[[Spoilers: For Unwound Future and Eternal Diva.

Set: After ED.]]

Life is a Game

"And the under-eighteen British Chess Champion is... Amelia Ruth!"

There was polite applause as Amelia rose from her seat. She nodded to her opponent—a sulking ginger boy with glasses— and muttered, "Good game, but you need to work on your strategy." She went to claim her golden plaque with an obligatory "thank you" to the judges. Before they could pile her with embarrassing praise, Amelia turned away, her gaze scanning the crowd in the stands.

Amelia wasn't looking for her mother or father. Her parents were far too busy to watch the biggest match of their daughter's life. (Not that it mattered.) Rather, Amelia sought an elderly man with short grey corn-coloured hair and a bushy moustache. Finally, she met the proud twinkling eyes of her mentor, her idol and her hero. Her granddad.

When they announced her name, he'd leapt to his feet, bursting into flamboyant applause. Amelia would've quailed under the quizzical glances the other audience members shot him. But her grandfather showed no shame in his enthusiasm.

"Marvellous job, Amelia! Well done!" Granddad congratulated her on their way out of the hall.

Now that Amelia was away from the spectators, she could finally relax. Her poker face receded and a smile tugged at her lips. "I did learn from the best."

"Yes, I suppose you did," he agreed with a throaty chuckle that became a painful cough. Amelia surveyed him in concern, but Granddad just waved a casual hand at her. "I'm fine, fine, honestly."

She took his word for it, but Amelia continued to anxiously watch the way he clutched his chest as he walked. He should have stayed at home instead of dragging himself out today. Granddad had been utterly determined to see her tournament, despite his condition. Maybe he'd feel better after a sit down and a glass of water...

However, before Amelia could hustle her grandfather to the bus stop, someone inquired, "Miss Ruth, may I have a quick word?"

Amelia was irritated that they'd been stopped. (Why now of all times?). She schooled her features into a cold mask and turned to the hazel-haired man behind her. Or maybe boy was the better term, since he only seemed slightly older than her. He wore a white shirt with a blue tie and carried a notebook. Amelia instantly assumed he was a reporter.

"I need an interview from the tournament winner," the boy explained. His blasé tone suggested there were a million more important things he could be doing right now.

Amelia put her hand on her hip, frowning. "No." She amended her tart reply when Granddad gave her a stern look. "Sorry, but we're in a rush."

"Look, Miss Ruth," the boy drawled. "I have an article to write. Let's not waste each other's time."

"It's Amelia," she corrected. "And I don't care if—"

"Nonsense, Amelia," Granddad interrupted. "Of course we have enough time to answer some questions." He smiled benignly at the reporter. The reporter didn't smile back.

So, after feeding the journalist a hasty review of the match, and some spew about how Amelia hoped this would be the first of many great victories, the reporter eventually let them go.

"The nerve of him, harassing us like that," Amelia muttered. She glared at the reporter's retreating form. "And how dare he call me 'Miss' as if that was an excuse for his rudeness!"

Granddad said gently, "That young man was only doing his job, Amelia. There was no reason to be impolite."

"I know," she sighed, ashamed that he'd admonished her like a misbehaved child. "I shouldn't have lost my temper. I was just worried about you... You sounded out of breath..."

"Oh, you worry far too much, my dear. There's still some life left in these old bones." He strode ahead of her. "In fact, I'm going to beat you to the bus stop if you don't get a move on."

"Please, slow down a bit, Granddad...!"

"Keep up, Amelia. You're falling behind!"

He thought nothing of their first confrontation.

Uncooperative interviewees weren't uncommon in Clive's line of work. Amelia Ruth was already yesterday's news.

If it was up to Clive, he wouldn't bother writing trivial stories about chess championships, or the 'grand' opening of some new department store, or the mysterious lack of funding at Milworth Hospital... No, he had his own motives for joining the press. But, of course, his employer didn't know that, and as a fairly fresh recruit Clive didn't have much free rein in his assignments. That was about to change though.

Clive's lucky break came when he was appointed to write a piece on the events surrounding the Kingdom of Ambrosia.

From what Clive had gathered on the story, several people had visited the Crown Petone Opera House to compete in a game for Eternal Life. It turned out the opera house was actually a ship that took the surviving audience members to the island, while the 'losers' were returned home by submarine. At the end of the competition, the winner would win Eternal Life. This wasn't the case, however. The game was in fact a plot to gain a host for the opera composer, Oswald Whistler's, dead daughter...

Clive was uncertain about the following details. All he knew was it involved a legendary city, an evil scientist with a giant robot, and a valiant archaeologist.

Clive could care less about the villain. He was only interested in the hero: the top-hatted gentleman with links to Clive's past. Clive wanted to know everything about Professor Hershel Layton. How did he defeat the scientist's raging machine? What lengths would he go to in order to save a life? Just how sharp were his wits? To find out, Clive needed to interrogate someone who had been present on the island; someone who had witnessed Layton in action.

