Jean Descole was, to Luke, a father. At least, the best he could get. He would never forget his own father, but Descole was quickly accepted as a stand-in. Luke would simply cling to anything that promised a hint of the family he once had, and so Descole happened to be one of those things Luke clung to.
He remembered when he first awoke in a bed much softer than his own. Initially, he wondered if the previous day was a mere bad dream. If only it were, though Luke was far from ungrateful for what he currently had. Descole was kind enough to him that Luke occasionally called him 'dad.'
The first time, Luke went red with embarrassment, as that was not intended. Descole had also paused, unprepared for Luke unexpectedly referring to him by that term.
Luke also remembered the makeshift funeral they'd had for his parents. It was a quiet affair, and Descole had insisted it'd be best not to tell anyone else about this. Luke didn't know why, back then, as he hadn't yet been told about the reason behind their deaths, and how that, or rather they, could very easily come back if they did not keep a low profile.
Luke was also acquainted with Raymond, who Luke took a short while to get used to. Since he'd latched on to specifically Descole, he found himself on guard when it came to other people. But Luke also found there was nothing to be afraid of in terms of Descole's butler. He was rather nice, actually.
Eventually Luke also learned of the reason behind Descole's presence in the first place, the reason he'd had a massive mechanical spectre running amok as well—the "Golden Garden."
A myriad of papers and notes were scattered about the table before Luke. Luke's home had also become Descole's in the time since he'd arrived to find what remained of Luke's parents. With this, Descole decided to scatter papers here and there. The worst he had to worry about was Luke reading them, but Luke had found himself inclined towards Descole's cause, so there really wasn't much danger.
Luke was adamant about helping. He didn't know much about the group behind the aforementioned tragedy, besides the bits and pieces Descole allowed him to know, but he wanted to see some kind of retribution for what they'd done.
"Where are you going to try this time?" Luke inclined out of curiosity, while Descole paced back and forth. Luke often wondered if he ever took that costume off, because he'd only ever seen him with it.
Luke's main job was to go out the night before and 'predict' where the spectre would appear, so as to avoid harming innocents. He was an oracle to the town, though really it wasn't hard when he could just ask Descole himself for the details.
"Along Murray Street," Descole answered, "I don't think I searched thoroughly enough last time."
Luke gave a small nod, heading to the door. It was getting dark out, but Luke knew he had to relay this message one way or another.
He slipped through the darker alleyway passes, the routine very familiar to him by now. The mayor was always ready to hear his supposed forecast.
When Evan heard the knock on the window, an ever so quiet but just audible enough to be heard tap tap tap tap, he knew it was that time again.
Periodically, late at night, the oracle, or at least the child who could foretell the spectre's attacks, would appear by his window. Had he not known Luke as Clark's son and Arianna's strange reclusive friend, he'd have thought the boy to be a spectre as well, with how he materialised from nowhere.
Evan cracked the window open slightly, and a piece of paper slid in, accompanied by a quiet "here you go" as Evan gently took it from him.
Evan read the paper quickly. "So it's Murray Street this time around?" He read it to himself, and looked up, for an extra comment from Luke, but the boy was gone, like a ghost having vanished into the wind.
Luke arrived just in time for dinner, which was served at his own dinner table. His life was, or had become, strange, and Luke knew this—he ran around as an oracle, and his effective father figure was, in a way, terrorising the very town he lived in, yet he didn't mind it much.
He absentmindedly ate the food prepared, but noticed Descole was still in that costume. Swallowing, he asked, "Do you ever take that off?"
"Take what off?"
Luke gestured to the attire Descole was wearing. "The cape, the hat, the mask…"
"It's… part of my general attire."
"You wear that all the time?" Now Luke was invested.
"No—,"
"But I never see you without it!"
Descole was quiet for a while, as if trying to put together some kind of response, but ultimately never found the proper words.
Luke had heard a knock on the door early in the morning. He looked inquisitively to the door.
Descole's immediate response, meanwhile, was to grab all of the papers and plans off of the table at once and then hastily shove them under the sofa.
At Luke's mystified expression, Descole gave a curt explanation; "Precautions."
Luke turned back to the door. He had his own reservations about who it could be, so he took a chance and shifted one of the curtains to peer out at the visitors.
He found a man with a very refined fashion choice standing at the door patiently, and a woman turned away, seemingly photographing something.
"Uh… it's a lady in a yellow… dress? And a man with a top hat!"
Where had Luke seen that before? There was something undeniably familiar about it, but he couldn't place it.
"What?" Descole's voice was far away, and there was the muffled sound of something falling down, followed by a myriad of profane words.
Luke tried to figure out just where he knew this from. A man with a top hat?
…Descole's hat?
No, he knew that couldn't be it.
