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.”