From a classic standpoint, there were two categories of special Pokemon: legendary and mythical. The categorization could be argued between them, but rule of thumb was that a legendary Pokemon was defined by recorded history, literally the stuff of legends, while mythical Pokemon were rare enough that their very existence was in dispute.
Modern vernacular had given way to a subset of myths: cryptic Pokemon-- Pokemon that likely didn’t exist, and were simply human minds trying to make sense of what they couldn’t otherwise explain. Creatures like Lockirie in Galar’s Wild Area or the Lentimas Nighthoppers.
By far the most interesting-- though, admittedly, Emmet was somewhat biased-- was the rail rider, a theoretical Pokemon called Frightrail. Alternately called the Ghost Train Pokemon, it was said to haunt stations and empty lines-- and, conveniently, provide an excuse for data that less competent stations couldn’t explain.
So it was… frustrating to hear whispers that the Ghost of Nonexistent Inbound Trains had supposedly been lurking in the system Emmet oversaw. The job was too much for one man alone-- he could admit that, now-- but everything was back in perfect working order. It had been the best tribute he could imagine, to ensure that the station they’d put so much time and effort into ran without issue; Ingo would have hated it if his loss was what caused the entire operation to collapse. In a sense, Gear Station itself had become a shrine.
Gods, two years now that he’d been gone. In some ways it felt like it couldn’t have reached the benchmark already-- that it was far too soon to give up-- but, at the same time, Emmet knew better. The missing persons case had quietly been shut, lacking physical evidence, hard information and any real hope.
Because, while part of him felt two years couldn’t have passed so soon, the second year had overstayed its welcome. At the midway point between now and Ingo’s disappearance, Emmet had gotten his answers, had found his twin in the dusty corner of Sinnoan history. A handful of allusions to Warden from a distant land, a small photograph with far, far too many people crammed in its borders, and a translated epitaph were all the closure he got.
On the way to his home station, it had said, and Emmet was impressed that something so well meaning could simultaneously be so cruel.
He’d spent the anniversary, this time, trying not to dwell on the fact that in four more years, he’d be older than his big brother.
That was something he was still coming to terms with. It was fine; he had entirely too much time to get there. For now, he had a memorial to attend to-- the station couldn’t function properly if there were Pokemon lurking, unchecked, in the tunnels. His working theory was that it was a Liepard that had managed to slink by unnoticed-- that the reports of glowing eyes were simply its tapetum lucidum throwing people off-- and so he kept Galvantula’s pokeball close at hand.
Emmet was incredibly mistaken.
Wrapped up in his surveillance of the tunnels, he didn’t notice that the object of his attention was trailing languidly behind him, riding the air like the rail mere feet away. He’d gone home that night with nothing to show for the attempt, and only been alerted to the intrusion the next morning, when Cameron frantically waved him down to watch Platform 3’s security footage.
Sure enough, as the image of Emmet emerged from the tunnel and into the bay proper, the blunt end of a snout poked out from the darkness and two glowing spots tracking his movement up the stairs. It didn’t linger. As soon as he’d left the observable area, the shape twisted in the air and turned back around.
It was horrifying.
The entire patrol, he’d never heard a sound-- no other footfalls, no slithering or muted, panting breaths. Had it been following him the entire time? For what reason? It couldn’t have felt its territory was being encroached upon or been looking to hunt-- it would have lashed out instead of letting him leave unobstructed. Was it just curious? But what about a human-- in the heart of Nimbasa city-- could be so interesting to an urban Pokemon? He hadn’t even had any treats on him, wary of luring out the Joltik that nested in the tunnels.
And the Pokemon itself… there were plenty of twisting, writhing Pokemon in Unova, but none of them matched the facts. It certainly hadn’t been an Onix or Steelix. A Seviper could move silently, but would have attacked, and no self respecting Serperior would hide itself away from the sun. The best match he could come up with was an Eelektross-- serpentine enough to move the way the shape on camera had, and able to move silently by hovering-- but the head shape was all wrong, and Emmet liked to believe he had enough experience with his own Eelektross to be able to recognize when one was stalking him.
Just to be safe, he kept Eelektross out when he delved back into the subway system that night.
The first time it grumbled into the darkness, Emmet whirled around, flashlight frantically covering every inch of the area, but it had been alone as it trailed behind, and gurgled at him, confused. The second noise was one of interest-- Eelektross’s attention fixed on a tunnel branching off from the one Emmet had traversed the previous night-- and while it added an extra variable into the mix, if Eelektross wanted to go that way, there had to be a reason. He curled around Emmet’s shoulder appreciatively, took up his position as caboose, and warbled to himself.
The third instance was several in rapid succession: wet snuffling, an absolutely gleeful burble, and then a somewhat more alarming sucking sound as it attached itself to something.
Well, Emmet thought to himself, in the split second before turning to pull Eelektross off of its would-be-prey, That’s certainly one track to take.
There was a trill of a Pokemon’s call-- not unlike a higher-pitched train whistle-- and then the beam of Emmet’s flashlight found its target. He… wasn’t entirely sure what Eelektross had caught. Or that Eelektross had even caught it. It was coiled around the other Pokemon in mid-air, and yes, it had its arms wrapped around it, but it hadn’t actually attached itself in a way it would be able to stun and kill its target.