He glanced at a stack of dusty papers, an old newspaper sitting atop them. There was something about it…
Luke looked back at the window and jumped when he realised that the lady was looking right at him.
"They saw me!" Luke yelled, and there was another muffled crash, before Descole gave a response.
"I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. Just… open the door!"
Luke complied, and hesitantly opened the door.
"Hi."
Not the best introduction, but it was a start. Luke cleared his throat. "Can I help you?"
The man gave a warm smile. "Ah. My name is Professor Hershel Layton, and this is my assistant, Emmy."
The lady—Emmy—gave a small wave.
"We're looking for the residence of Clark Triton, and were directed this way."
"Oh. I'm Luke," he said in response, his gaze involuntarily shifting to the ground, "and, uh… I live here."
He tapped against the door, but realised he was holding it far too tightly, and eased his grip.
"Do you… want to… uh…" if there was one thing Luke was terrible at, it was talking to people he didn't know. Already, he rarely got out anymore, which was mostly due to him not seeing a reason to, so when confronted with these two, he wasn't really sure how to proceed.
How does someone show hospitality again?
"Give me a second," Luke said, and quietly shut the door.
Luke leaned against the door, breathing heavily. He really just had no idea what to do. He looked back at that paper pile, unable to resist the curiosity this time around.
In moving the newspaper, despite how cautious he'd tried to be, something else was knocked over. Luke instinctively flinched, but moved closer again.
He carefully picked up a framed photo that looked like it had not been touched in a while. Luke adjusted it in his hands a few times, the photograph near completely obscured by dust. He blew some of the dust off of it, and rubbed the spots that began to become clear.
He found his father next to the man outside, though they were both younger. The picture definitely outdated him by at least a decade or two, judging by its look.
Did they know each other? Maybe they could help?
Luke looked at the door again. He wanted to be careful. So, he'd wait for Descole, but he'd also be cordial. The door squeaked open once more as Luke popped his head out, and he was relieved that they hadn't left.
"You could… come in if you want."
He moved the door wider open and walked into the living room. A scrap of the papers Descole had shoved under the sofa stuck out, so he kicked it further under before either of them could see.
"Um… sit down! Make yourself… at home… in my home…"
Luke did not linger very long while the two were sitting there, quietly excusing himself. Walking down the hall, it didn't take very long to find Descole.
"He cannot be here," Descole was talking to himself, pacing back and forth, but then Luke walked into the room.
"Hershel Layton cannot be here."
"What should we do about this, then?" Luke made his presence known, and Descole looked, silent for a moment, thinking.
"Give me a moment," Descole finally said, "I have an idea."
Luke waited obediently, though he was curious as to what Descole had planned.
About a few minutes had passed when Descole came out without his distinctive attire, rather a simple suit.
"If anyone asks about us, we recently moved to the Tritons' old home—of which the Tritons already moved out—for… work reasons," he said, "it's a temporary arrangement."
"Work? I don't have a job," Luke said, almost indignantly. He'd been more focused on the fact that he hadn't exactly seen Descole's face until now, but focused just enough to get half of what Descole was saying.
"You can be my… son," Descole said slowly, however he'd hastily added, "if you want."
"Aren't I already?"
This was a result of blurting out his first thought he had before really considering his words. Luke stood for a moment. He somewhat had begun to view Descole as a suitable replacement, to fill the role left in the wake of his parents' deaths.
"If that's… how you'd like to view me," Descole said, "you may."
He sounded hesitant, but sincere.
They didn't dwell on this sentiment for much longer, as Luke was directed to follow Descole's lead.
Descole, or rather Desmond Sycamore, the name he'd given himself, entered the room with Luke in tow.
"This is my… this is my…" Luke found it awkward to say, even then, so Desmond finished for him.
"He is… my son," Desmond said, "and I would have opened the door for you had I not been busy."
"Busy? With what?"
Desmond hesitated, trying to think of an excuse for them. He was lucky to have Luke, who said, and rather loudly, "My dad has horrible constipation sometimes!"
Desmond shot Luke a scandalised look.
"Oh," Emmy covered her mouth, but it was out of stifling an awkward laugh.
"Sure, I may have… digestive issues, at times," Desmond said after collecting himself, "I assure you, this is not often."
Luke just hummed to himself, staring down at his legs.
"What about you? What brings you to this town?" Desmond asked.
"We were here to visit an old friend of mine. Though, in the time we have been here, we've heard quite a lot from the locals. Mostly rumours and superstition."
So Luke was right, his father did know this man. Whoever "Hershel Layton" was, anyway.
"That reminds me, what were your names again?"
"Desmond Sycamore, and Luke… Sycamore," Desmond said.
