A/N: Just a warning for a panic attack near the end of the chapter, and some fairly heavy angst throughout. Thanks so much for reading!
"Did you know, Miss Constance? Doris Pompitous theorized that the Azran had technology that's thousands of times more powerful than what we've developed." Clive rushes to turn the pages of Ancient Histories, trying to find and paraphrase all of the best parts. Of course, he could just read it to Constance, but that's far too easy. It's more of a challenge telling her his favourite parts, and that makes it far more fun.
"Doris Pompitous? I thought this was written by Darren Rutledge."
Constance's voice has a humorous energy to it, and Clive lets himself smile a little. He'd been a little worried that she'd be too tired to listen to him, as she has been some nights; he's relieved that she's feeling well enough to joke with him. "Donald, Miss Constance," he says with mock-disapproval. She knew the right name; she's just being silly with him. "And he's been dead for years, you know. This is the second edition of Ancient Histories; Pompitous revised it and added in some new theories."
At last, Clive manages to find the page he was looking for. He's already read it three times, and he could probably recite it to Constance by heart, but it's better if he has the page to guide him, just in case he makes a mistake. He wouldn't want to give her misinformation. He runs his finger underneath the lines, squinting to read the words in the dark. The moonlight streaming through the window and the dim, flickering fluorescent light in the hallway is all the light he has to read from. "She thinks they could do things like putting a human's mind into a robot's body, or colonizing other planets. I know that the civilization on Earth is long gone now, but what if some of the Azran are on Mars, or on Europa, or Ganymede, or… or maybe even outside of the solar system?"
It's been quite awhile since he's let his imagination run away with him like this. Even just yesterday, he'd been too tired to do much of anything but sit with Constance, or to draw in his sketchbook, adding to his plans. Tonight, though, he feels almost energetic. What could have changed?
It's the book. It's got to be the book that the Tritons gave him.
Those people… the Tritons… they're strangely friendly. And it's got to be a trap. Nobody in this entire hospital is nice to him like that, except for Constance, and she's a patient like him. Everyone else is out to get him. That's why he's so good at sneaking out of his room and hiding; that's why he comes to visit Constance every night, because she's the only person he can trust. But those two… they're not awful. Helping Ms. Triton had been a nice distraction. And they did give him this book after all.
Clive hasn't been able to read anything since coming here; the hospital doesn't have any books for him to read. And he doesn't have anything… anything from home to look at anymore. That's why he was so excited when Mr. Triton had let him borrow the book. He didn't care what it was about. It could even be about something he hates and he'd gladly read it. Thankfully, a book about archeology is interesting enough to spend hours reading and rereading, especially when the civilization it describes had so much interesting technology. The way the authors describe Azran technology gives him all sorts of ideas for his own projects. Sharing what he's learned with Constance is even better than reading it on his own. It's always so interesting to hear her ideas and thoughts
Whether reading alone or with Constance, though, above all else, Clive enjoys this book because it's a distraction, just like helping people is a distraction.
Clive is always searching for distractions.
That's another good thing about Mr. Triton. He'd seemed to understand how important distractions are. Clive had been so close to making a fool of himself after seeing Professor Layton so horribly hurt.
Of course, he wasn't going to cry. He will never cry again. But he'd gotten so… so close to losing control.
But Mr. Triton reading out loud, and Ms. Triton's arm around Clive's shoulder… that had helped a little. It had given Clive something else to think about.
He'd used to read with Mum like that, when she wasn't too tired from work, curling up next to her with a new nonfiction book from the library. Astronomy had always been her favourite… that's why Clive still has all of Jupiter's moons memorized.
Although, he'd always liked it when Mum read The Hobbit best, because she only did that when Dad was home...
Never mind. He's not going to think about that now.
"If they have such amazing technology, then we'd better hope they don't stage an alien invasion." Constance chuckles, breaking through Clive's train of thought. "Of course, I'm sure you could fend them off with that fortress of yours."
His fortress isn't that powerful, and it doesn't even fully exist yet! But Clive can't hide a quiet smile of pride. He likes it when Constance talks about his fortress. She appreciates how much work he puts into it, and all the little details that he agonizes over. She's the only one who understands how important it is to him.
None of the psychologists or doctors here understand. They tell him that he's bad for drawing a weapon like that, or that he's mad. They've tried to take it from him before. Clive's taken to hiding his sketchbook in different places around the hospital, for fear that it'll disappear while he's sleeping.
Drawing this is the only thing that keeps him from not going mad. Is that so hard for them to understand? Drawing it, refining every little detail, making plans… that's the only thing that he has control over in this place.
Only Constance understands him. She's the only one in this place who acts like he isn't insane.
"Well, I'd need to figure out a way to make it fly, so that I could stop them before they even landed on the earth," he says thoughtfully. He places Ancient Histories on the table beside Constance's bed, flipping to his current draft of the fortress in his sketchbook. "But the fortress is supposed to be absolutely humungous, so I don't think I could possibly build an engine that would generate enough propulsion to get it off the ground."
"Maybe if you made the fortress smaller?"
Clive snorts. "That's too easy. And the fortress has to be enormous. I'll figure out another way to do it if it kills me."
