Nobori’s first memories were marked by hurt, panic and confusion. He vaguely remembered a chill so bone-deep he feared it would snuff the flame at his heart, but even that [memory] was woefully incomplete. Between one blink and the next, the expanse of white was gone and there was a person talking to him with words he didn’t recognize.

Nobori’s present was also marked with hurt, panic and confusion. He wasn’t sure where this was or how he’d gotten here, just as with the Pearl Clan, but the sense of danger lingered in the back of his mind.

Yet again, he… didn’t recognize the words being directed at him.

He bit back a frustrated whine– loathe to muddy the waters any further when this person hadn’t done anything to warrant his [ire]– and shook his head, willing them to realize that he couldn’t understand them. They started again and, resigned, he repeated the gesture. When they motioned to him instead, urging him to speak, he sighed and raised a hand to his throat; again, he shook his head.

Mercifully, their eyes lit up in comprehension, and the person with them disappeared for a moment, returning with a sheet of paper and a strange writing implement. Nobori took neither, but awkwardly mimed holding a charcoal and, regretfully, shook his head once more.

The second person moved their hands in a [specific] way, and Nobori watched, trying figure out what they were motioning for, but even when he followed their arcs and where they pointed, it didn’t make any more sense. When he didn’t respond– busy working out what that was about– the two people exchanged worried looks.

One by one, other people shuffled in, tried to speak with him, and then left again; the words were different every time, enunciation variable and accents shifting. Nobori could do nothing but wrap his arms around himself and shake his head, over and over and over.

It was reminiscent of his first waking moments in the Pearl Settlement, staring helplessly at anyone and everyone who tried to make him understand. At least this time he was saved the frustration of trying to respond; where, before, he’d been so thoroughly blanked out that he’d forgotten his inability to speak, he stayed purposefully quiet today. There was no sense trying to force words that wouldn’t come– words he’d only ever been taught to hear, and never to use.

With little else to remember about those who filed in and then out, he found that he recognized their faces well– and the expressions of pity and horror that played out over each in turn– so he knew that the person offering him a tentative smile had been in here before.

And, to his bewilderment, he found that her words clicked in a way he’d never known prior.

“You… understand Unova?”

They were hesitant and didn’t flow together very well, but he knew each of the words individually, and recognized that she was asking him a question. He could piece things together from there.

Haltingly– confused, himself– he inclined his head, and the woman clapped her hands, lighting up. She chattered excitedly to the other person present, the one who’d been here the entire time, and then turned back to him.

“Write?” She asked, and any tentative hope was dashed when he was forced to shake his head again. Nobori wished he could say yes, but reading and writing hadn’t been essential to his duties on Mount Coronet, and so the consensus had been that it wasn’t worth it.

“Sign Unova?” The woman tried, sounding worried, and Nobori could only stare blankly. He thought that, perhaps, that word meant something else, but if it did, he’d forgotten.

He wanted to draw his legs up, protecting himself from the rush of shame that followed, but even if nobody could tell him he’d broken a limb, he knew the facts. Nobori had no idea what he’d been doing before he woke up here, but clearly it hadn’t gone well for him.

While dissatisfied, the woman straightened back up and, assertively, repeated, “You understand Unova.”

He nodded, and she smiled at him.

“Yes. We’ll make better.” She said, and reached out to pat the bed reassuringly.

Nobori looked between her and the first man, then [haltingly] gestured to the paper and– pen! That was it. It was just a strange pen. Both looked confused, but the man held them out to him, and with a little bit of fiddling, he figured out how to make the ink come out. While he couldn’t write words, there was one thing Nobori could do to make himself understood to some small extent, and an urgent question at the forefront of his mind– he drew two concentric circles, and then two lines to connect them. Without thinking it through, he turned the paper over– as if orientation would have any bearing on his drawing– and hummed a question: where were his Pokemon?

To his relief, the question seemed to make it through the language barrier.

“Pokemon here are not allowed. Pokeballs are downstairs.” Said the woman, pointing down as she spoke as if to demonstrate.

That wasn’t quite what he’d been hoping for, but Nobori decided it was acceptable. He wanted to know more– to make sure they were in a better state than he was– but he had no earthly idea how he might ask her that, and so he nodded. It might take a day or so, but he’d be able to go down and check for himself.

(This, as it would turn out, was an incredibly optimistic estimate.)

The two stayed for a while longer; the woman gave him both of their names before asking more questions, none of which he had the capacity to address. Nobori was getting sick of shaking his head, but he couldn’t provide her any true answers.

