Notes: Written for a kinkmeme prompt that wanted a specific AU, starting with Descole breaking Clive out of prison. This one is well outside my usual comfort zone, but I figured that if I was going to do the fanon Descole prompts at all, I should do them before PL6 comes out and reveals what ultimately happens to him. So, this is set a while post-PL3, with heavy spoilers for the third game, and ignores whatever PL6 will say about what happens to Descole.

Clive promised to atone for his sins to society.

Considering that said sins involved kidnapping the Prime Minister, wiring his heart up to a giant mechanical fortress, using said fortress to destroy half of London, costing many lives as he did so and all while performing illegal experiments on animals using scientists whom he'd also kidnapped, that was a heck of a lot to atone for.

Realistically, it wasn't likely that he would ever be able to do this. Especially considering his life now consisted of a prison cell that was heavily monitored, by request of the Prime Minister, lest Clive get him again. No, with how his life looked, the only way he could even try to make up for his mistakes was by staying in his cell, where he couldn't hurt anyone.

Which wasn't much in the way of atonement.

He'd always known that was how it was going to be. From the moment Bill Hawks had yelled for his arrest, he could picture it clearly. After that, he'd said to Layton more than what was probably sensible – about how he'd needed the man to save him from himself, and then he made a hopeless promise to make up to society for what he'd done. Even though it was a pathetic pledge, it seemed like the right thing to say, if only to take a little away from all the other horrible things that had happened that day. Things that had happened because of him.

There were many days when he regretted his words, along with everything else he had done; but regardless of if he was atoning or refusing to atone, it all resulted in the same fate – being in this cell.

He sighed, glancing towards a small window in the door. The window that was his only glimpse into the outside world.

Of course, he had been sent to solitary. It would have been too much of a risk to have a dangerous mind like his running around, potentially talking to people who he could influence. So Clive was trapped in his little cell, with only humourless guards to keep him company.

Out of habit, more than anything else, Clive had picked up the shifts of the guards within a few weeks of being there. They tried to keep it varied enough so that he wouldn't, but overtime it became easy to pick up on who would turn up at what times and how much of a gap there'd be between them. Because the guards were, at the end of the day, human. Despite that they were officially supposed to be silent, guards would talk to each other enough for Clive to hear little details, like how Sandra never worked later than 4:00pm, because she had kids that she needed to collect from school, or how old Sean had a bit of a limp, which meant that he did the rounds slower than everyone else (Clive had calculated it to be four minutes slower, give or take a few seconds) and how, even though he'd get sacked if he got caught, that smarmy new guy, Andrew, would always show up ten minutes late when he knew there wasn't anyone around to inspect him. And considering that he worked evenings, this was most of the time.

Snippets of information like that were all that Clive needed in order to spot the windows of opportunity where he could have left the cell, had he the means to do so, without being caught. Naturally, he didn't want to leave, as his promise to Layton still weighed heavy on his mind. But had he wanted to, he possessed the knowledge, if not the means, to do so.

He'd heard that Andrew boy whining to another guard earlier that old man Sean was taking over from him and would probably complain about the mess he'd left in the office again. Andrew didn't think the abuse he got from Sean was at all justified, but then he never did. What Andrew felt about his co-worker's treatment of him was of no concern to Clive. The aspect that was of concern to him was that Andrew would undoubtedly wander back to the office ten minutes early and that Sean would lecture him for at least two minutes, before taking another four to limp from the office down to where Clive was. It wasn't a long journey, but Sean's leg was getting even worse as the winter crept in. That was a minimum of sixteen minutes where he was completely unguarded.

Again, had he been a lesser man and had a plan prepared, that would have been ample time for him to escape his cell.

On exactly the cue that he'd predicted, Andrew marched away, ten minutes before the end of his shift, so he could lounge in the office for a bit. He moved at a considerably faster speed than the one he used when arriving to start work. They all knew Clive never spoke to any of them or did anything, after all, so what harm could come of leaving him alone for a little while? He'd have to get through the office to get out even if he could leave the cell, so they'd catch him anyway.

The sound of the office door clicked shut behind the lazy guard and Clive mentally began to count the seconds off the amount of time he was wasting.

