Cabs of Thought

 

If one knew how, it could be stopped, but Emmet hadn’t known how and, truthfully, wouldn’t have tried if he’d been fully aware of the circumstance; a Zubat’s heightened sense of hearing was helpful and a nuisance in equal measure, and, while nothing was stopping him from utilizing his sense of sight as a human, he was incredibly sick of lacking eyes in his alternate form.

 

In following with the analogy, Ingo insisted he’d squeaked when it started, and Emmet opted to ignore this blatantly false account. His poor brother had a Gligar’s keenness of sight, but clearly lacked proper sonar. He simply couldn’t be trusted in this regard.

 

Now that the precedent had been set, though, Emmet was acutely aware that there was nothing stopping him from reaching the final stage in a Zubat’s evolutionary line. He had no trainer, so it was impossible to say with certainty which of his bonds was resonating, but there was no small number to pick from.

 

And, like hiccuping, he might be able to avoid a second evolution for so long, but, eventually, it would sneak up on him.

 

He didn’t really see any reason to put it off. That was the trick-- if one didn’t fight the hiccups, and just learned to let it happen when it wasn’t horribly inconvenient, it was far easier to weather.

 

So, when the evening was winding down and things were calm, he flopped down on the couch next to-- and partially on top of-- his twin, contentedly melted into his alternate form, and let what would happen happen.

 

To his eternal vindication, he heard Ingo yelp in surprise, and proceeded to cackle his way into life as a Crobat.

 

“I’m happy that you’re happy,” Ingo said flatly, brushing an errant wing out of his face, “But was that entirely necessary?”

 

“Entirely.” Emmet agreed, and gave his limbs an experimental little shake, mindful not to whack his brother in the process.

 

Because, while he had no trainer and no definite answer where the affection needed to evolve originated, he was pretty damn sure. If he’d so chosen, he could have evolved a second time from his first moments as a Golbat, and as much as he loved their Pokemon, there was only one connection in his life quite that prolific. Regular Golbat were able to express the companionship they felt through evolution alone, secure in the knowledge that it was their defining relationship; Emmet had wanted to express that as well, yes, but he’d also seen no reason to deny himself. Why evolve anywhere but where he was most comfortable?

 

There was a heavy sigh above him, and he felt something brush against one of his upper limbs.

 

Oh, he’d almost forgotten! While they didn’t have hands per se, Crobat had something to grasp with-- the digits along their foremost set of wings. Eager to test them out, he seized whatever he’d gotten caught on and only just started to move when Ingo put a stop to it.

 

He grabbed his sibling with both hands and hefted him up to eye level-- where it became clear what Emmet had gotten a not-handful of-- and with weary patience said, “You’re a Crobat now-- far too mature for hair pulling. I would recommend that you stop that at once, and feel it prudent to remind you that I remain unevolved and have no reason not to retaliate.”

 

“Oh? What’s that?” Emmet asked, reaching forward to anchor himself onto the backrest. With a little doing, he hoisted himself up onto it and leaned into Ingo’s space, cheek to cheek, “Did you just imply that I’m the older brother, now?”

 

Belatedly, Ingo seemed to realize that he’d done just that.

 

Emmet turned his head and chuckled into his twin’s hair, “Aw, it’s alright. You are just a little Gligar. It’s not your responsibility to notice these things.” He stopped long enough to nip harmlessly at the hand that flew up to wave him away, at which point he announced, “It’s only fair, Ingo. You are older when we are humans. I am older when we are Pokemon. Equal and opposite.”

 

Finally, through vibration more than any actual sound, he felt Ingo begin to laugh. “I’m not entirely sure I agree that humans and Pokemon are opposite one another.”

 

Emmet hummed, and it came out as more of a screech than he’d intended. With an apologetic headbutt, he said, “The subject matter has gotten far too grey for my liking. I do not want to continue this conversation.”

 

“Ah, but I’m just a little Gligar,” Ingo argued, tone kept carefully even, “Isn’t it my duty to pose uncomfortably existential questions?”

 

“Nothing has ever stopped you before.” Emmet grumbled and, in a huff, switched back to human form, leaning over the back of the couch. Ingo reached up with a smile in his eyes and gave the hair hanging down two gentle tugs.

 

Emmet locked his jaw, physically preventing himself from breaking into a grin. “We are human right now, Ingo. Act your age.”

 

---

 

Months passed with little change. There wasn’t so much to adjust to, going from Zubat to Golbat to Crobat-- just minor amenities the previous forms had lacked, and one secondary pair of wings. Nailing the timing to keep them all in sync and himself airborne was arguably the steepest learning curve Emmet faced, and once he got it down-- equal and opposite, funny enough-- it was a cinch.

 

They revisited the topic of evolution order multiple times, either twin trying to bend it to their advantage as circumstance presented, and while Emmet had poked fun, he was… beginning to wonder.

 

Physically, there had been small changes to accommodate, but internally, he felt sturdier, stronger in ways he couldn’t have anticipated back when he was still a Zubat. Ingo didn’t seem to be in any hurry to pursue evolution, and that was perfectly fine-- unevolved Pokemon could be just as capable as their other forms, given the right training and strategies-- but it wasn’t just that. There was a hesitation whenever the matter came up absent the facetious tones they often fell into, an eagerness to shut the conversation down or change topics.

 

Emmet had once asked, in jest, if Ingo thought they had enough battle points to acquire a razor fang, and while the response had been perfectly composed, the discomfort that set into his brother's form was easy to spot.

 

Having no desire to evolve was one thing. Being afraid of the prospect was something else entirely. In that sense, it was fortunate that Gliscor evolved in such a specific way-- there was no threat of a spontaneous, hiccuping evolution-- but Emmet knew his twin. If Ingo wasn’t forced to confront something, he’d be happy to make an indefinite detour around the affected track.

 

He didn’t want to force anything on his brother-- neither his opinion nor evolution itself-- but he did want to understand what was going on.

 

Passing his recent acquisition from palm to palm, Emmet chewed on his lip, deep in thought; had anyone been around to observe, the twins would have been indistinguishable in that moment.

 

Eventually, he schooled his features-- a futile endeavor in and of itself, but the faint smile was for his sake, not to try to fool Ingo-- and headed over to confront his brother.

 

“I have a question,” He said before he could think better of it.

 

It was answered by a hum of acknowledgment as Ingo maneuvered to look at him over the bulk of Eelektross’s body, and a waiting silence.

 

Emmet hesitated.

 

“It is not meant to be a leading question. I simply want to understand.”

 

Ingo's brow furrowed and, as if in conference, Eelektross turned to blink at him, then to its trainer. Emmet himself jerked his head toward the kitchen, silently asking the eel to give them a moment, and it slipped away with only a quiet groan of complaint.

 

“You do not want to evolve. Why?”

 

There was a long break while Ingo processed that. Finally, he said, “I’m content as I am, is that not enough?”

 

“It’s a perfectly valid reason, yes. But that is not why you shy away from the subject every time it comes up. Again, I just want to understand.”

 

Ingo took a deep breath and, slowly, let it out. “Evolution is a very prompt, very permanent change, as you’re no doubt aware. I’m glad that your evolved forms have suited you, but am… not so confident that mine is right for me.”

 

Emmet cocked his head, getting slightly waylaid in spite of himself, “Gliscor are strong and tough. Physical attackers like you favor. Useful typing. Capable of Earthquake. Potential for verrrry strong combinations. I fail to see the problem.”

 

A hint of a grimace flashed through the crease of his brother’s eyes, but was quickly smoothed over, “While all of that is true, I’m afraid the species is also saddled with a rather… unsavory connotation. No Pokemon can be handled without risk, I understand that of course, but people seem to find Gliscor in particular-- shall we say off putting?”

 

Scary. The word he was skirting around was ‘scary’, and suddenly it all made a lot of sense. Ingo’s relative inability to shift away from his severe resting expression tended to draw attention, and that was very rarely a good thing. On one hand, maybe a Gliscor’s ever-present smile might help remedy the situation; on the other, it might only make things worse, pinging off of humanity’s underdeveloped sense for danger.

 

“Ah,” Emmet eventually said, “I see. Thank you for humoring me.”

 

There was a tense, expectant pause, broken only by, “You’re not going to argue with me?”

 

He gave his head a shake, shifting uncomfortably under his twin’s attention-- it was an unfamiliar feeling, and he didn’t enjoy the novelty of it one bit. “I knew discussion of it was beginning to wear on you. My intent was to learn why and to avoid the topic in the future.”

 

Taking mercy on his brother, Ingo’s gaze slid away to an undefined point beyond his shoulder, “Then you’ll find that you’ve reached your destination.”

 

Emmet stepped closer so he could perch on the arm of the couch, tilting to rest the side of his head against Ingo’s.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Without looking or making any move that might dislodge him, Ingo reached up to lay a warm hand on his arm.

 

“As you’ve said, you were only trying to make sense of the situation; there’s no need to apologize for that.”

 

Humming in something that was neither agreement nor argument, Emmet switched tracks, “You aren’t scary.”

 

“And I’m sure Gliscor can be perfectly wonderful companions in spite of their own reputation,” Ingo said dryly, “At this junction, however, I would prefer not to press my luck.”

 

He sighed against his twin’s crown, causing a section of hair to flutter in the artificial breeze, “That is entirely reasonable.”

 

There was a thin laugh in response, a weak, but legitimate attempt at levity, “I do have my moments.”

 

Pushing off of Ingo’s shoulder, Emmet pivoted and, finally, offered the item he’d been toying with for the entire conversation. The polished piece of eviolite was warm from the constant handling, this particular specimen erring more toward pink than it did purple-- color hadn’t initially been on his list of criteria, but there was certainly a meaning to be read into it now.

 

“For you,” He said rather unnecessarily, highlighting the words by physically tipping it into Ingo’s unoccupied hand before his brother had a chance to respond.

 

Ingo blinked down at it, and then looked back to Emmet, who was struck once again by how sad it was, how few people would recognize the joy that showed in every aspect save for his twin’s lips.

 

The vulnerable moment was left behind them as Ingo asked, “Do I want to know how you acquired this?”

 

And, without missing a beat, Emmet said back, “No you do not.”

 

---

 

There was a very clear turning point in Ingo’s opinion on evolving, a wonderful example of the impact good publicity could create.

 

It was a shift on the standard multi lines and their opponents’ combination of Tyranitar and Gliscor had proven a competent match for that day’s team. The usually-wicked chain of Crustle’s Sturdy, rocky helmet and Flail certainly wore the bat down, but despite their bugs’ best efforts, type advantages had simply won out.

 

At Emmet’s side, Ingo took a breath to congratulate their challengers, and habit carried him through the script as Emmet grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him over, raising a hand to stop the Gliscor’s trainer before they could recall it.

 

Bemused by the change of pace, the trainer humored him, their Pokemon glancing uncertainly between the parties involved. It had been a short conversation-- lasting only until the challengers were set to depart-- and while he wasn’t usually one to lead, in this instance Emmet had been happy to guide the discussion, asking after the teen’s history with it and how it fared outside of a battle facility.

 

Taking up the reins left Ingo to focus on the Pokemon itself, which was a nice bonus. Clearly the Gliscor recognized that something was afoot, even if not specifically what-- jaws parted to scent the air and eyes narrowed, perplexed. At one point, Emmet looked over to catch it raising one wing, trying to herd what it must have thought a very strange Gligar beneath it.

 

It had been a sweet Pokemon, and a very good learning experience.

 

Coincidences aside, though, Emmet wasn’t in the habit of pushing an evolutionary agenda. While he might try to soothe his brother’s anxieties where the species was concerned, he wholly accepted Ingo’s reasoning, and anything he encouraged was strictly for comfort’s sake.

 

So it was something of a surprise when, months down the line, Ingo asked if Emmet would mind holding onto something for him for the evening. Because they both knew he couldn’t resist, there had been no protest as he’d unfolded the extra pair of gloves to find a razor fang at its heart. Somewhere between comprehension and ignorance, he looked up.

 

“It seems prudent to have one on hand, just in case.” Had been Ingo’s only explanation.

 

And, well… that was progress. There was a certain amount of self-loathing to Ingo’s opinion on evolution that seemed unhealthy, and it was a comfort to see it begin to ease. Whether or not he would ever use the razor fang was a moot point; the only thing that mattered was that he wasn’t so vehemently opposed to the thought.

 

As before, the specter of evolution drifted quietly into the background.

 

---

 

Like any carnivorous bat, the subject swooped back into the fray without warning.

 

“Would you… mind staying with me, if I were to evolve?” Ingo asked one evening, apropos nothing.

 

Emmet waited several seconds for the full context, until he realized the delay seemed to be making his twin nervous. “Of course not. What is the rest of this hypothetical?”

 

“Ah.” Awkwardly, he forced his attention off of the floor and met Emmet’s eyes, “It’s not a hypothetical question. I think I’m ready. To… evolve.”

 

The train of thought slowly pulled into its charted destination, and as soon as it did, he bristled, “You do not need to do so. We have covered this. Did something happen?”

 

“Nothing in particular, no; I’ve just been affording it some more thought, lately, and this was the station I arrived at.”

 

“Because it is what you want?” Emmet demanded.

 

“Yes. Mostly.” At the look the amendment earned him, Ingo raised his hands in self defense, “I still have my concerns, but at this point in time, not knowing is worse. The longer I humor that anticipation, the greater it becomes.”

 

“So what you actually want is to get it over with.”

 

“I… suppose that’s an accurate assessment.”

 

Asking if he was certain would only make the situation worse. Surely Ingo had already given this plenty of thought-- he’d had years to consider it, after all. That he was only bringing it up now carried a great deal of weight.

 

So, without any further challenging words, Emmet held up his arms in invitation; Ingo accepted it with a surprising readiness, belying just how nervous he really was.

 

He needed something else to focus on, to distract him from the unease of deciding upon a drastic change of course after so long. Emmet could do that.

 

“Do you know where your razor fang is?” He asked, and could feel the indignant shiver running through his brother at the suggestion that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Personally, Emmet thought it was a valid question; while it was far more likely that Ingo had checked and double-checked before making any declarative statements, there was always a chance the Joltik had spirited it away in the past five minutes.

 

Mutely, Ingo nodded to where Chandelure was hovering near the ceiling, one iron limb curled around the be-gloved fang.

 

Fair enough. If there was one way to ward Joltik off, that was probably it. He didn’t actually think she would do anything to the little bugs, but they would have to learn a healthy respect for her someday, and if that was today, then it was their own fault; the last thing he wanted to do right now was pluck one out of her personal space and get zapped for the effort.

 

Not for the first time, Emmet spared a thought for the indignity of having a type vulnerability to his own Pokemon, only for his twin to be utterly immune. Somewhere out there, Arceus was laughing.

 

There was nothing for it. He had more important matters to address.

 

While Ingo stepped away to call Chandelure down, he made no move to relieve her of her cargo, rightfully wary of handling the razor fang so long after sunset. She handed it over to Emmet without any fuss and, having overcome the anti-spider measures, he turned his attention back to the present.

 

“Where would you like to be for this?”

 

“The living room, I think,” A hesitation, and then, “Where you evolved.”

 

Ah. Well, perhaps Emmet should have seen that coming; his brother was a sentimental sap, and he loved him for it.

 

It took no time at all to get situated, leaving little more than to wait for Ingo’s lead. With a deep, bracing breath, he yielded to the smaller form of a Gligar, but it took a moment more for him to work up the nerve to open his eyes and greet the reality he was headed toward.

 

Unbothered, hands free of the evolutionary aid, Emmet steadied him, “Are you prepared for departure?”

 

There was a stiff nod against his chest, the pincers holding onto his arms trembling from the effort of staying somewhat slack. Before moving to take the fang up again, he moved one hand to either side of Ingo’s head and turned his face up.

 

“I will see you in just a moment.” He promised, and simultaneously pressed a kiss between long ears and the razor fang to a fluttering chest.

 

---

 

Evolution wasn’t like a case of the hiccups, it was the deep inhalation one took to choke them out. Doing so wasn’t necessary-- life would go on either way-- but if one so chose, they could take the plunge and hold their breath.