The two left shortly thereafter– once it became clear he could offer nothing to help them– and, not for the first time in living memory, Nobori was left alone: hurt, confused, and wholly out of his element.

——–

Nobori knew better than to cause a fuss while under a healer’s care. He hated the hands on him, but he stayed still and pliant every time he was looked over, hoping it would end sooner rather than later. He dutifully took the medicines he was given– less bitter than what he was used to, having been compressed into small tablets, and far easier to swallow because of it– and did his best to thank his carers when given meals. The foods were a little strange, but not unrecognizable; their choice of rice instead of barley was a puzzling one, but perhaps he’d found himself somewhere where it was more readily available.

Once a full day had passed, he tested his ability to stand. It hurt– less than he’d expected, actually– but Nobori was relatively certain he could walk on it.

Or, at least, he was certain until he took a step and the world lurched around him.

He reached frantically behind himself and managed to get a handful of the bed; while he was unable to keep from tipping over, he at least slowed the fall, and landed on the floor with an undignified thump. Before he could put himself right, one of the people he recognized– but didn’t have a name for– poked their head in to look at him, and, upon processing the sight, hurried in to help him up. While he didn’t understand the words, Nobori recognized that her tone was asking if he was okay, and he did his best to reassure her; once he was back in bed, it took a turn as she began to scold him.

He ducked his head apologetically and weathered it, unable to argue his case– but, before she left, tried to ask outright. He placed a hand on his chest and then pointed downstairs. She looked at him like he was being ridiculous and refused. Again, he pointed down, this time reaching for the piece of paper he’d drawn a pokeball on, and her expression softened, but she still told him no.

Anxious, he scratched lightly at his first knuckle, and while he didn’t notice it in the moment, the nurse’s eyes dropped to the motion. He did notice when she crossed the room to write something down on the papers that stayed at his bedside, but was disinclined to afford it any further attention; even if it was meant for his eyes, he wouldn’t have any way to interpret it, so there was no point.

Before she left, she approached the black tablet against the far wall and pressed something on its side, then escaped while Nobori was distracted by the shapes that played across it.

They were humans, real humans and not drawings– like the photographs in the village, but more realistic. More than that, though, they moved. Nobori… Nobori hadn’t known that was possible, but now that he was seeing it, it seemed completely normal. It should have been shocking, but he barely even wondered how it worked. He knew that the people on the screen wouldn’t respond to him– that he was watching something that had already happened– and, instead, focused on what they were doing and the sounds they made. It wasn’t as good as being sat down to reach an understanding with a native speaker, but by the time someone came to see him again, he had picked up a few repeating words and phrases. He didn’t know what they meant yet, but he knew they were common parts of speech. With more time and context, he could figure it out, and once he’d gotten those basics down, he might be able to understand a little bit of what was going on around him.

The next time he was given medicine, though, it made him incredibly tired. He could do little more than watch the increasingly-blurry people move about in real life and on the screen before, inevitably, he fell asleep.

—

In retrospect, Nobori would realize that his mind stayed fuzzy after that, until such a time that he would finally be released from the hospital. In the moment, however, he was frustrated with himself. What had been a good start coasted to a halt as he found himself both unable to focus on individual words and struggling to remember what he’d already figured out.

In a bout of [frustration] he tuned the screen out entirely and tried to keep himself engaged in drawing out a map of the Coronet Highlands. He’d long since gathered that, wherever he was, it wasn’t Hisui. The language didn’t resemble Hisuian in the slightest, the foods were not the norm, the expectations on him as a patient were different, and what little he’d been able to make out from the window didn’t resemble the village at all.

If he could barely understand them, and they couldn’t understand him, the best he could do was try to use visual cues to get a response. Nobori’s first thought had been for Mount Coronet, Hisui’s central feature, but groggily dismissed it. Short of the temple on top, there weren’t any distinguishing features for non-residents to recognize; it would just look like any other mountain. He didn’t use maps in his daily life– couldn’t read what they said, anyway– but Nobori knew the terrain he patrolled and could lay the broad strokes out well enough.

He felt pain begin to creep in again, but he did his best to ignore it; if anything, it was a jolt of lucidity that helped him to focus on his work. His progress only halted when the daylight nurse came in to see him– along with the woman who knew Unovan words.

Reluctantly, he set his pen and paper to the side, mirroring the tray that was set on the stand to his right, and then afforded them his full– faltering– attention. The first part of the afternoon routine was his pills, and he obediently downed them, then rolled the water cup between his hands as he waited for someone to speak.