He'd got up to twelve seconds when he heard the coughing.

These weren't the muffled coughs of one of Andrew's many colds, these were very definite, "Help, I'm choking!" sort of coughs. Pity for him no one else would be along for another ten minutes.

There was an alarm in the office. Clive didn't need to see it in order to know it was there. Because they wouldn't put you in your own special section of prison if it didn't have a bell they could ring if you did something wrong. An attention-seeking slouch like this guard seemed the most likely candidate to sound the alarm if anything went even slightly wrong. So it didn't make sense that he hadn't done just that.

It made more sense when the power cut out and Clive's cell, along with the corridor outside, were plunged into darkness.

Soon after this, the coughing stopped entirely.

Clive stood up, looking out through the little window in his door, towards the office. He could make out faint wisps of smoke edging out through the cracks in the office door.

He heard a quiet breath, something that its owner had been unable to hide in their effort to make their footsteps unheard. Clive supposed that if he'd just walked out of an office filled with smoke, he'd want to take a breath as well.

"Impressive, if I do say so myself," came the deep voice of someone who was now very definitely standing directly outside of Clive's cell. From the sound of it, this person made a habit of being impressed with themselves.

"Why are you trying to break me out?" Clive asked.

There was no point in asking what this person was doing, because they really couldn't have been doing anything other than trying to get him out of here. No one would go to the length of gassing a security guard just to visit him. He also didn't feel the need to ask who they were, because from how self-satisfied this person sounded, they'd probably let him know soon enough anyway.

"I may be here just to gloat," commented his uninvited guest.

"This is a lot of effort to go to just to gloat at someone," replied Clive, "And if that's the case, you don't have much time to do it before the next guard arrives."

"So very impatient, I see. It's a wonder you're the same person who worked for years to craft an underground city just to fool Layton," tutted the voice, "But I suppose that, if the situation were reversed, I'd be eager to get out as well."

"That's where you're wrong, I'm not eager. I don't want to get out of here," he corrected.

A snort; "Really? Are you honestly such a simpleton as to believe that you can ever make up for what you did? You can stay here for the rest of your life, but society will never forgive you."

That hit a little too close to home with what Clive had been thinking all this time.

"If that is all I can do, then that is what I will do," Clive insisted.

"How very noble. Unfortunately, I don't have the time to listen to you come to terms with yourself," sneered his guest.

There was the sound of movement, a faint swish that may well have been a cape scraping across the floor as its owner bent down. The sound of something being clicked into place around the lock was undeniable.

"I'd step back, if I were you," warned the guest.

There wasn't much space within Clive cell, but he certainly made to do so. Regardless of whether he wanted to get out of here or not, he very much didn't want to get hurt by whatever it was that had been attached to the lock.

Unfortunately for him, the back of the cell wasn't far enough of a distance to not be impacted by the explosion when the door blew open. He smacked against the wall, gritting his teeth at the stinging pain that resounded around his skull. His body slumped down to the floor. Every fibre of his being demanded that he got up, to get away from whoever was approaching him. However, his legs didn't appear to be listening to these commands and his consciousness was listening to less of anything as each second past.

Clive felt a hand reach forward to grab him. The pale skin of the hand was about the only thing that he could see, as whatever else the kidnapper was wearing clashed with the black of the cell.

So much went through his mind during that moment. But his body wasn't listening and wouldn't fight back. About the only thing he could do was close his eyes and stop thinking.

He had no choice but to take that particular course of action.

Blacking out was something that Clive resented having done when he later awoke. Perhaps so much could have gone differently, if only he'd been able to fight the stranger. Although, without being able to stand up, perhaps being awake would have only meant that he had to observe his own kidnapping.

On a selfish level, it might have been better that he'd slept through it.

Also on a selfish level, he growled in frustration to realise that he couldn't move his right leg.

Ignoring this, he glanced at his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, but he knew that any good kidnapper wouldn't have wanted him to. And from what he'd seen this person do so far, Clive figured that they were good at planning ahead.