Luke Sycamore. The name rolled off his tongue weirdly, but he nodded. Jean Descole was, to Luke, a father. At least, the best he could get. He would never forget his own father, but Descole was quickly accepted as a stand-in. Luke would simply cling to anything that promised a hint of the family he once had, and so Descole happened to be one of those things Luke clung to.
He remembered when he first awoke in a bed much softer than his own. Initially, he wondered if the previous day was a mere bad dream. If only it were, though Luke was far from ungrateful for what he currently had. Descole was kind enough to him that Luke occasionally called him 'dad.'
The first time, Luke went red with embarrassment, as that was not intended. Descole had also paused, unprepared for Luke unexpectedly referring to him by that term.
Luke also remembered the makeshift funeral they'd had for his parents. It was a quiet affair, and Descole had insisted it'd be best not to tell anyone else about this. Luke didn't know why, back then, as he hadn't yet been told about the reason behind their deaths, and how that, or rather they, could very easily come back if they did not keep a low profile.
Luke was also acquainted with Raymond, who Luke took a short while to get used to. Since he'd latched on to specifically Descole, he found himself on guard when it came to other people. But Luke also found there was nothing to be afraid of in terms of Descole's butler. He was rather nice, actually.
Eventually Luke also learned of the reason behind Descole's presence in the first place, the reason he'd had a massive mechanical spectre running amok as well—the "Golden Garden."
A myriad of papers and notes were scattered about the table before Luke. Luke's home had also become Descole's in the time since he'd arrived to find what remained of Luke's parents. With this, Descole decided to scatter papers here and there. The worst he had to worry about was Luke reading them, but Luke had found himself inclined towards Descole's cause, so there really wasn't much danger.
Luke was adamant about helping. He didn't know much about the group behind the aforementioned tragedy, besides the bits and pieces Descole allowed him to know, but he wanted to see some kind of retribution for what they'd done.
"Where are you going to try this time?" Luke inclined out of curiosity, while Descole paced back and forth. Luke often wondered if he ever took that costume off, because he'd only ever seen him with it.
Luke's main job was to go out the night before and 'predict' where the spectre would appear, so as to avoid harming innocents. He was an oracle to the town, though really it wasn't hard when he could just ask Descole himself for the details.
"Along Murray Street," Descole answered, "I don't think I searched thoroughly enough last time."
Luke gave a small nod, heading to the door. It was getting dark out, but Luke knew he had to relay this message one way or another.
He slipped through the darker alleyway passes, the routine very familiar to him by now. The mayor was always ready to hear his supposed forecast.
When Evan heard the knock on the window, an ever so quiet but just audible enough to be heard tap tap tap tap, he knew it was that time again.
Periodically, late at night, the oracle, or at least the child who could foretell the spectre's attacks, would appear by his window. Had he not known Luke as Clark's son and Arianna's strange reclusive friend, he'd have thought the boy to be a spectre as well, with how he materialised from nowhere.
Evan cracked the window open slightly, and a piece of paper slid in, accompanied by a quiet "here you go" as Evan gently took it from him.
Evan read the paper quickly. "So it's Murray Street this time around?" He read it to himself, and looked up, for an extra comment from Luke, but the boy was gone, like a ghost having vanished into the wind.
Luke arrived just in time for dinner, which was served at his own dinner table. His life was, or had become, strange, and Luke knew this—he ran around as an oracle, and his effective father figure was, in a way, terrorising the very town he lived in, yet he didn't mind it much.
He absentmindedly ate the food prepared, but noticed Descole was still in that costume. Swallowing, he asked, "Do you ever take that off?"
"Take what off?"
Luke gestured to the attire Descole was wearing. "The cape, the hat, the mask…"
"It's… part of my general attire."
"You wear that all the time?" Now Luke was invested.
"No—,"
"But I never see you without it!"
Descole was quiet for a while, as if trying to put together some kind of response, but ultimately never found the proper words.
Luke had heard a knock on the door early in the morning. He looked inquisitively to the door.
Descole's immediate response, meanwhile, was to grab all of the papers and plans off of the table at once and then hastily shove them under the sofa.
At Luke's mystified expression, Descole gave a curt explanation; "Precautions."
Luke turned back to the door. He had his own reservations about who it could be, so he took a chance and shifted one of the curtains to peer out at the visitors.
He found a man with a very refined fashion choice standing at the door patiently, and a woman turned away, seemingly photographing something.
"Uh… it's a lady in a yellow… dress? And a man with a top hat!"
Where had Luke seen that before? There was something undeniably familiar about it, but he couldn't place it.
"What?" Descole's voice was far away, and there was the muffled sound of something falling down, followed by a myriad of profane words.
Luke tried to figure out just where he knew this from. A man with a top hat?
…Descole's hat?
No, he knew that couldn't be it.
