Desmond Sycamore was probably one of the most esteemed archaeologists since Dr. Schraeder.
Then again, he was one of the few experts (one of the few people, really) in his field. The study of the Azran civilization. It was difficult finding information at all on them, yet the professor made leaps and bounds on the subject.
Figuring out the language of this civilization proved to be the hardest by far, and he even had given presentations on it and trying to explain the meaning behind the strange symbols.
His wife, Olivia, was always encouraging him to fulfill his dreams of cracking the great mystery behind the Azran. His daughter, Violet, seemed happy to help.
She was a smart, thoughtful girl, her auburn hair flowing down her back in dips and soft, wavy curls. Her bright maroon eyes seemed to hold anyone in a trance. Truly, she had gotten her beauty from her mother.
He was content for the time, and it had seemed forever since he had felt this… happy. His parents had gotten taken away by an organization -- what seemed to be an occult, at the time, Desmond couldn't say for sure -- and were forced to work for them. His father had been an archaeologist in the same field that he was in right now -- the Azran. He had just made a big discovery when they had come, and stole Desmond's life from him at such a small, tender age of seven. His younger brother couldn't have possibly been taken care of by him alone. Desmond had no choice but to put them up for adoption.
When news came that a young couple wanted to adopt him, and not his sibling, Desmond had switched names with his younger brother. Hershel seemed to fit the four-year-old better, at any rate.
When 'Hershel' had left, Desmond had thrown himself into archaeology, pouring over book after book in his father's study. He had neglected to eat, to sleep, and soon found himself too weak (and too cold, winter was approaching) to do anything.
Raymond had found him then. His best friend. His loyal companion. He had brought the poor boy back to health, and learned about what happened to his family.
That was when he had set out for revenge on the organization called 'Targent'. He moved into London, where (hopefully) he could get letters regarding his brother sooner. The Laytons were very kind to send him letters; they seemed like the only ray of sunshine on his darkened road to revenge.
He had met Olivia when on his way to the mailbox down the street; he was writing to the Laytons. She looked at him with hazel eyes, grinning.
"Hello!" She had said. Desmond, who had been looking over his letter, quickly shot his maroon eyes towards the woman, suddenly defensive. The men who had taken his parents had been familiars, that is, they had come over often to visit with them. No one could be trusted.
"Hello," he said back, brushing his curly, auburn hair out of his face. His hair was naturally wavy, and it bunched around his neck -- 'pigtails', some people called it. His answer was short, clipped, and when he continued forward to place the letter in the box, Olivia had stopped him.
"I see you all the time around here." Desmond grimaced, but tried to keep the conversation polite.
"I… write a lot," was his explanation. Olivia's eyes brightened then, and a grin spread over her face. She leaned on the postal box.
"You do? I just paint. I'm around here a lot, too. This is my favorite spot." She seemed hungry for attention, Desmond realized. He cleared his throat, and straightened his tie, uncomfortable.
"So… you're bored?" He asked. At this, she let out a long, drawn out sigh.
"Oh, my gosh, yes. I'm in a creative funk right now. I just can't get out of it."
"That's… unfortunate. I'm sorry." Desmond placed the letter in the box, and turned. "Nice meeting you." It was silent for a moment, then he heard footsteps behind him.
"Wait! Could I paint you, uhh…?" Desmond paused for a moment, then looked back at the woman, letting out a sigh.
"Desmond. Desmond Sycamore." The girl stuck out her hand.
"Olivia. Olivia Tracy." Desmond stared at her outstretched hand for a moment, then shook it. She seemed to be bursting with energy.
"So…? Can I paint you, Mr. Sycamore?"
"Please. Call me Desmond." Olivia nodded, and Desmond soon realized she was waiting for an answer. He thought about it; he didn't really have much to do at home. He could always do research on Targent later -- his questions had to be few and far in between, as to not raise suspiscion, and he always had to come up with a new disguise for that -- and he was in a stump from a puzzle left by the Azran. He really had nothing to do.
"I believe that's okay… but I need to call home first." Olivia's smile was the brightest thing Desmond had ever seen, and he couldn't help giving her a small smile of his own. He walked over to one of the telephone booths in the area, and called Raymond.
He picked up after two rings. "Desmond Sycamore's office, Raymond speaking."
"Hey, Raymond."
"Ah!" Raymond's voice changed from formal to casual in an instant. "What are you calling for, Desmond?"
"I've... been caught up in something."
"Do you need me to be there for you?"
"...No. I think I'll be fine. I'm just by the mailbox. Someone asked me to be their inspiration for a painting."
"Is it, by chance, Olivia Tracy, Desmond?" His eyes widened.
"Yes. Why?"
"She's a famous painter. We went to her exhibit, remember?" Something like that was ringing a bell in Desmond's mind.
"It's coming back to me. I'll just be a little later coming home, then."
"Alright. See you then."
"Bye, Raymond." He hung up, and turned back to Olivia, who was looking at him curiously.
"Who was that?" She asked. "Was it your sweetheart?"
"Heavens, no! I just called my guardian to let him know I'd be later."