 

It was a building tension, a burning, overflowing wealth of energy begging to be set free, to show the world what it could do. It was also a sigh of relief as that potential found purchase and settled into what it was meant to be.

 

Where his head nestled against Emmet’s chest, a shuddering breath escaped Ingo, and he wasn’t entirely sure what emotion he could ascribe it to. For simplicity’s sake he might call it relief, but there were more layers to it than that might imply; not only that nothing had gone wrong, but also that the decision had been made. There was no going back. No matter what happened from here on out, his only recourse would be to make it work.

 

That was doable.

 

He stayed there a little while longer, larger arms more easily curving around his brother to maintain their hold; he slowly unfurled his wings, testing how it worked now that they were their own limbs, independent of the others. This quiet introspection was interrupted by laughter stifled against the top of his head.

 

With a chirp-- meaningless, save for its questioning note-- Ingo looked up at the culprit.

 

“Oh, you stopped.” Emmet said, complaint evident in his words, as if he hadn’t been the very thing to distract Ingo from… whatever it was he’d apparently been doing. Stretching his wings? He supposed he had drawn them back at the noise.

 

Puzzled, he spread them out again, to his twin’s further amusement.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure. You’re the one who was disappointed that I stopped.”

 

“Not that. You were chattering verrrry quietly. Low like a rumbling engine. It was cute.”

 

He was?

 

Oh. Yes. He’d overlooked the subconscious rolling of his vocal cords. In actuality, calling it ‘chattering’ was wholly inaccurate; it was, without a trace of doubt, a sustained purr. Suddenly very aware of himself, Ingo preemptively went to muffle any other noise he might make.

 

“Noooo,” Emmet laughed, all delighted dismay as he humored the wide face burrowing into his shirt, “Don’t be embarrassed!”

 

It was met by an undignified squeak of, “Then stop trying to embarrass me!”

 

“Oh, Ingo.” He drawled, amusement audible in spite of his ever-consistent tone, “I don’t have to try. You do it to yourself.”

 

He grumbled into the thin white fabric, distinct from the soft, content purr. Maybe he could try something else, experiment with a screech or non-offensive growl to distract from the incident. While it didn’t bother him, everything he vocalized was lower than it used to be, and it would take some getting used to.

 

He wondered, vaguely, if his larger stature meant he had access to his full lung capacity.

 

After a minute, he stopped theorizing and gathered his courage, emerging from his ineffectual hiding spot.

 

Emmet beamed at him, taking his face in both hands once more.

 

“There you are.” He said, and proved unable to resist ruffling his twin, fingers working into the coarse fur at his cheeks, “Better?”

 

One ear twitched and, methodically, Ingo ran through his systems, testing claws and wings and giving his tail an experimental thump; it was two-pronged now, the stinger substantially larger, lacking the dimorphic sizing in this secondary form. Different, yes, but not in a bad way. There was something about it that felt like holding his eviolite for the first time-- a protective layer establishing itself between himself and the world at large.

 

It made sense from a logical standpoint; a Gliscor’s defensive stats were higher than a Gligar’s, which was precisely what the eviolite was meant to emulate. Feeling it as an intrinsic part of his carapace, though, was bizarre.

 

“I believe it will be, with time.”

 

And, since the immediate concern had passed, of course it was open season.

 

“Now you get to learn how to fly properly. Your ‘membranes’ excuse has run out.”

 

Without removing himself from the couch, Ingo flapped his wings, just once. While he’d done his research ahead of time, the firsthand sense of it only drove home the fact that they were meant for catching a breeze and riding it; he likely could create an updraft, but it wasn’t an ideal application.

 

“Where’s Archeops?” Ingo asked instead of any proper reply, “I need to speak with him about forming a coalition. Perhaps then you’ll accept that not everyone with wings travels the way you do.”

 

“You are correct. Winged creatures generally do not take the subway. All three of us are outliers.”

 

Emmet managed to keep a mostly-straight face until Ingo craned up to nip at the ends of his hair, unimpressed. “Ah! None of that anymore! You’re a big Gliscor now. You should know better.”

 

He rolled his eyes-- to a bark of laughter-- and backed off, straightening, finally, to human form.

 

Everything felt normal. He glanced to Emmet for confirmation, judging via his twin’s expression, and found his attention lingering just a moment longer than expected. Before Ingo could ask, however, he met his eyes once more and broke out into a relaxed smile.

 

“I am happy that you’re happy.”

---

 

That was all well and good, but Ingo used his for its classic purpose, and he could not find it.

 

He was so careful about keeping it tucked safely behind his mask when they were out and about and conflict could arise at any moment, but he’d never seen any reason to keep it on his lack-of-person at home. His mistake because, apparently, mediating an argument between Crustle and Archeops counted.

 

The other Pokemon helped him look, tearing through the apartment in search of the stone, just as afraid as their late trainer. Yamask were a well documented species, from their grim origins to their lingering humanity and the fact that they remembered who they’d been in life. Living as one such creature was different, but not unthinkable. Cofagrigus… were a different story. It was an accepted fact that Cofagrigus not only lost their unique memories, but any recollection of having been human in the first place.

 

Ingo had already lost all sense of self once; suffice to say, he was not eager to take the next logical step.

 

Thus, the collective mad dash through the apartment, trying to find his everstone before the pulse where his heart should have been grew any more powerful. It might have been a comfort, a reminder of his time as a living creature, if he hadn’t already known what it meant.

 

He didn’t want to evolve. He didn’t want to risk the life he’d regained, the family he’d finally found. In theory, he could have rejected evolution outright, but he didn’t have that instinct or knowledge-- since his first scare, the only thing holding it at bay had been the everstone.

 

The edges of his vision went starburst-white and he accidentally scattered a collection of documents in his haste to check over the desk. Humming nervously, he backed off and tried to fight the sensation down, but in focusing, it just made it that much more undeniable-- and once he was fixated on it, there was no turning away, not unless he wanted to let go and evolve on the spot.

 

He felt sturdy wrought iron arms curve around him, and a warm bulk huddling in close. Somewhere in the fog of it all, steel claws deposited a familiar weight behind his mask, but for all he appreciated Excadrill’s success, it was too little too late.

 

It was a surprise to open his eyes again, knowing who and what he was.

 

The Pokemon surrounding him looked on with a tentative sort of hope. Chandelure’s arm was still braced along his back, Haxorus boxed him in and Excadrill tapped her claws nervously. Archeops, Garbodor, Klinklang and Crustle formed a secondary ring, unable to get closer, but were still paying careful attention to what was going on.

 

Ingo lifted a hand and stared at it for several seconds. He had four of them now, a distant part of him noted, which was nice, because he could use them to reach out to multiple Pokemon at once. There was an immediate uproar when he put this plan into motion, and a scramble to crowd in as far as they could. Their voices were distinct enough to pick out one by one, but all said the same thing: how relieved they were that he still knew them, how afraid they’d been, and how sorry they were to have been unable to prevent this.

 

The last point was kind of them, but it was his own fault. He felt terrible for worrying them, and--

 

Sinnoh above, how was he going to communicate this to Emmet?

 

---

 

Historically, Ingo wasn’t one to sleep in, which had made the past three mornings noteworthy. Being that they had work, Emmet hadn’t had any choice but to rouse the lethargic Yamask, but today they were off, and so he’d let his brother rest.

 

There had to be a reason for it, even if it wasn’t immediately discernible. Maybe he’d been using too much energy on the subway lately, or there was a Lampent neither of them had noticed, feeding from him. It could have been down to something as simple as size-- he was so much smaller than he used to be that maybe the pace they’d always kept was unsustainable. The list of options was long and varied.

 

Or-- Emmet thought, as he wandered through the apartment on his return, trying to figure out where everyone was-- maybe it had been something much more pressing.

 

He heard his name, lower and creakier than it should have been, and his blood ran cold. Breaking into a sprint, he rounded the corner and found his answers.

 

Maybe Ingo had been tired because his body was saving up the energy to evolve.

 

He staggered another step forward, one hand clasped over his mouth as if to contain the scream of grief building in his throat, and Archeops and Klingklang moved aside to let him. No, no, no. He’d just gotten his twin back, he couldn’t lose him again-- not like this. Not without even the chance to do something to help, to say goodbye.

 

Elesa called something down the hallway, but he didn’t process the words. He took another few steps without knowing why, the Pokemon parting to allow him forward, until, finally, he landed himself right in front of the Cofagrigus that had once been his brother. Too consumed with sorrow to notice the worry in its eyes or the way its four arms tentatively hovered around him, he felt himself wobble and stopped fighting against both gravity and his grief.

 

Hurried footsteps made their way down the hall. That fact seemed largely irrelevant, given the circumstance.

 

As he slid down to his knees, something touched his back, steadying him, and the rough version of Ingo’s voice spoke again, gently; the only thing Emmet could make out past the roaring in his ears was his name, and that was swiftly followed by a scream from the opposite side of the room.

 

One of the things-- arms, he belatedly realized, following one to its source-- reached to cradle his face.

 

“It’s okay, Emmet” Ingo repeated, slow, laborious, and exactly what he’d been telling him before, “I'm still here.”

---

 

He would be the first to admit that Ingo’s disappearance had gutted him, that his brother’s absence haunted his every waking moment; given the circumstances, he thought he was handling it… well enough, but, from an outsider perspective, that seemed to translate to ‘terribly’.

 

Maybe it was all in his head, the feeling that from the day his twin vanished, something changed in Gear Station-- the echoes louder, more distinct, and the darkness swelling with a previously unseen depth. There was every likelihood that it was some maladjusted coping mechanism, seeing dangers that didn’t exist in a misguided attempt to find closure. If the shadows were suddenly alive, then maybe they were to blame, maybe they had spirited Ingo away.

 

He hated to think that, though, and not because it meant he was fighting a losing battle for his sanity. It hurt to know that they could destroy one another like this-- that, if Ingo was still out there, Emmet could unknowingly be causing him the very same anguish.

 

Sometimes, Emmet subtly tried to gauge how real reality was, asking, for example, if Cloud had heard anything when he knew there was a voice echoing down the tunnels, or whether it seemed darker than usual when the shadows were so established that they formed a low-lying fog. If anyone else was experiencing what he did, they were keeping remarkably silent about it.

 

As time passed, the phenomena became more extreme. The occasional shout from faraway or burst of words through radio static became constant whispering, the words still indistinct, but different from what he’d been growing accustomed to; where it started melancholy and pleading, it eased into something angry, then sharp and hissing. Already alarmingly animate, the shadows felt like they were watching him now, judging, waiting for… something. He didn’t want to know what.

 

It was the worst he’d felt at the station since his solo return. Until now, the building air had been unnerving, but not unsafe; he’d never feared for anything but his soundness of mind when the darkness shifted or the tunnels hummed. Now, though, Emmet was concerned-- not only for himself, but for the staff and patrons. The atmosphere was outright hostile and he didn’t know how to ensure safety without coming across as a lunatic. There were days he’d considered not coming in because it was becoming such a burden, but the thought of what might happen in his absence kept him dutifully on schedule. If he was the only one who could see it, he had a duty to be there, to contribute whatever he could.

 

In short, he was frazzled and exhausted, nearing wit’s end with no respite in sight.

 

So really, he was due for a mental breakdown.

 

---

 

Ingo was pissed off.

 

That happened a lot more than it used to, he realized as the gaps in his being slowly filled, and a part of him understood why Giratina might have lashed out the way it did. It was maddening to exist without really existing, to watch the world turn and remain separate from it.

 

He didn’t get it. He’d endured the centuries separating Hisui from the modern day and remained tied the distortion world-- he’d witnessed his own fall through existence and nothing had changed, save for the new, firsthand recollection of reality collapsing in on itself.

 

Emmet was suffering, and nothing he tried did anything. Why was he still stuck here? He’d waited, he’d done exactly as Arceus had instructed-- how long was he supposed to stand by and allow this to go on?

 

Yes, he pushed the boundaries, and yes, he’d do it over and over again, no matter how many times Giratina rolled its eyes at him or The Alpha Pokemon yanked him into glorified time out. He could tell something was changing with his actions, the prolonged exposure to nonexistence gradually wearing thin the barrier between Arceus’s realm and its counterpart-- he just had to figure out how to make use of it.

 

Ingo remembered that he’d enjoyed people watching once upon a time-- had been quite good at it, even. He’d had no way of knowing what a ‘cold read’ was in Hisui, but he knew now that it was part of why he excelled as a trainer. The ability to read a Pokemon and its trainer before either made a move or uttered a command was an invaluable skill, giving one a prominent advantage in battle.

 

He did not need any of that skill to recognize the ill intent in the individuals haunting the station.

 

They lurked behind any conceivable scrap of cover, always watching his twin, always lurking nearby. It was almost impressive, the way they moved without ever revealing themselves, in spite of their firm ties to the material plane. Unfortunately for them, Ingo had the advantage of a liminal existence, seeing through their camouflage without being able to be perceived in turn.

 

There were three of them. Brothers of a sort, from what he could gather, though that information was extremely limited. They whispered to each other about Team Plasma’s fall, about regaining their leader’s lost heart with this act of overwhelming victory.

 

In very short order, Ingo was able to put together that they intended to conquer the rail system, a feat many a Plasma Grunt had tried in the past without success. This time was different, though; the Battle Subway was down one of its heads, and the trio was making a concerted effort to wear Emmet down. If they could just counteract the remaining Subway Boss’s presence, then the coast would be clear.

 

That wouldn’t stand.

 

When one of the three made a move, tried to harass Emmet more directly, Ingo decided he didn’t care what the repercussions would be. He was seeing this to its final terminal.

 

---

 

Everything stopped.

 

The bustle of daily operation, the murmur of a genial crowd, even the flow of air through the station ceased. In one fell swoop, the darkness Emmet had grown used to ignoring flooded in from behind him, coalescing into a blanket so thick that it blotted existence itself out.

 

This time, though, it wasn’t prying eyes and prickling whispers. It was pure fury, thick enough to choke on, like a lungful of acrid black smoke. He instinctively tried to cough, and sputtered when he didn’t meet the expected resistance.

 

Something shifted in the murk not so far away, subtle at first, and then frantic; he thought he might have heard an intake of breath, but it was quickly drowned out.

 

Just as suddenly as it had rolled in, the fog bank evaporated and operations resumed around him, but he barely processed any of it. There was only one thing echoing in his ears:

 

“You’re the ones who have been hurting my brother out there.”

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m going to end you.”

---

 

Maybe ‘random’ wasn’t entirely fair-- it had clearly been used as a den for some time, and boasted more furnishing than your standard mountainside hole-- but it didn’t matter. If the Hisuian tales of someone ‘neither man nor Pokemon’ inspired visitors, they would be hard pressed to find the right entryway out of the many tunnels that littered the territory.

 

That wasn’t the point, anyway. The point was that Emmet intended to stay sprawled here for the next few centuries, and Ingo didn’t seem compelled to alter that course; there was a low, content rumble of thunder beneath him, and Emmet took that as an all clear.

 

He hadn’t appreciated just how much the world could change, independent of human truths or ideals, until stepping foot into the bitter cold of Hisui. It had been a miserable slog from the Alabaster Icelands, and that was speaking as a fire type; he didn’t want to imagine what the trip might have been like without an internal pilot light to burn away the worst of it.

 

The less said of traversing it with a proper type vulnerability, the better. If he could pretend he was just huddling near to save his twin the sleepy discomfort of a Nimbasan winter, wonderful-- it meant he didn’t have to dwell on the earnestness of Ingo’s “You’re so warm,” like the concept had never even occurred to him. It meant he didn’t need to consider a reality where his other half had known only the freezing cold, unaware that he was supposed to have a counterbalance to protect him from it.

 

He let out a disgruntled huff of breath and rested his chin atop his brother’s head, ignoring the minor tilt as Ingo shot him a sideways look; the darker dragon settled back down within the moment, either unwilling or unable to raise a complaint, and, frankly, Emmet didn’t care which one it was. All that mattered right now was getting him warmed up, and there was nobody better suited to the task than Reshiram himself.

 

---

 

It wasn’t saying much, but in all his years, Ingo hadn’t realized that it was possible to be so warm.