So, he was in a boarded up room with no furniture or carpet. The windows were covered to stop him from seeing outside, but there was a definite linger of flour in the air. The ceiling was close and there appeared to be a trapdoor leading downwards at one end of the room. Therefore he was probably on the upper level of some kind of storehouse. He tried to recall if there were any places that stored flour in London, presuming that was where he still was.

"You look so far ahead that you fail to see what's right in front of you."

Clive attention snapped from the rest of the room to the figure that was crouched over a box on the right hand side of him, retrieving bandages.

His initial reaction was that there was no way this could have been the same person as the one who had broke him out of prison. Because that person, even when they could not be seen, demanded for all attention to be upon them. Whereas this person had gone completely unnoticed, despite being in plain sight.

A person who had mastered the ability to do both was a dangerous individual indeed.

There were no doubts about who this man was; now that Clive had got a better look at him. Actually, that was a lie. Clive could have seen this man walking down the street dressed in anything else and have no idea who he was, but that outfit… the outfit was telling.

Only one man was known for wearing that particular hat and a white mask that covered only his eyes. While he had apparently discarded the cape and feather boa somewhere before coming to the room, there was still no denying Jean Descole.

At least, in theory. Seeing as he did not know who Descole was away from the outfit, Clive had never been able to let go of the notion that there could possibly have been more than one man pretending to be Descole. But for the moment, all he was concerned about was that one man who was currently acting as Descole was here with him.

"I suppose that you probably have a lot of questions you want to ask," Descole continued, cutting off what he deemed to be a suitable length of bandage, "If these questions are not too inane and I feel they are suitable, I may even answer a few."

Though Clive wanted to snap that there wasn't anything he needed to know from him, but they both knew that was a lie and would only prolong this discussion.

"The only thing that I even can ask at this point is why?" Clive said.

"That's rather vague," Descole commented, "I'd hoped for something a little more specific, such as 'why did you break me out of prison?' or 'why is someone as pathetic as me of any use to you, Descole?'"

Clive wasn't in the mood for this.

"Pick one."

"How very inhospitable. But if you insist. I suppose that the most obvious answer to the question of why I have brought you here is because I unfortunately need you," Descole began, "Which brings us to the second question of why I even would need someone as pathetic as you. Amongst those who have opposed Layton, you are one of the few who fared badly enough to find yourself arrested. Even Don Paolo has managed to evade the police. And I need not speak of myself or how I have famously been the one man who Layton couldn't bring down." At this point, Descole felt that he was losing Clive to the woozy pain that the young man was undoubtedly feeling. So he pulled Clive's broken leg out straight, making him wince in agony, before pulling up his trouser leg enough to be able to wrap the bandage tightly around the exposed injury. He then went on, "As much as it pains me to admit it, you are not entirely useless. I felt a deep loathing for you when I saw your assault on London and it became deeper still after learning of your story. To have achieved so much, to have built such a machine and a whole city replica, you must have been working since you were a child. Granted the immense funding you had and the loyalty of those who worked for your adopted family's name helped, but I can't deny the skill you must possess."

"And why should that bother someone of your own skill in the field of robotics?" asked Clive. If Descole was going to ask him for help, he at least wanted him to admit that his skills were beneath Clive's. It would be grimly satisfying to hear that put into words.

Descole knew this was what Clive wanted; "Don't get too egotistical. I could very easily drop you off back there."

"But you won't," Clive replied, "You must really need me to have gone to the lengths that you have done and I doubt you'd throw me back at the first hurdle of my disagreeing with you. You must have planned that I would."

"I didn't think that you'd be jumping for joy at the prospect of helping me, no," agreed Descole.

"Then why bother? Nothing you say will change my mind. If you want me onboard with some elaborate scheme to hurt Layton, then you're very definitely barking up the wrong tree," Clive warned.

What he wasn't aware of, was that his refusal to do anything to hurt Layton was exactly what Descole wanted to hear from him.

"Well then, you'll just have to stay here until you reconsider my offer," replied Descole, feeling that this was almost too easy.

"You'll have all of London out looking for me. Do you really think that you can keep me hidden for that long?" Clive argued.

Another twang of pain, as Descole tied the bandage in a knot, having finished with the injury.

"I've kept myself hidden for four years," he reminded.

