Weeks passed without further incident where that specific Pokemon was concerned.

The human involvement, however, was an entirely different story.

Gear Station’s security cameras hadn’t been the only ones to record the creature’s presence, and while it was little more than an oddity in Unova, reports of the sighting had taken off to an unbelievable degree in Sinnoh. Purportedly, the halo framing its head bore a striking resemblance to ancient Sinnoan iconography, and while that meant very little to Emmet, he’d given it a cursory poke, just to see if the claims carried any weight.

Going back over the footage hadn’t revealed much. As was to be expected, given its exit, the Pokemon had simply teleported in to begin with. Interestingly, it appeared several minutes prior to Furze’s report, and none of the passerby had afforded it so much as a glance up until that point. He hadn’t known what precisely to make of that information, but it was good to have.

If it was a mythical Pokemon, however, then its intentions were that much more suspect; Pokemon of legend were notoriously intelligent and long-lived and, therefore, capable of holding a grudge unlike any other. The fact that this Pokemon, wreathed in a white light, had taken an interest in them was incredibly concerning. He didn’t believe it was Reshiram-- not in any recognizable form, at least-- but if it had, in fact, been woken from its centuries long nap, the possibility was there. He could hardly speak for the Dragon of Truth, but one would assume it held no love in its heart for their branch of its master’s family.

Whether it was this supposed ‘Almighty Sinnoh’ or an instrument of Reshiram, it didn’t really matter. They were aware of it now, and while there was little to be done in terms of a preemptive defense, any information was a step in the right direction. While he was thankful for the lead, though, Emmet-- and the entirety of the station along with him-- could have done without the tourists.

He didn’t mean the usual tourists; they lived in Nimbasa City, for goodness sake, tourists were a part of the deal. No, he meant the belated rubberneckers who wanted to dig around the site of the Pokemon’s appearance. What they hoped to accomplish was beyond him-- it was long gone, and good riddance-- but the effect they did have was easy enough to see; during the first wave of interest, the thoroughfare had become crowded beyond what was safe, risking the separation of groups and potentially causing passengers to miss their trains.

Thankfully, Ingo had stepped in before Emmet had the chance to shoo them away himself. It had quickly backfired, though, making him the unfortunate object of attention as, arguably, the person who’d had the most contact with the Pokemon. It had been a little funny at first, but only a little. And only at first.

Today, for instance, there was absolutely no way his twin was up for wrangling Sinnoh-chasers.

That left clearing the annex to Emmet, whose methods were somewhat less forgiving. He allowed them one chance-- radioing in for Isadore to make a formal request over the speakers, discouraging the loitering-- but his patience ran thin after that. Between the two of them, Ingo was far more likely to forget volume control, which often led people to believe Emmet couldn’t reach those same peaks-- a fact he was currently using to his advantage.

Sidling up behind a particularly bold perpetrator, stopped directly in the flow of foot traffic, he took a deep breath and bellowed, “Please continue toward your destinations! As a reminder, loitering is not permitted!”

The man started-- badly—and all but jumped out of the way. He shot a glare toward Emmet, who played dumb, gesturing broadly to help direct other patrons’ paths. It was an easy method to single out tourists, and with his attention on them, specifically, they were verrry likely to duck their heads and listen.

It had to happen, and Nice Subway Boss was all but out sick, so Rude Subway Boss it was.

As the group dispersed, Emmet found himself with a few minutes to spare before he was expected across the station, and little question how he might spend them. He’d strong armed Ingo into taking a brief rest in their office, which had turned into something longer than his brother had intended; the prospect of sitting upright purportedly made his stomach lurch. Neither of them was prone to motion sickness, but if Ingo was already feeling unwell, it seemed like a bad idea to risk exacerbating it any further.

Emmet had tried to surreptitiously weave in the prospect of taking the day off when they talked, only for the suggestion to be dismissed. It wasn’t really a surprise-- that was why he’d tried to play it close to his chest in the first place-- but it was still a little annoying.

He opened the door to their office, intending to give it another shot, and stopped short.

Ingo… was not where he’d been prior. Puzzling. Not necessarily cause for alarm, but noteworthy.