As a former student, the singer Janice Quatlane was too close to the professor. (And for reasons unknown she'd disappeared from the public eye recently.) Oswald Whistler, the madman, was locked up in prison. The seven year old girl who had been dragged into the scheme was too young to be of much use. Inspector Clamp Grosky worked at Scotland Yard. Again, he had frequent contact with Layton. And the masked villain had vanished without a trace. (Clive would never have considered questioning him anyway.)

That left only one person.

It didn't take Clive long to track her down. He wasn't really surprised to learn she was the same chess champion he'd interviewed months before. Oswald Whistler had selected her specifically for her talent, apparently equivalent to that of his deceased daughter in music.

Clive caught her one afternoon when she was walking home from school.

"Hello, Miss Ruth."

Her head whipped around to face him, blonde plait swinging. The girl's sable eyes narrowed as she studied Clive, recognition clicking in.

Why yes, I am the reporter you really pissed off before.

"You clearly remember me, so I'll make this short," said Clive. "I need you to answer some questions."

Amelia replied in a low, dangerous voice. "I've already warned hundreds of other reporters to leave me alone. You're the last one I wanted to see." She briskly turned and began to stride away from him, her boots slapping against the pavement.

Undeterred by her brusqueness, Clive followed. "The media won't stop hounding you until they have the full story on Ambrosia. Surely you've realized this, Miss Ruth. Save yourself the trouble and tell me what happened now."

But Amelia didn't rise to the bait. That does it. Clive growled and snagged her wrist, halting her. "Just tell me what Professor Layton had to do with it all!"

The girl gazed at Clive with the defiance of an unyielding queen. "Go ask him yourself." She ripped her arm from his grasp. "And stay away from me. Or I will call the police."

Clive just stared after her this time as she ran off. He'd been too forceful. The case was getting to his head, affecting his ability extract information from others. Perhaps it was because the situation was so closely connected to Professor Layton, a key to Clive's past— and therefore his parents' deaths.

When Clive returned to his flat that evening, Spring immediately noticed something was wrong. Most of the servants at Dove Manor had taken a permanent holiday when Constance passed away. However, Spring, her husband, Cogg, and the gardener, Shipley continued to care for him. Even with Clive's large inheritance, they couldn't abandon the young master.

"Is everything alright, dear?" Spring checked as she placed a bowl of chicken soup on the table in front of him.

"I'm fine," Clive sighed, glaring into his soup as if it had personally offended him. "Just an unsuccessful day with work."

She wasn't convinced. Spring often recognised the signs that Clive was brooding, plotting, and regretting the past. She appeared thoughtful for a moment. Then her big lips lifted into a soft smile. "When was the last time you visited your parents?"

On Spring's wishes, Clive went to visit his parents. As always, they were waiting for him, side by side. They hadn't changed much from when he'd last seen them. His mother was still beautiful. His father stood proud and tall.

Clive's fingers brushed the marble tombstones. In his mind, he told them all about his job, his hatred of the unjust society they lived in, his plans to discover the truth and avenge them... Once he was finished, Clive said goodbye, promising he would come back soon, with flowers for his mother next time. Clive felt much calmer after chatting to them. He'd been able to get some things off his chest. He could focus on his task again.

Mollified, Clive made his way out of the cemetery, traipsing past the shrubs and the iron fence that seemed to separate this peaceful plane from the living world. Then, however, his gaze fell on a familiar blonde figure.

What were the chances...?

She was stood before a square white grave adorned with flowers and chess figures, her hands folded across her skirt. Hearing his approach, Amelia's head shifted. Her expression betrayed no anger, only emptiness. Her tone was monotonous. "I told you to stay away from me."

Clive lifted his hands. "I honestly wasn't expecting to find you here."

"Have you lost someone as well?"

The conversation had finally taken a different turn. Sincerity would be his sole tactic right now. "My... parents," Clive admitted.

Amelia stared at him for a long moment. "...I believe you." They shared the same haunted look in their eyes; the mark of a departed loved one.

"Who...?" Clive trailed off, unsure that she would reply.

"My granddad," she whispered, glimpsing at the grave again. "He was very ill."

"I'm sorry..." Clive attempted to console her. If he played the role of confidant, surely she would open up to him. "That's why you hoped to win the game for Eternal Life?"

Amelia nodded wistfully. "But the contest wasn't even real. There was no elixir of Life."

"Oswald Whistler and the scientist created the game all in order to fool you, the 'winner'. Technically, the entire plot revolved around you."

"And that's why you want to interview me so badly." Whe grated out a harsh laugh. It sounded as bitter as tinfoil. "You don't need to cajole me with false pity. I'll your answer questions..." (Clive listened eagerly.) "...On a few conditions."

Clive frowned. His patience was wearing thin, but he would hear her terms. "What are they?"

Amelia held up her index finger. "First, I want you to convince the press to stop pestering me."

That was simple enough. "Fine."

"Next, I want you to publish an obituary about the life of my granddad, Alexander Ruth... and another about Melina Whistler."

"Oswald Whistler's daughter?" Clive raised an eyebrow.

"She... deserves to be remembered as well," Amelia explained quietly.