"But that's just a case of taking off your outfit and going home," Clive protested.

"Do you really think it's that simple to evade a mind as smart as Layton? You who tread on egg shells pretending to be Luke from the future and inevitably got caught out by him," Descole snorted.

"No, I can't deny that Layton's smarter than you," he agreed.

There was a moment in which he was sure that Descole was going to strike him. While he could not see the man's eyes, his snarl was enough to demonstrate that. But, as quickly as it had come, this moment past and Descole smiled with forced sweetness, before turning back to rummage through the chest that he'd got the bandages out of.

"Well, let's see clever Layton help you out of this one," he replied, "I almost feel sorry for you, for having to depend on him. But, because I'm a nice guy, why don't I give you one chance to save yourself?"

Before Clive could protest that he didn't need any help from him, Descole thrust a pen and a piece of paper towards him.

"What?"

"I'll give you one chance to call for help," Descole clarified, "You are to write one letter, which I will post on your behalf. My only terms are that you cannot write to Layton directly."

"That's insane! Why would you let me do that?" Clive gasped.

"I told you, because I'm a nice guy. Now go ahead and write your letter, I promise not to peek," sneered Descole, getting up and walking away, to give Clive some space.

He was not stupid enough to leave Clive alone in the room, however. Going only so far as to stand by the furthest boarded up window. And Clive doubted that he was stupid enough to let him write a letter begging for his freedom, either. For a long while, Clive just stared at the blank paper, considering not writing anything. But if he didn't, all that would mean was that he remained trapped here, with no hope of escaping. At least if he did this, there was a small chance that Layton might be able to find him.

Because, while he could not write to Layton himself, nothing was stopping him from writing to the next best person.

Picking up the pen, Clive scrawled Luke's name at the top of the page.

There was no way that Luke wouldn't pass the letter onto Layton.

So he wrote about how he'd been kidnapped from prison by Descole, who seemed to be trying to enlist his help on some revenge scheme against Layton that he wanted no part of. He said that he didn't know where he was, but from what he could gather it appeared to be some kind of storehouse for flour. Because it was unavoidable, he also wrote that Descole had allowed him to write this letter and urged Luke to pass it onto the Professor.

When he had finished, he folded the piece of paper, putting it and the pen down, before staring across at Descole.

"Done so soon?" Descole asked, walking over to pick up the abandoned items, "There's no point in folding it, as I will of course read this letter through before I send it off." There was a pause, as he opened the letter and skimmed through it; "Ah, Luke Triton. What a good choice."

"I suppose that doesn't break your rule?" snarled Clive.

"Not at all," Descole said, "Though I should warn you that it may take a while for this letter to even reach the boy. He moved to America soon after you were arrested."

Clive looked shocked. He hadn't been aware of that…

"He'll still come," he growled.

"Undoubtedly, yes," agreed Descole, "And I'm sure that in the meantime you'll have ample opportunity to come to your senses in regards to your refusal to help me."

"You'll be waiting a long time!" Clive insisted.

"Perhaps. Though not at the moment. For I'm sure you'll want me to post your letter swiftly, so that it can arrive sooner. I won't be long, so don't lament your lack of company. But also know that you do not have free reign of this little room I've prepared for you," said Descole.

He placed the letter in his jacket pocket, before reaching over to grab Clive's arms. There was a struggle, Clive not making it easy for him. But with his broken leg, there wasn't much he could do, and within a few minutes Descole hand managed to tie his arms behind his back, attaching the rope he'd retrieved from the trunk to a fixture on the wall.

"…Damn!" Clive snapped, still struggling.

"Do try to behave yourself while I'm gone," Descole mocked, turning to walk away, leaving via the trapdoor at the end of the room.

Though he cursed himself for being so vulnerable, Clive was secretly quite glad that Descole had gone to post the letter. Assuming that was what he was going to do and the whole thing hadn't been a twisted attempt to give him false hope.

He figured that he should be making some sort of effort to get out of his situation, but for the moment, the pain in his out-stretched leg was almost unbearable and it made it difficult to focus. Seeing that he couldn't go anywhere, Clive made do with sitting back to reflect on his situation. Although he didn't sleep, by the time the trapdoor swung open again he realised that he'd been drifting.