Excadrill, curled up in his place, seemed unbothered, which was a good sign; Emmet flopped down next to her and ran a hand over her side. His time was limited, but the Depot Agents were well aware of the situation, and wouldn’t begrudge him that small amount it would take to check in with his twin. Rather than running all over the station looking for him, it would be much more efficient to bide time where he would inevitably return.

It wasn’t much of a wait.

Emmet’s intention had been to ask if he was feeling any better, but it was something of a moot point now; the answer was plain to see.

Letting the door fall shut behind him, Ingo leaned against it and ran a hand over his eyes, unintentionally highlighting the damp skin below the line of his little finger. Without his hat to hide how askew his hair had fallen, he looked extra disheveled; a large, uneven portion of it had been slicked haphazardly back, and was still visibly wet. He must have left to splash some water on his face, though the good that had done was clearly negligible.

There was no way he was boarding a train today, regardless of any and all precautions taken.

The moment of silence passed as Ingo dropped his hand, realizing for the first time that he wasn’t alone in the office. Instead of the denials Emmet might have expected, what he actually said was, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Go home. Or I’m telling everyone.” Emmet said, feeling in that moment like a movie villain who knew they had the upper hand, petting down the spine of a spoiled Persian. Excadrill wasn’t so far from that, he decided; she had fur and claws. And she was definitely spoiled.

Even though it meant he’d won, he didn’t find any vindication in the defeated slump that followed. Unable to stay put in light of that, Emmet crossed the room in several quick strides.

“Go home,” He repeated more gently, folding an encouraging palm over his twin’s shoulder, “Take care of yourself. You will not get any better if you continue down this track.”

Unable to find a response to that, Ingo diverted his focus elsewhere, “Will you be running Doubles or Super Doubles in my absence?”

That question didn’t have a set answer yet; they’d been scheduled for multi battles during the latter half of the shift. While the substitution was something of a foregone conclusion, there was nothing on paper yet, leaving Emmet to make the decision spur of the moment.

It would make sense to run Super Doubles after its standard counterpart, but none of today’s battle lines were meant to be of a particularly high difficulty. Supers could be slow on even a day the challengers had prepared for it; if it was sprung out of nowhere, the odds of getting a good battle were low. Also, he wanted to ensure that Chandelure stayed with Ingo for now. She, at least, would ensure that he took some time to recuperate.

“Doubles.” He said, “No need to change teams.”

Ingo nodded sharply and immediately bit down on a grimace, hand twitching upward as he instinctively reached to soothe the discomfort, then caught himself and forced it back into a resting position.

While he hadn’t been actively forcing his expression before, Emmet let it fall into a frown, “Did it get worse after we arrived here? Or were you downplaying how ill you were this morning?”

As a direct response to his last gesture gone wrong, the shake of the head that followed was absolutely minuscule, “I maintain that I’m not sick. Despite this recent downturn, I don’t feel ill; it’s more that my cab feels… different. Incorrect.”

“That’s what we refer to as ‘being sick’.” Emmet said, unimpressed.

“It’s not the same.” His twin insisted, but it wasn’t anything new. Ingo got like this when he didn’t feel well-- truth be told, they both did. This was far from their first circuit on the subject.

“You are going home either way.”

With a brief roll of the eyes Ingo finally pushed away from the door. His attention landed on his desk-- where the missing pieces to his uniform laid either on the surface or draped across the back of his chair-- and he worked on rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt down. “Yes, yes, we’ve established that I’m being blackmailed. Is there anything else I can do to appease you, Don Emmet? I can at least get dinner going before you get home.”

“Leave them. You’re already overheating. You don’t need to walk home wearing a black coat. In Nimbasa City. In July.” It earned him a wry, affirming tilt of the head, “We will discuss dinner after the work day ends.”

“There’s no reason to put it off; I’ll have plenty of time to prepare something ahead of schedule.”

“You have a fundamental misunderstanding of sick leave.” Emmet said, ignoring the look it earned him. He was well aware of the hypocrisy; if he didn’t acknowledge it, though, he didn’t have to cede the high ground. The hand on Ingo’s shoulder tightened, going from a gesture of support to one of guidance. “It’s time we both depart this station.”

“If I concede that I’m not entirely well, does that also absolve me of the responsibility of waking Excadrill?”

...fine. Emmet would allow it. But only because he loved his brother.