He glanced at a stack of dusty papers, an old newspaper sitting atop them. There was something about it…
Luke looked back at the window and jumped when he realised that the lady was looking right at him.
"They saw me!" Luke yelled, and there was another muffled crash, before Descole gave a response.
"I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. Just… open the door!"
Luke complied, and hesitantly opened the door.
"Hi."
Not the best introduction, but it was a start. Luke cleared his throat. "Can I help you?"
The man gave a warm smile. "Ah. My name is Professor Hershel Layton, and this is my assistant, Emmy."
The lady—Emmy—gave a small wave.
"We're looking for the residence of Clark Triton, and were directed this way."
"Oh. I'm Luke," he said in response, his gaze involuntarily shifting to the ground, "and, uh… I live here."
He tapped against the door, but realised he was holding it far too tightly, and eased his grip.
"Do you… want to… uh…" if there was one thing Luke was terrible at, it was talking to people he didn't know. Already, he rarely got out anymore, which was mostly due to him not seeing a reason to, so when confronted with these two, he wasn't really sure how to proceed.
How does someone show hospitality again?
"Give me a second," Luke said, and quietly shut the door.
Luke leaned against the door, breathing heavily. He really just had no idea what to do. He looked back at that paper pile, unable to resist the curiosity this time around.
In moving the newspaper, despite how cautious he'd tried to be, something else was knocked over. Luke instinctively flinched, but moved closer again.
He carefully picked up a framed photo that looked like it had not been touched in a while. Luke adjusted it in his hands a few times, the photograph near completely obscured by dust. He blew some of the dust off of it, and rubbed the spots that began to become clear.
He found his father next to the man outside, though they were both younger. The picture definitely outdated him by at least a decade or two, judging by its look.
Did they know each other? Maybe they could help?
Luke looked at the door again. He wanted to be careful. So, he'd wait for Descole, but he'd also be cordial. The door squeaked open once more as Luke popped his head out, and he was relieved that they hadn't left.
"You could… come in if you want."
He moved the door wider open and walked into the living room. A scrap of the papers Descole had shoved under the sofa stuck out, so he kicked it further under before either of them could see.
"Um… sit down! Make yourself… at home… in my home…"
Luke did not linger very long while the two were sitting there, quietly excusing himself. Walking down the hall, it didn't take very long to find Descole.
"He cannot be here," Descole was talking to himself, pacing back and forth, but then Luke walked into the room.
"Hershel Layton cannot be here."
"What should we do about this, then?" Luke made his presence known, and Descole looked, silent for a moment, thinking.
"Give me a moment," Descole finally said, "I have an idea."
Luke waited obediently, though he was curious as to what Descole had planned.
About a few minutes had passed when Descole came out without his distinctive attire, rather a simple suit.
"If anyone asks about us, we recently moved to the Tritons' old home—of which the Tritons already moved out—for… work reasons," he said, "it's a temporary arrangement."
"Work? I don't have a job," Luke said, almost indignantly. He'd been more focused on the fact that he hadn't exactly seen Descole's face until now, but focused just enough to get half of what Descole was saying.
"You can be my… son," Descole said slowly, however he'd hastily added, "if you want."
"Aren't I already?"
This was a result of blurting out his first thought he had before really considering his words. Luke stood for a moment. He somewhat had begun to view Descole as a suitable replacement, to fill the role left in the wake of his parents' deaths.
"If that's… how you'd like to view me," Descole said, "you may."
He sounded hesitant, but sincere.
They didn't dwell on this sentiment for much longer, as Luke was directed to follow Descole's lead.
Descole, or rather Desmond Sycamore, the name he'd given himself, entered the room with Luke in tow.
"This is my… this is my…" Luke found it awkward to say, even then, so Desmond finished for him.
"He is… my son," Desmond said, "and I would have opened the door for you had I not been busy."
"Busy? With what?"
Desmond hesitated, trying to think of an excuse for them. He was lucky to have Luke, who said, and rather loudly, "My dad has horrible constipation sometimes!"
Desmond shot Luke a scandalised look.
"Oh," Emmy covered her mouth, but it was out of stifling an awkward laugh.
"Sure, I may have… digestive issues, at times," Desmond said after collecting himself, "I assure you, this is not often."
Luke just hummed to himself, staring down at his legs.
"What about you? What brings you to this town?" Desmond asked.
"We were here to visit an old friend of mine. Though, in the time we have been here, we've heard quite a lot from the locals. Mostly rumours and superstition."
So Luke was right, his father did know this man. Whoever "Hershel Layton" was, anyway.
"That reminds me, what were your names again?"
"Desmond Sycamore, and Luke… Sycamore," Desmond said.
Luke Sycamore. The name rolled off his tongue weirdly, but he nodded.