It was night now. That much was at least possible to tell from the lack of light seeping between the cracks of the boarded up windows.

If Descole had removed his disguise to post the letter, then he had put it back on sometime before ascending through to the room. Still sans cape, however.

"You look strange without the boa," Clive commented, his voice coming out a little hoarse, from where he'd been drifting off.

"The floor here is dusty, I wouldn't want to ruin the cape," Descole dismissed, "And I see that you haven't managed to escape in my absence. I'd halfway hoped that you'd be competent enough to do so, but it is easier that you're still here."

"If I had, you would have just followed the trail of blood," replied Clive.

"My bandaging is better than that," said Descole, kneeling down to check the leg all the same, "…Yes, you should be fine. So stop whining. I'd expect at least a thank you for posting your letter, as well."

Assuming you did post it, thought Clive. It wasn't worth saying this out loud, though.

"I don't understand why you'd take such a risk," he said instead, "You weren't wearing gloves, so your prints will be all over the envelope."

Descole shook his head; "It's not a crime, nor even suspicious, for someone to post a letter to the Triton family."

"But when they realise who that letter's from they'll track you," growled Clive.

The smile Descole gave him in response to that was more than a little unnerving.

"I suppose we shall see."

That was all Clive got out of him on that subject. Any further questions were completely ignored, Descole busying himself with some notes from inside that trunk of his. The sound of Clive's complaints did little to disrupt his reading and eventually Clive gave up trying, in light of how pointless it was to do so.

The night was spent in distasteful silence from both of them.

When morning had arrived, Clive wasn't sure how long he had slept. Long enough, apparently, for Descole to have fetched a newspaper, which lay on the floor in front of where Clive was tied up.

"You've made the front page again," Descole commented, from where he was sat, "That should make you happy. They believe that you set this up yourself."

"Why wouldn't they…?" mumbled Clive, sighing.

Of course it would look that way. He was the mad man who had destroyed half of London. Bill Hawks would probably be shaking in his boots at the thought of him on the loose. Thankfully for Bill, Clive was in no position to do anything to anyone.

"I have a rather busy schedule today, so I can't give you the honour of my company. You had more of that than you deserved of that yesterday, anyway. So, if it's all the same with you, I'll give you your breakfast before being on my way," said Descole.

"I don't want any," muttered Clive.

This was not a lie. 'I'm not hungry' would have been a lie, but saying that he didn't want food provided for him by this lunatic was the honest truth.

"If that is the case, I won't fight with you over the matter. Your welfare concerns me too little for that. So I'll ask you one more time if you want to eat and if you say no, then I shall leave," Descole warned.

"No," Clive answered, "I want nothing from you but for you to put me back where you found me."

"Such a stubborn mule," said Descole, "But you can't say that I didn't give you a chance."

He got to his feet, turning and leaving the room without a backwards glance.

That was the last Clive saw of him that day, not that he wasn't glad to lose him. Descole's absence gave Clive time to think about his current situation and what he could do about it, now his mind felt clearer than it had done yesterday. It even gave him the opportunity to test the ropes that tied his hands, though a few hours of fruitless tugging had resulted in nothing more than rope burns on his wrists. He felt better for trying, all the same.

Due to the silence of the room, every little sound from below was magnified, as well. And though he assumed there would be no one down there except for Descole, Clive couldn't deny that it sounded as if something was happening over the course of the day. He heard the faint tinkering of metal from time to time. A sound that had been very familiar to him back when he'd worked on his mobile fortress.

Presumably, whatever Descole was doing down there was the project that he'd wanted Clive's help on.

Not that he could be much help to anyone in this state.

All he could really do was think about what would become of that letter, while listening to the faint, but oddly soothing, mechanical noises from below.

This was a pattern that Clive would soon become adjusted to, as days went by to much of the same tune – Descole would leave in the morning to work on his machine, Clive would be on his own for the whole day, then Descole would return in the evening to both rest and make sure Clive didn't escape.

