In one sense, he was Ingo. He remembered being Ingo, thought of himself as just a part of his missing whole, and felt exactly the way he knew Ingo would. But, damningly, he also had memories of being created, of Arceus pulling him and-- of pulling him fully-formed from the ether and giving him a purpose. Humans didn’t have that.

 

On a fundamental level, he couldn’t be Ingo. Size discrepancies aside, Ingo was older than Emmet by three minutes, whereas he and his own twin had been crafted simultaneously.

 

He was Ingo, but he wasn’t. He was human, but he registered as a Pokemon. He was here to curb Emmet’s ambition, but he was also meant to take care of him. It couldn’t all be done at once.

 

Lately, it seemed like he’d been falling short every single one of those criteria-- but mostly the last ones. Emmet clocked the lies he told both of them as he tried to keep them chugging along, he no longer confided in him or took the time to pursue his training pet project, and actively shut him out for long nights of research and planning, preventing any wellness checks from so much as leaving the station.

 

It was hard. In this sense, he was still Ingo, and Ingo would have been incredibly hurt by the behavior. He loved Emmet, wanted the best for him, but the only thing he wanted was what Ingo had been created specifically to prevent.

 

How was he meant to stifle such a strong ideal when his being burned for nothing less than to foster it?

 

He lied, yes, but never to hinder. Late night snacks and reminders to rest were meant as maintenance, not distractions. He wished so dearly that he could solve the problem for Emmet, so his-- brother?-- could stop tearing himself and, potentially, the universe apart.

 

It wasn’t his place to judge, but wasn’t he meant to question? To challenge anything-- be it human, Pokemon or concept-- to find its highest state? Its best self?

 

Because-- because he couldn’t help but wonder. The real Ingo and Emmet had spent their entire lives together, and now his presence was necessitated because Arceus had separated them, but the bond between them held fast. He knew he also had a twin, but had caught little more than a glimpse before they were sent their separate ways. Had that, too, been part of Arceus’s plan? If he’d been given the opportunity to meet his other half, would he be just as desperate to reunite with him?

 

There were times it was all so overwhelming. The world was so much bigger than him: a vast, white space of infinite possibility, and he a deep black seed with a singular purpose. It was during those moments that he hoped beyond hope that he really was Ingo, if only a small piece. Maybe it would all make sense once put into proper perspective.

 

For now, though, he had a task, and Emmet was not making it simple.

 

Emmet’s door had been locked again, and no amount of uproar Ingo or Charjabug made could catch the attention of the man on its opposite side. Eventually-- after far too long-- he’d thought to flag down Chandelure, who’d been able to open it with Psychic, and now here he was, standing on a page next to his Hisuian doppelganger, fretting over his own ward.

 

With only a small semblance of awareness behind his eyes, Emmet stared at him blankly, and Ingo knew there was no use in trying to ply him with food-- not when he’d just fall asleep before it could do any good. Sighing heavily, he gave Emmet’s cheek a pat and turned to regard the reason for-- if not the source of-- all this trouble.

 

Ingo was in a very strange situation, caused in no small part by the fact he and the worn-looking man on the page both felt the same ways, wanted the same things. He stepped forward, mirroring the ink-and-paper copy, meeting eyes so much like Emmet’s right now: lost and empty, in spite of the wakefulness in them.

 

He wanted to fix this-- for both of them. He was just a tool of Arceus’s creation, it wasn’t right for him to argue against Its actions, but he wanted so dearly to make things better. It was what he’d always wanted, as long as he could remember and, simultaneously, the express purpose for his existence.

 

The page under his feet wrinkled ever so slightly as he turned, again, toward Emmet, reading the faint lines and dark splotches beneath his eyes, crumpling internally at the determination they represented. He felt himself crumple externally, too, and, in the interest of safety, didn’t fight it as he sank to his knees.

 

Behind him, the shape of a man stretched out as a shadow.

 

He wanted to help.

 

He wanted to help.

 

Please, just let him help.

 

Something in him crackled to life, thrumming uncontrollably in his core as tears silently trailed down his cheeks.

 

He would defy his purpose if he had to, if discarding his reason for being meant he could fulfill something so much more important. In a way, wouldn’t he succeed in both? Emmet couldn’t rend the universe apart for his twin if Ingo did it first, after all.

 

There was a soft noise above him, and when he looked, Emmet’s eyes were clear and wide, fixated on him. When a hesitant hand reached for him, he reached back, smoothing his own hand along the palm that curved to support him.

 

“It will be okay,” Ingo promised, and oh, how strange. Was there something wrong with his voice? “We will put things right again.”

 

As quickly as it had found him, the burst of energy faded, and he leaned into Emmet’s palm, eyes half-mast and still blurred with tears.

 

His stubborn ideal, however, wouldn’t be forgotten.