 

Hisui ran cold, but that wasn’t to say it was without its more temperate locations. The Coastlands had Firespit Island, and the Mirelands were… bearable; in areas lacking snow’s ambient chill, it was possible to bask in the sun and not feel the cloying grasp of an inescapable winter.

 

For quite some time, he’d thought it was just him. While humans like Irida and Gaeric had an immunity to the tundra that left their peers in awe, as a whole, they didn’t seem to suffer the perpetual frostbite that Ingo did. Pokemon, too, were able to weather it with little difficulty, their type depending.

 

The closest he’d ever come to seeing eye to eye in this regard had been with the Garchomp Akari trained-- and even he hadn’t known what Ingo was talking about. Yes, it agreed, the cold was terrible and the fact that its kind nested in such harsh climes was ridiculous-- but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be remedied by nestling into a den or sprawling next to a fire.

 

There hadn’t been any point in arguing-- never mind that Ingo spent the greater portions of the winter holed up with Sneasler and her clowder. He could concede that it was orders better than being stranded in the snow, but it wasn’t…

 

He didn’t know what it wasn’t. Enough? It should have been. Sneasler was under no obligation to allow him so close to her young-- not when he was a complete unknown. It wasn’t right? Who was he to make such a bold claim? For the Sneasel and their mother, it was perfect-- if he had a problem with it, that was his burden to bear.

 

It wasn’t ideal, he supposed-- not his, at least.

 

Maybe something in him had frozen, back before he’d woken up, and all of Hisui’s scant warmth combined wasn’t enough to thaw him out. He’d all but resigned himself to lifetime of it, and could admit that he was… dumbstruck to find an alternate station.

 

Firespit Island burned, too intense to stay put and let the outermost edges of his permafrost melt, leaving them to build right back up as soon as he stepped away. For a moment, The Other’s touch had felt just the same, but it wasn’t. Though Ingo had nothing in living memory to compare the sensation to, he knew it was familiar. Right. Ideal.

 

And, more to the point, it was enough. The frost had spent too long building to thaw with a single touch, but in that moment the glacier inside of him had calved, bringing to light information that had been since buried in ice.

 

That was his Other! Emmet--? Reshiram? Both? His twin! His other half!

 

In short order, the intense heat mellowed enough for Ingo to realize that it hadn’t ever been so hot as to burn-- only to warm. It was simply that he, himself, had been too cold to feel even mildly tepid and not flinch away from the perceived threat.

 

He wasn’t really cognizant of how and when they’d gotten to his den, but when he tuned back into reality, he was at home with his brother draped over his back, radiating more heat than was practical. Something deep in the build up of ice resonated with that observation-- it was normal, he thought. Emmet always ran warm, even when they presented as humans; the real challenge was keeping him from getting excited and subconsciously turning any given room into a sauna.

 

A moment later, Ingo caught up to himself and the… odd implications of that thought. Humans? He would tuck it away for later, when he had the wherewithal to do more than rumble his contentment while his twin grumbled about keeping him pinned for the next several centuries.

 

While he couldn’t live up to the threat in full, Emmet certainly did his best to prove the point. Once he deigned to get to his feet, there was a noticeable chill in the air. Ingo had never known this cave to be particularly drafty-- it was why he’d chosen it in the first place-- leaving him to wonder if the breeze had always been there and he just hadn’t noticed.

 

But his twin didn’t have time for his philosophizing, it seemed, and yanked him upright without a word; as soon as they were eye to eye, he pressed their heads together and hummed. The warmth in the form before Ingo was still there, but muted-- not because he’d grown complacent, but because he could still feel it radiating through his plating, back towards its source.

 

If he could acclimate-- however poorly-- to the cold, could he then reacclimate to this? He wanted to. Sinnoh above he wanted to.

 

“Acceptable. For now.” Emmet decided, and pulled away to poke his nose out of the den. Ingo wasn’t entirely sure what he expected to find there, considering they’d spent the daylight hours in a monochrome huddle, but didn’t stop him.

 

The chill was still present, but his face felt warm and flushed, at complete odds with it-- like the cold air was settling on his scales and evaporating on contact. Good riddance, he couldn’t help but think. All these years of building up snow, and he wouldn’t stand for another moment of it.

 

Somewhere in him, the glacier still lingered, but its days were numbered. With time, it would slowly melt into nothing.

 

...maybe Emmet was right.

 

A few centuries curled into ball of opposites sounded pretty good.

---

 

She’d never expected to find herself smack dab in the middle of one such setting, aided by a ghost who couldn’t have clashed with the landscape any more if he’d tried-- but that was perfectly fine, since nobody else could see him.

 

It was counter to everything she’d learned from the media form when her quest ended-- with Volo and Giratina both defeated at the crest of the Spear Pillar-- and nothing happened on that front. Usually there was some kind of goodbye at the conflict’s end, whether tearful or long awaited, but no; Dawn continued to live her life in Hisui, dutifully filling out her Pokedex as Galaxy Team’s most haunted surveyor.

 

Not that she wanted the Conductor to leave her! He’d been the single biggest factor making her stay bearable-- someone to commiserate to in matters she couldn’t discuss openly, who’d stuck with her when Jubilife had wiped their hands of her, the only one who actually knew her name. It just… it didn’t resolve anything. They were no closer to understanding why she and the Nobles could see him when others couldn’t. They didn’t have any idea why he was in Hisui when everything about him screamed that he was from somewhere-- and likely, somewhen-- else entirely. They didn’t even have the first inkling who he was or what his name might have been. The most they could work from was a stringent adherence to the concept of ‘safety first’ and the railway jargon he couldn’t help but pepper into every other sentence.

 

Hence her name for him. He’d acted as her guide through Hisui, he talked like a rail enthusiast, he was the Conductor.

 

Or Ducky, if she was feeling… well, ducky.

 

And even now-- even with the Pokedex complete and Arceus defeated-- the status quo had not changed. Sure, she was back in her time of origin, but she wasn’t home; she was in a foreign land again, still visibly a fish out of water as she listened to the guiding words of a man nobody else could see.

 

At least back then she’d had a baseline as to the native Pokemon, but not here.

 

Fortunately, the Conductor was inexplicably knowledgeable whenever she asked after a Pokemon or started down a dead end. It had made sense in Hisui-- he’d spent two years as an invisible observer prior to her arrival, so of course he could offer helpful insights-- but didn’t add up in Unova. It seemed to indicate that he’d been here at some point, but, of course, he couldn’t confirm or deny.

 

They would get to the bottom of it, Dawn decided. Just as soon as they made it somewhere with a Pokemon Center.

 

Unfortunately, they’d landed in front of a remote shrine, and the only town they’d passed through thus far boasted limited services within what was clearly some manner of battle facility. While she didn’t doubt she could compete, fighting her way up a giant tree was not on Dawn’s agenda for the time being; the Conductor seemed oddly interested, though, which marked it as a site to revisit at a later point in time.

 

It could wait until she made it somewhere she could call home, though.

 

Eventually, after a bridge, a close call on a rocky cliff face, and being steered away from a forest, they made it to a city.

 

And not just a city-- a massive city! It was so far removed from anything in Hisui that it wasn’t even funny. Dawn didn’t even know if anywhere back in modern-day Sinnoh was of a similar scale. Maybe-- maybe-- it was roughly comparable to Veilstone, with its department store, or the bustling port of Sunyshore, but even compared to the most lively Sinnoan cities, this place still felt enormous.

 

It was overwhelming, and, even though he tried to help, the Conductor’s innate sense of direction led them not to the Pokemon Center Dawn had been hoping for, but some kind of public transport. She shouldn’t have been surprised; ever since they’d gotten here, he’d been able to drift through the landscape with a vague sense of recollection, but any specific requests were too far out of his ephemeral knowledge base.

 

And, so, she’d made a mistake. As she’d often done when studying-- or fleeing from-- Pokemon, she’d asked him to scout ahead, to see if he’d be able to find their end destination without the limits imposed by the physical world. Dawn hadn’t counted on just how much busier the city was, how much harder it might be to pick a person out of the omnipresent crowds or how damningly easy it would be to drift along them, unaware of what she was doing. Before she knew it, she wasn’t outside the row of shops they’d diverged before, but nestled among patrons of a fairground.

 

She didn’t know how she’d gotten here. She didn’t know how to get back.

 

She tried once, in vain, to call for her friend, but it was immediately swallowed by the din of modern life.

 

For the first time since that emphatic promise that she wouldn’t be alone in Hisui, Dawn wanted to cry.

 

---

 

The Conductor didn’t know much, but he knew proper procedure if one was lost in an unfamiliar environment. It hadn’t done him much good when he’d awoken in Hisui, absent everything that made a human human, but better late than never, he supposed.

 

He’d been unable to locate a Pokemon Center within a reasonable amount of time, and returned to where he’d split from Dawn to find her gone. Though he hated phasing through other people, he hadn’t had much of a choice as he sifted through the crowd, trying to work out where she might have been shunted to the side. When night began to fall and he hadn’t had any luck, he was forced to conclude that the strategy wouldn’t lead to any meaningful result; while common sense dictated that one was more likely to regroup where they’d lost their companion, he dearly hoped that Dawn would have better sense than to return here after dark.

 

So he’d done the next best thing: he gone back to seeking out a Pokemon Center. It was the one landmark they’d been looking for since arriving here, and what Dawn had specifically asked him to find for her. If it was so important, surely she’d look for it on her own.

 

If he could find it, there was a good chance he’d be able to locate her, as well.

 

Unfortunately, he wasn’t entirely sure what a Pokemon Center was. There was a lingering sense of asylum that he couldn’t explain, but he didn’t know what purpose it served, beyond being a place Dawn could theoretically contact her family. He’d been told he would know it by the red roof, and while the darkness didn’t make navigating by color alone ideal, the streets here were brighter than even Jubilife Village’s after sunset. While he hadn’t found success before, given enough time, he could do this.

 

He could and he did. But there was still no sign of Dawn.

 

After some observation, he concluded that a Pokemon Center was a place to rest and heal. With a further hour’s study, his understanding grew to include the fact that people-- specifically people who traveled with Pokemon-- could find shelter here for the night. It was entirely possible that Dawn really was here, and the late hour had forced her to find a place to sleep.

 

While there was nothing stopping him from searching to see if that was true, he absolutely could not, under any circumstance, trespass on another’s space uninvited.

 

And so he waited in the facility’s main body, watching the trickle of people who sought assistance in the deepest hour of night-- watching as it opened into a stream of bodies departing for the day. He stayed stationed there, where he could pick out every face as they exited the temporary lodging, until morning had well and truly passed.

 

With a sinking heart, he realized his companion might not have made it here.

 

He didn’t know what to do.

 

---

 

The last several days had been incredibly hectic for Emmet, in spite of the fact that he’d spent exactly half of one shift at Gear Station.

 

It could largely be chalked up to the fact that, midway through said shift, an anomaly had been reported along the green line. Isadore and Ramses had been sent out to survey the area, but only made it a handful of minutes before hastily calling in, reporting that Emmet needed to get over there, asap.

 

That was when fear had first clenched his heart, and it had yet to relinquish its grasp.

 

Because, when he’d arrived onsite, he’d found exactly what he’d afraid of: his brother was laying, limp and unresponsive, along the tunnel floor. In the moment, it hadn’t mattered that he looked none the worse for wear-- only that he was still and silent.

 

With the gentle rise and fall of Ingo’s chest, however, hope managed to slip through anxiety’s hold on Emmet.

 

That had been days prior. There had been no change in the time since, no indication that his twin would wake, and with doubt constricting his every move, Emmet was beginning to resent the space that tiny bit of hope occupied. He’d had days to pose every question imaginable, from the practical to the grandiose-- what was going on, why couldn’t his brother wake up, why would the universe return him only to keep them apart?

 

So when that same universe forwarded a message from the local precinct-- non-emergency, but concerning the outdated missing persons case-- Emmet had had enough of asking questions that might never see an answer. He tasked Haxorus with guard-dragon duty and marched down to meet the responding officer and her witness in the waiting room.

 

The girl was vaguely familiar-- in a way that neither he or Ingo would likely work out until they pooled their information-- but it seemed the same couldn’t be said for him. Her eyes widened the instant she realized who she was looking at and a hand gravitated toward her mouth. Officer Jenny didn’t touch as she steered her away, to an aside room, and Emmet had to grant her points for that, at least.

 

Dawn’s story was this: she’d been stranded in Unova with only a friend at her side. They’d been lost for days-- “kind of”-- and, upon reaching Nimbasa City, had gotten separated. The kicker was that, once she’d found safe harbor at the station and was asked to describe her missing companion, she’d described Ingo. Perfectly. She hadn’t used his name-- hadn’t even known his name-- but every detail she included matched.

 

Only that wasn’t possible. If she’d been in Unova for longer than a week, maybe, but for the first time in years, Emmet knew exactly where his brother was. He couldn’t have been wandering around with Dawn when he was out cold in a hospital bed. And how could they have been lost if it was Ingo with her? The two of them worked in regional transportation, for the dragons’ sake; the idea that he could’ve gotten lost so close to home was laughable.

 

When he voiced this skepticism, Dawn went quiet. Understandable-- he’d all but kneecapped her story-- but, instead of insisting, she took up the burden of asking questions. Why was he here, in a hospital? How long had his brother been here? And for what? Did they know why Ingo wouldn’t wake up?

 

He kept his smile in place, but was keenly aware of the edge to it. Emmet might have excused himself shortly thereafter, if Officer Jenny hadn’t stepped away to answer a call at the same moment.

 

“He’s not there.” Dawn said bluntly, as soon as the door shut. “That’s why-- it’s just his body. The rest of him was helping me.”

 

Emmet raised a single, doubtful brow.

 

Frustrated, she set a hand on either side of her bandana and briskly ruffled her hair, “That’s kind of what I thought when we met, you know? That he was a ghost. I guess I was kinda right.”

 

“A ghost.” Emmet echoed, and while there was still a dubious hint to the twist of his lips, his mind kicked into overdrive.

 

Dawn didn’t seem to catch onto the fact. “It didn’t explain a ton, but that was the only way some stuff made any sense. Ghost Pokemon can disappear and float through stuff, so-- uh?”

 

She stopped abruptly, waylaid by the pokeball Emmet set on the tabletop between them.

 

“This is Chandelure.” He said without preface, “She is Ingo’s partner Pokemon. She is also a ghost. I believe she may be able to test your theory.”

 

“Chandelure,” Dawn echoed, testing the syllables, wondering, “I think he remembered her. A little.”

 

There was a beat of silence. Dawn winced at her gaffe.

 

“Explain.”

 

Looking firmly off to the side, Dawn’s hands found one another, tangling together nervously, “That’s the other thing that made sense if he was a ghost. He didn’t really… know anything about himself? I didn’t even get his name until Officer Jenny showed me the missing person flier. The only things that ever came back were someone he battled next to and a fire type Pokemon. I thought it was just… part of being dead or something.”

 

“He is not dead,” Emmet snapped for the umpteenth time, more out of habit than because she needed to be told.

 

“Yeah,” She said, immediately, but with an unexpected softness to her voice, “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

 

---

 

He hadn’t meant to become so thoroughly misplaced. Truthfully, he hadn’t.

 

It was just… there was a Pokemon.

 

That didn’t explain it satisfactorily; there were Pokemon everywhere, of all shapes and sizes, but not like this. Some rang a distant bell, but this one-- this one was so achingly familiar. The wrought iron limbs and perfect globe of its body, the flickering purple flame at its core-- he’d suffered a vague recollection of it, once, but the experience had been difficult to weather.

 

Parts seemed… different, but not necessarily wrong, and the Conductor had found himself trailing after it without quite meaning to. Like all others, the Pokemon didn’t acknowledge his presence-- however, its flame grew subtly brighter as they lingered together, and with time, more appeared. Not lanterns, like the first Pokemon, but smaller, waxy white bodies that shared the same gentle glow.

 

The Conductor had no recollection of these Pokemon, but he was certain one of their ilk had been important to him. Precious, even.

 

Slowly, the midday sun waned, and with it the afternoon he’d wasted. He knew he should depart immediately-- he still had to locate Dawn-- but at the same time, he didn’t know how to turn away from something that resonated so strongly with his missing memory.