Inevitably, Clive had given in to his hunger after the second day, much to Descole's mocking delight. The meal, consisting of bread, cheese and water, was probably the most dire that Clive had ever had since taking on the Dove name, but all the same it felt like the best thing he'd ever tasted in his life.

It surprised him to discover this, but Descole was initially quite attentive as host. He'd feed him in the morning, then in the evening he'd give him a second drink, before changing the bandages on his leg. The leg wasn't getting any better without suitable medical assistance, but at least that much kept it clean.

The only thing he wouldn't do was untie Clive's hands. Even when it came to the meals, he fed him by hand. Perhaps he thought that it wasn't worth the struggle of tying him up again, should Clive resist. But after having them kept in the same position for days on end, Clive's body ached, begging for his arms to be moved.

There was no way that Clive was going to beg to Descole for this, however.

As time went on, Descole drifted into being increasingly less attentive towards him. The bandages weren't changed at all after the third week and eventually Clive had even had to prompt him if he wanted water. Sometimes Descole would comply, other times he'd just snap a refusal and storm off.

"I can't help you if I'm dead!" Clive called after him, on one such occasion.

Descole froze in his tracks, muttering, "Who says I want your help?"

"You did," Clive reminded him, "You… brought me here because you wanted me to help you build whatever it is you're planning to throw at Layton."

"I never said that," assured Descole.

"But then why else would you bring me here?" demanded Clive.

"If you haven't figured that out on your own, then you're not worth the resources I waste on you," Descole snapped, "My plan remains the same, regardless of whether you're dead or alive. The longer this game goes on, the more I sway in favour of the dead option."

"So you just wanted a hostage…?" mumbled Clive, the weight of this realisation and his stupidity for not picking up on it sooner hitting him, "You just wanted someone to bring Layton here. That letter…"

"Yes, the letter that you used to invite him yourself," said Descole, smiling now, "How thoughtful of you to write to Luke, too, so in all likelihood the boy will come as well. I'll have both of them as my victims, all thanks to you."

"Layton hasn't come!" snapped Clive.

That was enough to knock the smile off Descole's lips.

"No, he has not. And don't think that this matter doesn't pain me, after all the effort I've gone to. Either Layton doesn't care enough about you to help, which is rather disappointing for you, or else he's not smart enough to figure out the obvious clues left for him, which is disappointing for me. He is my greatest adversary and I had more faith in his intellect then that," he replied, "The man has never failed to follow my trails of breadcrumbs in the past."

"Then I hope that he doesn't care enough to come," spat Clive.

"You don't hope that at all," Descole corrected, "The one thing that we have in common is that we both want Layton to come here."

"We have something else in common, too," Clive pointed out, "That we both know Layton's going to beat you."

"Don't you dare!" roared Descole, storming back over to him, "I have had years to plan my revenge on him and analyse every little mistake that I've made in the past! Layton will not defeat me this time!"

"If he even bothers," added Clive, not sure why he was enjoying this so much.

"He'll bother. If I have to hang your corpse out from the roof, he will come here!" Descole yelled.

"Then why don't you just bring him here yourself, if you're that desperate?" demanded Clive.

"For the same reason that you told him he was in the future during your little game – because he has to work it out for himself. If he cannot do this, then he is not Hershel Layton," said Descole.

That, at least, Clive could understand. It was madness, but madness that Clive had himself suffered from. Layton needed to catch you out of his own merits. That's why tricking him for even a short time was more satisfying than making all of Scotland Yard run in circles for hours.

If Layton hadn't responded to his 'letter from the future', Clive supposed that he'd be disappointed as well.

However, the letter he'd sent three weeks ago was one he would be glad for the Professor to ignore.

"Write one again," Descole said, as if he was thinking the same thing, "Write him another letter."

"No!"

"Of course you won't. Fine then, I'll write him one on your behalf."

"You won't," protested Clive, "For all the reasons that you just said. If you write him a letter yourself, that would mean he was unable to work out the first one you sent. Therefore he won't be good enough for you to destroy."

Maybe it was weak, but that logic seemed to work on Descole for the moment.

"Yes, you're right. I will… wait a while longer before calling this whole ordeal a waste," said Descole.

"And then?" Clive pressed.