“Your name!” The woman said, excited, and Nobori bit back the urge to sigh. This had happened before, too. They had to call him something, and he had no way to communicate what he’d already been given– he would just have to remember what they decided on and try to respond to it for the time being. He suspected it would be more difficult now, since he’d already learned to answer to “Nobori”, but he could adjust. With any luck, he would only need it while he was in this facility.

To his surprise, however, he wasn’t given a foreign set of syllables. The woman called him by the single word his snow-blank mind had managed to hold onto– the name he knew was originally his, before he’d been Nobori.

How… how could she know that?

Numbly, he nodded– lowering his head just once– and watched how she’d respond.

Her eyes lit up and she tapped her fingertips together in a muted clapping. It was followed by “Good!” and a number of words that… that Nobori recognized, but was having a difficult time parsing. There was something about blood– he knew that much– but it was nuanced, and he wasn’t sure how, exactly. He took another drink of water to give himself a small break from it.

When he looked back up, the woman’s expression was sympathetic.

“Will be alright, now.” She promised, “Call your brother.”

…huh?

Nobori blinked at her. She wanted him to call with his Celestica flute? Call who? He only knew a handful of viable songs…

Without meaning to, he felt his head list to the side, confused, but all she did was repeat, “Be alright, now.”

Physically, he couldn’t press for more information, and mentally, he was beginning to go foggy again, so he did nothing to stop her from departing. Left with an evening meal and the people on the screen, he devoted all of his attention to the former, applying a disproportionate focus to plucking every single mushroom out of his miso soup before making any move to drink it. By the time he’d forced himself to finish the waterlogged mushrooms, his head was too heavy to keep upright, and with a rueful thought for his incomplete map, he dropped into unconsciousness.

——-

Nobori was so tired. It clung to him throughout the day, and by the time he slowly realized its grasp was lessening, it was too late, because a new fatigue was digging its claws into him.

There was another person today. He’d said his name, but for the life of him, Nobori couldn’t remember it. It felt terrible; even if he couldn’t share the information with anyone, he’d always had the solace of knowing that he knew, and now it was as if his mind couldn’t hold onto anything at all. How much longer before he forgot that there had been a place before this? Before he lost his friends waiting for him downstairs? The only thing he was good for was working with Pokemon, and it had been days since he’d been able to do his job. How long would the staff here tolerate him?

Their patience stretched further than he expected, if what the newcomer said was any metric. Nobori didn’t know where the man had come from, but the man spoke fluently in the language he’d forgotten, explaining that they’d found him, hurt, beneath a shrine in the deep woods and brought him here to heal. Even in his [diminished] state, Nobori already thought it must have been something to that effect, but he nodded along, not about to take this for granted.

Eventually, the man asked for his input. Was there anything else they should know, that he could communicate? Did anywhere else hurt?

Tentatively, unsure why he was bothering, Nobori reached up and lightly knocked against his head.

The man’s eyes widened for a moment, and then narrowed as he leaned in. “You hit your head?”

On an instinct he’d never been fully able to beat back– especially not now, when his mind was swimming just trying to sit up straight– Nobori opened his mouth, as if to respond. He snapped it shut as soon as he realized what he’d done, and turned a palm upward, gradually bobbing his head back and forth in something inconclusive.

He knew he’d been injured, but no one could say for sure what had happened. It was just as likely that he’d hit his head as it was something had attacked him– he’d been incredibly naive in his earliest days, seemingly unaware of just how dangerous Pokemon could be. No one would have been surprised if he’d gotten hurt because he’d been neglecting his safety checks.

“You don’t know, but your head hurts?” The man asked, and this time Nobori had a solid response.

Very slowly, so he didn’t make himself any dizzier, he shook his head, then moved to push his hair back. It had been cropped short– down to the skin– while the Pearl Clan’s healers looked after the wound beneath, but since started growing out again. He hoped they wouldn’t have to cut it this time; it had been unbearably prickly for weeks after the fact.

For several long minutes, the man and the doctor spoke to one another using words Nobori couldn’t comprehend.

“Can Dr. [?] take a look?” He eventually asked, gesturing to the spot Nobori had indicated.

Knowing better than to refuse, he bowed his head for easier access, and tried not to let his muscles tense up at the gloved fingers that investigated the scar. While the doctor investigated, the translator probed for more information.

“Do you know when you got this? Months ago? Years?”