 

Before he knew it, dusk had begun to fall.

 

It was hard to notice beyond the haze that settled over his mind.

 

---

 

The instant she began to manifest, Chandelure was off like a shot. Without a word of command or clarification, she phased through the wall and, when the humans-- tragically solid-- didn’t immediately follow, cried from somewhere out in the waiting room.

 

For his part, Emmet had already leapt up and was reaching for the door, but Dawn spent a moment maneuvering around the side room’s furniture.

 

The ghost barely waited for them to catch up, swiveling impatiently in the air until she’d deemed them ‘close enough’ and resumed her mad dash through the city. It was only by virtue of having lived in Nimbasa for so long that Emmet had even the slightest edge on navigation, and, frankly, he was a little surprised that Dawn was managing to keep up so well.

 

Even when properly lit, the side streets could be treacherous past nightfall, but Chandelure kept them safe twice over: her light illuminating any hidden faults in the walkways, and her single minded determination scaring any potential encounters away before they could challenge, question or mug either of the humans charging after her.

 

Chandelure only began to slow as they reached the edges of the park beyond Gear Station. She started to twirl in the air again and, for a moment, it seemed that it might have been a signal that they’d arrived, but as she drew higher into the air, it became apparent that she was taking a moment to reorient herself, to pinpoint her station now that they’d crossed the bulk of the distance. Then she froze, shrieked in outrage, and took off again, toward a cluster of slightly-distant, twinkling lights.

 

Litwick, Emmet realized as the shapes grew beyond their pastel flames, led by a single Lampent. Quite suddenly, he understood Chandelure’s umbrage.

 

While the folktales were greatly exaggerated, they were built upon a kernel of truth: feral Litwick led people astray in order to feed upon their energy, wasting time weaving convoluted circles while their prey wasted away. And the Lampent… well, perhaps its presence shouldn’t have been a surprise, given the circumstance. They were, after all, renowned for haunting cities in search of fuel.

 

The younger Pokemon scattered with Chandelure’s furious arrival, but the secondary form was slightly more stubborn; it crackled back, indignant, refusing to bow to its fully evolved kin.

 

And between them was the object of their animosity.

 

Even more ethereal than the ghost Pokemon, he knelt on the ground, shoulders slumped from exhaustion as he raised his head to look from one to the other. Neither of the lanterns acknowledged the motion, fixated on one another as they were, their hissing raising from a simmer into the boiling keen of a kettle.

 

The Lampent flared brighter in challenge, and what might have been the dimmest flicker of recognition was burnt away from the form below.

 

That would not stand.

 

“Chandelure,” Emmet called, and she immediately shifted her arms, anticipating his orders.

 

If the Lampent wouldn’t depart on its own, they would simply have to make it leave. Disruptive passengers and sore losers could only hope to find themselves ejected from the platform with merciless efficiency-- so if her Shadow Ball landed just a heartbeat before the directions could feasibly reach her, if the attack seemed ever so slightly more vicious than usual, what could be said, other than that she was verrry good at her job?

 

Lampent-- conscious only because Chandelure wanted it gone-- fled as soon as it regained its bearings.

 

In the crisis’s wake, neither trainer or Pokemon seemed quite sure how to proceed-- so it was Dawn, more accustomed to dealing with this phenomena, who stepped up.

 

Or, rather, ran up and fell gracelessly to her own knees.

 

“Conductor?” She asked, waving a hand in front of the spectral image of his twin, “Ducky?”

 

“Ingo.” Emmet said, more firmly, and the man in question blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision.

 

Following Dawn’s lead, he knelt down so they were on the same level. Chandelure looked between them-- the two of them, oddly, Emmet and Dawn-- and gave a low, uncertain whistle as she lowered her hovering height.

 

Though they were mere feet apart, her searching eyes couldn’t seem to land on her trainer.

 

As he looked back to the apparition before him, Emmet found himself on the cusp of reaching out and had to fight the instinct, clasping his hands together to still them-- but the motion, small though it was, seemed enough to draw Ingo’s attention. With a bleary, barely-there focus, his eyes fixed, first, on the folded hands, and then on their owner’s face.

 

“Emmet?” He managed, so faint that even a whisper might overtake it.

 

Heart pounding, all but strangled by the last-ditch effort of fear digging in its nails, Emmet beamed at him.

 

Woozy but determined, Ingo veered closer. One fist uselessly braced against the ground, he leaned into his twin’s space and reached up, hesitating only when the reality of the situation seemed to dawn on him.

 

There was a small, almost disappointed, “Ah,” and Emmet decided to hell with it, unlacing his hands to meet the gesture, intangible though its terminal was.

 

Chandelure let out a muted chime, looking from Emmet to where his hand lingered in the air, and then the same distance opposite him. Her eyes were still unable to hone in on her human, but she was trying. She was trying so hard.

 

They would fix this, so she could finally see him again. So Emmet could finally hold him again. So he could finally live again.

 

---

 

Haxorus’s tail gave several restrained wags as they returned to the hospital room. Gentle though the thumps were, Emmet still grimaced on behalf of whomever happened to occupy the space below them and hurried over to her, ruffling her snout and praising her for keeping watch.

 

He wasn’t sure how, given that his brother didn’t currently match up with the physical plane, but he was keenly aware of Ingo hovering by his shoulder, curiously looking her up and down. It was difficult to fault him for honing in on the six foot tall dragon but, at the same time, the thought that he didn’t notice his own body laying half a room away was… amusing, to a point.

 

It was less amusing to consider where the inattentiveness might have stemmed from-- the pack of ghosts siphoning off his life force, or whatever had reduced him to this state in the first place.

 

Emmet recalled Haxorus and turned to where their attention was needed, only to come to an abrupt halt when the motion put him nose to nose with Ingo, who startled and moved back.

 

“Can I help you?” He asked, entertained, to an answer of averted eyes and sheepish, “Not used to anyone else seeing me...”

 

That would certainly be a track they’d need to clear, in time. For now, however, their task was making it a possibility in the first place.

 

Where Ingo had failed to spot the room’s focal point, Dawn had not; she idled at the foot of the bed awkwardly, nibbling on her bottom lip. Every so often, she’d tear her eyes away to glance at the both of them, as if reminding herself that this was legitimate. Emmet offered a level smile and stepped nearer, assuming his usual vigil. Automatically, he took the hand laying atop the blanket, exactly where he’d let it rest before.

 

Almost apprehensive, Ingo drew nearer, inspection of his own body cut short by frequent looks in Emmet’s direction.

 

Finally, he said, “We’re twins?”

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

“Are you just realizing this?”

 

He opened his mouth to little effect, and snapped it shut in favor of pointing-- to Emmet with one hand and his own still form with the other.

 

“Yes,” Emmet said, voice deliberately flat to mask his amusement, “I have been made well aware.”

 

“Give him a break,” Dawn said, and in spite of her words, she was clearly trying to tamp down on a grin of her own, “Ghosts can’t use mirrors.”

 

Ingo ducked his head, embarrassed and-- perhaps simply to give himself an out-- reached for the hand in Emmet’s grasp. He vanished instantly; for just a heartbeat, Emmet’s anxiety gained ground again, but then there was a sputtering cough and the limp hand instinctively began to curl.

 

“I had forgotten about breathing.” Ingo wheezed, just in time for Chandelure to complicate the matter by knocking the breath out of him.

 

“That is concerning.” Emmet said, and then proceeded to do nothing as she kept him pinned, secure in the knowledge that her cheer meant nothing was actually wrong.

 

Chandelure, spectral angel that she was, spent only a few moments there, then looked up at Emmet with big eyes-- globs of luminous lantern oil slowly arcing away with her movement-- and inched herself to the side, out of her trainer’s one-armed hug. The free hand made to follow her, until its owner followed the ghost’s line of sight.

 

When, instead, it diverted toward him, Emmet seized it and wasted no time pulling his twin upright, into the gentlest hug he could muster. It was hard to maintain. The rapidly loosening bindings around his heart had to go somewhere, and his arms desperately wanted to pick up the slack, to hold on and never let go-- but stubbornly, carefully, he did his best to match the infinitely more welcome pressure around his own chest. It was… faint, and he didn’t entirely succeed at reining in his enthusiasm, but it was also perfect.

 

A weight rested against his shoulder and he immediately turned into it, pressed a kiss to the short grey hair. Whispered a near-frantic, “Thank the gods.”

 

There was a soft snort against his neck, echoed by an audible scoff somewhere else in the room. It didn’t escape his notice, but he just didn’t care enough to pursue the point right now. He had much more important matters to attend to.

 

Three things happened in rapid succession, at that point: the limbs tangling around him went slack, there was a brief, startled, “Oops,” and, before Emmet had the wherewithal to do more than tilt his head up, he caught a glimpse of Ingo-- firmly back outside of his body-- leaning into place again.

 

Situated as they were, it was impossible to read his expression, but the embarrassment was clear in his tone as he rasped, “I will… endeavor to prevent that from happening again.”

 

Internally batting away fear’s second swipe, Emmet patted his brother’s back. “A project for another day. I will be right here to assist.”

 

A beat of silence, and then a heavy exhale. It could have been from reacclimating to physicality, but something in the back of Emmet’s mind told him it wasn’t; it was a veritable sigh of relief. He wondered if he’d done the same, before, when he’d finally had his twin back in his arms. He wondered if he’d been just as obvious to Ingo.

 

Emmet only let go when Chandelure began to get impatient-- which meant it had been substantially longer than even his time-table-oriented mind had caught-- and his brother reluctantly leaned back, only mollified when she clambered into his lap. One hand cradling her globe, he looked up to the foot of the bed and quirked what could be called a smile.

 

“Hi, Ingo!” Dawn chirped, moisture still gathered shamelessly in her eyes, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

 

“Hello, Dawn,” He echoed, tired, but voice warm, content. Though he didn’t look, he subconsciously gave Emmet’s hand a squeeze, “It’s nice to finally be met.”

---

 

Modern vernacular had given way to a subset of myths: cryptic Pokemon-- Pokemon that likely didn’t exist, and were simply human minds trying to make sense of what they couldn’t otherwise explain. Creatures like Lockirie in Galar’s Wild Area or the Lentimas Nighthoppers.

 

By far the most interesting-- though, admittedly, Emmet was somewhat biased-- was the rail rider, a theoretical Pokemon called Frightrail. Alternately called the Ghost Train Pokemon, it was said to haunt stations and empty lines-- and, conveniently, provide an excuse for data that less competent stations couldn’t explain.

 

So it was… frustrating to hear whispers that the Ghost of Nonexistent Inbound Trains had supposedly been lurking in the system Emmet oversaw. The job was too much for one man alone-- he could admit that, now-- but everything was back in perfect working order. It had been the best tribute he could imagine, to ensure that the station they’d put so much time and effort into ran without issue; Ingo would have hated it if his loss was what caused the entire operation to collapse. In a sense, Gear Station itself had become a shrine.

 

Gods, two years now that he’d been gone. In some ways it felt like it couldn’t have reached the benchmark already-- that it was far too soon to give up-- but, at the same time, Emmet knew better. The missing persons case had quietly been shut, lacking physical evidence, hard information and any real hope.

 

Because, while part of him felt two years couldn’t have passed so soon, the second year had overstayed its welcome. At the midway point between now and Ingo’s disappearance, Emmet had gotten his answers, had found his twin in the dusty corner of Sinnoan history. A handful of allusions to Warden from a distant land, a small photograph with far, far too many people crammed in its borders, and a translated epitaph were all the closure he got.

 

On the way to his home station, it had said, and Emmet was impressed that something so well meaning could simultaneously be so cruel.

 

He’d spent the anniversary, this time, trying not to dwell on the fact that in four more years, he’d be older than his big brother.

 

That was something he was still coming to terms with. It was fine; he had entirely too much time to get there. For now, he had a memorial to attend to-- the station couldn’t function properly if there were Pokemon lurking, unchecked, in the tunnels. His working theory was that it was a Liepard that had managed to slink by unnoticed-- that the reports of glowing eyes were simply its tapetum lucidum throwing people off-- and so he kept Galvantula’s pokeball close at hand.

 

Emmet was incredibly mistaken.

 

Wrapped up in his surveillance of the tunnels, he didn’t notice that the object of his attention was trailing languidly behind him, riding the air like the rail mere feet away. He’d gone home that night with nothing to show for the attempt, and only been alerted to the intrusion the next morning, when Cameron frantically waved him down to watch Platform 3’s security footage.

 

Sure enough, as the image of Emmet emerged from the tunnel and into the bay proper, the blunt end of a snout poked out from the darkness and two glowing spots tracking his movement up the stairs. It didn’t linger. As soon as he’d left the observable area, the shape twisted in the air and turned back around.

 

It was horrifying.

 

The entire patrol, he’d never heard a sound-- no other footfalls, no slithering or muted, panting breaths. Had it been following him the entire time? For what reason? It couldn’t have felt its territory was being encroached upon or been looking to hunt-- it would have lashed out instead of letting him leave unobstructed. Was it just curious? But what about a human-- in the heart of Nimbasa city-- could be so interesting to an urban Pokemon? He hadn’t even had any treats on him, wary of luring out the Joltik that nested in the tunnels.

 

And the Pokemon itself… there were plenty of twisting, writhing Pokemon in Unova, but none of them matched the facts. It certainly hadn’t been an Onix or Steelix. A Seviper could move silently, but would have attacked, and no self respecting Serperior would hide itself away from the sun. The best match he could come up with was an Eelektross-- serpentine enough to move the way the shape on camera had, and able to move silently by hovering-- but the head shape was all wrong, and Emmet liked to believe he had enough experience with his own Eelektross to be able to recognize when one was stalking him.

 

Just to be safe, he kept Eelektross out when he delved back into the subway system that night.

 

The first time it grumbled into the darkness, Emmet whirled around, flashlight frantically covering every inch of the area, but it had been alone as it trailed behind, and gurgled at him, confused. The second noise was one of interest-- Eelektross’s attention fixed on a tunnel branching off from the one Emmet had traversed the previous night-- and while it added an extra variable into the mix, if Eelektross wanted to go that way, there had to be a reason. He curled around Emmet’s shoulder appreciatively, took up his position as caboose, and warbled to himself.

 

The third instance was several in rapid succession: wet snuffling, an absolutely gleeful burble, and then a somewhat more alarming sucking sound as it attached itself to something.

 

Well, Emmet thought to himself, in the split second before turning to pull Eelektross off of its would-be-prey, That’s certainly one track to take.

 

There was a trill of a Pokemon’s call-- not unlike a higher-pitched train whistle-- and then the beam of Emmet’s flashlight found its target. He… wasn’t entirely sure what Eelektross had caught. Or that Eelektross had even caught it. It was coiled around the other Pokemon in mid-air, and yes, it had its arms wrapped around it, but it hadn’t actually attached itself in a way it would be able to stun and kill its target.

 

It was far closer to the clumsy suckerfish-kisses Eelektross would subject him to when it was feeling affectionate.

 

The Pokemon in its grip flinched away behind Eelektross’s fin as the beam hit it head-on, peering out only when Emmet angled it to the ground. The indirect lighting wasn’t nearly as helpful, but was still enough to confirm that, yes, this seemed to be the Pokemon from the footage. Its eyes glowed silver beneath Eelektross’s maw and, oddly, it looped lazily around Eelektross’s body in turn.

 

For a fleeting moment, Emmet wondered if this was somehow a nestmate of his Pokemon’s, but dismissed the thought wholesale. All that hovered was not Tynamo, and beyond vague body shape, similarities were few and far between. Friends from Chargestone Cave, then? Tynamo were already so rarely seen, it wasn’t hard to imagine there were hiding places a yet-undiscovered species might lurk; that would even explain how it had gained access to the subway tunnels…

 

The Pokemon chuffed at Eelektross and tried to back out of his grip, only to be seized more tightly and offered to Emmet in two clawed flippers, like a child presenting their parent with a Lillipup they hoped to keep.

 

He favored Eelektross with a smile and pet down its crest fin, “Verrrry good job! You’ve found our trespasser.”