"What happens after that is not something that I need to discuss with my hostage," Descole replied.

"Very well."

In all honesty, Clive hadn't expected more than that. He was just glad that he'd managed to sway Descole from bringing Layton here for the moment.

There conversation had not granted Clive the water he'd initially wanted, but in light of the results he didn't care. What he did care about was how foolish he had been to not realise what Descole was using him for earlier. But, that was in the past. At best, he could hope that the letter had either been ignored or lost in the post.

What would happen next, he didn't know. Possibly, Descole would leave him for dead. That theory gathered more weight as Descole left for that night and did not return in the morning to feed him. He didn't need Clive alive, as long as just the hope that he was alive was out there.

But what would happen after that?

Would Descole just use whatever he was building downstairs to crush Layton, regardless?

It was something that he didn't want to think about, although there were few other things that he could use to distract his thoughts with, in light of that.

Apparently, these notions had proven to be a distraction to Descole as well, since by the time the afternoon drew to a close, he lurched back up the ladders, slumping down to sit next to Clive.

"What would you have done if he hadn't come?" Descole asked, sounding different to how he had done before, like a child who had been too poor for Santa Claus to notice him.

"I'd have gone through with it anyway," Clive answered, even though it was exactly what he didn't want Descole to do. It was the truth, all the same; "The difference is that deep down I wanted him to save me from my madness."

There was no reply for a long time.

"Layton needs to suffer," Descole said, eventually.

"For putting a stop to what you did in the first place? Why were you even doing any of those things to start with? It can't always have been to defeat him," Clive debated, "He wasn't even famous in the beginning."

You made him famous, Clive reflected.

"Layton needs to come here," droned Descole.

"No, he doesn't. And perhaps he doesn't care enough about either of us to-"

"Stop talking! Layton will come!"

"Yelling at me about it won't- …What's that noise?"

Clive turned his head, listening harder to the sounds that were coming from outside of the building.

"He's here! I told you that he'd come!" cried Descole, getting to his feet and running for the ladder, "Wait until you see the look on his face when he sees what I have in store for him!" This was followed by a strangled gasp of horror. Descole staring wide-eyed down the trapdoor; "You're not Layton…"

"No, I most certainly am not. But I'm going to put a stop to you all the same," came a voice that was definitely female.

Descole backed away from the hole, quickly enough to avoid an upwards kick from the woman who sprang out of it like a whirlwind. Though Clive had never met her in person, he easily recognised Emmy Altava, former assistant to Professor Layton.

"Why are you here? It should be Layton!" Descole barked, backing up.

"Oh, he's here as well," assured Emmy, "But he's rather too preoccupied with disarming that robot to come here himself. This would be the second time he's found one of your machines before the grand unveiling, would it not? Thank goodness your hostage kept you talking for long enough for him to get through the riddles you'd left on it."

At that, Descole rounded on Clive, grabbing him by his shoulders.

"You set this up! Somehow you got in contact with Layton and arranged all this!" he shouted. Clive didn't need to see his eyes to see the madness that was within them.

"Please, that's a pretty pathetic straw to clutch at, even for you," snorted Emmy, walking up behind him, "The Professor figured out that letter all by himself, as soon as Luke got back to England. He knew that there was no way you'd still be in London, as there would be too much risk of getting caught. But since you didn't have much time, you can't have got too far away. Thank goodness for these storerooms, eh? It did seem like a rather suspicious for someone so disconnected from the industry to buy them like that. Thank goodness Inspector Chelmey is paranoid enough to keep hold of sales records."

"Scotland Yard shouldn't even have records like that," growled Descole, shaking slightly.

"Are you going to beg that case at your trial?" asked Emmy.

"I… there's still time…"

"There would be, if you had any help. Luckily for us, you were so worried about creating a witness that you don't seem to have any accomplices to fight the Professor, while you waste time up here," Emmy hummed.

"I'm never defeated that easily! Not after… not after planning for so long!" Descole cried.

"Did you plan for me?" questioned Emmy, "Or, in your single-mindedness, did you just plan for Layton?"

"Emmy, what's going on? Have you found them?"

Without turning away from Descole, Emmy called back, "No need to worry, he's right here. And so is his hostage."

