Finally found a pen name I liked. Thank goodness. You do not want to know how long I spent listing and rejecting candidate pseudonyms. Random Latin phrases, obscure organisms, even League of Legends character titles...
But anyway, please offer criticism, dear readers. I could certainly use it. Writing well is not and has never been a strength of mine. I hope, with your assistance, that I will improve. Even a simple "I hated your word choice" means the world to me.
Do not expect regular updates. It takes me forever and a day to write even 1k words. Trust me, the next chapter will come eventually. Probably.
The other chapters will be longer, fear not. I wanted to include Chapter 1 here, but a) I'm nowhere near finishing Chapter 1, and b) I wanted to keep the Prologue short and simple; it's mostly filler and exposition anyway. Also, if I can't write a good Prologue, I'm probably not ready to write the rest of the story.
Prologue
The Train
It is a curious thing, the human mind's fascination with trains. So often we associate them with exhilaration, with mystery, with adventure, yet we know exactly where we begin and where we will end up.
Indeed, mused the Professor, even he was not immune to such sentiments, and he had access to perhaps the best and most beautiful mode of transportation in all of London. Of course, few others would refer to the Laytonmobile as such, but they simply didn't understand the charm of the vehicle. He had to admit, though, that the locomotive's appeal seemed universal even in this day and age.
He also had to admit that never had such a long period of time passed during which he could not keep himself engaged. Thankfully, Rosa had offered to take care of Flora in his absence, but he couldn't help selfishly wishing that he brought her along, if only to keep him occupied.
Sighing, he glanced around at his compartment. Nothing fancy. The plain wooden plank apparently (and in his opinion, generously) deemed a "table" protruded from the wall at...not precisely a right angle, to put it mildly. The puce-colored seats, though rather comfortable to his body, definitely did no favors for his mind; he, like many others, considered the color somewhat repulsive, and he also recalled that the word "puce" meant "flea" in French and that—actually, he really didn't want to think about puce any more than he needed to. In a desperate attempt to focus on something less disgusting and find something, anything to do, he stared intently at his russet trunk, as though attempting to solve a particularly baffling brainteaser; however, the lack of an actual puzzle to solve meant that his concentration still failed to alleviate his boredom. Having literally nothing else to admire, he turned to the landscape, but to his dismay he found himself temporarily blinded by the sun, shining directly through the window. (And the chartreuse curtains—hell, the seats looked fantastic in comparison!) Though the fact that a single, tiny lamp affixed to the ceiling served as the small space's only other source of illumination made him grateful that the sun was up at all.
All in all, rather uninspiring. Certainly nothing compared to the last train he'd been on.
But as long as it didn't take him to a phantom town in the middle of nowhere, he supposed he shouldn't complain terribly much.
Oh, yes. He'd almost forgotten the purpose of this trip altogether. Reaching into a coat pocket (few people knew, but the professor had quite a few of them), he withdrew a rather crumpled letter. Why not read it again? Preferably slowly, in fact.
Hello, Professor Layton! That's what they call you now, isn't it? I'll have to get used to that.
Anyway, I'm getting married to Angela in a week. I mean, at this point no one's surprised or anything, but we might as well make it official, right?
So that's why I've written this letter. Because I want you to be at the ceremony.
Besides, we've got lots of catching up to do. Monte D'Or isn't the same anymore; for one, we've opened the Akbadain Ruins and Infinite Vault to the public, and there are actually a lot of people interested in Azran stuff. Probably because the entire city rose and miraculously escaped being buried under sand. I mean, I'd be interested in people who had the technology to do something like that.
Also, almost everybody who lives here knows you, so don't be too surprised if people, like, ask for an autograph or something. Believe it or not, some of the intellectuals here practically worship you.
Don't worry, though. You'll learn to appreciate it.
In all honesty, it would really mean a lot to me if you came here within the next four or so days. We'll have plenty to talk about, I'm sure. If nothing else, Angela and Alphonse can provide us with as much town gossip as we'll ever need.
I hope to see you soon!
Sincerely,
Randall
...Well, at least the last two lines were customary. But then again, no one in their right mind would ever label Randall a conformist. Or writer. Comedian, however, fit nicely.
Needless to say, the Professor had been more than happy to accede to Randall's...request. Besides, he hardly had anything else of importance to take care of.
His feeling of excitement quickly faded when he remembered the length of the journey. Driving there had taken an entire day; at the time, he didn't even know if his poor Laytonmobile could survive the whole distance. But surely, by train, the experience wouldn't be so bad...right?
As he now knew, absolutely not.
"Excuse me, sir?"
Professor Layton looked up. "Hm?"
To his shock, someone he'd only just met that day looked back at him.
