Hershel Layton had done nothing wrong.

Well, perhaps he had, but living through almost twenty years of physical torture due to slavery is clearly not a suitable punishment. A loaf of bread, he remembered every day, every time he woke up cold and damp and aching all over from the exertion. And always, the only thing he had to look forward to was more of it.

He liked to think that he had made friends of some of the prisoners, the ones who were in this situation, condemned to hell for the smallest amount of theft or rebellion or vandalism. It was a thought that let him know that he wasn't alone, that these men on either side of him (who were often caked in so much sweat and dirt that he could hardly tell them apart) would stay truer to him than the rest of the world had.

The day he felt the first branches of freedom reach out to him, the sun had risen early. It caused the smallest amount of fuss amongst the convicts, who were awoken before their desired time by the light. It was a big deal, really, as when you have a whole day of nothing but pulling and heaving and lifting, you want to get as much sleep as you can.

Layton's breakfast was stolen by a gruff man who had been sent down for the manslaughter of his child, in a drunken rage.

He'd tried, before, to escape.

Unfortunately for him, however, their officer was an iron-fisted man who did not let the smallest thing escape his attention. His name was Descole.

Layton would remember that well.

They worked long and hard that day. Layton witnessed five men collapsing from exhaustion. One of them was not seen again. Nineteen winters of working like this, however, had made him seemingly impervious to things like those – although it still hurt to think that these men, most of them good and honest and who had just made one simple mistake, were dying needlessly.

Sometimes, he thought, he hated the world he lived in.

The sun was long gone by the time they were ordered inside. With hands raw from friction and legs shaking, the prisoners all dragged themselves indoors, single-file.

Layton was stopped by the door.

A hand on his shoulder caused him to whip around, almost hitting the man behind him. It took a moment for him to see through the gloom who the hand belonged to.

"Prisoner 24601," said a voice. A deep voice, infected with smugness like tar. The hand slipped from his shoulder as Layton stepped out of the steady shuffling of the line, facing the officer.

Descole.

In his hand was a piece of paper.

"Here, sir, I have a yellow ticket," the officer said, almost mockingly. He raised his hand to what little light the moon could shed through the clouds. "A ticket of leave. Your number is on it."

Layton took the paper from the man's hand with maybe more vigour than he would have wanted to show. "I'm not a number," he muttered under his breath, trying desperately to read through the print on the page.

"That's what you have been for nineteen years, and what you will remain until you prove yourself to be otherwise," the masked man purred. "Which you probably never will do."

Layton bristled slightly. Even after this long, there was a sufficient amount of spark with in him, but he wouldn't retaliate. No man like Descole could beat him. "I'm free?"

"Of course you're not. The eye of the law will not be ignorant to men such as you." Descole made an amused noise, looking Layton up and down. "You are on parole."

"I'm no criminal!"

"You stole from a house."

Biting his lip, Layton stepped away from Descole slightly. He had held this in for so long. "My family were starving. My older brother was on the brink of death—you don't understand, officer, I had no choice!"

"You broke the law," said Descole, cool and calm. Layton could almost see the glint in his eye from beyond the shadows of the white eye mask he was wearing. "That is not something the can be forgiven. You are a thief, and a vandal."

But Layton was still hearing freedom, over and over in his head like a chant. He could leave this place behind.

He could run away.

"You will not escape me, 24601," the officer barked, breaking Layton train of thought, obviously noting the dreamy expression on his face, which soon turned into one of irritation as his fist tightened around the paper.

"I have a name, and my name is Hershel Layton." And Descole leaned in closer, his lips twisted into a sickly grin. Layton could feel his breath on his neck as the officer whispered into his ear.

"And I am Jean Descole. Do not forget my name," he hissed. "Do not forget me, 24601."

Layton shuddered, pulling away. The man was taller than he was, slim and lithe but there was a kind of elegant strength in his movements, and Layton did not want to challenge him. Not only would he receive a harsh beating, he would also be thrown back in jail for God knows how many more years, and that was the last thing he wanted. He vouched, instead, for standing still.

"I won't."

Another officer emerged from a door behind Descole. "Sir," he said, and Descole turned, taking the bag from his arms. Without looking back at Layton, he thrust the bag into his arms. "Take this and leave, Layton." An unpleasant shiver ran down Layton's spine as he heard his name spoken. "You will be expected at Digne in ten days. If you are late, then we will have no choice but to re-arrest you."

Layton stumbled back at the force that the bundle was given to him, before nodding urgently. "Yes, Officer Descole."

He was reluctant to report to Digne, and he was determined not to.

The dawn had come by the time he reached the hills. Lush farmland was here, and Layton tried to sidle in amongst workers, all digging and ploughing and sowing. He worked for what was almost the entire day until he noticed someone weaving in between the workers; someone wearing a better quality of clothing than the rest.

"Well, well," Layton heard as the man got closer. He downturned his eyes, concentrating on the land he was raking through. "Who's this, then?"

"Hershel Layton," he responded numbly. The man's attention, however, had turned to the bag that was at Layton's feet. Layton felt his stomach sink as he saw the corner of his yellow ticket protruding from the cotton flap. The man's jovial expression soured as he reached down and tugged the paper from the bag, reading through it.

"Convict," he said, deadly quiet. "Stole a loaf of bread, broke a window, tried to escape from his sentence half a dozen times." When the man looked up, his eyes were infected with anger. "Leave."

"B-but sir!"

"Leave here. I can't be doing with criminals on my land." And he pushed the ticket into Layton's chest. Layton grunted, and, ashamed, slung the bag over his shoulder and started descending the hill he was working on. The hands around him had stopped working, all choosing instead to watch his departure. In his time, he had earned half of the pay that everyone else would.

Pointless time wasting.

And that was when Layton realised that he couldn't continue to live like this. He couldn't – and wouldn't – continue to move from place to place because of a measly piece of paper. He wouldn't be denied work because he tried to save his brother's life!

After a while, he stopped walking. He was in the middle of a windy moor, but could see the first inklings of civilisation on the path ahead.

There was only one thing for it.

He hadn't put the ticket back in his bag, and so he took it between both of his hands, already feeling the material strain beneath the small amount of force he was applying to it.

"No, Jean Descole," he muttered, "I will not report to Digne in ten days."

And with that, he tore the paper in half, then in quarters. He repeated the action until the scraps were too small to tear, and watched them flutter away on the wind.

Who are you to tell me that I'm not free?