The people in the black hats and masks had been a resurgence of Team Plasma.

It was… troubling news when it came to light, but it made a certain amount of sense. The only other attempt at taking over the subway system had been Team Plasma’s, too, months before any extremists reared their hoods in public. That simple fact made this attack worth paying attention to; if they had withdrawn and refined their tactics before making a second attempt here, it could very well hold true on a greater scale.

It was a threat that had been taken seriously, at least. On top of the local precinct and city officials, the Plasma presence had warranted a surprise visit from Interpol. The agent’s appearance came on the heels of an interview with the lead Nimbasa investigator, which was convenient in that they could stay put in the conference room, but this one was presenting his own challenges.

Mostly, it was the heavy, vaguely Kalosian mishmash of an accent. The twins were used to helping tourists, and there had been a time in their lives where they’d dealt near daily with patrons who barely spoke a lick of the Unovan dialect, but this was a little extreme.

It wasn’t because he was hard to understand.

It was because he had a very unique way with words.

There wasn’t anything funny about what had gone on, but hearing Detective Looker recap how it may have connected to his own pursuit of former high-ranking Plasma officers was quite… whimsical.

“I’m verrrry sorry.” Emmet said, the bottom half of his face hidden between the hands laced in front of him, camouflaging the involuntary quirk of his lips. He would have looked serious and contemplative from the other side of the table, his unchanging voice serving him well. “Our footage did not capture anyone of that description. Copies have been turned over to the Nimbasa precinct. You may review it if you choose.”

“I may! I may! Zinzolin, he is a concern, but not a confirmed factor. We are here for what is! Not what may be!”

Ingo was experiencing the exact opposite problem, face impassive as ever, but not yet confident enough to speak and take a chance on his voice wavering. It wasn’t that he thought the peculiar dialect was a bad thing-- not when people regularly commented on how peculiar he and Emmet were-- it was just very unique. The enthusiasm was a refreshing change of pace, even if not the most appropriate response, and combined with the rest of the detective’s persona, the display bordered on adorable.

He recognized that it was a somewhat strange thing to think about a man he’d just met and, therefore, didn’t know a thing about. He was going to pin it on hormones and the fact that Looker’s more succinct comments reminded him of his brother.

“Your facility here, it records battles. Does it keep records? Of the attacking trainers, I have heard, a number were familiar to you.” Looker said, words crossing over one another in fascinating ways.

“Our system tracks wins and losses to award battle points. It could be used to determine when a particular subway trainer was active.”

Finally pulling himself together enough to speak confidently, Ingo added, “Those involved have had their names flagged and their records pulled to check for any prior incidents; in the process, our agent noted that none of them had files spanning much further than four months back.”

He had his own concerns about that, but this wasn’t the time or place to express them. Odds were that a plan had been in the works for an even greater amount of time, and that just happened to be when Team Plasma began seeding their agents. Maybe they’d seen the obvious opportunity and pounced.

“I see. A timeline begins to form! If you could, still, explain to me your memory of the previous attempt?”

In spite of the way he phrased them, Looker’s questions weren’t anything terribly different from what they’d provided to law enforcement; once he was able to get past the novelty, it was clear that repeating the answers so soon after being asked for the first time was grating on Emmet’s nerves. Ingo was perfectly capable of taking over for him now that he’d wrested his voice into submission, and the secondary interview concluded in less time than the first.

At its end, Looker planted both palms on the table and pushed up from his chair. “Excellent! I thank you! Your time, it is appreciated. I feel as if I am set upon a new path.” He paused as he began to circle around the table, nearing the door, and his eyes lit up in delight.

“A new track!” He added with clear anticipation, extending one of his hands.

For threefold reasons-- politeness’ sake, to spare Emmet the discomfort of it, and because he was nearest-- Ingo got to his feet and accepted the handshake. He knew his expression wouldn’t convey the response Looker was watching for, but he made sure to humor the man with a deep chuckle. “We’re glad to be of assistance. Thank you as well, for your involvement in tracking Team Plasma this far.”

He didn’t miss the startled blink or the swift double-take, but Looker covered his tracks well, acting as if he hadn’t been taken off guard. “For you, it is too much excitement. No more until father’s work is done.”

This time, he really did laugh. “That’s a futile endeavor, I’m afraid. I’ve been told a parent’s work is never truly finished, and there's always something exciting happening around this station.”

“Still, still.” Looker said, and let his hand go, nodding to Emmet as well, “I must depart! Again, Subway Masters, I thank you!”

Emmet waited for the door to close before declaring, “He was verrrrry weird.”