"Are you… a minor?"
"No. Raymond's just a worrywart if I don't let him know what's going on." Olivia smiled.
"It's nice to have someone who cares that much about you, huh?" Desmond let out a singular chuckle, more a sharp exhale of breath than anything, and stepped towards her.
"Yeah, I guess."
"So, what do you do, Desmond?" Desmond looked up from where he was sitting on the park bench. Ever since that day, Desmond had slowly been going out of his way to meet her. Desmond couldn't help but admit that he had fallen for the artist. And he had fallen hard.
"Hm?" He watched as she sat down next to him, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck.
"What do you do? Besides writing, of course."
"Ah. Writing is just a hobby. I am an archaeologist." Olivia's eyes widened.
"Woah! So cool! Isn't that where you uncover forgotten civilizations?" Desmond let out a genuine chuckle; her enthusiasm was contagious.
"Yeah, something like that."
"So do you have, like, actual artifacts?"
"Yes, they're in my office."
"Wow!" It was silent for a moment, and Desmond couldn't help but think of why she seemed so interested in what he was into. Then, she spoke again.
"Can I see them?" Desmond froze. Slowly, however, he relaxed. It didn't seem like she was trying to steal his work. He gave her a tight smile.
"Of course." She grinned, wrapping her arms around him. Desmond wasn't sure if he had squeaked or not, but he could feel the bright red flush creep up his face. She pulled away, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she flushed, too.
"Was that… too far?" She muttered. Desmond couldn't trust himself to speak so he pulled her in for a kiss instead.
When Violet was born, Desmond couldn't even fathom being any happier than he was in that moment. When she opened her eyes, when she first smiled, when she laughed for the first time… those were the happiest moments of his life, by far.
Raymond had decided to be their butler, doing everything he could for the Sycamore family.
When Violet was three, they went to see The Phantom of the Opera. Desmond could only stare in complete adoration when his daughter looked around the theatre, eyes wide with awe. She gripped his hand.
"Pretty!" She exclaimed. He hoisted her up onto his lap, pushing her hair -- so much like his -- out of her face. She grinned.
"It is beautiful, isn't it, my little flower?" She giggled.
"Mhm!" The lights dimmed, and she let out a little gasp as the curtains rose, and Christine appeared on the stage.
"Woah!"
"Shhh, Violet."
"Daddy?" He grinned down at her.
"Yes?"
"Will I be as pretty as her?"
"You're already as pretty as she is, my dear."
"Another letter?" Olivia asked as she looked over her husband's shoulder. Desmond let out a soft grunt of confirmation, tossing it onto his desk. He placed his head into his hands.
"They just won't leave me alone." And he knew why. Targent always got what it wanted. Seeing his father's signature on the bottom of each letter, however… Desmond was both horrified and disgusted. His father, who had fought with Targent the most on leaving his sons… had become one of them -- their leader.
And now he was asking Desmond to join their cause.
"Well, honey, maybe you should listen to them? They did offer a very stable job, after all. Didn't you say your father is one of them?"
"Olivia, you don't understand. These people are dangerous. They took my parents away by force, leaving me and Hershel alone. And now we're separated too. I get letters, but… it's not the same, you know?" Olivia frowned, stroking her husband's hair softly.
"If you join them, will you have to leave us, too? Will you never come back?"
"I'm afraid I will never see you or Violet again." Olivia paused.
"Well… tell them no! They're sure to listen if you say that you have family, won't they?" Desmond shook his head.
"They're not that forgiving."
"Try it. Trust me."
Try it. Trust me.
It had been only a few days since he sent that godforsaken letter back. It was a busy day, Desmond coming home later than usual.
The lights were still on as he pulled up to their home. How odd. Normally, Olivia would have put Violet to bed by now. He tried the door before fishing his keys out of his pocket. The door was unlocked.
Something was definitely off. He opened the door, calling to his family as he shut the door with a soft click.
"Olivia? Violet, honey?" There was no response, and it was quiet. If Violet was still awake, he'd definitely be hearing something right now. He moved through the house, stopping at the doors to the foyer. He was startled at the red leaking out from behind the wooden doors. He immediately tried to open them, only to find they were locked.
"Olivia! Violet?!" He braced himself, then kicked the door with an incredible amount of force. Once, twice… the doors flew off their hinges, hitting the walls with a loud bang.
Desmond couldn't contain the scream that leapt from his throat. He wasn't even sure if it sounded human, his shock and agony forcing an almost animalistic scream from his throat.
The floor was stained red, their furniture ruined with little drops of crimson that was already browning. This, however, did not bother him.
No, his attention was brought to his wife and daughter, collapsed on the floor, their hair, their clothing, everything was red. He rushed over to them, checking their necks for pulses. His hands became coated in blood almost instantly, his clothing damp with viscera.
His breath was quick and unsteady, who, who did this echoing through his mind. Tears poured down his face in steady streams, falling into the red below. The smell of metal was overpowering. He couldn't stop the shaking in his hands. His voice was high-pitched, frantic.
