One of the unforeseen-- but far from unwelcome-- byproducts of being a pair of identical twins renowned for multi battling was that they tended to attract trainers of their ilk. Sibling teams weren’t inherently more coordinated or challenging than those who’d found synergy later in life, but there was a unique thrill to it.

It was interesting to see where their performance was echoed back at them and where they differed from other sets of twins. They chose to coordinate in profession and appearance, but not where their Pokemon were concerned. Many of their opponents chose Pokemon that naturally worked well together but didn’t have similar interests. To be entirely fair, that the two of them were so keenly in sync where their love of the rail system and battling were concerned seemed to be a happy coincidence; while it felt natural that if one of them took up an interest, the other would at least support it, it had been proven that they were the outliers in that regard.

Regardless, where their experience as siblings diverged from others’ was a point of some fascination.

One of the greatest discrepancies was they didn’t nickname their Pokemon, themed or otherwise. Ingo had a long-standing endearment for Chandelure and that was it; their other Pokemon were subject to spur-of-the-moment teasing, which was neither permanent nor particularly meaningful. Many of these opponents, however, liked to use matching names: Apollo and Selene for a pair of of Solrock and Lunatone, or Beauty and Beast for Gorebyss and Huntail.

It usually didn’t warrant so much as a bat of the eye, but after parting ways with Patriot the Braviary and Rebel the Mandibuzz-- and their respective trainers-- Emmet turned to him abruptly, his expression one of realization.

“They need names.”

That the passengers did. It was something that had been on Ingo’s mental agenda for some time now, even before they’d made the final decision to keep the pair; even if he had followed through with his original intention to give them up after birth, they would still require names. Given the circumstances, he just hadn’t dedicated more than a few minutes at a time to the thought.

He had a short, unsorted list of possibilities in his Xtransceiver’s notes app, but that was the full extent.

Ingo had known that wasn’t adequate, but it was somewhat beyond him why that admission had led to what could only be compared to an after-work study session once they were back home: a solid block of time dedicated toward answering that quandary.

Their allotted study materials had expanded beyond a few flimsy lines of text, incorporating the list of potential names they’d drawn up for themselves back in the day, multiple online databases and several seemingly-unrelated technical references open on Emmet’s laptop.

“I still like Fero and Caril.” His brother said about an hour in, and Ingo wasn’t terribly surprised to hear it. If they hadn’t landed on their current names, there was a good chance they would have chosen that set instead. Both fit the scheme they’d been looking for and were pleasant to say, but most importantly, neither clashed against their surname.

“They’re certainly on the table.” Ingo said, perching somewhat precariously on the nearest armrest. It wasn’t terribly comfortable, but it was familiar to the process of brainstorming-- and the little walk around the living room that preceded it had been welcome after he’d realized one of his legs was falling asleep.

Truthfully, he had no problem with handing those names down, but it was only fair to give it a proper effort first; there were a number of very strong possibilities, though none quite as well-suited as those two, just yet. Chammal and Chamsin had a very nice cadence to them, but the idea of using names so close to one another didn’t sit quite right. Clarity was important, and they could become conflated too easily; that was the entire reason they’d been rejected in the first place. There was no way to mix up Andy and Torn, meanwhile, but the tone they set didn’t seem quite right for infants.

All that was to say that, despite the time they’d put in, they’d made very little headway.

“How about Link and Pin?” Emmet asked, only half serious, his attention clearly starting to run different tracks. At the sideways look it earned him, his grin turned impish and he doubled down, “Axle? Gauge? Notch? Watt?”

Ingo couldn’t exactly wrest his brother into submission at the moment, but maybe he could use the passengers’ presence to his advantage instead. That would be novel. It was difficult to find functionality in his current size, and even though his movement was growing more and more limited as the weeks passed, that same trade-off did present options in terms of mass.

Making sure he caught Emmet by the shoulder, so as to take him down with him, he let himself flop backwards onto the couch and the man sitting on top of it. Emmet made a noise somewhere between one of Archeops’s squawks and a malfunctioning garbage disposal as he was pushed to the upholstery. He writhed instinctively, trying to free himself from containment, which was a fascinating sensation considering that the passengers-- perhaps realizing their father was laying down, a transgression they simply couldn’t abide-- were making a similar protest. It was faintly nauseating until Emmet gave up, realizing that Ingo currently held the advantage in the form of twenty-some pounds, dooming the escape attempt to failure.

Eventually, after a failed plea for his nearby Klinklang to help him, he began sulking.

“Three on one is not fair.” He grumbled into Ingo’s shoulder.

“I’ve read it was quite normal in some cultures, prior to standardized battle guidelines.” Ingo said pleasantly, sharing a fun fact with his brother and nothing more, “What a challenge! Surely it’s a victory worth chasing for someone who loves winning so very much?”

A resigned puff of air sounded from beneath him.

This was around the point he would normally relent and let his brother up. There was just one problem with that, which Ingo had realized shortly after springing the trap: the only two ways to get up were to lift oneself back up over the armrest-- abdominal work that was all but impossible with the passengers there-- or to turn to the side and essentially roll to the floor. It was less than ideal, but it would be easy enough to brace a knee down ahead of time; the main problem was that he would have to push against the surface he was laying on, and that would result in Emmet getting an elbow to the ribs.

Ignoring Emmet’s complaints, he, too, glanced imploringly to Klinklang, “Could you do us a favor and fetch Garbodor or Haxorus?”

An indignant “What?” was nearly lost to his shoulder and Klinklang blinked at him, considering it, then hovered off.

Instead of any interaction between Pokemon or the sound of gears knocking against a door, Ingo heard something metallic rummaging around in the kitchen, and he bit back a sigh.

“Please return to your own track.” Emmet griped, prodding ineffectually against his back. “I did not sign off on this.”

“Welcome to my station; we’re happy to have you.” Ingo replied flatly before taking a deep breath and calling for Garbodor. Within the minute she shuffled up, curious as to what they were doing, and happily offered her hand when Ingo reached for it.

“Good girl.” He told her once upright, and scratched beneath the edge of her garbage bag, causing her eyes to flutter and ears to pin back sweetly. Behind him, he felt Emmet pull himself back into a sitting position, but didn’t turn to verify. “Would you be so kind as to see what Klinklang is getting into, Garbodor? I’ll be there imminently, but require a moment to right myself.”

It would just be a minute, he told himself as she crooned and went to check things out. He wasn’t terribly surprised that the detour had nudged the passengers into action, but this was slightly more than he’d been expecting; they’d long since bypassed being an overlooked flutter, and seemed they’d graduated from the softer exploration to outright kicking.

“Are you okay?”

Realizing he’d subconsciously pressed a hand to the impact site, Ingo let it fall and nodded, trying to ignore it in favor of the real world, “In perfect working order. I’m just being punished for my crimes.”

“Good.” Emmet said, the word petulant in spite of its lack of intonation. “Maybe you’ll listen to them if you refuse to listen to me.” Arms crossed over his chest, he stalked off in a theatrical huff to investigate the sounds Klinklang was making.

That was nice of him; in spite of the promise to himself, Ingo wasn’t quite ready to get up yet. Purposefully, this time, he drummed his fingers against his side, “It certainly is impossible to argue when the both of you get like this.”

They accomplished absolutely nothing of substance for the rest of the evening.