In the days following the events that could have signaled the end of the world, Cogita found herself returning to Jubilife Village more than she’d intended.

At first, it was to fit, order and procure some new clothes, which took time if it was to be done to her specifications. The seamstress, Anthe, was a lovely woman to chat with, and seemed excited by the prospect of new approaches to fashion. She was the reason Cogita’s path wound into the village beyond her initial [order].

The potato mochi certainly didn’t hurt. She was perfectly capable of making it for herself, and the man who ran the establishment set her ill at ease, but it was nice to enjoy a meal without having to partake in the preparation or clean up.

There were dozens of smaller reasons– to visit with Enamorous or share tea with the Galarian Professor while perusing the Pokedex entries his wards put together– but the most unexpected was the Warden stationed at the Training Grounds. The man largely kept to himself, which was something Cogita could certainly respect, and she might not have sought him out were it not for the village’s sky-falling friend.

The girl had been in a rush, sprinting past The Wallflower without really looking at it, and skidded to a halt in front of the Craftworks, doing a rather dramatic double-take.

“Oh,” Akari wheezed, clutching a side, “Sorry, Mistress Cogita, I didn’t mean to stare. For a sec there, you looked like…” She turned the way she’d originally oriented herself and stood on her toes, scoping out the leveled plane of the battlefield, then looked back, “It’s just the– y’know…”

She tapped at the corners of her mouth, and Cogita found herself in the unfamiliar position of very much not knowing. Was it meant to be a hint that she had something on her face?

“Uh, anyway, I gotta run! Enjoy the mochi!”

And with that, the girl was hurtling up the stairs. Slowly, Cogita blinked at her retreating form, and returned to her meal; in a few minutes’ time, she even had a show to go with it. The angle was less than ideal, but the large Pokemon involved more than made up for that; it was a small wonder the Commander had allowed Alpha Pokemon into the village– let alone Alphas still wreathed in the aura of [wilderness?].

It was odd the way they matched wits via their Pokemon, like it was all just a game. Akari knew how to fight for survival– that much Cogita knew, even if she hadn’t born witness, personally– but this lacked all the hallmarks. How could Pokemon that fought for their very lives turn around play fight so readily? The Alphas especially– how did they harness their [wild] might whilst keeping the fragility of the surrounding humans in mind?

She watched the battle play out, watched Akari run to the opposite side of the field, heedless of the Wyrdeer she had to pass, and heard her laugh. Watched her take off again, darting across the village like a Mantyke on the water’s surface.

The Wyrdeer stayed put, patiently waiting for something, and Cogita– long since finished– stood and excused herself. As she climbed the steps, the scene gradually became clearer. Wyrdeer had sustained several heavy blows– strong blows, if she had her terminology correct– but hadn’t suffered the worst of Akari’s fight; it was waiting for its own turn as its teammates were tended to.

Kleavor was already righting itself, axes dug into the soft ground as it pushed itself up, and, as it [waited] on its side, Basculegion’s tail gave a mighty flap. Akari’s opponent smoothed a hand along its scales soothingly, wholly unbothered by the fact that they were in direct contact with an Alpha Pokemon– and one that had been raging not two minutes prior, at that.

That willingness to be so close to a Pokemon– physically, in this case, but in all senses– was rare here.

As she made her way up to the landing, she clapped, the sound muted by her gloves. “My, my, but you know how to put on a show, don’t you?”

The man raised his head, frowning, and Cogita immediately understood Akari’s confusion.

She dedicated herself to a certain aesthetic, and it seemed she shared a fair amount of it with this person. It would be an easy mistake to make, were one in a hurry– to see a long, black garment and light hair topped with a dark hat and make an assumption. The gesture to the lips, however, she hadn’t yet puzzled out.

“You can only hope to make your own entertainments out here,” He said, turning to his satchel in short order, and applying something from a jar to Basculegion’s fins, “I happen to enjoy participating in battle, but wholeheartedly believe that it can be a joy to spectate. It seems you might follow similar tracks?”

“No,” She said after a long silence, “It was certainly a spectacle, but I can’t say I find any [joy] in battle. The way of my people is to live alongside Pokemon, and while it may necessitate [battle] in the pursuit of survival, that would never be considered as a way to pass the time.”

He gave a low, dissenting hum, but focused on what he was doing for the time being. Once Basculegion had been dealt with, he turned to Wyrdeer and dug out two berries, twisting one in half to split it between this Alpha and Kleavor, and offering the other to Wyrdeer whole. Still, not so much as a flinch as the Pokemon accepted the food directly from his palm.

