He couldn’t deny that he was scared, but not because he was, ostensibly, playing the role of ‘unwilling sacrifice’. His concern was that these people were completely disconnected from reality, and there was no telling what, precisely, they’d do when their little ritual to summon Zekrom failed. There was an infinitesimally small chance that some of them might wake up and see reason, but the odds didn’t favor that outcome. More likely, they’d become desperate or panic, double-down and try something drastic, and it was in his best interest not to let it get that far.

 

Not that there was much he could do about any of this. He’d spent several hours, at the very least, sleeping off the Spore he vaguely remembered taking to the face-- back before the world had gone sideways-- and his waking hours had been split between trying to glean any small scrap of information he could and working his way free of the restraints around his wrists and ankles. The latter hadn’t seen any success, save for the painfully raw spots along the heel of his hand, the former, however, hadn’t been an entirely futile endeavor.

 

He’d managed to figure out what their goal was, at least, and that they seemed to be unaffiliated with Team Plasma. Why they’d thought the Dragon of Ideals-- of all Pokemon-- would react to human sacrifice had been beyond him for some time, until one of his captors alluded to the Hero’s bloodline. It was still patently insane, but there was, at least, some semblance of logic in trying to use the Hero of Ideals’ descendant to draw out the like dragon. Truth be told, Ingo was more preoccupied with the fact that these people had been digging that deep into their family history than he was interested in the mission statement.

 

If there was a silver lining to any of this, it was that he was the one dealing with it, and not Emmet.

 

When the group’s movements began to find greater purpose and their excitement seemed to pick up, Ingo renewed his effort to break free, but still found himself on his knees in a slipshod circle drawn on the floor. He very nearly laughed when the leader began a chant that sounded like a drunken limerick on the 2 am pink line, and could only thank his lucky stars that his expression didn’t give him away.

 

Any amusement was cut short, however, when the same man drew a knife as if from nowhere, and brandished with an astonishing lack of blade safety. It found a temporary home in the meat of Ingo’s palm, and then the man backed off to do Swords knew what with it, the rest of the choir unceasing in their mantra. For a moment, Ingo focused on the throbbing in his hand, tucking it palm-inward against his coat to stem the bleeding in what little first aid he could manage from here. It may have been a mistake, because, when he looked up, his primary abductor was onto something else entirely.

 

There was… something in all of it about what was and what wasn’t, what should have been.

 

In hindsight, that might have been what did it: the fine line between a vision for what could be, and what simply couldn’t exist.

 

To Ingo’s incredulity, they did get an answer.

 

Just not from Zekrom.

 

It was a Pokemon unlike any he’d ever seen, all grey, gold and, ironically, red and black; swirling, serpentine, in its created darkness, it was difficult to make out all at once. After he’d struggled to one of the room’s sides, Ingo got a glimpse of red-tipped tendrils-- wings?-- and gold spikes, but it was an effort to put them into a cohesive picture.

 

When the room was empty of any other life, it turned its glowing eyes to him.

 

The image slowly drew into focus. Yes, a serpent, striped black, red and grey, with a golden crest trailing from its crown down its neck. Said neck curved as it dipped its head to inspect him, attention moving from the gag in his mouth to his bleeding hand and then the restraints. One of the spiked tendrils extended to snap the tie between his wrists and he eagerly shook it off, reaching up to free himself.

 

“Thank you.” He rasped, as loud as he was able to muster. Certainly, the Pokemon had just attacked and made short work of a dozen humans, but that was all the more reason to be polite to it. It seemed inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt, and he wasn’t going to forsake that.

 

The shadow limb moved upwards, and he felt a firm, repeated pressure through his hat.

 

“It will be okay.” It told him, and oh, that was bad. If it could speak telepathically, it had to be an incredibly powerful Pokemon; it was best to see it off… wherever it came from and contact the authorities. And possibly also Shauntal, if she still conducted exorcisms. At least he could be relatively certain he wouldn’t fall under suspicion for what had happened here. This-- this was rather beyond the abilities of humankind.

 

“It will be,” He confirmed, and tried to prop himself up on wobbling legs, “I have you to thank for that. I’m… very sorry you were so rudely dragged from your home. Please don’t feel you have to stay here on my account-- as you’ve said, I will be alright.”

 

“It will be okay.” It said again, its mental voice a mere suggestion of sound; the tendril that had been interacting with Ingo curled around his shoulders, and he had just that fraction of a second to realize this was not going to go how he’d hoped.

 

“You won’t remember any of this.”