes were needed.

"D-Does this m-m-mean," he spluttered, "t-the test is o-o-over...?"

The woman's face was red with anger as she stringed leaves from her hair. "Well, what do you think, Einstein?!" she yelled. "The car's bust!"

And with that, Layton had opened the door and walked away, his head drooping in his embarassment.

Oh, what fun the half-an-hour drive home would be, he thought bitterly. Clark's car was parked perfectly in his view, with Claire sat beaming at him from the passenger seat, completely unaware that he, Hershel Layton, was a failure. Great. Just, great.

Hershel attempted to sustain his composure and walked over to the door. He slid into the backseat without so much as a glare into Claire or Clark's eyes, thinking that maybe he could make it easy. Or...maybe he would act plain naive.

Claire nor Clark were dumb. As soon as he stepped in, they bombarded him with questions not unlike his expectations.

"Hey, Hershel, how did it go?"

"What's with that black mark on your head?"

"What was the spectator like?"

"How many points did you get?"

He squirmed silently under all the attention. His girlfriend Claire raised a quizical eyebrow. "Hershel?"

"C'mon, spit it out!" Clark barked.

Layton sighed, looking down at his lap. If he had to be brutally honest with the pair, then so be it. A gentleman was always honest, after all. (Even if it ment all of his pride and dignity disappearing within seconds. But the man digressed.)

"Not very well, Claire," he sighed. "Not very well at all."

"Huh? Why not?" she replied, twisting between the seats.

"Well... I, er..." He stumbled over his words. "I got distracted and, er, bumped into a tree-"

"You WHAT?"

Clark burst into tears of laughter. (In fact, one could liken his laughing to that of hyena - quite scary, that is.) Claire joined in with him discreetly, her hand stifling her sniggers. With every passing second of hysteria, Hershel became more and more distressed.

"Claire! C-Clark! It isn't funny!" he exclaimed.

Mr. Triton sighed and wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry, Hershel, it's just... Oh, never mind."

Layton rolled his eyes and laughed. Inside, he truly wanted to stay mad at them both, but regardless of their antics, he could never do such a thing. Claire leaned towards him and kissed his head as he chuckled to himself.

"Don't worry," her voice said. "You will get there eventually."

He really did.

"What an...interesting story," Luke mumbled.

With a finished pot of tea in his hands, the boy arose from the sofa. He enjoyed the professor's stories. A lot, actually, especially when they involved something about his dad which he could use to his one was now a particular favourite of his. To think that the great Professor Layton had failed a puzzle... Luke had learned something from that painstakingly humorous tale: it doesn't matter if you make countless mistakes doing something, as long as you do not stop.

As the professor began to put on his familiar brown coat and leave the office, the young boy piped up with a question.

"...Professor?"

"Yes, my boy?" he replied, looking back.

"You finally got to pick a car," Luke said, "but why did you pick such a rickety old one like the Laytonmobile?"

"Rickety" and "old" - those two words pricked up Layton's ears, and for a minute he was going to lecture the boy on his levels of appreciation. Suddenly, he smiled to himself, amidst deep thoughts, his hands linked across his chest and his eyes prised shut.

"Well, Luke, whilst I'd like to believe the Laytonmobile isn't truly as you described..." he said. "sometimes people go far out of their way for those they love."