It clearly wasn’t a complaint. Ingo didn’t have much to add or argue to his twin’s assessment, so he took the opportunity to stretch his arms above his head. He’d decided that there was something incredible about the fact that both sitting and standing could become so irritating so quickly.

The second chair scraped against the floor behind him, and Emmet added, “Verrrry weird and verrrry excited. Kind of like you.”

Ingo froze mid-stretch and then half-pivoted, arms folding down over his middle, “The feeling is mutual.”

Emmet exhaled a laugh as he gathered up paperwork that had scattered over the table throughout the two meetings. The spur-of-the-moment addition put them terribly off course, but there hadn’t really been anything for it; when a member of the International Police sought a person out to talk, one made time for them.

It hadn’t truly been a break, but it felt a little bit like one. There had been a levity to it that was simply missing from the rest of station today, for reasons they all understood.

They really did have to get moving, though, to make up for the delay.

Fortunately, the main station was in full working order, save for cosmetic damage. Any hazards like free floating debris or film over the tiles were being dealt with bit by bit, and Garbodor was lingering in the mostly-empty thoroughfare, sleeping off today’s trash coma. Any commuters were redirected to different substations until Gear Station was clear to resume operations, but the investigation thus far hadn’t turned up any threat to the facility or subway itself. The only train to have been targeted was the Single Battle Line, after all.

This time, it had not only been a larger scale operation, but a more finely-tuned one as well. It hurt a little bit, knowing that a number of the combatants had honed their skills at the very facility they’d planned to take over. They could only hope that this had been the lone prong of Team Plasma’s plan.

It was looking very much like they’d be able to reopen for standard traffic by this time tomorrow at least, and while the reason for the shutdown could have been better, the timing worked out well enough; there would have to be a more thorough inspection of the battle lines, just to be safe, leaving them closed for an extra few days. That gave them time to get in contact with Leron and Donta again, to verify whether or not they would go ahead with the previous arrangement. They’d only recently realized that anyone acting as a battle line’s boss might, in the event of an aftershock, find themselves under fire and couldn’t assume that their would-be substitutes were still comfortable coming onboard as temporary staff.

If all else failed, they would still be onsite for a number of weeks, available to battle after a challenger maintained a proper win streak and departed from the train. And after that… well, the Battle Subway would be alright. The Depot Agents would make sure it had proper oversight, and the legitimate subway trainers would continue to improve and provide new obstacles for challengers to overcome.

...assuming nothing else happened, that was, and that Ingo’s ongoing vulnerability wasn’t taken advantage of for a second time. In a way, it felt like there was no winning. His presence might be a liability, but would his absence truly be any better? There wasn’t much use in speculating; he was going to take time off whether he liked it or not. It still wore on his mind.

He was catastrophizing again. Even if he couldn’t stop the train of thought outright, he could recognize that it was out of control. That was supposed to be the first step toward dealing with it.

Something pinched the back of his neck and he snapped to attention, staring Emmet down in accusation.

“Just testing.” His brother said as an excuse. “You looked… bad.”

“I look like you, plus thirty pounds.” Ingo said, holding himself short just shy of snapping it.

“Ah. I see.” There was a patience behind it that a lot of people wouldn’t recognize, and while Ingo appreciated it on some level, it was also vaguely frustrating in the moment. “You are saying that negatively. You know that is not accurate. Tell me why it is not a bad thing.”

“Because it means the passengers are healthy.” He recited like an obstinate school child being made to acknowledge their misbehavior.

Emmet shot him an unimpressed look, but didn’t call him on it. “That’s one factor. What else is bothering you?”

There was a beat during which he deliberated the best way to point out the obvious, and then his twin added, “Not in general. Right now.”

The irritation of being pinched, insulted and then quizzed was beginning to ebb, and so Ingo engaged with the question in good faith. “I’m worried that this has set a precedent. We repelled Team Plasma as a united front previously, but that strategy only works when there are the numbers to back it up. As things stand, I’m clearly a weak link.”

“You tore three trainers apart near simultaneously. That does not scream ‘liability’ to me.” Emmet wrenched their office door open and all but pushed his brother through, making a displeased noise upon catching sight of the stack of forms the precinct still needed filled out. While it didn’t come across in his voice, he made a visible attempt to calm his building energy. “We’ve had a verrrry similar conversation to this. I understand why we are repeating it now. But all Team Plasma did was prove my previous point. Anyone who believes you are unable to hold your own loses subway privileges.”

That, at least, earned him a begrudging laugh. Taking the first few pages and leafing through-- mentally categorizing them by subject matter and importance-- Ingo back leaned against his desk, perhaps a bit more heavily than usual.