An unhelpful part of Nobori wanted to point out that both of those could be measured in months, but he had no idea how he’d say that, even if he’d intended to do so. What he actually did was hold up two fingers and hope the point got across.

“Years ago?” The man asked, and he nodded. “How many?”

…how long had it been? He knew he’d seen a full turn of the seasons in the Coronet Highlands, but he’d spent a substantial amount of time under the Pearl Clan’s collective eye, too; he just didn’t know what season he’d started in, because the differences were so subtle in the Icelands, and he’d been horribly unaccustomed to the unrelenting cold.

He wasn’t sure how long he spent staring at his hands, lost to this train of thought, before the translator said, “That’s alright, we’ll say at least a year. If you allow the staff here to run some more tests, they might be able to tell you. Can they do that for you?”

Only halfway there, Nobori nodded. For several minutes, he drifted again, until the man called his other name. It took another few seconds to remember that that was him, and that he was supposed to respond.

“Did you come here from Unova? Could you point to home on a map?” The man asked, taking a completely different track. His eyes raked over Nobori with an uncomfortably familiar sort of pity.

Nobori gently shook his head to the first, and then cast a look about the room, searching for the map he’d left unfinished. He didn’t think he could find it on anyone else’s chart– he didn’t know the other territories that well, and hadn’t visited them frequently enough to put them into a larger perspective– but if they were referring to maps, his work had to be some small help, didn’t it?

Unseen in the midst of his bleary search, the other man blinked, taken aback.

“You didn’t come from Unova?” He asked, a note of urgency drawing Nobori’s attention.

Another [gentle] shake of the head. Part of Nobori wondered what that was about, but the rest was too upset about his missing map to afford it much more thought.

Again, the translator called his original name, and only continued when he had the scraps that passed for Nobori’s undivided attention. “Is there any way you can tell us where you were before you woke up here?”

Frustrated, Nobori nodded this time, and went back to looking for his map– but, before he could get far at all, the other man cut back in.

“It’s okay! It’s okay. Why don’t we try this another time, when you’re feeling a little better? We’ll let the doctors see how they can help, and maybe it’ll be easier with a clear head, how about that?”

That wouldn’t help at all, but it seemed the question hadn’t actually been a question; the people around him moved on [swiftly], regardless of what his actual answer would have been. Nobori felt the dismissal for what it was, familiar with the way people turned their backs in favor of someone who could answer in kind. It wasn’t personal, he’d always tried to remind himself; it was just practical.

Without anything to hold his focus, Nobori found himself lapsing back into a mental fog.

—

As much as Nobori hated the film over his thoughts, it was somewhat useful for a while. He was distantly aware that he would have hated being handled as doctors and nurses conducted their tests, and that the scans would have been unbearable with [a clear head]– but that knowledge floated an arm’s length away, just like everything else.

The translator kept stopping by to ask him questions, and though he was only semi-conscious at any given time, Nobori was horribly aware of the fact that he could barely offer any information. Oftentimes, the answer was too complicated to act out, and if that wasn’t the case, then he couldn’t condense his drifting thoughts down far enough, or simply didn’t know to begin with.

At some point, the people around him started using new words with his other name, and to his surprise, he knew all of them. Most were upended directly onto it: the first a title he dimly recognized– the domain he was responsible for, though he couldn’t quite articulate what a subway was– and another a secondary name that hadn’t survived the Icelands. He thought that was strange. Barring honorifics, the only people he’d met who had more than one name were from the village.

…was that strange, actually? He knew he wasn’t from the village, but even though the Pearl Clan had given him his name, he wasn’t theirs, either. Nobori thought that might make sense, now that he’d reflected on it; the villagers came from somewhere else, just like him.

The last was also a name, but he knew this one wasn’t his. In spite of the care he’d been taking to avoid sudden moves, his head snapped up the first time he’d heard it, and he’d begun to frantically search the room, as if its owner might have been lurking in the corners of his vision.

He hadn’t been there, of course. The room was small and sparse with nowhere to hide, unless one was a wayward map; it was obvious at a glance that there was no one else with him, but Nobori still felt his heart pang at the realization that he was alone, save for the nurse’s company.

For a few minutes, the sudden panic cut through everything else. Where was he, where was his–

–and then there was a Pokemon in his space. It was a Poliwhirl, he noted with a distant sort of detachment, as its markings began to turn.

The world went still and silent.

Nobori woke back up in stages. His hearing returned first– a survival instinct he hadn’t managed to forget yet– and then the hospital’s sharp antiseptic filtered in.