It was far closer to the clumsy suckerfish-kisses Eelektross would subject him to when it was feeling affectionate.
The Pokemon in its grip flinched away behind Eelektross’s fin as the beam hit it head-on, peering out only when Emmet angled it to the ground. The indirect lighting wasn’t nearly as helpful, but was still enough to confirm that, yes, this seemed to be the Pokemon from the footage. Its eyes glowed silver beneath Eelektross’s maw and, oddly, it looped lazily around Eelektross’s body in turn.
For a fleeting moment, Emmet wondered if this was somehow a nestmate of his Pokemon’s, but dismissed the thought wholesale. All that hovered was not Tynamo, and beyond vague body shape, similarities were few and far between. Friends from Chargestone Cave, then? Tynamo were already so rarely seen, it wasn’t hard to imagine there were hiding places a yet-undiscovered species might lurk; that would even explain how it had gained access to the subway tunnels…
The Pokemon chuffed at Eelektross and tried to back out of his grip, only to be seized more tightly and offered to Emmet in two clawed flippers, like a child presenting their parent with a Lillipup they hoped to keep.
He favored Eelektross with a smile and pet down its crest fin, “Verrrry good job! You’ve found our trespasser.”
Attention straying to the other Pokemon, he raised his flashlight a hair, looking it over more thoroughly. The bulk of its body hung limp and unresisting in Eelektross’s grip, a dark top and underbelly studded with pale markings and a pair of stripes. There seemed to be steam coming from the vicinity of its cheeks, suggesting some manner of functionality like a Pikachu’s electric sacs.
Odd. A fire type would wreak havoc on Chargestone’s ecosystem, devastating the populations of Joltik, Ferroseed and Klink. It was possible that this was a unique specimen, unable to affect the numbers in any substantial way, but even then, the cave seemed like a poor choice of habitat.
“We’ll have to figure out what to do with you.” He told it. A full type analysis would help determine where best to rehome it-- offhand, the Desert Resort seemed promising. A Pokemon like this would appreciate a good basking spot, wouldn’t it?
But that was for tomorrow.
He narrowed his eyes at it, pointing in mild accusation, “And don’t think I’ve forgotten your behavior last night. That was unacceptable.”
It shrunk back against Eelektross as he scolded it and-- when the eel moved to follow Emmet’s lead, escorting it to the station-- just shrunk, no modifiers involved. Before Emmet could call out any orders or Eelektross could find a better grip, it slipped away into the darkness.
Trainer and Pokemon looked to one another. Eelektross whined. Emmet groaned.
This was far from over.
---
Part two of that evening’s survey was, unsurprisingly, a bust. The Pokemon had Furreted itself out of the way and refused to be found a second time.
The next night, he’d thought to keep Chandelure at his side, but she’d completely blindsided him and torn off through the subway system as soon as she was released, at which point the task turned from ‘find the weird intruder’ to ‘find your late brother’s partner Pokemon’. To her credit, she returned before he’d really started to worry, but it was an experience he wasn’t eager to repeat, so Galvantula took her spot the evening after that.
After the fifth evening-- part of which was spent keeping an eye on Durant as it marched along the tunnels’ ceiling-- Emmet was forced to admit two things. One, this wasn’t going anywhere, and two, the Pokemon seemed to have decided they were playing a game. Every night, no matter which platform he returned to, the cameras caught it lingering until he was forced to turn in. In one instance, it seemed to have acquired arms from Reshiram-knew-where to wave a taunting goodbye to his back.
And then it upped the ante.
Emmet had thought to switch things up, to arrive at work early and survey the stretch he knew the Pokemon favored. It hadn’t yielded any results-- which was strange, considering it made a point to hiss a laugh at him whenever his latest ploy imploded in on itself-- but he quickly realized why it seemed so completely absent.
Because it was.
He’d found it in his office, coiled up on his chair with its head laying on the armrest.
It was the first time he’d seen it in proper lighting, but that only lasted so long. Surprised, himself, he’d squawked and pointed at it in his astonishment, startling it into awareness and, subsequently, into motion. Its exit had been a far cry from the usual self-satisfied ksh-sh-sh and tail flip, as it scrambled past him, half-tangling itself around his legs in its haste. It seemed to remember that it could shrink down only once Emmet had seized it by the middle, and though he’d known the trick was coming, he’d been unable to adjust in time.
That was the day he decided this was personal. The worm had made it personal.
It went on for several weeks-- and though the later-than-usual nights were a little grating, it was nothing compared to the early days of Ingo’s disappearance, when sleeplessness was the norm. Nights of cycling through their Pokemon, just in case one of them could see something he couldn’t, of recruiting the handful of Depot Agents who’d become invested in the hunt, of trying to lure it out five ways to Sunday.
When it came down to it, though, the only change that made a difference was a single yawn.