 

Attention straying to the other Pokemon, he raised his flashlight a hair, looking it over more thoroughly. The bulk of its body hung limp and unresisting in Eelektross’s grip, a dark top and underbelly studded with pale markings and a pair of stripes. There seemed to be steam coming from the vicinity of its cheeks, suggesting some manner of functionality like a Pikachu’s electric sacs.

 

Odd. A fire type would wreak havoc on Chargestone’s ecosystem, devastating the populations of Joltik, Ferroseed and Klink. It was possible that this was a unique specimen, unable to affect the numbers in any substantial way, but even then, the cave seemed like a poor choice of habitat.

 

“We’ll have to figure out what to do with you.” He told it. A full type analysis would help determine where best to rehome it-- offhand, the Desert Resort seemed promising. A Pokemon like this would appreciate a good basking spot, wouldn’t it?

 

But that was for tomorrow.

 

He narrowed his eyes at it, pointing in mild accusation, “And don’t think I’ve forgotten your behavior last night. That was unacceptable.”

 

It shrunk back against Eelektross as he scolded it and-- when the eel moved to follow Emmet’s lead, escorting it to the station-- just shrunk, no modifiers involved. Before Emmet could call out any orders or Eelektross could find a better grip, it slipped away into the darkness.

 

Trainer and Pokemon looked to one another. Eelektross whined. Emmet groaned.

 

This was far from over.

 

---

 

Part two of that evening’s survey was, unsurprisingly, a bust. The Pokemon had Furreted itself out of the way and refused to be found a second time.

 

The next night, he’d thought to keep Chandelure at his side, but she’d completely blindsided him and torn off through the subway system as soon as she was released, at which point the task turned from ‘find the weird intruder’ to ‘find your late brother’s partner Pokemon’. To her credit, she returned before he’d really started to worry, but it was an experience he wasn’t eager to repeat, so Galvantula took her spot the evening after that.

 

After the fifth evening-- part of which was spent keeping an eye on Durant as it marched along the tunnels’ ceiling-- Emmet was forced to admit two things. One, this wasn’t going anywhere, and two, the Pokemon seemed to have decided they were playing a game. Every night, no matter which platform he returned to, the cameras caught it lingering until he was forced to turn in. In one instance, it seemed to have acquired arms from Reshiram-knew-where to wave a taunting goodbye to his back.

 

And then it upped the ante.

 

Emmet had thought to switch things up, to arrive at work early and survey the stretch he knew the Pokemon favored. It hadn’t yielded any results-- which was strange, considering it made a point to hiss a laugh at him whenever his latest ploy imploded in on itself-- but he quickly realized why it seemed so completely absent.

 

Because it was.

 

He’d found it in his office, coiled up on his chair with its head laying on the armrest.

 

It was the first time he’d seen it in proper lighting, but that only lasted so long. Surprised, himself, he’d squawked and pointed at it in his astonishment, startling it into awareness and, subsequently, into motion. Its exit had been a far cry from the usual self-satisfied ksh-sh-sh and tail flip, as it scrambled past him, half-tangling itself around his legs in its haste. It seemed to remember that it could shrink down only once Emmet had seized it by the middle, and though he’d known the trick was coming, he’d been unable to adjust in time.

 

That was the day he decided this was personal. The worm had made it personal.

 

It went on for several weeks-- and though the later-than-usual nights were a little grating, it was nothing compared to the early days of Ingo’s disappearance, when sleeplessness was the norm. Nights of cycling through their Pokemon, just in case one of them could see something he couldn’t, of recruiting the handful of Depot Agents who’d become invested in the hunt, of trying to lure it out five ways to Sunday.

 

When it came down to it, though, the only change that made a difference was a single yawn.

 

Something changed in its demeanor. Its path became less erratic, and when Emmet realized it had led them back to Platform 3, it nudged him toward the stairs with its blunt snout. He could have spun on his heel and grabbed the thing-- or even thrown a pokeball at it-- but, instead, he looked between it and the path it was indicating. It nudged him again, hissing its encouragement with a heavy plume of purple steam, and narrowed its eyes at him.

 

The Pokemon’s face was borderline impossible to read, but it almost seemed fond.

 

Without knowing why, exactly, he chose to do so, Emmet followed its suggestion and went home. It was only as he collapsed into bed that he figured it out. He’d been going off of a vague, sleepy instinct-- the same one that trusted in Ingo’s instructions as he steered them through late nights during those first grueling months as co-Facility Heads.

 

Now that he thought about it, his Pokemon had acted similarly, hadn’t they? In the excitement of Worm Hunting, he’d nearly forgotten about Eelektross’s overly-affectionate greeting and Chandelure’s refusal to stay put-- and they hadn’t been the only ones. Each of the Pokemon he’d brought along had alerted him, first and foremost, with distinctly happy cries.

 

Maybe he’d been going about this all wrong.

 

---

 

The next time he was able, Emmet made a path toward Platform 3 and lingered at the tunnel’s threshold. Nothing happened for a minute, and so he called, “Hello? Are you there?” into it.

 

There was a brief delay but, eventually, he caught a glimpse of eyes drawing nearer, glowing like miniature headlights.

 

Oh.

 

Hah. That was actually kind of funny.

 

The entity hesitated before leaving the tunnel’s refuge, still cloaked in shadow. That was okay. Emmet had seen him plenty of times now; he knew what to expect. Just the slitted silver eyes looking him over were enough to confirm it, really. He felt a little silly for not noticing earlier-- for getting so caught up in their game that he failed to see the obvious. To be fair, he always had needed his brother to pull him back when he got overexcited.

 

It was hardly unprecedented for a human to become a Pokemon. There were dozens of stories of it, of species whose origin was thought to be closely tied to the end of a human life.

 

And Emmet was well aware of the fact that, centuries prior, his twin’s life had come to a close.

 

As a human, at least.

 

“Are you done playing your game?” He asked, and the entity turned his head-- not curious, per se, but waiting to see exactly where Emmet was going with this.

 

Not one to disappoint, Emmet uncrossed his arms and raised them in invitation.

 

Ingo moved too fast for him to calculate the speed involved, but, on the bright side, now he had a solid metric for what being hit by a train entailed. Why did anyone complain about this? It was the best thing to happen to him in two straight years.

 

A surprisingly solid head found its home along the crook of his neck, and this time, when he reached to support the body winding around him, it stayed steady beneath his hands. There was a hydraulic hissing sound, and suddenly he was being grabbed in return, dozens of metallic claws digging into his coat, mindful enough not to damage the fabric.

 

He didn’t say anything for a long time, content to breathe along to Ingo’s gentle rumbling-- a constant, soothing sound, like he had a petite engine hidden away in there-- but, eventually, his thoughts caught up to him again.

 

“You really did die there.” He said, more to himself than his brother. Ingo leaned back, far enough to search his expression for further clues-- so, to save him some trouble, Emmet added, “In Hisui.”

 

This face was even more difficult to interpret than the human one had been, but it was still Ingo, so Emmet knew exactly where to look. A minute shift back and slight widening of the eyes suggested he was legitimately surprised to hear the name invoked.

 

“Was I not supposed to know about that?” Emmet really didn’t care what the answer was. He knew now, and had been bound and determined to find out back then. There had been records good and bad-- far too little of both, for six years-- and he’d all but memorized them.

 

Ingo swayed back, noncommittal, and with another hiss, the plating down his body slid back together, banishing the extra arms from existence. He used the opportunity to take to the air again and loosely coiled around his brother, his two remaining arms hovering uselessly, unsure where-- of if-- to touch.

 

He was worried-- that much was obvious-- and not without reason. The bits of information Emmet had managed to scrape together had been ancient, so far removed that it wasn’t so hard to believe the dead Warden was someone else. This… all but confirmed it.

 

Emmet thought back to the worst of his findings: the epitaph that had felt like salt in a wound.

 

On the way to his home station, it had said, and now he was just impressed at how literally it had been taken.

 

This was fine. This was good! Life wouldn’t ever be quite the same as it was, but so long as they were together again, it would certainly be worth living.

 

Before Ingo could decide what he was doing with his arms, Emmet seized him beneath them and hoisted him back up to eye-level. For a moment, they just regarded one another, but then he broke it by asking, “Can I rehome you, yet? I have something in mind. Better than the tunnels. And it contains roughly the same number of trains.”

 

f

There was a chuffing sound-- happy, the tilt of the eyes said-- and, for a startling moment, Ingo slipped from his hands again; any panic was laid to rest as a weight arranged itself, looping once around his neck.

 

He laughed a little, to himself, “One more train, now.”

 

The response was a delicate rumble-- so small it was almost a purr.

 

Emmet exited the platform with the quiet confidence that there was nothing watching his back as he went-- nothing left behind.

 

(It took two more days before he finally considered the mass of loops sprawled over himself and realized that he was, in fact, looking at the cryptic Ghost Train Pokemon. Frightrail was real. Had been haunting Gear Station. And was also his brother. Despite Ingo’s best attempts, it was hours before he could deal with that on top of everything else.)

---

 

He’d tried half a dozen different approaches, from preparing an extra portion of whatever he made, trying vegetarian recipes, to outright offering to get old favorite foods and, when that initially failed, turning his back just in case that was the hangup. Nothing worked. It would be incredibly insensitive to treat Ingo like a Pokemon, so he didn’t-- but if he happened to leave an extra few berries or a pokepuff where only a hovering worm might access them, that was quite the coincidence.

 

He had neglected to consider that Eelektross was perfectly capable of inserting himself into those criteria, and found the eel stuck not three hours into this experiment, unable to retract its limbs the way certain cryptic Pokemon could. Once his starter was un-wedged and pouting beneath the kitchen table, he’d been able to ascertain that nothing had actually been pilfered, and left the small bounty in order to see what might happen.

 

‘What happened’ was that, ten minutes later, Eelektross’s sorry whimpering died down-- due, primarily, to the fact that he was inhaling a hondew berry. Coincidentally, that had been one of the fruits he’d been going after in the first place. Funny, that.

 

Next to him, half-folded over the back of a chair with his head pillowed on two spectral arms, was Ingo, looking remarkably smug for someone whose features couldn’t emote. His eyes flickered over the instant Emmet drew even with the doorway, and he didn’t even bother trying to hide his snickering.

 

Emmet pinched the bridge of his nose, “Perhaps I should have seen that coming. Why wouldn’t you spoil the Pokemon if given the opportunity?”

 

He allowed himself another second’s worth of exasperation, sighing before crossing the room and craning up to retrieve the un-gifted snacks. Immediately, he was made aware of a presence behind him, but didn’t think anything of it until a substantially smaller Frightrail darted up, past his hands, and scooped the treats away. For half a second, he was reminded intensely of the tunnels, and how poorly every attempt at catching up to Ingo had gone.

 

Emmet spent the other half second considering that there was only one reason his twin might be making off with the snacks, if he had no intention of eating them. Even though he knew how this went, historically, he took off, chasing after the tail that disappeared around the corner.

 

There was a flutter of movement as Chandelure hastily vacated the premises, phasing through the wall to get out of his path. In the moment, it made sense. In about sixty seconds, however, he’d rethink that. For now, he was too busy grasping at the miniaturized body that kept thrashing just out of reach.

 

Ahead of him, there was a pleased whistle as Ingo caught sight of Galvantula and dived beneath the safe harbor of her body. As Emmet closed the gap between them, his brother nudged the pilfered cheri, tantalizing, under her pedipalps and coiled around the remaining berry. She blinked at her human with all six eyes, ran her fuzzy limbs over the offering, and then settled in, protecting his traitor of a sibling like a Togekiss brooding over its nest.

 

“I am beginning to think I may be outnumbered.” Emmet said flatly, trying to tamp down on any amusement that might come across in his expression.

 

Galvantula, mouth full, made a thick clicking sound. It almost drowned out the muted chuffing beneath her, and the lone human in the room had to bite back a groan as Crustle started scuttling nearer.

 

“No.” He said, placing a hand on its stone shell in an attempt to still it, “We are not playing this game any more. Everyone has already received a berry. It would be verrry unfair for some pokemon to get seconds while others do not.”

 

There was a thoughtful silence, and then a louder, more declarative kssshhhh. Across the room, Durant tilted its head and Garbodor clapped her hands together.

 

Emmet wasn’t one to oppose a union, but he got the distinct feeling they were working to undermine him.

 

A blunt, purple snout poked out from Galvantula’s underbelly, pushing the remaining oran berry within reach of Crustle’s pincers. As if to distract him from the blatant display of rebellion-- or perhaps just prevent him from confiscating the berry in time-- Ingo emerged from his hiding place, shaking himself back to normal size, and coiled around Emmet’s shoulders. When he crowded his muzzle in, Emmet pushed him away, exasperated.

 

“I do not want to hear it from you.”

 

Ingo hissed a low noise, exaggeratedly pitiful, and let his head flop down. Emmet tried not to let his expression break, unwilling to cede the moral high ground for that.

 

The sound did, however, garner a reaction.

 

Just as quickly as she’d fled the scene, Chandelure popped back through the wall, floating around her ex-human’s face and tapping worriedly with one wrought iron limb. Startled by the fuss, Ingo lost his grip on Emmet; though his sounds were as incomprehensible as ever, the tone made it clear he was trying to allay her concerns.

 

It wasn’t terribly surprising-- she’d been hovering over him this entire time, in both senses of the word. Honestly, Emmet was more puzzled by the fact that she hadn’t gotten in on the act sooner, eager to play along. He would have expected her to put herself into his path, a gleeful ghostly roadblock giving Ingo a few more seconds to dole out treats.

 

Then Emmet caught sight of the half-devoured pokepuff in her grasp, and it made more sense.

 

He was so busy trying to dismantle whatever snack distribution system his brother had established that he completely forgot why he’d had them out in the first place.

 

---

 

After a few days, Emmet decided ‘to hell with it’ and addressed the matter directly. He’d tried subtlety for Ingo’s sake, but when it came down to it, this was also for his brother’s well being.

 

The ghost had taken to looping around his neck, riding wherever Emmet conducted them without complaint, dozing all the while. Lethargy was a sign of malnutrition in nearly every species Emmet could list, and he couldn’t bear the thought that Ingo might be unwell so soon after they’d found one another again. Swords of Justice, it had been three weeks without so much as a nip at a berry; there had to be something wrong. Emmet just needed to understand what the problem was, and then he would fix it.

 

Gingerly, he gathered up the metal body basking against the warmth of his skin, and ran a pointer finger over the miniaturized head. Ingo blinked his way into an eventual awareness and let out a sleepy huff of greeting, body rearing back so as to look up at Emmet. The drowsy contentedness dimmed as he processed the look on his twin’s face.

 

“I need you to explain what’s wrong.” Emmet said, voice soft, but with a blunt edge, “It will be difficult with the language barrier. But I need to understand.”

 

Ingo tilted his head, eyes narrowed into tiny, puzzled slits, but nodded for him to go on.

 

“You refuse to eat. Why?”

 

His brother looked away, and it was enough to tell Emmet that he was uncomfortable with the line of questioning, but, unfortunately, he couldn’t let this slide.

 

“You are not herbivorous. Despite your teeth, you do not seem to be a carnivore. Do your dietary requirements align with any other Pokemon’s?”

 

Slowly, Ingo inclined his head, still looking determinedly away. His irises ticked up as Chandelure chimed somewhere nearby.

 

Emmet took a breath, ready to try listing feasible options, but was stopped when his passenger disembarked; silently cutting through the air, Ingo led the way to the living room and idled for just a moment next to the TV, at which point he manifested his foremost set of arms and plucked a Joltik out from behind it. The bug squirmed, whining ineffectually, and he released it in short order, but promptly looked to Emmet, gauging whether or not he was following.

 

He… supposed he understood the point, thus far. Joltik didn’t subsist entirely on electricity, though; their stolen snacks fueled their firepower, but their bodies still required a proper diet.

 

As if to counter this point, specifically, Ingo reached up to knock lightly on the plating just behind his steam vents. There was a comically high clanking sound and, with a frustrated huff, he shook himself back to his standard size before demonstrating again. The tinny clunk clunk wasn’t exactly news, but Emmet suspected it was only half of the point-- the other half being the hollowness of the tone.