“You see it as cruelty, then? I can’t help but feel that I’ve heard that somewhere before…” / “I beg your pardon, miss, but I emphatically disagree. When you battle alongside a Pokemon, it helps you understand one another, no matter how important or [frivolous] it may be. Of course the end destination means a great deal, be it victory or defeat, but it’s always worthwhile to consider the tracks you follow along the way.”

[…]

From that point on, she’d stop to speak with the Warden whenever their schedules allowed for it. Though he was stationed prominently in the village’s Training Grounds, he still had duties to attend to in the Highlands; having met the Lady of the Cliffs, Cogita was quite surprised Sneasler was willing to share at all.

It was fascinating to speak with someone similarly displaced, though whether their differing [coping strategies] could be traced back to their respective points of origin, the method by which they found themselves in Hisui or Ingo’s amnesia, it was impossible to say for certain. Oftentimes, however, their conversations took root in the philosophical, rather than their commonalities.

Cogita could only imagine the two of them made quite the sight, suffering through the summer heat as they went back and forth, neither giving a second thought for the dark outer-layers making their situations that much worse. She’d had a parasol to offer her some semblance of shade as she considered the Warden’s hard line stance on what was and wasn’t acceptable training; eventually, he’d been forced to doff his cap and fan at his face with it, the coil of a braid tumbling down with the initial motion.

He’d never be swayed on the matter of battling– the ideal held too dear in his heart– but there was one victory Cogita was particularly proud of, silly though it may have been. It took weeks, but just prior to turn of the season, before the chill began to creep back into the air, she talked him out of that raggedy old coat.

The backbone of her argument had been a matter of function– that, tattered and full of holes as it was, there was very little good it could do him against the elements. Ingo was resistant, citing that his Pearl uniform did the bulk of the work anyway, and that the feeling of the fabric weighing down over his shoulders was a comfort in an emotional sense. With time, Cogita had gotten him to, reluctantly, cede that it was doing more harm than good in most other aspects. If it could give him heatstroke in the summer, but not offer any meaningful warmth in the winter, if the destroyed sleeves and ribbons of fabric ran the risk of catching on stone or in the jaws of a wild Pokemon, didn’t that run antithetical to the emphasis he put on safety?

His ever-present frown had seemed especially severe that evening, as he took one of the shreds at the end of his sleeve between a thumb and finger

“I’m afraid I’m a hypocrite, then. Hazard or not, I can’t bear to see it decommissioned.” He’d said, and in that moment, Cogita knew she’d won.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever said anything about throwing it away.” She [idk] smoothly, “Adjustments can be made, holes patched and those fraying ends hemmed. It won’t be the same, but perhaps one day, when you’ve found yourself where you do belong, it will serve the same function it did here: a fond reminder of where you’ve been. Surely that’s more appealing than letting it fall to pieces?”

That had done it. He hadn’t backed down in that moment, but next she brought the matter up, he didn’t fight her on it. The look on Anthe’s face as Cogita had walked the pair of them to the Clothier would have been worth it in a vacuum, and it wasn’t even the [victory] she’d won. Ingo had let them talk through repair plans as he stood by, accepting the occasional triumphant look from Anthe with a silent grace; she’d been wheedling him over the state of his coat for months on end, and had half a dozen suggestions for every concern Cogita raised. The fact that she had, at one point after the odd friendship had developed, asked Cogita if she might be able to sway the stubborn Warden hadn’t factored into things, really– Cogita had pursued the matter from a genuine desire to help. And, perhaps, the tiniest amount of wanting to pull one over on him once she’d realized their back-and-forth on competitive battling was a lost cause.

Ultimately, it was for Ingo’s own good, but that didn’t stop the poor thing from looking absolutely lost when he’d stepped foot back on Floaro Main Street devoid of both the coat and his cap, the dark kimono top in his hands an ironically cold comfort. Cogita sighed fondly and gave him a [?] pat on the cheek as she’d led him toward his own home.

—

It turned out wonderfully. Anthe’s frustration at not having been able to tackle it earlier had been countered by the amount of time it gave her to brainstorm. A sizable amount of fabric had to be excised, too frayed or otherwise damaged to be worth sewing into, and been replaced and restored to its former length. Taking advantage of the wide footprint and damage creeping up the back panel, Anthe had recreated the rough peaks of Mount Coronet, wreathed in snow and low-lying fog. The fading colors had been given new life, sunbleached browns and greys transformed into a dappled sunrise low behind the mountain, swiftly overtaken by a true, dark black.