Something changed in its demeanor. Its path became less erratic, and when Emmet realized it had led them back to Platform 3, it nudged him toward the stairs with its blunt snout. He could have spun on his heel and grabbed the thing-- or even thrown a pokeball at it-- but, instead, he looked between it and the path it was indicating. It nudged him again, hissing its encouragement with a heavy plume of purple steam, and narrowed its eyes at him.
The Pokemon’s face was borderline impossible to read, but it almost seemed fond.
Without knowing why, exactly, he chose to do so, Emmet followed its suggestion and went home. It was only as he collapsed into bed that he figured it out. He’d been going off of a vague, sleepy instinct-- the same one that trusted in Ingo’s instructions as he steered them through late nights during those first grueling months as co-Facility Heads.
Now that he thought about it, his Pokemon had acted similarly, hadn’t they? In the excitement of Worm Hunting, he’d nearly forgotten about Eelektross’s overly-affectionate greeting and Chandelure’s refusal to stay put-- and they hadn’t been the only ones. Each of the Pokemon he’d brought along had alerted him, first and foremost, with distinctly happy cries.
Maybe he’d been going about this all wrong.
---
The next time he was able, Emmet made a path toward Platform 3 and lingered at the tunnel’s threshold. Nothing happened for a minute, and so he called, “Hello? Are you there?” into it.
There was a brief delay but, eventually, he caught a glimpse of eyes drawing nearer, glowing like miniature headlights.
Oh.
Hah. That was actually kind of funny.
The entity hesitated before leaving the tunnel’s refuge, still cloaked in shadow. That was okay. Emmet had seen him plenty of times now; he knew what to expect. Just the slitted silver eyes looking him over were enough to confirm it, really. He felt a little silly for not noticing earlier-- for getting so caught up in their game that he failed to see the obvious. To be fair, he always had needed his brother to pull him back when he got overexcited.
It was hardly unprecedented for a human to become a Pokemon. There were dozens of stories of it, of species whose origin was thought to be closely tied to the end of a human life.
And Emmet was well aware of the fact that, centuries prior, his twin’s life had come to a close.
As a human, at least.
“Are you done playing your game?” He asked, and the entity turned his head-- not curious, per se, but waiting to see exactly where Emmet was going with this.
Not one to disappoint, Emmet uncrossed his arms and raised them in invitation.
Ingo moved too fast for him to calculate the speed involved, but, on the bright side, now he had a solid metric for what being hit by a train entailed. Why did anyone complain about this? It was the best thing to happen to him in two straight years.
A surprisingly solid head found its home along the crook of his neck, and this time, when he reached to support the body winding around him, it stayed steady beneath his hands. There was a hydraulic hissing sound, and suddenly he was being grabbed in return, dozens of metallic claws digging into his coat, mindful enough not to damage the fabric.
He didn’t say anything for a long time, content to breathe along to Ingo’s gentle rumbling-- a constant, soothing sound, like he had a petite engine hidden away in there-- but, eventually, his thoughts caught up to him again.
“You really did die there.” He said, more to himself than his brother. Ingo leaned back, far enough to search his expression for further clues-- so, to save him some trouble, Emmet added, “In Hisui.”
This face was even more difficult to interpret than the human one had been, but it was still Ingo, so Emmet knew exactly where to look. A minute shift back and slight widening of the eyes suggested he was legitimately surprised to hear the name invoked.
“Was I not supposed to know about that?” Emmet really didn’t care what the answer was. He knew now, and had been bound and determined to find out back then. There had been records good and bad-- far too little of both, for six years-- and he’d all but memorized them.
Ingo swayed back, noncommittal, and with another hiss, the plating down his body slid back together, banishing the extra arms from existence. He used the opportunity to take to the air again and loosely coiled around his brother, his two remaining arms hovering uselessly, unsure where-- of if-- to touch.
He was worried-- that much was obvious-- and not without reason. The bits of information Emmet had managed to scrape together had been ancient, so far removed that it wasn’t so hard to believe the dead Warden was someone else. This… all but confirmed it.
Emmet thought back to the worst of his findings: the epitaph that had felt like salt in a wound.
On the way to his home station, it had said, and now he was just impressed at how literally it had been taken.
This was fine. This was good! Life wouldn’t ever be quite the same as it was, but so long as they were together again, it would certainly be worth living.
Before Ingo could decide what he was doing with his arms, Emmet seized him beneath them and hoisted him back up to eye-level. For a moment, they just regarded one another, but then he broke it by asking, “Can I rehome you, yet? I have something in mind. Better than the tunnels. And it contains roughly the same number of trains.”
There was a chuffing sound-- happy, the tilt of the eyes said-- and, for a startling moment, Ingo slipped from his hands again; any panic was laid to rest as a weight arranged itself, looping once around his neck.
He laughed a little, to himself, “One more train, now.”
The response was a delicate rumble-- so small it was almost a purr.
Emmet exited the platform with the quiet confidence that there was nothing watching his back as he went-- nothing left behind.
(It took two more days before he finally considered the mass of loops sprawled over himself and realized that he was, in fact, looking at the cryptic Ghost Train Pokemon. Frightrail was real. Had been haunting Gear Station. And was also his brother. Despite Ingo’s best attempts, it was hours before he could deal with that on top of everything else.)