There was something else, he realized, that he couldn’t remember feeling ever before; it kept him calm and his heart steady, even when the rest of his senses proved reluctant to find him. He didn’t know how, but he did know that he was safe, even if he had no basis to think that.

Weak from fear and sedation, Nobori’s instincts trusted it. They welcomed it, even. Though he hadn’t even woken up yet, Nobori found himself exhausted– so if someone was offering the kindness to watch out for him, to let him rest…

It wasn’t just his [weary] senses, he realized. That was the difference. Someone was there.

He forced an eye open and tried [desperately] to focus– and when he did, something deep in his heart lurched to the surface.

With a sudden urgency– on a wellspring of energy he hadn’t possessed seconds prior– Nobori pushed himself upright using numb, shaking hands. That was him. That was the name’s owner, the person whose absence he’d become so acutely aware of, the person who–

“Ingo.” Whispered the man who shared his face.

That was Emmet. That was his brother.

The hands that reached out to meet him trembled too, like both of them were suffering the same debilitating [numbness], and even though his brain couldn’t make the connection to sensation when they touched, it still resonated.

With the rest of his senses suspended, Ingo found that finally, for the first time in years, he felt whole.

——-

Short of medical treatments, no one in the Pearl Clan had touched him as long as he’d stayed with them. Space and physical contact were concepts held in such high regard that they were only to be shared by one’s direct family, and even then, it was a privilege that could be revoked. As the foreign man whose origins were unknown, nobody had felt comfortable [sharing] their [space] with him. It was one of many, many things he’d been able to comprehend, but hadn’t understood.

Now, with a familiar, warm weight in his arms, Nobo—Ingo realized why physical touch was considered just shy of sacred. If it had been up to him, they would have stayed wrapped around each other indefinitely, and he felt the air flee his lungs in a [disappointed] wheeze when Emmet pulled back. His brother hadn’t let go– had a hand clutching either one of Ingo’s arms, as if to keep him right where he had him– but it wasn’t the closeness he’d only just realized he craved so desperately. He leaned back in, insistent, and Emmet temporarily abandoned whatever he’d been about to say in favor of a breathy laugh as he resumed his hold.

Ingo set his head down on his twin’s shoulder and felt himself relax– wholly and voluntarily– for the first time since he could remember.

A hand released him long enough to raise up and pet blindly through his hair.

“It’s been explained to me that you cannot speak.” Emmet said over his shoulder. It was completely level, betraying none of his deeper feelings, but, somehow, Ingo found that he could read the distress in it. “I’m sorry. That must be verrrry difficult on you.”

Unable to communicate by any other means– not without letting go, a thought he refused to humor– he lifted the opposite shoulder. It was inconvenient, but it was his life, and he did his best to work with what little he had.

“We will see what treatments might help. I will be your voice until then.” Emmet said, and then buried his face into his brother’s shoulder.

A single, breathy laugh escaped in response to the declaration. It was a nice idea, but Ingo wasn’t sure how viable that would be;

—–

[These are misc snippets without context]

[…] That was around the point Emmet noticed something of unprecedented importance. Ingo caught onto the interruption right away, head tilted minutely and hands already lifting, no doubt to ask after him, but Emmet was already in motion.

He caught his twin by either side of the face. “You’re smiling!”

It was a tiny, shallow thing, barely more than a twitch of the lips, but it couldn’t be called anything less than a smile. [more about how that’s been a struggle/insecurity]

“You were never able to do that, before.” He explained, for Ingo’s benefit. When the grace period was winding down, he let go, “We thought it was muscular. Maybe neurological instead? Can head trauma fix facial paralysis?”

He was still watching as the faint smile dimmed into confusion, and then a true frown. Sensing he’d said something wrong, he cocked his head, trying to elicit a response, but Ingo just looked away. When it became clear that his brother had no intention of pursuing the matter, Emmet took it up instead; he reached over and took a hand, leading it to signing height, and asked, “Was it the information itself, or that you just learned about it again?”

Ingo looked at him for several seconds and shook his head. He didn’t make any move to say what he was thinking and, in fact, dropped his hand back to his side. His line of sight wandered slightly thereafter, unable to maintain the eye contact out of… what? Disappointment? Awkwardness?

This time, Emmet didn’t physically move his twin’s hand; he reached out and brushed his fingertips down the back of it. “Please [talk to] me. I want to understand.”

It was abundantly clear that the only reason Ingo looked up was to sign properly as he said, “You’re saying I’ve always had brain damage?”

