Notes - Set post-PL3 by a few months, containing heavy spoilers for the plot of the third game. I'll admit that while I avoid doing "bashing" work that I dislike Bill Hawks and this story does not portray him in a positive light.
With the next election rapidly approaching things couldn't be going better for Bill Hawks, current Prime Minister of England.
There had been… an incident, let's call it that. A mad man had kidnapped him, fabricating a story of a future that did not actually exist, attempting to destroy London because of his own, radical, beliefs.
That had been the story the world was told. Everyone knew about the kidnapping now and they all knew that, thanks to the brave actions of that Professor Layton, Bill had been saved.
Bill was a noble survivor of a terrible incident.
There was no way he wouldn't win the next election.
There was no way he was in the wrong.
What people didn't know about was why it had all happened in the first place. They would never fathom that Bill had once been a scientist himself, that he had actually not only believed in all of this time travel nonsense but had also once tried to achieve it. There were no records showing that he had been the one to cause the explosion that had cost so many lives, Bill had seen to it that they were disposed of and anyone who went looking for them was dealt with.
And who even cared about a young lady called Claire who had died working in that lab because of him?
Layton cared. And Dimitri had cared too.
Poor, foolish Dimitri. So blinded by his love for a woman who saw him as nothing more than a work colleague. It was pitiful thinking back to the way he'd held her lifeless body, whimpering her name. Then it became almost laughable when Dimitri had fallen out of the scientific community because he couldn't handle the grief, while Bill had been thrust to the absolute seat of power – becoming the Prime Minister.
It hadn't surprised him all that much in retrospect that a crazy boy had convinced the equally crazy Dimitri to help him with his schemes.
Oh, the boy had lost his parents in that explosion too, hadn't he?
As if he wasn't better off!
Bill sneered. That boy, Clive, had been adopted into such a wealthy family. If Bill had been in his shoes then he would have counted his blessings that his parents had died if it resulted in that, then he'd have counted them again when the rich old lady passed away to leave all of her money to him. But apparently this wasn't good enough for Clive, who still wanted his revenge for what had happened all those years ago.
But he had failed, thanks to Layton and that little team of his.
When it came to the professor, Bill had to admit that he'd been a bit worried at first. Layton was one of the only people left who knew the full story – he could have easily exposed Bill for everything if he had wanted to. But he didn't. He wasn't driven to get revenge for the loss of Claire like Dimitri had been.
Though, admittedly, he hadn't seemed driven by much at all the last time Bill had heard about him. Not only had he lost his love for the second time but to top it all off that annoying little apprentice of his had left the country. The professor had nothing. But he just seemed to smile and get on with it, because that is what a gentleman does.
That 'gentleman' was a fool too, but at least he seemed to pose no threat to Bill.
No one posed a threat to Bill now.
Bill was at the top of his game, at the top of England, and nothing could stop that.
So why… why could he not sleep at night?
Why did he keep getting all of these nightmares about giant robotic creatures crushing London, about laboratories burning to the ground with the possibility that he might not be the one to escape this time, about his heart being hooked up to a machine that would crumble if he dared move from it? Why was he having these dreams now?
He had lived through it all and he was right! They were wrong! And yet…
…His wife was starting to ask questions. It was to be expected, if someone you lived with frequently awoke screaming in the middle of the night you'd ask questions too. But he couldn't tell her without her finding out about everything he had done.
As the election drew closer he could not stand it anymore. Freeing up his schedule for one morning he made a very private visit to the prison. No one who knew of the visit would dare speak about it; he'd make sure of that.
Sitting down in the chair provided, Bill waited for the person he was 'visiting' to be brought forward. He suspected that he looked quite haggard at the moment, having been visited by another one of his nightmares before coming, but he looked nothing compared to the person they sat before him.
Clive did not appear to be the person he had done a few months ago. He had lost what others might have called the spark, but Bill preferred to think of as the insanity, from his eyes. He looked like a shell of a man. He sat, not resisting, in the chair he was led to and stared at a spot in the floor without seeing it.
This was when Bill truly saw what he'd done. During the incident Clive would have looked with him with the utmost hatred and disgust. Bill had taken from Clive everything he'd held dear and Clive had been bitter. But now there was none of that. There was nothing. That made him feel ever so slightly smug inside.
"I thought you'd like to know that I'm tipped to win the next election," he started.
Though he'd expected Clive to make some snide remark about either not caring or that Bill had rigged the voting, he got no response.
So he went on to say, "That is all thanks to you, of course. I'll admit that my policies during my current run may have put me out of favour for a while, but after surviving everything you'd put me through people think of me as a hero who belongs in this role."
There was still no reaction; it was as if Clive couldn't hear him.
"Your response disappoints me – I thought your whole motive was because you were against my political agenda and wanted me out of power," he pressed.
Nothing.
"You are a terrorist, boy, and now you are locked away like the rat you are," Bill hissed.
Silence.
"Why is it that I'm getting nightmares about this when I am in the right and you are in the wrong? Answer me!" he roared, leaning across the table.
Now he got a response, as small as it might be. Clive lifted his gaze from the floor to stare directly at Bill, his eyes still blank and not taking in what they were looking at.
"I don't feel guilty! You deserved what you got! Your parents were nothing and Claire was worthless too! If it was up to me you'd be rotting down there with them, but as things stand you'll stay here and never see the light of day again!" he raged, not even realising that he was now on his feet, shaking all over.
"Prime Minister, perhaps you should leave now, this is clearly not good for your health…"
It hadn't been Clive who had spoken, but a simple prison guard who had overseen the whole conversation.
Breathing heavily, Bill dabbed his forehead with a cloth, before answering, "Yes… There is no point debating this… I should go." He then stared at the guard, "You will not speak of this again."
"Of course not, Prime Minister," the guard assured him.
As Bill left Clive was walked away quietly; broken and not a harm to anyone. That alone should have satisfied Bill, but it did not.
The months came to an end and the result of the election were announced – Bill Hawks was to be the Prime Minister once more.
He was still in control.
Clive was still in prison.
Claire was still dead.
Dimitri was still insane.
Layton was still mourning.
Luke was still gone.
And the nightmares…? They still did not stop.