"I'm sure you will." Constance smiles. "No need to risk being killed, though, dear. I'll be glad to look over your ideas and help you."
The warmth in her voice makes Clive feel safe. It always does, even when everything else in this place is uncontrollable and horrible. "Thank you," Clive says quietly, flipping through the pages. His earliest drafts are messy, scrawled in the heat of panic and rage, mere outlines with hardly any form to them. He didn't know anything about engineering back then; all he could do was draw pictures. After meeting Constance, though, they started actually making sense, looking almost like real blueprints. She's such a brilliant engineer, and his plans have made leaps and bounds with her help. With how good his current draft is, he thinks he might be able to build a model. Of course, it needs much, much more work before it's finished, especially if he wants it to fly...
"So you've made some new friends, then?"
Clive blinks, looking up from his book. He frowns. Is she talking about the Tritons? Clive would hardly call them friends. They're certainly nicer than everybody else in this horrible place, besides Constance, and they'd been very kind to him today. But they aren't his friends. He hardly knows them.
Constance's expression is unassuming, but knowing her, she's not asking this just to make conversation. She's got some hidden agenda-trying to get him to talk to people. She shouldn't get excited; even if the Tritons aren't awful, Constance should know that she's the only one he can really talk to. "Well, they're nice," he says flippantly, not looking up from his sketchbook. "But they're not my friends. You're my only friend, Constance; you know that."
There's a pause, and Clive looks up. There's a melancholy look in Constance's eyes. A bolt of anxiety shoots through him; what did he do wrong? Is she upset with him? She's never reacted to anything he's said like this before.
He has to fix this.
He clears his throat, looking casually back down to his book, and continues. "...but, as I said, they are nice. I can trust them about… twenty percent."
"Ah. Well, I'm glad that they're nice enough that you can trust them that much, at least. How about me?"
She sounds a little happier now. Clive hopes that he fixed whatever mistake he'd made before. "Sixty percent for you," he says carefully. "Nobody gets higher than that."
Constance smiles tiredly. "Well, I'm glad you've met someone else here that you can get along with. I'm glad. I'm glad."
She sounds so exhausted.
He gave her the wrong answer, didn't he?
Clive bites his lip, and stares into his sketchbook, but he can't focus enough to work on his sketch anymore. The warmth he'd felt before is gone, replaced with the same cold dread that he's felt for months now, but worse. The silence is heavy, and he'd like to break it, to go back to sharing ideas from the book, but he's afraid that that will only make Constance more tired.
Is it that important to her that he has other friends? If it is, why is it so important? But he's afraid to ask her; he doesn't want to make another mistake.
Big Ben's tolling breaks through his thoughts. It's midnight. He… he should go. Constance needs to sleep, and he's probably keeping her awake and making her even sicker. "I'm a bit tired," he says carelessly. "I'd better go to bed."
"Oh. Alright, then." Constance sounds a little surprised, but she smiles as he slowly stands from his chair and clutches his books to his chest. "Sleep well, dear."
She gives him a little wave as he leaves the room, and Clive hesitantly raises a hand as he leaves the room, closing the door part way behind him.
The fluorescent lights in the hallway are dim, but almost painful to look at as they flicker in unpredictable patterns. Clive keeps his eyes away from them, constantly looking back and forth, over his shoulder, then forward, then behind him again, in fear of somebody seeing him. There's less of them patrolling the place at night, but there's still a few nurses who walk the halls at this hour, and if one of them catches him, things will be much more difficult for him. They might start putting a lock on his door. Of course, he'd just climb out of the window, then; a lock wouldn't be able to stop him from visiting Constance. But then they might move him to a room without a window…
The thought of not being able to see her again is too awful to think about, so Clive tries not to, focusing walking as fast as he can without making noise toward his room.
As he walks, Clive tries to reason with himself. Constance probably wasn't that upset, and even if she was, one mistake isn't likely to ruin their relationship, or to… to hurt her at all. Everything will seem better in the morning. He'll just read Ancient Histories for a little while once he gets in bed, and maybe add to his plans a little more, and then…
He hears something.
Clive stops dead. Footsteps are approaching from behind.
They can't find him. He can't let them lock him up.
Panicked, Clive looks for a place to hide. The hall ahead of him is empty, the long, shiny linoleum floors stretching on endlessly with nowhere to hide. They're going to find him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Clive spots an open door: one of the hospital rooms. Can he hide in there? What if there's a patient inside, and they alert the nurses that he's here? But that's a chance he'll have to take; there's no way he can outrun whoever's coming up behind him.
Taking a shaking breath, Clive darts inside. He presses himself against the wall behind the door, peering through the gap where the door hinges meet the wall. The footsteps come nearer and nearer. Clive holds his breath. The person passes within a few feet of him, then continues their quick pace down the hallway. Clive waits in silence for several moments, but the footsteps slowly disappear, until the hallway is left in silence.
They hadn't noticed him at all.
Clive lets out his breath. He tries to rid himself of his panic by allowing himself a little smirk. Of course they didn't notice him. He's a veteran at going unnoticed; he's been doing it for three months, after all, and he'll probably be doing it forever.