"Ah, that's good to hear," said Layton.

Clive watched as the famed Professor pulled his way up through into the room, with Luke close behind him. He'd never been so happy to see someone in his life.

He wasn't the only one.

"Layton…" Descole murmured.

"My goodness! Clive, are you all right?" asked Layton, looking horrified.

Though he hadn't thought about it before now, Clive imagined that he probably did look quite a state.

"I'm… fine," Clive replied.

Now that you're here, I'm fine. Everything will be all right now that you're here.

He wasn't the only person thinking that.

"I suppose you have a few more tricks up your sleeves, Descole!" spat Luke, staring out angrily from behind Layton.

Descole smiled.

"I told you he'd come…"

"What are you talking about?" demanded Emmy.

"…And he did."

With that, he threw his arms into the air.

"Is he… surrendering, Professor?" asked Luke, baffled.

"It does look that way," replied Layton.

"Very well, I'll apprehend him then," Emmy stated, stepping towards Descole.

"No!" Clive yelled, surprising himself at his own volume, "No. It needs to be Layton who takes him away."

Emmy raised an eyebrow; "But the Professor isn't as… Well, I'm better at restraining criminals than he is."

"He won't run from Layton," Clive assured her.

He knew this was true. Layton had come for him, after all.

Emmy looked over at Layton, shrugging indifferently. Though he probably didn't understand it, the Professor stepped towards Descole, who lowered his arms again, ready to be escorted outside.

"There's police surrounding the building, if he tries anything," Emmy warned.

"Duly noted," said Layton, "Now, if you'll be as kind as to untie Clive, while I'm gone."

"Of course," answered Emmy.

Having been there for so long, Clive had come to terms with the fact that he was a selfish person. He had wanted Layton to come here. And he wanted Layton to be the one to save him. Just like Descole, he hadn't banked on anyone else but Layton turning up, however.

Unlike Descole, though, Clive was reasonable enough to know when someone needed something more than he did.

Anyone could untie him, but only Layton could be the one to hand Descole over to the police.

Anything else would have been wrong.

So he sat there quietly, as Emmy cut through the ropes that had held him in place for so long. His arms screamed in pain, feeling as if they might snap off. But instead, they just dropped limply to his sides.

"I'm sure… they'll be all right," reasoned Emmy, in a voice that held no certainty, "Can you walk?"

Clive shook his head; "Sorry, no."

"That's fine," she said, lifting him up as gently as she could. With one broken leg and both arms out of commission, he wouldn't have been much good for getting down the stairs, but Miss Altava possessed a surprising amount of strength, carrying him down the trapdoor with little effort.

Once on the ground, Clive could see where he was for the first time. He'd been right to guess that this place had once been used for storage. But most notable, was the mechanical contraption that Descole had been working on, fashioned from the remains of the metal storage units that had once held grain. It would have been an impressive-looking machine, if not for the fact that it had been more than partially dismantled. Right now, it just looked like a sad and dejected monster, retired before it had even seen the battlefield.

"It would have been awful if he'd set that thing on the Professor," Luke said, staring at it in awe.

"Indeed it would. Though our Professor has handled much worse than that," assured Emmy, "And here he comes now."

"Luke, Emmy, I'm glad to say that Descole has now been detained," Layton said, walking over to them, "Though we should go with them to the prison, just in case. I don't think I'll feel like we've won until he's behind bars. And, well, as awkward as it is to say, we'll need to take Clive back as well. But not before he's seen a doctor."

"I'm fine," Clive protested.

"Your arms are practically hanging off. You are not fine," insisted Layton, "Now come on, all three of you. There's a lot that needs to be sorted out."

Luke and Emmy nodded cheerfully, following Layton as always.

And though Clive didn't say anything, he knew that Layton was wrong. He was fine. He knew that he was fine for the same reason that Luke, Emmy and especially Descole knew that they were fine, too – because Layton was here.

It was a horrible amount of unhealthy fixation to thrust upon a man who had no idea of it, but as long as Layton came to help them, they would always feel that they were fine.

Because, in the end, Layton would always come to help.

And that was why everyone who knew him depended on him.