Clive mulled her proposal over. It could be an inconvenience getting those obituaries published. (He'd probably need to receive his boss's permission beforehand...) However, it would be worth it for any information regarding Professor Layton.

"So, after I do that, you'll answer all of my questions without fail." Clive stuck out his palm. "Agreed?"

Amelia hesitated for a moment, playing with a strand of golden hair. She appeared to be assessing whether she could trust him. Eventually, the girl shook his hand, sealing their deal and setting their unlikely partnership into motion. Amelia wondered, "How will I know when and where to meet you again? I don't even know your name..."

He started to walk away, but paused to throw a look over his shoulder. "And my name is Klaus, by the way."

She knew she could be playing a dangerous game. However, she was adamant she would win.

A fortnight later, Amelia found the promised article while she was pouring through the paper. The obituary about Alexander Ruth was brief; it only listed a few of his achievements from past chess championships, and noted that he had recently died in Milworth Hospital at the age of seventy-three. Tears pricked Amelia's eyes. Though this was an unworthy testimonial of her grandfather, it would have to do. On the next page, there was also an obituary in memory of Melina Whistler. A happy photo of Melina and Mr Whistler sitting in a cafe together had been added. Underneath the picture, a caption read:

"Melina Whistler with her father Oswald Whistler (opposite) visiting the Rainy Day Cafe, a favourite venue of Melina's."

Good. Now the world can remember her, Amelia thought.

Both articles had been written by an anonymous author. Klaus had kept his word. Now she had to uphold her end of the bargain. If she didn't, Klaus could easily publicise something unsavoury about her or her granddad— he was obviously an expert at researching people.

Klaus said he would inform her of their next rendezvous point. But there didn't seem to be any clues in the paper... Amelia peered closer at the print, her gaze lighting on the picture's description again.

Rainy Day Cafe.

Could this be the hint Klaus had left her? Why else would he add the photo from the busy cafe? It would make more sense to include a picture of Melina by herself.

Amelia decided to trust her wits. They had seldom failed her before.

At lunchtime that day (she guessed it the most reasonable time) Amelia caught the bus to the crowded street where the cafe was located. Of course, it was raining. She dodged several pedestrians and puddles that cars splashed through by the side of the road.

Amelia was relieved to enter the dry warmth of the Rainy Day Cafe. It a fancy little tearoom. The table surfaces had a mosaic style pattern and the walls were decorated with framed pictures.

She spotted Klaus at the back of the cafe, drumming his fingers restlessly against his arm. He glanced up in mild surprise when Amelia took the chair opposite him, but his features then shifted into a methodical visage.

He began, "Good afternoon, Miss Ruth—"

She instantly raised her hand to silence him. "Refer to me as Amelia or I'll walk straight back out."

"Alright, Amelia." Klaus shook his head, snickering. "Why do you despise being called Miss so much?"

"It doesn't matter," Amelia retorted (hoping he wouldn't comment on her flushed cheeks). "Just get on with it."

Klaus ordered them each a cup of coffee. Then he pulled out his notebook and it was back to business. Klaus dived straight in to his questioning session about Professor Layton: What was the professor doing at the Crown Petone in the first place? Who accompanied him? Was he aware that the 'losing' audience members could potentially forfeit their lives? How quickly did he overcome the trials of the competition? When did he suspect the true plot behind the game for Eternal Life? Had he encountered the masked scientist before? How did he get past said scientist's enormous robot? Amelia answered as much as she could, and the interview was over (fairly painlessly) within half an hour.

Amelia was breathless by the time they were finished, but Klaus was still furiously scribbling away in his notebook. He had pages and pages of information on Professor Layton.

"Is that enough now?" she asked wearily.

Klaus was grinning triumphantly, almost manically. "Yes, this is more than enough. My... article on Ambrosia should be a big hit."

"Will you put me down as an anonymous source?" Amelia checked.

"Of course."

"Good. Then I'll be going." Amelia stood up to leave.

"Wait..."

She sighed and looked at him for the last time. "What?"

"Thanks," Klaus muttered.

Taken aback by his gratitude, Amelia responded, "Well... you're welcome. Thank you for writing about my granddad."

Klaus glanced around, making sure that no one else was listening, before he murmured, "There's something you should know... Something I discovered while I was researching your grandfather..."

Amelia's eyes widened. Had he uncovered something scandalous about her granddad? Would he use it against her?

"What did you find out?" Amelia hissed through gritted teeth.

"The hospital where he stayed— it was Milworth Hospital, wasn't it? There's been a suspicious lack of funding there during the last few months. As a result, Milworth's medical supplies have severely diminished."

Amelia gasped. Granddad could've been saved... or possibly kept alive for longer, if it wasn't for this! She demanded to Klaus, "Why?!"

Klaus snarled, "Because a bastard known as Bill Hawks stole the money meant for the hospital...!"

She was devastated by the actions of a single selfish man.

He was delighted that someone else finally shared his hatred, his pain.

Three years later, when the Prime Minister seemed to be killed in a time machine demonstration gone awry, she was indifferent.

But she was astounded to learn that he was behind it.