 

“You… do not have the ability to process such foods?” He hazarded, to an emphatic nod, “So you consume electricity like the Joltik? Did you frequent the subway lines in order to feed from the third rail?”

 

There was a telling hesitation, and Ingo bobbed his head-- neither a yes nor a no-- but there was no further pantomime inbound. Whatever the full track may have entailed, he seemed content to stall where they were.

 

Emmet frowned, dissatisfied, but decided he would accept it for now. It meant he didn’t have to preoccupy himself trying to coax his twin into eating like a rehabilitated wild pokemon.

 

“Regardless of the specifics, I ask that you refuel verrrry soon. Your lack of energy does not mean anything good.”

 

Ingo spent a long few seconds watching him, searching his expression, and eventually punctuated the conversation with a single, concise nod.

 

For something as ostensibly harmless as siphoning off a static charge, he certainly didn’t look happy about it.

 

---

 

“You seemed verrrry low energy today.” Emmet said one say after work, months later, “I would ask that you recharge soon.”

 

Ingo gave a low whistle into the collar of his coat, slightly deafening at current size, and with an audible reluctance, conceded. “I will when I’m able; it may… take some time, however.”

 

They’d had this conversation over and over, both with and without words, and-- though Ingo had never stated things plainly-- they were more or less on the same page. Possibly even the same paragraph.

 

The first time he’d seemed noticeably sluggish, he’d sidled up alongside Chandelure and whistled something humans couldn’t comprehend. Chandelure had understood, though, and lit up at whatever he’d said-- not a happy glow, per se, but intrigued, invested. Emmet hadn’t given it too much thought at the time, save the mental note that they were conspiring again, but their absence later in the day had been conspicuous. So, too, had been the dramatic shift in vigor upon their return.

 

That little fact alone spoke entire volumes.

 

Emmet should have known; he’d been helping care for Litwick, then Lampent, then Chandelure for the greater portion of his life. Their reputation wasn’t for nothing. The vast majority of ghosts, in fact, subsisted on a non-corporeal diet-- he just hadn’t ever thought to apply the logic to Ingo, too.

 

His brother was just so solid. Not like the wobbly form of the fear-grazing Misdreavus or liquid mirage of Jellicent-- but, again, Emmet had a similarly solid example, and had been naive to dismiss the thought. Chandelure was composed of glass and iron around the soul-consuming flame; Cofagrigus consumed precious ores to add to their forms, when they weren’t busy sucking the life out of a person trapped within.

 

Tangible ghosts were no foreign concept to Unova, and sliding steel plates weren’t so far from wrought iron or sculpted gold.

 

Emmet understood, and so he’d stopped pushing for answers. It was clear that Ingo didn’t exactly relish the circumstance, even if he’d had centuries to cope with his form’s needs; he knew how to conduct the active cars, and so long as he got what he needed by the end of the commute, that was usually enough.

 

Today, however, it wasn’t. Ingo hadn’t just been ‘low energy’, he’d been utterly limp around Emmet’s neck for a good portion of the work day. Emmet’s concern from months prior reared right back up: he needed to know how to help. Not just so he could assist before things got to this point again, but also so he knew how to act in case of an emergency.

 

“Is it fear or life force?” He asked without preamble, startling his brother into a more wakeful state.

 

“...vital force.” Ingo said reluctantly, “By technicality, it’s electricity.”

 

For a second, Emmet didn’t follow the justification, and then realized, oh, the Joltik. Whatever. He didn’t care right now, save to acknowledge the fact that of course his twin had been playing semantics, even without words.

 

“In what quantities?” He attempted to make it sound casual-- or at least to convey that it was a practical question and not accusation-- but vocal range had never been his strong suit, and Ingo still flinched.

 

The response was an immediate, “Non-fatal.”

 

“Good to know. I still need to understand what you require.”

 

A chuffing sigh sounded, far louder than it had any right to be, but it was mostly because Ingo was still angled to rest his head in the crook of Emmet’s neck. A slightly-larger-than-usual-- if sparse-- cloud of violet steam dissipated as it sounded.

 

“I’m able to… skim any quantity I need. It’s simple logic: the less I take, the less my-- ah-- target is affected, but I need to find another to make up the difference.”

 

Emmet hummed and braced a shoe on the bottom edge of his desk, propelling the both of them backwards on the rolling chair. “Understood. What other qualities factor in? Age? Temperament?”

 

While it took a moment to get a response, the silence was one of consideration rather than shame-- and, in no small part, the fact that he ducked his head so as not to be jostled loose by the spin Emmet pushed the chair into.

 

“The greatest variable seems to be emotional state.” Ingo eventually said, “The specific feeling doesn’t matter too terribly much, just the amount of energy being expended; it’s easier to draw from the excess without causing any noticeable disturbance.”

 

Mindful of the snout tucked along his jaw, Emmet nodded, wondering if he could talk Ingo into taking a detour to… convince their upstairs neighbors to calm down; they seemed to have restless energy to spare, and no amount of civil discussion could resolve the matter. It probably wasn’t within his brother’s comfort zone, but the thought was a cathartic one.

 

Though he, himself, had been the one to kickstart the chair ride, he dragged a heel along the carpet to force it to a halt. “So logically you would want emotional prey.”

 

There was a hiss of protest to his left, and he blew out a sigh.

 

“I am not judging you. Humans have always had prey. You should know that better than I do. Chandelure also feeds off of humans and we do not love her any less for it.”

 

“I understand that fact-- it just never gets any easier to hear.”

 

Fair enough. Ingo may have embraced his new quote-unquote living situation, but it didn’t change the fact that he’d learned through the lens of humanity. Perhaps it was easier to deal with when it was a hypothetical and not a lived reality-- or maybe Emmet was just coping preemptively.

 

Well. No use dwelling on that right now.

 

“The Battle Subway should be ideal, then. There are no shortage of excited challengers. It would be easy to steal a snack.”

 

“It would be easy.” Ingo agreed, and there was so clearly a ‘but’ following the concession, “However, I’m not going to leech that enthusiasm away from them. We both know how much dedication it takes to make it so far, and I won’t rob them of a joy they’ve rightfully earned.”

 

“Okay.” Emmet said, refusing to give up on the concept entirely, “Just the sore losers, then.”

 

Ingo went quiet. That meant Emmet had been onto something.

 

Excited, he clapped once, “Unruly passengers are neatly dealt with. You receive a steady source of energy. Yep! That would be a verrrry mutually beneficial arrangement! Does it sound agreeable to you?”

 

“It’s… certainly worth a trial run.”

 

“Would you like to board the pink line this evening? I’m relatively certain we could find someone causing a disturbance.” He sprung up from the chair as he spoke, nesting it back into place before turning to leave.

 

“It’s Castelia city. Of course someone would be causing a disturbance.” Ingo said flatly, and Emmet barked a laugh, caught out. “There’s no need to go out of the way. I’ll be perfectly fine until tomorrow, and if the-- ah-- gentleman who’s been making noise about a rematch maintains his pace, we should be able to test this idea without delay.”

 

Emmet could accept that. He was still concerned by how listless his brother had been throughout the day, but now they had a system to test. It was amazing how much it helped, understanding exactly what was going on.

 

For one thing, it meant he could make his own plans, irregardless of Ingo’s approval.

 

The odds of anyone-- even a returning challenger-- making it to the end of Super Doubles before early afternoon were slim to none. Far too long to go on an empty chassis.

 

In the meantime, Emmet was off to pick a fight. The Neils had so much enthusiasm for stomping around at obscene hours that surely they had the energy to spare.

---

 

It sounded odd, imbalanced even, but it really wasn’t. Ingo was too fair-minded to chart an inequitable path, and Emmet had no compunctions about raising an objection if need be. If anything, it was a game of give and take, of compromises. It was a substantial part of how they had ended up running the Battle Subway.

 

There was exactly one place Ingo had ventured where Emmet had been unable to join him, but, as always, he’d split the difference. While Emmet still wished he’d been able to accompany his brother on the unplanned commute to Hisui, the fact that it had been a round trip lessened the sting.

 

It was a strange homecoming, but not a bad one. There was a lot that had to change to accommodate their new lives, and a lot to adjust to or reacquaint oneself with; that was just the nature of things when you or a loved one was reincarnated as a soul-powered train. For every weird or uncomfortable new quirk, there were ways to alleviate that burden or find the fun in it, and there were plenty of perks mixed in. It was life-- just a new spin on it.

 

From the day he’d figured out who, precisely, was haunting the subway tunnels, Emmet had set his course.

 

As always, he followed his twin’s lead. It just took a little longer this time.

 

That was a nice way of saying that, when he passed, he turned right back around and demanded to become a second Frightrail. He knew the drawbacks; he’d been right there to witness them for years on end. While he might not relish the idea of drawing sustenance from others’ life force, he’d come to terms with that reality. Having a completely different body type would be a learning experience, but was it so much worse than moving on without his brother? No.

 

When it came down to it, that was the answer to every tricky question. He could endure it. They could endure it as a--

 

...could they be a two car train if they were both trains? Did one’s existence as a literal train preclude their ability to be a metaphorical car?

 

The Powers That Were Trying His Nerves stared for a long moment, processing, and then decided to wash Its hooves of him. Or at least, he assumed that was what happened. Something had to have occurred, because he blinked and then everything looked wrong.

 

Well, maybe not wrong, but weird. Even before reaching up to scrub at the rounded snout changing his field of vision, Emmet understood why that was-- again, he’d put years of thought into this, even if he’d made his decision all but immediately-- it was just… a lot at once. At least he had the luxury of knowing what he’d been getting himself into. Having an older sibling was convenient like that.

 

Speaking of.

 

He stopped pawing at his steel-smooth nose and looked around. Seemed Arceus had seen fit to plonk him in the park across from the station. Truthfully, Emmet hadn’t expected anything in particular, so this destination made as much sense as anything else. While it would have lived up the classic image of a ghost to rise where he’d died, he really didn’t need that kind of drama in his afterlife; he’d passed at home, and, logically, that space belonged to someone else now.

 

...he should go haunt the tunnels, just to see how Ingo liked playing worm wrangler.

 

Emmet made to push himself upright, but only made it so far as the first set of arms, lacking any of the tertiary pairs that studded each segment of plating. Right, they stayed dormant by default, didn’t they? He knew the sections of his body could slide apart to bring them out, but how exactly did one go about doing that…?

 

Maybe he should have asked some more pointed questions when he’d had the opportunity.

 

Eventually, he gave up on the ghost limbs, but with some trial and error, managed to wriggle himself into the air, and that would do for now. He stayed lower to the ground than strictly necessary for a host of reasons, ranging from ‘less noticeable’ to ‘not as far to fall’ to ‘feels more train-like’.

 

He was well aware that there wouldn’t be anyone at Gear Station so early in the morning-- not since Jackie had retired-- but it was home station for a reason, perhaps now more than ever. Even if he couldn’t make the staff understand what he wanted, all he had to do was wait around and he’d get it.

 

It wound up somewhat easier than he’d expected; even with the late hour, the station master’s office was occupied.

 

Blatantly ignoring the yellowed sign asking that patrons ‘not tap the glass, because the station master was sleeping’, he nosed it open and barged right in. Then Emmet did something that, were he alive, would have gone against the very fabric of his moral code: he deliberately caused a collision of trains.

 

With a sleepy hiss, his victim cracked an eye open, then chuffed a yawn.

 

“How long has it been?” He asked, nudging insistently at his brother’s face, “Do not tell me you were asleep all this time.”

 

“’All this time’? I can make assumptions, too, you realize. You’ve been here… hm… seven minutes, and you’re already jumping to conclusions.” Ingo rumbled, amused. His voice was raspy with disuse, and he didn’t even bother opening his other eye. Combined, it told Emmet that yes, he’d been asleep for awhile.

 

Magnanimously, he decided to ignore the comment, “You taunted me for days, before. And this time you decided to take a nap?”

 

His twin finally resigned himself to consciousness and ducked under Emmet’s head, giving himself room to stretch the first set of arms. “I’ve told you, the circumstances were nerve-wracking; it only turned into a game because that was the track you chose.”

 

Emmet grumbled his malcontent, and, to his surprise, it echoed in his throat. Before he had the chance to fully process that fact, Ingo raised his head, bumping against his.

 

“I assisted for a time, but it wasn’t fun in your absence. This seemed the easiest solution.”

 

Oh, it was a matter of fun was it? He could work with that. Eyes darting this way and that, he picked a quarry and escape route. When Ingo seemed distracted untangling himself, Emmet lunged forward and gave the tip of his tail a yank before scurrying off toward platform 3.

 

There was a bark of outrage that quickly condensed into:

 

“Your form is terrible!”

 

A delighted whistle escaped him and, without turning back, he called:

 

“Then you had better come correct me!”

 

The air displaced behind him, a secondary presence emerging from the slipstream he’d carved. There was a tug on his tail just before Ingo pulled up to his side.

 

“Honestly,” He huffed, nudging at Emmet’s spectral arm, “You studied aerodynamics; you should be aware of how inefficient this is.”

 

The plating slid shut at the contact and, unbalanced by his arms’ sudden exit, Emmet wobbled in the air. As he sped up, Ingo pressed their sides together, steadying him until he was the one leading, purposefully cutting a path through the air for Emmet to follow.

 

Well that just proved it: two cars to a train, irregardless of the number of sub-trains within.

 

Some things simply did not change.

---

 

They were similar, of course-- the fatal flaw a lack of air in the lungs-- but realistically, what was the difference? Would it be simpler to drown? Faster? Would it hurt more to stay put, to cope with the building panic of being unable to draw breath?

 

For a dark, selfish second, Ingo wished he’d asked Palina what it had been like beneath the ice; perhaps, then, he’d know what to do.

 

Without meaning to, he shifted against the shoal, subconsciously preparing to push himself into the waters, and stopped cold when the drag of his coat jostled the subject of his internal debate. He had yet to remove the harpoon lodged in his side, some distant memory telling him it would only worsen the situation.

 

He should add that to the list of options, actually. Wait above, until his pierced lung collapsed entirely, dive down and allow it to fill with seawater, or rip the point out and exsanguinate. None of them quick, none of them anything approaching painless.

 

Distantly, he reminded himself that, in a sense, this was a quicker death. Merfolk needed companionship to survive and, while he was infinitely grateful to the clan for all they’d done, there was a void inside of him that had never stopped hemorrhaging that goodwill into the water.

 

Before Irida had deigned to take him in, he’d tried to treat the emptiness inside with fresh air and sun. Something inside of him-- the same something that insisted he not touch the harpoon-- thought sunlight was supposed to help. There was something good that came of it, that helped when one was feeling run down; the attempt hadn’t worked, of course, because it wasn’t what he’d needed. A mer couldn’t heal debilitating loneliness with nice weather.

 

And all the bonds in the clan couldn’t restore whatever he’d lost.

 

Could one form a bond so strong that its absence was enough to kill, even when surrounded by friendly faces? That’s certainly what it felt like. The net of friendships kept him from falling headlong into this yawning chasm, deeper than the isolation that had nearly claimed his life, but if he didn’t watch the currents carefully, he could always be dragged into its undertow.

 

The practical part of him that had taken root to survive Hisui’s waters reasoned that this was as much as he could ask for: to have spared a friend’s life and cut his own already-withering vitae short. The rest of him, idealistic to the last, rallied against the thought, unable to accept such a grim outlook.

 

There was a call over the water-- Dawn. Of course it was Dawn. She wouldn’t do the sensible thing and flee after being shot at. She wouldn’t continue on the track he’d sent her down, when he’d used his tail to propel her out of harm’s way. She wouldn’t simply return to the safety of the cavern when there were yet threats in the water, stirred by the activity of humans and merfolk alike.

 

The girl’s keening was overtaken by a more confident hail, one which demanded response.

 

More than anything, Ingo was surprised Irida would tolerate Dawn’s company long enough to get this far.

 

What to do? He was incapable of departing with them, but neither could he compromise their safety by letting them linger. What was the most humane option? To drown, to ignore their searching cries and let them believe him lost, or to slowly suffocate, to reach out and let them realize there was nothing to be done for him?

