A/N This is the 2011-set sequel to Whispering Her Name. I don't own A2A of course. I do unfortunately own Evan's rogue second career as a beard model, although I wish I didn't. The rating of this story may change to M. This has nothing to do with the beards. I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

~xXx~

Prologue

His eyes moved around the stark white hospital room, taking in every detail. It seemed unbelievable. It all seemed unbelievable and too good to be true. He'd though that after a night's sleep he would wake up to find it had all been some kind of dream, but there he was, still in the twenty first century.

"Good morning, Arthur," A kindly young nurse entered and promptly stuck a thermometer under his arm, "you'll be having your bed bath shortly and then we'll need to assess your mental state. There are some police officers who would like to talk to you soon."

He felt a pang of worry strike him, but quickly realised it was nothing he couldn't handle. He's been through worse than a few questions from some wet-behind-the-ears copper.

"How long," he tried to speak but his voice was strange and unfamiliar, "until I can walk?

"Get some strength back first, Arthur, we'll see how you get on in the next few days, OK?" he took the thermometer from under his arm, made a note on his chart and left the room.

Who the hell was he supposed to be? Where exactly had he ended up? He tried to mentally retrace his steps. He remembered the car crash. Some stupid animal running out in front of him. The events leading up to the crash… well, they were a little hazier. He'd already started to work on blocking them out even as he drove along. He vaguely remembered a roof and something about Alex.

It didn't really matter, anyway. It wasn't like Alex or Gene or anyone else was going to find him now.

"Time for your bed bath, Arthur."

Bollocks. He'd been really rather hoping that the attractive female nurse was going to give him his bed bath. Instead a slightly warty male nurse appeared instead. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers. At least it would get rid of some of the scummy feeling he had. Whose body was this anyway? It certainly wann't a patch on the one he'd left behind.

He looked at his arms. They were scrawny, hairy, and a tattoo sat upon one of them. His hands looked weathered as though he'd been sleeping on the streets or working outdoors for years. He looked down as his pyjamas were opened and the focus of the bed bath moved to a new location. His chest was bony, he swore he could see ribs. Eventually he couldn't stand to look at this wreck of a body any longer and looked away.

"Time for a shave, Arthur," the nurse said, armed with a razor and foam to aim in his direction.

He supposed his face was probably as crumbling and decrepit as the rest of his body. But still, all the better the disguise, he thought.

His mind went back to how he came to be there. He recalled the crash and the feeling that the car might never stop spinning. What was wrong? Something to do with the brakes. He'd tried to stop so he wouldn't hit the dumb creature in front of him and ended up in a spin. He remembered finally coming to a halt and blackness descending as a terrible pain seared through his head. The steering wheel might have had something to do with that. Then…

After that it was all a blur. He vaguely remembered a feeling like he was lifting. Rising. There was a terrifying swirl of energy and he tried to catch a ride alongside it. Wherever it was going, he was going too.

And then… well, that was all he could recall, until now. Until the night before, when he opened his eyes.

Or someone else's.

The feeling of the foam and steel against his flesh was strange. It felt as though he'd been asleep forever. He felt like a stranger in someone else's body, an intruder. He couldn't understand how this was even possible but this didn't seem to be the time to question it. He just lapped up the moment, every stroke of the razor reminding him that he was, somehow, very much alive.

"All done, Arthur," the nurse said. To Keats's surprise he turned around and lifted a mirror for him to see. "There."

Keats drew in his breath. This was it. The moment he would see the face to which he had been delivered.

And there it was, right there in the mirror before him.

The ragged face, the dark circles and sunken eyes, the scar along his cheek and the matted hair that even the hospital couldn't seem to bring to life. He swallowed. The face was familiar. He knew who it was. His eyes scanned the room again. He hadn't seen it before but there on the open door was his name.

"Patient Name: LAYTON, Arthur"

Shit.

"I'm Layton," his words escaped before he had a chance to hold them back.

"Yes, that's right," said the nurse, "Arthur Layton. Memory coming back?"

Keats eyed him warily.

"I'll be bringing back a few memories alright," he warned.

The nurse seemed not to hear. Either that or he just ignored him. He'd heard enough jabbering idiots waking from comas to take anything he said with a pinch of salt for the foreseeable future, that was for certain.

As far as Keats was concerned that suited him just fine. Play the poor, confused patient card for a few days, give him time to gather some strength and to plan his game. The next step… well, he had so many choices. Where to go, who to find first – so many decisions to make and his eyes were growing heavy again.

Never mind. For now, sleep. When he opened his eyes again the twenty first century would still be there. And so would all of his anger and his rage, dwelling, growing, and waiting for a place to go.