They're never going to let him out, after all.
Clive's smirk fades away.
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. Now's not the time to think about that. He needs to get back to his own room. Moving as quietly as he can, he turns to leave the room.
Something breathes.
Clive stops dead. He isn't alone in here. Slowly, he looks over his shoulder.
Someone's lying in the bed.
Clive stares, holding his breath.
It's alright. It's fine. It's midnight, after all, and they're probably asleep. If he's quiet enough, Clive can probably get past them without them noticing him. Carefully, Clive tiptoes out from behind the door, acutely aware of even the tiniest sound his footfalls make. He turns toward the door.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees it, and freezes.
The moonlight coming through the window illuminates the person's face. It's… the professor.
Clive's in the professor's room.
A cold sweat washes over Clive; the nausea he'd felt earlier today, when he'd seen the professor when he was with the Tritons, returns with full force. It's almost overwhelming, and he wants to run away, but that's not going to solve anything. He can't bring back his ignorance; even if he runs, the professor will still be here, hurt, and Clive won't be able to do anything to help him.
Slowly, Clive makes his way to the professor's side. In the moonlight, the professor's face looks even more pale than before. If Clive hadn't just heard him breathing, he wouldn't even know that he was alive. Clive bites his lip, trying to keep his composure. He's not going to cry. He's not.
But this should never have happened.
The professor isn't supposed to be dying (no matter how the Tritons danced around the subject, Clive knows that he must be dying). Professor Layton is supposed to be strong, and reasonable, even when Clive isn't. He's not supposed to die.
Of course, it's very illogical for Clive to think this way. He barely knows the man. He'd never met him before that day, and those words that the professor had shouted in that moment were the only words that Clive's ever heard him say. But he's Clive's hero, as ridiculous as that sounds. He'd saved his life.
(Even… even if sometimes Clive wishes he hadn't…)
Ever since that day, Clive's read the newspapers methodically, in hopes of hearing more about the professor. Whenever he comes across news of the professor's achievements, whether he'd won an award as a scholar or solved a local mystery, he feels strangely proud, as if he'd achieved something. In a life confined within these white walls, it had been something to look forward to. Even if Clive's old life is ended, maybe someday, he could meet the professor again, and tell him how much what he did meant to him.
But now, is there no hope of that ever happening?
Clive can't look at the professor anymore, but he can't bear to leave him, so he sinks to the ground, leaning against the bed and hugging his knees, trying to ignore how fast he's breathing and how sick he feels.
As long as Clive had Constance inside the hospital, and the professor outside, he thought that he'd be alright. He has nobody else but them. Everybody else in this place is against him. They tell him that he's mad, that he's never going to leave; they treat him like he's wrong for being upset about… about what happened. And maybe he is mad, but he can't help it.
That's why Constance is so special. She treats him like a person. And when Clive gets out of here, he'd thought that maybe he could find the professor again, and he'd treat Clive like a person too, and maybe Clive could be his student, and maybe they could work together to discover the truth of what happened. Professor Layton has solved so many mysteries; Clive's sure that he could solve this one too.
But now, the professor is going to die, and he's so scared about what will happen if… if something happens to Constance too.
She always tells him not to worry about her, but Clive can't help it. He can't. Something must be wrong with her, or else she wouldn't be here.
Clive always tries to tell himself that things will be better in the morning, but he knows it isn't true. The professor will still be dying, and Constance will still be sick, and his parents will still be…
Clive gasps, and curls in on himself, hugging his legs. Someone's going to come in here and find him, and he'll be in trouble, but he can't move; he'll fall apart if he does.
If only the Tritons were still here in the room with him, distracting him with Ancient Histories and their stupid jokes and their assurances about "coming back tomorrow." Maybe then he'd be able to shove these awful feelings away, like he had this afternoon. But they aren't here, and they certainly aren't going to come back for his sake, if they come back at all.
He's alone. He's all alone. There's nobody left. They're all gone.
Clive won't cry. He won't. He's feeling everything all at once already, and if he cries again, it'll be like he's back there again, where his life fell apart, and that's too awful to think about.
But not crying hurts almost as much.
A/N: I'm so sorry for taking so long with this! School has been very busy, and I have too many WIPs, ahaha :') I did do some pretty thorough planning for the next few chapters while writing this one, though, so I hope that I'll be able to put them out faster.
I don't know how quickly Bill Hawks came into political power after the explosion, but I had the idea that, if he had no qualms about hurting people who searched for the truth like Layton, he might also try to hide the truth by manipulating the explosion survivors. I'm not sure if I'll elaborate much on this idea in the story, but that would be part of why Clive feels unable to trust the people at the hospital. That, and I was doing a lot of reading about historical attitudes towards PTSD over this school term. If this is taking place in something like the real-world '50s, there'd still likely be an assumption that PTSD is mostly a military veteran problem, not something you could get from other types of trauma, which is why Clive isn't getting the right support. (Jokes about Constance not using her money to get Clive a therapist are kind of funny, but I kind of wonder if a therapist would be able to help him at this point in history).
Thanks so much for reading! It means so much to me.