 

He thought of the harpoon, still wedged between two ribs, damming the flow of blood. For all his catastrophizing, he had yet to touch it; to pull it out here and now was a decision he wouldn’t come back from. He’d nearly returned to the water on autopilot, but his conscious mind had stopped him at the reminder of what that would mean.

 

It seemed, without realizing it, he’d made a choice: to hold on and hope, as much as it might hurt.

 

Inching forward to greet the sea, but not join it, Ingo took the deepest breath he could muster and called back.

---

As they moved away from the shaky hope of a rebuilding village, her story became more and more outlandish, but… somehow not less believable; unprompted, she’d mentioned the torn remnants of a subway car, and in a land that lacked rail transport, it lent her version of events a great deal of credence. Something much more worrisome was the claim that his twin had been found pinned beneath the wreck, trapped and slowly wasting away, before being discovered.

 

It was strange. When, inevitably, Emmet’s questions about a missing person failed, his next strategy was always the train car. People could move on and be forgotten, but an effigy of twisted metal should have been noteworthy.

 

The matter of physical resemblances had been both explained and complicated as Dawn led them to a rocky outcropping by the sea.

 

“Well, that’s… why I wasn’t totally sure at first.” She said, scouring the horizon. Eventually, her attention settled in one specific direction, and Emmet idly followed it to a dark little island in the distance. “The thing is, the parts of you that look the same totally look the same. It’s just that Ingo’s… not really human?”

 

...what.

 

She held her hands up in placation, grimacing at her own words. “I know, I know. Just hear me out. So the Pearl Clan found him under that big wreck and took him home to heal, only he… kind of sucks at being a merperson? The same ways I suck at it. We both keep getting hung up when we swim, and neither of us distrusted humans the way the other mers did, and you couldn’t pay us to eat raw fish or seagulls or anything like that. I've been wondering about it for a long time, but maybe Ingo was human, too?”

 

There was a ringing in Emmet’s ears. It took him a moment to realize that it was an actual sound coming from somewhere over the water. Something in the back of his head told him he should recognize it, but it seemed unimportant compared to the information Dawn had just dumped over his head.

 

“That is my brother’s name.” He eventually choked out, to the exclusion of the rest of it.

 

Dawn’s expression cracked into a smile. “Worth a shot! I’ll go grab him and come back-- just don’t worry, okay? Most people think he’s kind of scary.”

 

Despite the amount of time it had been since he’d had to field that particular criticism, Emmet felt himself bristle. “He cannot help it. His face is just like that.”

 

The girl paused in the middle of digging through her bag and tilted her head, “I thought it was just because he always seems kind of down, but that makes sense, too.”

 

Unsure what to say to that, Emmet remained silent as she took something out, unlashed the satchel from around her waist, and then brought a vibrant shell to her lips.

 

The notes resonated, briefly, with whatever it was coming from across the waves.

 

“What is that?”

 

“It’s a special flute,” Dawn said, adjusting her grip on it now that she was no longer playing, “I’ve had it since I got here, but I can’t remember why.”

 

“Not the instrument. The sound. What is causing it?”

 

“The… flute?” She asked, baffled, and slapped her tail against the rocks.

 

It took a second for Emmet to rewind and process that fact.

 

She had implied that before, hadn’t she? Back when she’d confirmed Ingo’s name. Strange how one piece of information could be so much more pertinent than the rest and simultaneously so much less important.

 

Emmet consciously had to rein himself in. If humans could turn into merpeople, this could be it. He might be about to see his twin for the first time in years.

 

Dawn departed shortly thereafter, handing him the flute as a gesture of goodwill, and took off in the direction she’d originally scouted. Emmet pocketed the strange shell for safekeeping and then moved her satchel to somewhere the waves couldn’t sweep it away.

 

The sound continued that entire time, carried from somewhere far away. When several minutes passed without interruption, he finally figured out what it was: whale song. He didn’t profess to be an expert in the matter, but now that he was listening properly, he was relatively certain of that.

 

After some time, it stopped, and he immediately found that he missed it.

 

In its absence, he returned to the water’s edge, wondering if the dark island in the distance wasn’t where Dawn was headed, where his brother lingered. It seemed too much to think that he might catch a glimpse of either when it was so far away, but the reassurance would be welcome. He had little doubt that Dawn would return, particularly given that he held the key to her humanity, but the low crooning over the water proved that there were predators about, and he wouldn’t want haste to lead her into danger.

 

When he scanned the ocean, however, he found that the island, too, had vanished.

 

---

 

Ingo spent a great deal of his time alone.

 

It was by choice, but at times, it also felt involuntary.

 

The Pearl clan was more gracious than he could have asked for, worried that his continued stints on his own might reignite the loneliness that had left him so fragile upon their first meeting; while he was happy for their company, it wasn’t what he was missing. That was the problem, though: he didn’t know what would fill the void in his heart. Their camaraderie was close-- had been rejuvenating when he’d first been ushered into the fold-- but only to a point. He felt that it was the right track, just veering ever so slightly off course; if he could figure out where his destination lay, he could course correct to reach it.

 

It had been years, though, and while he was no longer soul-sick, the ache of it refused to leave him.

 

When it became too much to bear, he would leave for the surface, to float on his back and close his eyes. The ocean air had become familiar, but it went deeper than that, the churning sea so close to making a connection somewhere in the recesses of his being. He was put in the mind of the artificial reef he’d awoken in-- pinned, scared and without a trace of memory-- but had no idea how they could be related. More than anyone, he knew how heavy the construct was; it seemed wholly antithetical to the gentle rocking that only occurred above the waterline.

 

Frustrated with his lack of progress, but not surprised, he let out a heavy sigh and pitched it halfway through, low in his throat. He didn’t know what purpose this ability served, as none of the other merfolk could hear when he dipped into this range, but it was cathartic; he could cry for the fact that the clan had been so kind, so welcoming, and he still didn’t belong. He could lament that there was something wrong with him, that he still felt sickness in between the beating of his heart, and he feared he would never escape it.

 

He could admit, in tones no one would ever hear, that he didn’t know how much longer he could bear the solitude before it consumed him whole.

 

Though he knew perfectly well that she was unable to parse his voice like this, it died in his throat as Dawn poked her head up from the waves. Unwilling to have a conversation with her in such an undignified position, he turned over and dipped back below the water so they could speak properly.

 

“Is rebuilding going well?” He asked, following up from the last topic they’d touched upon, “Has there been any recovering from the salt water?”

 

The humans weren’t bad, he knew-- and had known for as long as he could recall-- they were just scared. For as disastrous as the region’s flooding had been, the one silver lining was that it had given the clans cause to cooperate with the villagers and, slowly, the merfolk were beginning to make progress. He couldn’t be certain how the humans looked upon the situation, but they accepted aid, at least, and that was something.

 

“It’s...” There was a conspicuous pause. “Going. That’s not why I came to talk, actually.”

 

“No?” He asked, unable to find it in himself to be surprised. Dawn was like the sea itself at times, ever shifting, just shy of capricious.

 

“No. I don’t want to jump the gun or anything, but I think I met someone who knew you before! He’s waiting for us at the bluff.”

 

He blinked at her, the words sitting at the surface of his thoughts for several seconds before sinking in, “What makes you believe that this individual and I share any sort of connection? I don’t mean to cast doubt, but if even I’m unable to say with any certainty...”

 

“He was looking for someone called Ingo.” She said, and while there was a twitch of her tail that suggested it wasn’t the whole truth, Ingo was too caught up in that declaration to catch it. “He looks like you, too. A scary amount.”

 

“He’s also an orca?” It might be nice, he thought, to physically be on the same level as someone for a change-- unmarked as the odd man out in this regard, on top of everything else that made him feel so detached from the clan.

 

“Well… no, it’s mostly in the face. But your coats are basically the same!”

 

Interesting. That, more than anything else, lent credence to her theory. As strongly as he felt about his name, his complete lack of any other personal details meant that he couldn’t be entirely sure it was what he’d used prior to waking up beneath the ruins. The fact that this person was seeking someone of the same name was noteworthy, but not conclusive. The resemblance was also compelling, but could be explained by a mimic octopus or the like.

 

His clothes, however, had been a subject of bewilderment among the clan for some time. Drag caused his coat to hinder his movement and speed, and it was constantly becoming caught on bits of rock or other hazards. His hat was somewhat more practical, helping him see above the water on bright days, but beneath the waves, all it did was threaten to fly away if caught in the mildest of currents. Even if this was a misunderstanding and Dawn’s contact didn’t know of him, perhaps he could ask what the utility was.

 

“I see.” He narrowly refrained from breathing it out as a sigh; there was little use in speculating if confirmation or denial really was so near, “If he’s waiting, we ought not to leave him at the station. Are you ready to depart for the Clamberclaw Bluffs?”

 

Dawn took him by the forefinger and smiled at him-- and where he occasionally saw a flash of pity in it, there was nothing but anticipation.

 

“Let’s go!” She said, tugging him forward, a current all her own.

 

Ingo allowed it to happen, allowed her to be the force driving his tired cab onward. Maybe, when they reached their destination, there would be someone there to meet it.

 

---

 

The first indication that Emmet was no longer alone on the rocky outcropping was Dawn hefting herself up onto the edge with the grace of someone still adjusting to that specific workout. He refrained from commenting on that fact both because he liked to think himself polite and because something else stole his attention away shortly thereafter.

 

Offset from where she’d appeared, the water warped unnaturally, and it took a second for him to realize that it was because it was something else was surfacing, something massive enough to distort the water as it rose.

 

“Oh,” Said his brother’s voice, loud as one of his directing calls whilst somehow maintaining a sort of gentle surprise, “You’re human.”

 

Even though he’d been warned as much, as he blinked upwards, trying to process the reality he’d found himself living, he said, “You’re… not.”

 

“Was… was I supposed to be?” Ingo turned his head as he said it, a hand curling to rest against his lips-- and it was so achingly familiar that, for just a second, it was possible to overlook the fact that his forearm had to be longer than Emmet’s full height.

 

“Yes?” He half-asked, trying to keep his expression from dipping into anything too ridiculous in his incredulity, “To my knowledge, identical siblings are usually the same species.”

 

The animate half of Ingo’s face scrunched, puzzled, and he leaned over on his arms to put them on the same level. He spent several seconds silently assessing Emmet, before returning with, “We do look quite similar, don’t we?”

 

“Identical.” Emmet repeated, insistent, and he couldn’t keep his voice from crackling on it, “We are-- we’re supposed to be identical twins.”

 

“And I take it from your response that you were never an orca?” His brother said, a little helplessly.

 

“No.” At that, however, he stepped forward, emboldened both by the certainty that this was somehow his missing twin-- all but confirming that he had never been in any danger-- and a suddenly-consuming curiosity.

 

Ingo watched his approach, but did nothing to stop him. The only movement was that of one enormous, clawed hand tucking itself into the tattered remains of the opposite sleeve and, abruptly, Emmet realized he was still wearing his uniform’s hat and coat. The hat and coat that had been commissioned in tandem with the ones Emmet wore right now. Emmet, who was notably human-sized.

 

How?

 

The nearer he drew, the more clearly he could make out the black mass in the water beyond, a shadow that stretched and curved into an undeniably fish-shaped tail, floating just high enough for a dorsal fin to cut through the surface.

 

With a new clarity, he looked up, taking in the black patches that both camouflaged the actual lines under his brother’s eyes and made his weariness look orders worse, and asked, “Was the whale song your doing?”

 

The too-pale skin of Ingo’s face went faintly pink. “You were able to hear that?”

 

Emmet felt his face crack into a grin, “You are not quiet.”

 

“No, no, you misunderstand,” He tried, though the flush only intensified at the comment, “The frequency is inaudible to the other merfolk. I didn’t think anyone else was physically able to hear it.”

 

“Wait,” Said a mildly-familiar voice and, with a start, Emmet remembered they weren’t alone, “Is that what you’re doing when you float on the surface like a dead fish? You’re just screaming into the sky?”

 

“That is-- no. Not in the slightest!”

 

“If he yelled, you would know. Even as a human.” The commentary earned him a downward glance through narrowed eyes.

 

“Regardless,” Ingo said, transparently trying to get them back on a track that didn’t lead to further teasing, “I’m surprised that you were able to discern it without being a mer yourself.”

 

Emmet hummed, considering that, and then turned his head. “I’m not. Other people cannot read your face, but I can. It makes sense that I can understand you now, too.”

 

“Because you’re… my twin brother.” Ingo said haltingly, testing the words for himself as if to see if they were any more convincing in his own voice.

 

Emmet smiled, though not without an edge of melancholy, letting him reach a conclusion in his own time. That wasn’t disbelief, he knew, but it was plain to see how lost his brother was, and hurrying him wouldn’t help.

 

He wouldn’t push, but… but maybe it would be okay to make sure this was real, that he hadn’t hit his head upon arriving in Hisui and managed to fool himself into thinking this might finally be it.

 

Holding one hand up to indicate a lack of aggression-- as if something so small could do anything to hurt someone with the proportions of a killer whale-- he took a tentative, questioning step forward and asked, “Can I touch?”

 

Ingo blinked at him, focused momentarily on his palm, and then back on his face. In lieu of an answer, he rested his head on his arms in full, putting himself in range to reach more comfortably. His bright, bright eyes tracked the motion until he couldn’t any longer, and he breathed out, slow and impossibly long.

 

The skin beneath Emmet’s hand was dark, the stripe of it trailing up to a floppy ear and down below the line of a collar, but still warm and still undeniably human. He’d half expected it to feel rubbery under his touch, but the biggest difference was the subtle grit of drying salt. He was reminded intensely of the summer their family visited the Decolore Islands and specifically of when, as a joke, he’d tried to push his brother into the water, only for Ingo to clutch his hand that much more tightly and send the both of them tumbling in. Having to go on in wet clothes had been bad enough until they began to dry, contrasting outfits stiff with the residual salt on their persons. As children, it had been unbearable. He could only hope it didn’t itch the same way, now.

 

He only realized he’d spaced out at the renewed rumble as his twin began to speak again, “--not sure. Are you still with us, Emmet?”

 

For a second, he froze in place, and then drew his hand back, breaking out into an unburdened smile. Beaming up at his brother, he said, “Ingoooooo, I never told you my name.”

 

Ingo’s brow furrowed as he mentally played the conversation back, and then he glanced to Dawn, who held her hands up and shook her head. When that failed to yield any plausible explanation, his gaze flitted back over to Emmet, uncertain, as if he’d done something wrong.

 

“It’s good!” Emmet said before his twin could start to reverse down the tracks, “I do not know what happened, but you’re still you. That is all that matters to me.”

 

As quietly as he was physically capable of with such robust lungs, Ingo repeated “My brother,” to himself, already coming to terms with the idea, and Emmet stepped forward again.

 

He leaned into his twin’s shoulder, heedless of the water that immediately soaked through his coat, and, as best he could, pressed the side of his face to Ingo’s. Against his own side, he felt a pulse speed up, powered by a heart that was finally large enough to match the outpouring of love its owner had always put into the world.

 

A hand moved to cradle his back, painstaking in the care behind it, and within two beats of that massive heart, the whale song began anew.

---

 

Confusion was very, very good for that purpose.

 

Ghetsis knew the score, knew how effective a solution it had been in the past, and if he could get one solid hit in, was certain he could get an advantage over the so-called Countertype Conductors; they wouldn’t get in his way if they were too busy trying to figure out which of them was which, and by the time they recovered enough to think straight, he’d have already secured his victory.

 

That had been the plan, at least. When he managed to trip up the pyrokinetic one long enough to put it into action, though, things began to go wildly off script.

 

There was a moment where everything looked perfectly fine, and he’d advanced on the agent in white, eager to deal with the most prominent threat first. Even if the other managed to put two brain cells together early, the facility’s arid nature would prevent him from fully utilizing the hydrokinesis he was famous for, forcing use of a less honed psychic ability.

 

Or so Ghetsis had assumed. As he loomed over the lighter twin, however, a prickle began at the base of his neck, rapidly becoming the burn of psychic energy. His robes whirled around him as he turned, backing up to escape the fiery radius.

