Professor Layton and the Rewound Repercussions –Epilogue—
Sunlight. Natural, unfiltered sunlight.
This was Clive's first impression of the long-awaited outside world. He had never quite realized how bright it was.
But then…he never really had a reason to see the light, when all he knew was darkness.
Clive stood on the front step, savouring the moment. Freedom at last. He had what he had desired in his lengthy years locked away: he had control.
It wasn't until the initial euphoria began to fade that Clive realized he had no place to return to. Not really. His flat had been destroyed in his own rampages through London and his underground city had, of course, been rebuilt for other purposes. Clive still had some money. He could perhaps rent an apartment for the time being…but that would only be a temporary fix. And then there was his other dilemma…who would rent so quickly to a convicted felon? Clive had more enemies than allies in this city.
In fact, Clive only had one ally.
Clive suddenly turned to the front gate, expectant. A glimpse of a top hat, the sound of an old automobile, the familiar smile, anything, really, he wasn't picky.
No one came.
Clive sat shakily down on the cracked stone steps, folding his hands over his knees and twiddling his thumbs anxiously. Of course he hadn't come. Clive had been foolish to think he would. They hadn't seen each other in over a year. Hell, Clive hadn't even been allowed to write him. He felt silly for having hoped for it.
His joy was leaving him at an alarming rate now, steadily being replaced by despair. What was he going to do? He had no place to stay, no one to stay with. He had no family. He had no friends. He had nothing.
A thousand times, Clive thought of getting up and walking. Just walking. It didn't matter where he walked, as long as it was away. He would walk and walk and walk and…and then what? Where would he be?
It'd be an adventure, said one half of him.
You're a fool, said the other. A childish fool.
He buried his face in his hands. He was being irrational. There must be some logical decision that would take care of this problem. All he had to do was find it.
Then again, finding it was a great part of the problem itself. Logic was useless to him now. He just had to think. Creativity had once been his greatest asset. Where had it gone now?
Many things were gone now. He wasn't the same man he once was. Honestly, it scared him a little. They said he was "better". "Better"? He felt no better. All he felt was different. Worse, even. He was broken now. Broken is by no means "better". Certainly, they couldn't have changed the definition so considerably in the time he was away. No, he did not feel "better" at all. Only…
Only the professor made him feel "better".
Clive groaned. Stop thinking about the professor. The professor wasn't going to come. Even if he wanted to—which Clive doubted at this point—he couldn't have known that today was Clive's release date.
Clive was alone in the world again.
His shoulders shuddered as he tried to hold back tears. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't cry, that he would be strong for the professor. But he was out now, and where was the professor? The professor wasn't here.
"What am I going to do?" Clive groaned, rocking back and forth on the stair. "Where am I going to go?"
A warm hand patted his head gently and he choked, freezing in place. Could it—could it be—could he really have—
"Every puzzle has an answer, my boy."
AN: Herf derf, I have no words. Depending on how much work I have/how much I actually remember how to write coherent things, there may be a continuation series set after this. Possibly. I might take a break. I don't even know. Until then, here are some silly almost words to tie you over: dingle-dangle, flibbity-flubbity, wibbly-wobbly fantabulacious chesticles. Cheers!