On the inside, Anthe had created a second panel to capture and retain heat, then added a cache of pockets and pair of the tasseled cords the Security Corps favored, accommodating Ingo’s preferred [idk] of pokeballs: six catches in total, on which to hang them. At the collar, it fastened with a similar cord. When drawn closed, it would be perfect for the chill of Coronet, but wouldn’t kill the hapless Warden if he insisted on wearing it in the heat, so long as it stayed open.

The only true casualty were the sleeves, one split up to the bicep, and both so littered with the half-inch pinpricks of Sneasel claws that they’d ceased to be of any use at all. They’d been removed, and the holes they’d left behind sealed, leaving the garment’s weight to settle across the shoulders.

It was lovely. Practical regardless of the weather, easy to tear away in the event of an emergency and beautifully executed, all without sacrificing the comfort its original form offered. Perhaps the design sense was more indicative of the Diamond Clan than the Pearls, but this one had always stood out anyway, now hadn’t he?

Ingo spent several long minutes looking at it, circling the table it was laid out atop the same way he’d prowl around an active battle, all keen eyes and a churning mind. Finally, he stopped in front of it, one hand tentatively smoothing over the mountain– and the distant plumed figure scaling its heights– and looked first to Anthe, then Cogita, before settling on the seamstress.

“I can’t.” He rasped, “It’s beautiful, but my work would destroy it again.”

“And that is why you’re going to remove it before playing with any Sneasel kits.” Anthe [idk]. She quickly softened, however, “That aside, I daresay it’s Warden-proof, and if you manage to prove me wrong, then it gives me a chance to improve upon my craft. You’re certainly a master class in how to make repairs.”

Ingo looked away, cheeks dark. Anthe paid this no mind and caught him by the elbow, nodding to Cogita to gather the overcoat up as she steered them her shop’s mirror.

“Here, now. Let me know if the distribution of weight is off, won’t you?” She said, stepping back as Cogita handed it over.

Despite his misgivings, the tension visibly seeped from the angle of Ingo’s shoulders as he settled the coat and tied off its fastening. He shifted minutely, getting a feel for how it moved with him, and eventually reached up to the little gem of purple nestled in the tear over his heart. It was more vibrant than Gliscors tended toward, but matched the bracer on his opposite wrist perfectly, and as he considered its wide grin, something shifted in his own expression.

It was like striking a match in the darkness. All of the sudden, Cogita understood what Akari’s gesture had meant all that time ago; she’d been equating Cogita’s tight, false-looking smile to Ingo’s perpetual frown. Looking at him now, in the odd way he quirked his lips, she felt a pang for ever having assumed his expression was simply the product of a sour disposition.

“Thank you,” He eventually said, hand moving away from the bit of decoration to accept his hat– its insulating layer back where it belonged and dyed to match the other half of his uniform, “This is so much more than I expected– I can’t… What can I do to repay your kindness?”

Anthe’s smile turned from indulgent to slightly sharp as she turned on her heel and rustled around in a rack of clothes. She thrust something against his chest– which unfolded into a long, cranberry peacoat with flowing black and white accents.

“A coat for a coat.” She said simply, “I want you to convince Irida to wear something reasonable out in the wastes. It can’t be healthy, the way she runs around up there.”

The subtle smile turned into a sympathetic grimace. “I’ll… do what I can. Lady Irida is rather set in her tracks.”

Anthe [idk] a heavy sigh, “And that’s all I can ask of you– but if you’ve finally softened your stance, then there’s always hope that someday she might see some sense, too.”

“Ah. I didn’t exactly…” He turned slightly, looking at Cogita out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, I’m aware.” / “Perhaps Irida will take the advice better if it comes from one of her clansmen, but if that fails, I’m sure Mistress Cogita could wear her down just as well.”

“You give me too much credit.” Cogita said placidly, “This one let his [idk] cloud the truth, so it was simply a matter of letting logic win out. Lady Irida is already well suited to her home, so I’m uncertain I might fare any better.”

Sheepishly hiding his eyes beneath the brim of his cap, Ingo [idk], “Yes, well. I appreciate your commitment to setting me straight, Miss Cogita.”

She laughed and tilted the bill up.

“It was only sensible. I couldn’t have my favorite Warden injuring himself in an entirely avoidable accident, now could I? What would your family think once you’ve gotten back to your safety-loving homeland?”

And, though he ducked under his high collar at the endearment, Cogita had a baseline now. He could hide all he wanted, but she read in the creases along his eyes that, even if he wasn’t smiling, Ingo was happy.

She was glad for him.

—

“Ah, that explains a great deal, then. You’re part of a matched set.”

