Clive Dove and the Appeasing of the Boy in Blue.

Summary: Ten years have passed and Clive reflects on his former mistakes and his untouched craving for justice. As he finds himself in an unhealthy patch of insouciance and detachment from the world around him, he begins a journal. As he progresses with tracking his thoughts, he decides that he should enlist in the help of Hershel Layton to help salvage what's left of his sanity. Perhaps then he'll make his own way in the world of detectives. That is with the help of the Professor, Luke Triton and (ironically) Flora Reinhold.
(Eventual ClxFl)

Disclaimer: I am in no way associated with Level-5. I do not own any characters associated with its' brand.

AN: I wasn't sure if I should post this. I haven't had a chance to be on a computer for a while but this has been completed for a long time so I figured I might as well! I hope you enjoy it.

x Vi.

1. Prologue.

I'm writing to you from ten years into the future. I have the strangest sense of melancholy when writing that sentence. I have, after all, said it before. A long time ago now. It does make me feel something though. And I do not get much sensation of memories as of late. So here I am writing to you from ten years into the future. Although this time, I almost am. That is, if I am to assume that whoever you are…we've met before. So if we have met and you do find my words in your hands… I pray that you were one of the people I met before I found myself in a jail cell. I also trust that you were one of those people whom I actually cared for. There was not a profusion of individuals who met this category but I'll write to you as though I am, indeed, greeting an old friend. If you are here taking in my passage and assuming that you were a friend… I suppose I should say hello. I'm sure you haven't seen me in an enormous quantity of time. Though time has never been a comrade of mine. If I did happen to stay in contact with you before my sentence then the last time you would have seen me would've have been during my early twenties. I'd become consumed by work in that time. And if you had really been close to me I'm sure you'd recall that I was arrested by twenty-three. I need not tell you my age now. At least not frankly. Perhaps I'll unravel it subtly as to not swallow my pride. Or perhaps I won't at all. My age isn't something I anticipate to reveal. Nor is it a symbol of how far I've come. Rather I find it's an indication of how much of my lifetime I've wasted in a cell. I've shattered ten whole years. I believe that serving my time was the right decision but it doesn't make me anymore satisfied with the period that has diminished before my eyes. By the way, I just hinted at my age. Did you catch it? Then again, you still won't hear me admit it to you.

No one was waiting for me upon my release. Deep down, I'd honestly hoped that he… no, of course no one had bothered. I don't have much left. Of anything really. The majority of my possessions were destroyed in the most foolish of my ploys ten years ago. I suppose it serves me right. I feel as though I'm wasting away. Even in my state of autonomy I feel constrained. I've found the things I used to enjoy now bring me no satisfaction. I feel as though I've failed myself and the scarce few who cared for me. Although I'm positive they no longer mind at all. I left with no other options. I pushed all and sundry away only to unearth myself in a condition of self-induced seclusion and remoteness. Not a soul has breathed a word to me in days. I fear that there is no way I will ever dig myself out this hole. I faced jail with a high-held head knowing that I'd been saved, for the second time, by Hershel. However I am without help now. And I'm far too apprehensive to visit him. I hardly know what's become of him! I wasn't even sure he was still breathing until I found his name in the paper a few weeks ago, (thankfully for his co-operation in a recent complex robbery case not under the 'funeral notices'. Call me cruel if you wish, but I've come to mistrust the passing of time). I wonder what happened to that slightly-proportioned, self-proclaimed "apprentice" of his. As much as it confuses me to divulge it, the boy was like my own brother. Ironically, I recall he'd be turning twenty-three this year.

I can't really grasp how much time has slipped past me. I remain in this one spot; walking in the same circles, numbed. Only to realize the rest of the world is tearing forward, when I can barely conjure the interest to become equal with it. I am fraught with the desperation to move forward. But as soon as a solution has been elicited… my whole entirety rejects it and holds me down onto the same place. Somehow my mind keeps jumping back to the idea of visiting the old professor. The contemplation of facing him again frightens me. It's only because, as hard as it is to write, I'm ashamed of myself. My former pride in myself has been diminished only to be replaced with a consciousness of frantic yearning for more. To be better and to have meaning. I don't want to be known for my desire for vengeance any more. I wish to be salvaged from this grim landmark in my being. And if I follow through with my plan to locate Hershel… I might just be saved a third time.

Sincerely (or not so sincerely. I'm struggling with self-discovery as of late),
Clive Dove.