"No no no, you can't be -- no!" His hands brushed his wife's clumped, sticky hair out of her face. Her eyes were still open, wide in fear from an unseen danger. He couldn't stop the tears from falling, then. He had done this. It was his fault, his fault they're dead, you killed them Desmond. He closed her eyes with his fingertips, sobbing into a bloodied hand.
His daughter coughed suddenly, flecks of blood flying from her mouth. Desmond was next to her in an instant, cradling her broken body in his hands.
"...Papa?" She whispered, eyes half lidded.
"Papa's here, Violet." He lifted her up. "Just try to stay awake, honey. I'll take you to the hospital."
"Papa…."
"You'll be okay, Violet."
"Papa… don't…." Her breaths were shallow. Desmond placed her in the backseat of his car.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be mad at them."
"Mad at who?"
"Don't be mad… at grandpapa."
"...What?"
"He… only did what he thought was right." Her voice was almost a whisper. "He… is actually a good person, inside."
"You can tell me when you're better, okay, honey?" Violet coughed weakly, and Desmond took that as a yes.
She was dead by the time he got to a hospital.
Raymond arrived at the Sycamore home the next day to find police everywhere. Desmond was no where to be found. He approached an officer -- an inspector, really.
"What happened?" He asked.
"Well, it appears a murder happened here last night." Raymond's stomach dropped.
"Where's Desmond?" He asked fearfully.
"Ah, Professor Sycamore," The man scratched his chin. "We've taken him into custody. He's the one who found the bodies." Raymond's stomach only dropped further.
"Can I see him?"
Raymond was brought back to the police station, and brought to a room that seemed more cell-like than anything. Desmond sat in a chair, staring down at his hands with wide, unseeing eyes. When Raymond approached him, he flinched.
"I told you, I had nothing to do with the murder of my wife and child." His voice was dead, monotone.
"I believe you, Desmond." At this, Desmond's head snapped up to his butler. His friend.
"...Raymond?" He asked, voice showing a bit more life, crushing grief showing on his face more than anything.
"I'm here." At those words, Desmond lept at the older man, clutching at his suit jacket as he let out an undignified sob. Raymond's reaction was immediate, wrapping his arms around the broken man and pushing him into his embrace.
"Raymond, I…."
"Sh-h-h, it's okay, Desmond."
"I should have listened to them! I should have gone with them!" Raymond understood immediately. He knew that Targent had done this. He knew from the very beginning.
"You didn't know what was going to happen, Desmond. No one could have predicted this." At this, the archaeologist looked up at Raymond, his expression hard and cold.
"I'm going to kill them," he said with an air of finality that shook Raymond to his core. "I'm going to kill those bastards that shattered my entire family!" A shadow fell over Desmond's eyes. He was really going to do it.
"How do you propose we do that?" The older butler asked.
"I'll… I'll find a way."
And find a way he did.
A month passed with no leads, no evidence regarding the murders of Olivia and Violet Sycamore. The case grew cold, and the media had finally decided to leave them alone, much to Raymond's relief.
Desmond had decided to go through his family's old things. He had really changed since those first few days after the murder. The gentle smile he seemed to give everyone was gone. His eyes had grown cold. Even his way of walking had changed, like he was moving with a purpose now.
Not even the Layton's letters could get him to cheer up. The man named Desmond Sycamore was gone, replaced by a broken shell.
He fingered the soft white boa in his hands. This was Olivia's. He flung it over his shoulder, draping the white feathers over his back. He tried to look through more of her belongings, and found he couldn't. He simply couldn't. He rubbed frantically at his eyes, cursing under his breath. Another new thing. Cursing. Raymond had never thought Desmond would swear.
"Master, I would highly suggest not going through any more of Lady Sycamore's things." Yet another new thing, which had only been set into effect a few days ago. Desmond would not respond to anything else.
The professor would not be swayed. He stuck out a hand. "My daughter's things," he said. Raymond sighed, placing a box into his hand. Desmond started searching again, and this time, he pulled out several things of interest. A pirate's hat, a mask (from the Phantom of the Opera that seemed so, so long ago), and a single, purple ribbon. He gathered them in his hands, and he turned back to Raymond with a wide grin on his face.
"The perfect disguise, wouldn't you say?"
"A disguise for what, exactly?" He began placing the objects on his body. The mask fit perfectly on his face, the white boa wrapped around his neck like some sort of scarf.
"If I am to take down Targent, I'll need a disguise, Raymond." The pirate's hat was put on, and he looked down at the ribbon before sticking it in his suit pocket. He spread his arms out. "I can't be known by them. My name is…." He paused. "...Descolè. A good name, don't you think, Raymond?" Raymond simply bowed his head. There was nothing he could do to talk Desmond -- Descolè -- out of this. He was simply too far gone, too overwhelmed in his grief and anger that he couldn't think with any sort of logic. Raymond had always promised to be by his side, and this was really testing him. He couldn't just leave him, however. He was practically the man's guardian at this point, and what guardian would he be if he wasn't there for him?
"Of course, Master."