Over top the papers, he mused, “I do wonder if we shouldn’t count ourselves lucky insofar as the timing goes. While far from ideal, they could have chosen worse-- or rather, I suppose, they could have chosen better for themselves.”

“Maybe they became impatient.” Emmet said, absent as he stared balefully at his own array of documents.

Maybe. Or… maybe their inside look had come back to bite them, now that he thought about it. A great number of the subway trainers had known about the upcoming switch to stand-in Subway Bosses on the battle lines-- some had been participants in practice runs, others had caught wind of plans or actively asked after things, still some others had been candidates for the positions in the first place. If those planted members of Team Plasma had been privy to their itinerary, then they might have seen it as the last chance they had to catch him isolated on the Single Line; too much later, and he would have stayed onsite for any challenges.

None of that would help Emmet feel better, though. Instead, mildly, Ingo said, “It’s rather insulting, actually. Some of them had a full four months to work on their offensive tactics, and they learned nothing. Should we be doing more?”

“Are you seeking out extra work? Then I have verrrry good news for you.” Emmet shoved an extra few pieces of paper at him as he said it-- likely those forms he particularly didn’t want to tackle.

Ingo gave them a once-over and turned to set the lot of them down accordingly, but, in his desk’s current state of controlled chaos, failed to process how near he was to his empty travel mug. It clattered unpleasantly to the floor, and he spent several seconds watching it roll to a halt.

He had since tempered the automatic urge to retrieve anything he happened to knock over-- which was becoming a depressingly common occurrence-- but he couldn’t just leave the cup there. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at his twin who, of course, had looked over at the noise, and continued to observe as Emmet slowly looked to him, waiting to see how he’d respond to this development.

Ingo sighed. He would have to surrender what little remained of his pride eventually, anyway; might as well save himself the backache now. Unable to account for what precisely-- beyond amusement-- his brother’s response might be, he felt his face warm preemptively as he asked, “My apologies, Emmet, but could you please get that for me?”

Emmet did laugh. “Aw. You aren’t going to risk trapping yourself on the floor again? Durant and Crustle appreciated the quality time verrrry much.”

But, obligingly, he stooped to retrieve the mug and proceeded to set it on his own desk, where the odds it might be knocked over for a second time today were substantially lower.

“Still good? Do you need to rest?”

Today had been mercifully quiet where the passengers were concerned; they’d only acted up at the beginning of the initial interview, and while Ingo was under no illusion that it would hold, he was actually doing well enough, all things considered. He was also clumsy and heavy and far too full, but none of that would stop him from doing his job.

“I hesitate to say that I’m in perfect working order, but I am in working order. There should be no issue meeting the contractor when he arrives.” And he had to be present for that, because Emmet’s attempt at rescheduling around Looker’s visit had not gone particularly smoothly. This company had been doing repairs for the station long before their tenure here, and it wouldn’t do to jeopardize that partnership.

His twin studied him for a second and then nodded.

“Okay. I trust you. Just keep me apprised of any changes.” Eyes briefly flickering down, he hesitated, and then asked, “They’re still being quiet?”

Ingo nodded and, if he’d had the physical capacity, would have smiled. “Did you want to say hello?”

They still had a minute before they needed to be up front to meet the surveyor, and while there were more visibly productive ways to spend it, this would hardly be a waste of the time. He felt a little bad for having taken that joke as far as he had, and while Emmet hadn’t expressed any hard feelings over it, there was a persisting need to make things better.

His brother nodded shallowly and, when Ingo purposefully rearranged the drape of his coat to allow the contact, stepped nearer. The touch was brief and feather-light, ghosting over the top of his abdomen, where the passengers were least likely to kick. He was proud of his twin for willingly making the effort, tentative though it was.

“I’m sorry. I took things too far before.” Ingo said as he stepped back again.

Emmet shrugged, “It was funny. But thank you. They are getting too strong, so time to stop.”

As if reminded by that last string of words, the both of them glanced to the clock in unison. Actually, it seemed, it was time to go.

“I think you should take point in the debriefing.” Emmet said as that clicked and they moved to depart, voicing what Ingo had already mentally prepared himself for. “You are the patriarch after all.”

“Oh?” Ingo asked, double checking that everything was where he could address it once they were finished with the meeting, “That’s funny. I distinctly remember that you agreed to legally become one of their dads.”

“Couldn’t be.” Emmet announced, more loudly than before seeing as he was already halfway across the room. “You must be mistaking me for my twin brother. Sounds like something he would do.”

Someone kicked as Ingo righted himself, just below the spot Emmet had touched a moment prior, and as he trailed behind, he chuckled low in his chest, hoping their sons could understand it.

“I know. I love him, too.”