It was an inane thing to say. The two men in front of her– despite the time and space put between them– were entirely identical, their only differences the length of their hair and state of their coats. Certainly, nobody needed Cogita to point that out.

And, indeed, the rescue party looked rather put out. Not to say that her Warden’s mirror image seemed upset– both halves of this particular whole were visibly elated– but, unlike his brother, there was an underlying note of confusion to be read into Emmet’s expression. The last of the people visiting her retreat had no such camouflage. The tilt of her lips and narrowed eyes spoke volumes as she studied Cogita, and she could hardly blame her.

Cogita had endured her curse for generations; she’d had time to come to terms with meeting her descendants, one of whom this woman clearly was. To be entirely fair to Cynthia, it took some getting used to.

She wondered if, by Cynthia’s time, she’d finally been allowed to rest.

—

It was tradition for Cogita’s descendants to meet with her twice in their youths: presented once by their mothers, within the first few months of their lives, and a second time as they reached adventuring age, at which time they would seek her out on their own. Her daughters considered it good luck, and the practice helped ground Cogita in the present.

She would have a young face to put to a name, a generation to signify the passing of time, but rarely would she meet the girls again before they introduced their own daughters.

Cynthia was an exception.

The past several generations had mostly settled in Celestic Town, near what had once been Cogita’s retreat, making it easy for the girl to seek her out as she saw fit. It had been strange, almost difficult to adjust to at first– though she knew how to interact with children on a limited basis, Cogita wasn’t in the habit of entertaining them regularly.

It was little worry, though. Cynthia’s heart held room for two loves: history and Pokemon, and she was easily sated with stories half-sanitized to maintain a young woman’s wonder. In time, her visits grew further apart as she took on responsibilities pertaining to her second passion, but they never stopped entirely.

Whenever a break stretched on, Cogita had to wonder if this was it, if the girl had finally found her way to Hisui and back, and what might she have to say on the matter?

On the opposite end of the spectrum lay her cousins. Their wayward Calla had taken up residence far, far away, and was unable to make the trip to Sinnoh for some time, between her own recovery and the sometimes-precarious health of her daughters. It was this distance that meant Cogita only met Irma and Emma once.

A great number of years later, Calla got in contact again, inquiring as to Cogita’s whereabouts so she might be able to meet her grandsons.

Cogita had spent several days puzzling over the conversation. Her line’s quirk had run strong since well before the Clans set foot in Hisui. For it to break now– had something overridden it? There was Unovan folklore on the matter, wasn’t there? But no, that was about twins, which made sense; the odds of two sets in a row were phenomenally low.

Odd, now that she thought about it. There hadn’t been any whispers in the family about another member since Cecelia, so many years after her sister.

Eventually, she set the matter to the side, opting to wait and see before she speculated herself into orbit.

Several weeks after the fact, she opened her door to welcome not Calla and her mystery sons, but a pair of bright-eyed [idk] year olds– hands joined together, her own enigmatic smile divided into a wondering frown and natural uptick of the lips.

Cogita didn’t need them to introduce themselves; she’d seen them take up the exact same [idk] lifetimes prior.

She’d have thought the memory would have dulled with the passing years, but beyond them she could see the phantasms of the Warden and his mirror image, hands clasped, expressions contrasting, but joyful nonetheless as they stood outside her tent.

If Cynthia had happened to run up at that moment, upset that her latest ‘expedition’ hadn’t borne fruit, Cogita might have believed that she’d simply had a premonition of the future all that time ago, had slipped through the ages to superimpose adults over the round, innocent features of youth.

Cogita was no stranger to tragedy, to watching loved ones move on where she couldn’t follow, but this was a new kind of hurt Arceus had bestowed upon her: to know that the boy so intent on waking her Clefable would share in her grief of being left behind, and that his brother doggedly trying to keep him in check would become so lost that he had little more than the ideals in his heart and a torn coat to cling to.

She’d circled around behind them, ushering them to the kitchen and retrieving a jar of tea leaves from a high shelf– though whether she was hoping to sooth the twins’ nervous energy or herself, she couldn’t rightly say. Regardless, the traditional blend’s scent hung heavy in the air, making young minds suddenly aware of how drained their trek had left them and easing Cogita’s spirit as she assembled a late lunch.

Emmet hadn’t cared for the tea, but dutifully finished it with the addition of honey. Ingo had slowly warmed up to it over the course of the meal they shared.

(It had been a favorite of the Warden’s. As they’d faced each other opposite The Wallflower’s sun-worn tables, he would cradle his cup in both hands and allow the steam to waft up, eyes sharper for a heartbeat before the wind snatched the sense memory away.)