 

That was completely impossible. The other agent wasn’t capable of using pyrokinesis. His people had watched for months and he’d never shown an ounce of affinity for it-- had never even tried to use it in the middle of the arctic.

 

The agent in black advanced on him, lips quirking up into a dangerous grin, but the dazed fog remained settled over his eyes. He’d still been affected, then-- just as he should’ve been, once his brother was hit-- and hadn’t managed to recover in such a short window. So then what--?

 

A dome of fire roared to life half a centimeter from his nose. He stepped back, as any reasonable man would, and readied himself. The aggressor crossed the temporary field of safety to his partner, who remained unsinged by way of their mental connection, and urgently called a name.

 

The wrong name.

 

That was it, then. While the one in black should have been the hydrokinetic, the wires had gotten crossed mid-fight; somehow, instead of scrambling their abomination of a mental world into a useless mess, the confusion had swapped one twin’s mind for the other.

 

It had to be a fluke; in all their months of examination, the application of confusion had never produced a result like this. He readied another measure of confusion gas as black-turned-white pulled white-turned-black to his feet, but threw it a moment too soon. White coat’s head snapped up as the lingering fire consumed the attack, and his scowl drew deeper.

 

As the last of the protective field burnt away, they started toward Ghetsis in lock-step, elbows linking together. It made for an easy target and he tried again, careful to maintain the distance between them and keep a steady head in spite of the complication.

 

The confusion landed. He knew for a fact that it did. They weren’t even trying to sidestep the psychohazardous fog that lay before them-- but neither so much as blinked as they kept their pace, focused on him and him alone.

 

In unison, their interlocked arms raised, obscuring the contrasting curve of lips.

 

A worrying flash of heat passed over him, or-- or maybe it was cold?

 

To his horror, Ghetsis found he could no longer tell the difference.

---

 

In one sense, he was Ingo. He remembered being Ingo, thought of himself as just a part of his missing whole, and felt exactly the way he knew Ingo would. But, damningly, he also had memories of being created, of Arceus pulling him and-- of pulling him fully-formed from the ether and giving him a purpose. Humans didn’t have that.

 

On a fundamental level, he couldn’t be Ingo. Size discrepancies aside, Ingo was older than Emmet by three minutes, whereas he and his own twin had been crafted simultaneously.

 

He was Ingo, but he wasn’t. He was human, but he registered as a Pokemon. He was here to curb Emmet’s ambition, but he was also meant to take care of him. It couldn’t all be done at once.

 

Lately, it seemed like he’d been falling short every single one of those criteria-- but mostly the last ones. Emmet clocked the lies he told both of them as he tried to keep them chugging along, he no longer confided in him or took the time to pursue his training pet project, and actively shut him out for long nights of research and planning, preventing any wellness checks from so much as leaving the station.

 

It was hard. In this sense, he was still Ingo, and Ingo would have been incredibly hurt by the behavior. He loved Emmet, wanted the best for him, but the only thing he wanted was what Ingo had been created specifically to prevent.

 

How was he meant to stifle such a strong ideal when his being burned for nothing less than to foster it?

 

He lied, yes, but never to hinder. Late night snacks and reminders to rest were meant as maintenance, not distractions. He wished so dearly that he could solve the problem for Emmet, so his-- brother?-- could stop tearing himself and, potentially, the universe apart.

 

It wasn’t his place to judge, but wasn’t he meant to question? To challenge anything-- be it human, Pokemon or concept-- to find its highest state? Its best self?

 

Because-- because he couldn’t help but wonder. The real Ingo and Emmet had spent their entire lives together, and now his presence was necessitated because Arceus had separated them, but the bond between them held fast. He knew he also had a twin, but had caught little more than a glimpse before they were sent their separate ways. Had that, too, been part of Arceus’s plan? If he’d been given the opportunity to meet his other half, would he be just as desperate to reunite with him?

 

There were times it was all so overwhelming. The world was so much bigger than him: a vast, white space of infinite possibility, and he a deep black seed with a singular purpose. It was during those moments that he hoped beyond hope that he really was Ingo, if only a small piece. Maybe it would all make sense once put into proper perspective.

 

For now, though, he had a task, and Emmet was not making it simple.

 

Emmet’s door had been locked again, and no amount of uproar Ingo or Charjabug made could catch the attention of the man on its opposite side. Eventually-- after far too long-- he’d thought to flag down Chandelure, who’d been able to open it with Psychic, and now here he was, standing on a page next to his Hisuian doppelganger, fretting over his own ward.

 

With only a small semblance of awareness behind his eyes, Emmet stared at him blankly, and Ingo knew there was no use in trying to ply him with food-- not when he’d just fall asleep before it could do any good. Sighing heavily, he gave Emmet’s cheek a pat and turned to regard the reason for-- if not the source of-- all this trouble.

 

Ingo was in a very strange situation, caused in no small part by the fact he and the worn-looking man on the page both felt the same ways, wanted the same things. He stepped forward, mirroring the ink-and-paper copy, meeting eyes so much like Emmet’s right now: lost and empty, in spite of the wakefulness in them.

 

He wanted to fix this-- for both of them. He was just a tool of Arceus’s creation, it wasn’t right for him to argue against Its actions, but he wanted so dearly to make things better. It was what he’d always wanted, as long as he could remember and, simultaneously, the express purpose for his existence.

 

The page under his feet wrinkled ever so slightly as he turned, again, toward Emmet, reading the faint lines and dark splotches beneath his eyes, crumpling internally at the determination they represented. He felt himself crumple externally, too, and, in the interest of safety, didn’t fight it as he sank to his knees.

 

Behind him, the shape of a man stretched out as a shadow.

 

He wanted to help.

 

He wanted to help.

 

Please, just let him help.

 

Something in him crackled to life, thrumming uncontrollably in his core as tears silently trailed down his cheeks.

 

He would defy his purpose if he had to, if discarding his reason for being meant he could fulfill something so much more important. In a way, wouldn’t he succeed in both? Emmet couldn’t rend the universe apart for his twin if Ingo did it first, after all.

 

There was a soft noise above him, and when he looked, Emmet’s eyes were clear and wide, fixated on him. When a hesitant hand reached for him, he reached back, smoothing his own hand along the palm that curved to support him.

 

“It will be okay,” Ingo promised, and oh, how strange. Was there something wrong with his voice? “We will put things right again.”

 

As quickly as it had found him, the burst of energy faded, and he leaned into Emmet’s palm, eyes half-mast and still blurred with tears.

 

His stubborn ideal, however, wouldn’t be forgotten.

---

 

It was in the Fieldlands, near the border to Coronet; if its pace stayed consistent, she could easily make it to the Highlands and back.

 

Akari didn’t have any doubts about whether or not Ingo would accompany her, but, just to emphasize how very badly she need a refresher on safe travel, if only someone would show her, she didn’t dismount from Wyrdeer when she saw him up on the cliffs-- she summoned Braviary and reached up without stopping, pulling herself into position just as the Lord flapped his wings and ascended.

 

It could be difficult to parse Ingo’s expressions on a good day, but she was pretty sure she was familiar enough with ‘utter exasperation’ to read that one properly.

 

When she began to descend, Lady Sneasler-- stone faced as her Warden-- held up the basket and Akari promptly dropped into it. The Noble’s arms didn’t so much as quake with the impact and, just as Akari moved to climb out, Sneasler stuffed the top down over her head. Akari huffed dramatically and wriggled out through the viewing hole.

 

They were her favorites. She could hardly believe she’d ever been frightened of either of them.

 

She righted herself, beaming, and ran over to grab Ingo’s hand.

 

“An unusual rift is forming in the Fieldlands! I think it might be our path home-- please, come with me?”

 

Briefly, he glanced over her shoulder to Lady Sneasler, then back to her; in that moment, Akari already knew what the answer was. Out of habit, he reached with his free hand to adjust the brim of his cap, and inclined his head. “I’ll escort you safely to your destination.”

 

And. Alright. She’d been asking for that.

 

When they reached the Fieldlands again, something odd was happening. The distortion began to rapidly turn opaque, proportionate to their speed of approach, and, though they stopped a safe distance away to gauge the phenomena, it seemed something had been set into motion.

 

Belated as it was, the thunderclap finally struck. And didn’t end. The sky roared as a metal serpent tore its way through, descending into the crackling dome of the rift.

 

Akari tried to yell, tried to ask if that could really be a Pokemon, but any response she may or may not have received was swallowed by the din rushing outward from the distortion. Louder and louder, something inside the rift cried out with a terrible crash, and then it exploded. The ground beneath their feet roiled in protest, belying just how treacherous their perch was about to become.

 

As she reached to her companions, trying to make the most of their short window of escape, two things happened: she saw Ingo’s lips move, soundless against the howling winds, and he started sprinting toward the distortion.

 

She lunged forward, trying to catch the torn edge of his coat and pull him back, but the tatters slipped through her fingers and she screamed after him, certain she was watching her friend run to his death.

 

He stopped short of the warzone that had once been a distortion but, before Akari’s heart had the chance to settle, was knocked off of his feet. Something light tumbled to a halt beside him, falling from his arms, and, as soon as it touched the ground, the rift popped. In the intensity of the past thirty seconds’ wake, the silence was absolutely deafening.

 

After a second, the white shape-- a man-- pushed himself upright. Ingo moved to do the same and, for a lingering moment, they stayed that way: mirroring one another, almost nose to nose. Then the man reached out, his hand trembling visibly even from this distance, and took Ingo by the shoulder. He drew the both of them up. Ingo let him, reaching to steady himself, but didn’t look away.

 

As they straightened, so too did their coats, unfolding into inverted versions of the other.

 

There was a long silence, and Akari glanced to Sneasler, trying to judge whether the Noble was concerned for her Warden and how to proceed. The Lady’s eyes were narrowed as she watched, but not aggressively so; her ears were perked, listening, intent on the scene playing out before her.

 

They flattened as something keened. Ingo was already turning away from them, back to the man in white when she checked, only willing to tear his attention away for so long. Sneasler raised a paw as she snickered to herself, amused at his antics, and began loping forward. Akari took a long leap to catch up.

 

The men moved so quickly they were nearly a grey blur; one moment clinging together, the next whirling into a hysterical spin as Ingo, in turn, swept the white shape off his feet.

 

Sound was gradually beginning to seep back into the world and, before the surrounding Starly or Kriketot could get a peep in edgewise, Akari heard laughter. It was a heavy note, weighed down with more meaning than Akari had ever heard in its like; it was disbelief and a lightning strike of comprehension, respite and wonder, the final whistle of a vessel that had found its destination.

 

When they stilled and the man in white hooked his chin over Ingo’s shoulder, grinning widely even as tears streamed down his cheeks, Akari couldn’t have been less surprised to see that they bore the same face.

 

Sneasler’s path curved, approaching from behind the other, her gaze fixed fondly on the spot where her Warden was hidden.

 

Eventually, Ingo looked up from his reflection’s collar.

 

It was strange. His eyes had a natural reflective quality that practically made them glow, but there was something new there; months after the fact and Akari was just now realizing that, the entire time she’d known him, he’d been missing a spark of life. When he looked up with the single happiest frown Akari had ever seen, there was light in his eyes.

 

The difference was night and day, and she didn’t know how she hadn’t seen its absence sooner.

 

Struck speechless, he gave them a tiny nod as they drew nearer, which seemed to rouse his twin’s attention. The man in white whirled them both around, angled so he could see without releasing his grip.

 

“Ah.” He said, and briefly ducked his head to press it against Ingo’s; perhaps in fortification, perhaps as reassurance, “I am Emmet. Thank you for acting as my brother’s escort. I will be commandeering your passenger, now.”

 

Akari had been wrong about the specifics of the distortion, but not its ultimate outcome. In its own explosive way, it had been a track home.

---

 

He’d since come to terms with the stark difference between himself and his twin; it was something only a select few people would ever see, after all. If they’d decided they were comfortable enough to uncover their wings in front of someone-- which was to say Elesa-- odds were that person already knew how to tell the two of them apart, independent of color scheme. And really, if his wings had stayed black, what would that have meant for the Battle Subway’s aesthetic? The lighter color scheme had been a matter of practicality first and foremost; it was far easier to hide white feathers against a white coat than to try obscuring them against black.

 

Truthfully, he didn’t even remember much about the period of illness that had triggered the change. Mostly, he remembered their parents’ worried faces and how hot it had been, even when he repeatedly kicked off his covers. There were snatches of Ingo’s voice-- words too foggy to have withstood the test of time, but incredibly upset nonetheless-- and he knew that, when the sickness finally ran its course, he’d woken up to an otherwise empty bedroom. Any further detail had been lost, and by the end of it, his feathers had been dappled with a grey that, slowly, gave way to the white he now carried.

 

Oh, he’d been so upset back then. Their mother had explained to him that it was perfectly fine; the change didn’t mean he was sick, just that he had been and was better now. Their father had tried the angle that it should be a mark of pride, showing how resilient he’d been. Neither of those had been the issue, but, then again, Emmet was relatively certain he wouldn’t have accepted any argument tried on him. The only thing that he’d tolerated had been the mumbled, “Well I think they’re pretty.” as Ingo clumsily worked through the feathers, buried up to his little wrists.

 

To an extent, it had been his twin’s easy acceptance that soothed his mind, but also the limited scope. Emmet didn’t care what had caused the difference; he couldn’t understand the intricacies involved or why his illness had led to it, and he had no reason to be proud when he wasn’t even fully aware of how harsh the sickness had been.

 

An opinion, though-- that was easy. He didn’t have to follow Ingo’s logic; there didn’t even need to be any logic.  If Emmet wanted to, he could disagree, the way he liked tamato berries and Ingo didn’t, where neither of them was wrong.

 

Funny enough, Ingo eventually came around on tamatos, and Emmet came to accept his white wings.

 

Part of him, though, had never stopped wanting to match.

 

His hands combed through feathers, and he tried to figure out what entity might have overheard the long lived wish, which Pokemon might have deliberately misinterpreted it. Not like this-- he’d never wanted Ingo to be the one who retook their symmetry.

 

There was precious little dark amongst the light greys and whites, and that which existed was on its way out, damaged by time and claws. It was very, very clear that the one responsible for grooming his twin’s wings hadn’t been a human, but Sneasler. Feathers were nicked and tattered, but likely by no fault of the noble’s own; it couldn’t be easy to maneuver with such wickedly long claws. Even though he spotted a blood feather that had been cut and stemmed, it was still better than leaving the wings to wither.

 

The parts Ingo had been able to reach on his own were better, less frayed by several orders. That the amnesia hadn’t been able to erase the natural urge to preen was a comfort; though there was no evidence to suggest that the impairment might be reversible, that was one tiny bit of hope.

 

For all the physical damage that existed, plain to see, Emmet’s biggest concern was the shift in attitude. The broken feathers would molt and be replaced, and the color would eventually stabilize. What would be trickier-- far more akin to his own internal crisis as a small, confused child-- was the fact that Ingo had been doing his level best to avoid acknowledging that he had wings, and it… wasn’t difficult to tell why.

 

The Pearl Clan stared. There was an implicit understanding that the clan was a whole, and Emmet, at least, was an outsider. Maintaining any sort of relationship with them would have relied on blending in as much as possible and, therefore, hiding anything that stood out.

 

No wonder his brother’s feathers were in such a state. Stranded on the opposite side of the world and lost to time without even a working memory to fall back on, reliant on people who accepted him only once he buried a major facet of his being, and even then seemed wary of the mannerisms that made Ingo himself… Emmet had considered his side of their separation stressful-- he’d even joked, ruefully, to Elesa that the whole thing was going to give him grey feathers-- but not to this extent.

 

He thought back to the hazy days after his wings had turned, combing the depths of his memory for anything that might offer some measure of solace, and came up empty handed. The underlying issue here wasn’t a matter of cosmetics, it was that Ingo’s view of his wings had changed for the worse. He couldn’t write that off with senseless positivity, and any contrasting opinion he could offer would come across as an empty platitude at best.

 

There was something he could do, though-- maybe not here and now, but a step forward once they got home. He decided right then that he would stop covering his own wings up, would prove to Ingo that not everyone judged so harshly.

 

In the meantime, he let his hands sink into the dappled feathers, wrist deep.

---