The conductor, who had somehow slid the door open and sat down across from him without making a sound, grinned. The smile on his rectangular, spotless face, combined with his friendly yet piercing hazel eyes, seemed sinister, though Layton could not pinpoint precisely why he felt unease. He did, however, notice that what the man wore now differed slightly from his morning attire. He'd replaced his tie, which previously almost hurt the Professor's eyes with its ridiculously saturated red color, with an equally saturated midnight black alternative. His uniform had also changed from gray to navy blue. The white dress shirt he wore underneath, however, remained the same.
"Hello, Mr. Layton," he said cheerfully. "I'd say it's been a while...but it really hasn't, has it?" He chuckled. "And because I know you're going to ask, I spilled coffee on myself about an hour ago. Left quite the stain, so I had to don some new clothing; after all, a gentleman should never be the cause of others' discomfort."
"Which makes your unexpected entrance all the more peculiar, does it not?" Professor Layton pointed out. "Why are you here?"
Not intimidated in the least, the conductor laughed loudly. "Am I already making you uncomfortable? I'm very sorry. However, I must insist that you come with me. A potential...problem has arisen, you see."
"Now wait—" the Professor began to object before the conductor swore under his breath.
"Wait, first I was supposed to—oh, where is it?" he muttered in frustration, feeling the pockets of his trousers. "Oh, of course. Here." He handed the Professor a small, gold coin. Inscribed on one side was a cursive 7, on the other an image of a poker table. "Do you recognize this?"
"It's from a slot machine from the Gilded 7 Casino...in Future London." The Professor stared incredulously. "But...how did you—"
The conductor's expression brightened considerably. "Now that's what I was looking for! Do you remember what you did with this coin?"
After a little thinking came the response, "I fired it from a gun fashioned from slot machine parts."
"Excellent. Sharp as ever." The conductor stood up. "Now if you would follow me, please?"
The conductor stepped into the corridor, a frowning Professor Layton behind him. "You still haven't specified what the issue is."
"You'll see for yourself soon," the conductor replied nonchalantly, strolling down the hallway. "In the meantime, what are your thoughts so far?"
"...On what?"
"The train, its service, that sort of thing."
"Oh. It's—" Hm. He hadn't even left his cabin yet, had he? "It's excellent, thank you."
The conductor snorted. "Ever the kind man. I can tell that you haven't been to any of the other parts of the train. No one genuinely thinks that about our train." He lowered his voice. "And I really shouldn't be telling you this, but if you decide to go to the dining car, don't ask for a cup of tea. They forgot to restock, so they're serving the stuff watered-down. And never order any of the seafood. You don't want to know how many complaints about food poisoning we've gotten."
Layton grimaced. "That sounds...unpleasant. I was hoping they had Sugar Smoke."
"Eh." A shrug. "I'm more a Belle Classic type of guy. Luckily, I had the foresight to bring my own teabags...actually, do you want any of them? Earl Grey? Green tea? Chamomile?"
The Professor held his hand up. "I can manage."
"Nonsense!" The conductor exclaimed. "Here; take one, at least—oops." He swore. "Stupid thing always falls out of my hand." Bending over, he reached down and picked up the tea packet. "Well, here you go. One Earl Grey."
With a nod, Layton pocketed the gift. "Thank you."
"No problem. Now, what were we discussing? Ah, yes, the dining car...believe me, though, it looks a hell of a lot better than the rest of the cars. Just take a look at where you've been this whole time! I can only assume you have the same opinions as I do regarding the decor."
"I believe that is a topic best avoided," the Professor responded, the corners of his lips only barely curled upwards. "It is both amusing and distressing."
"True, true. How about..."
And so the conductor continued lambasting his own company, much to the amusement of our top-hatted friend. So enthralling was his polemic that the Professor slowly forgot about why he left his compartment...
"But hey, I don't know. I just work here. And oh look, we're at the back of the train," the conductor commented, much to Layton's surprise. "Anyway, someone's waiting on the observation deck for you. He says you've met him before."
"Did he give a name?"
The conductor shook his head. "No, sir. A rather odd fellow."
"I see..." Professor Layton frowned. "Did he mention why he needed me?"
The conductor shook his head. "I wasn't provided with any details. But it must be important."
"I agree. But still, not informing you of his intentions is a bit...strange."
"Well, you'll find out what his intentions are now, anyway." The conductor gestured to the door. "Let's enjoy some tea together, after you're all done with whatever you need to do."
"A splendid idea. Tea is best shared." The Professor stepped forward and turned the doorknob. "But first comes business."
He walked onto the observation deck...and stopped.
Even if he didn't recognize the man in front of him, he would have done a double take. Not many Londoners, him included, regularly encountered haggard-looking Russians with fedoras. This particular man, however, Layton knew quite well. Too well, perhaps.
The genius in the lab coat.
This person was not someone he expected to be here.
"I thought you were incarcerated...?" the Professor inquired.
Dimitri Allen smiled faintly.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"