For moment, Emmet regretted asking– not because he didn’t want to hear, but because he didn’t know how to answer. To give a definitive yes would only make his brother feel like he’d deserved the mistreatment brought on by his disability, but to say no would imply that he was different now and wrong for it– never mind the fact that there wasn’t a foolproof answer, just the hypothesis Emmet had carelessly thrown out there.

[…]

“’Nobori’,” He echoed, and there was a twitch of the cheek that suggested he’d pronounced it incorrectly, but he had nothing for that. “Why? Does it mean something?”

Ingo hesitated for a fraction of a second, eyes flicking to the side in a way that suggested Emmet wouldn’t like the answer, and that he was very well aware of that fact. He had the [gall/nerve] to shake his head, a blatant lie that earned him a look of flat disbelief.

His twin sighed and relented, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see a reaction as he signed, “Upside-down, for my [counterintuitive] instincts.”

Of course. Of course even the name he’d been saddled with was a reminder that he was wrong. A complete inability to communicate, an incompatible worldview and insufficient [instincts]. Dragons above, how had he survived it all? Not only the inhospitable landscape that he’d had no [reference] to [survive], but being reminded at every turn that he didn’t belong.

---

“Hello, this is [name] calling on behalf of the Goldenrod City General Hospital.”

Immediate alarm bells, though Emmet couldn’t quite articulate why; trepidation blocked his throat, and he remained silent, letting [them] continue.

“I’ve been asked to act as a translator, as no one on staff is fully fluent in Unovan. You see, for the past four days, the facility has been attempting to identify a [John Doe], and we believe we’ve found a match with Mr. Ingo Bewaker, but due to… circumstances, have been unable to confirm. As his emergency contact, we were hoping you might be able to help us with visual confirmation.” […]

Mind going a mile a minute, it took a bit for Emmet to respond. His brother had no business being in Johto, but at this point, anything was possible. What truly disturbed him was the implication that the hospital had taken this long to find an [identity], meaning that… this person was unable to [identify] themselves.

It sounded like they wanted him to [identify] a body.

[he’d been fighting against that for some time/whatever else]

The last thing he wanted to do was agree, but how could he refuse? Either he could be sure that this was some other unfortunate individual, and that he shouldn’t give up yet, or he’d finally find an answer. He bit down on his tongue and forced himself to respond.

“Yes. Of course. Would email be preferable?” For a moment, it was just business– the rote exchange of information– but as the call seemed like it was winding down, he couldn’t help but ask, “…was it bad?”

Because, as much as he wanted to know what had happened, he wouldn’t be able to handle it if this was his twin and he’d died in pain. Knowing ahead of time would make it that much harder, but at least he would have something to prepare himself against. He would do it– if it meant finally bringing his brother home, he would do it– but [???].

[name] went on, oblivious to his internal conflict. “As I mentioned before, I’m only acting as a translator, and so I’m uninvolved in the patient’s care. From speaking to him, though, I think it’s fair to say the language barrier has been the biggest problem.”

The racing thoughts came to a screeching halt.

“You spoke to him?” He echoed [hoarsely]. Ironically, that in and of itself had an alternate translation: he’s alive?

“Yes, though I’m not sure how much got through. Between the medication and his limitations, he’s not the easiest to communicate with.” […]

That was… rude.

Even without having seen the physical proof, Emmet found himself inching closer to believing this might be it– because of course someone would look at his brother’s face and call him hard to understand. If he was too out of it to respond coherently, that would even explain why they hadn’t been able to ask I– this person directly, thus necessitating outside assistance.

The [deep] low suddenly swung upright, into a hopeful peak. It left Emmet a little dizzy.

“I see. Thank you for the clarification. I will refer to the email and respond as soon as possible.” He said, and the call ended shortly thereafter. Trying not to fidget, he waited for his Xtransceiver to ping, and struggled to keep his hand steady when the message came through. Hovering over the link to the attached photo, he took a deep breath and pressed down.

That was Ingo.

He had a splinted leg, there was a bandage stretching along one side of his face, and it kind of looked like he’d suffered his own personal Earthquake, but there was no doubt in Emmet’s mind. That was his brother, and while the photo could only capture so much, it was plain to see that he was alive, if not entirely well.

Using a nail to trace the edge of the facial cut, he let himself wonder how. There was nothing in the picture that suggested anything specific, or shed any more light on where he’d been all this time… beyond the Johto region, apparently…? No, that didn’t make sense. If he’d spent the past year in Johto, he would have picked something of the language up– enough to make it by– but he’d needed a Unovan translator.

…which was completely ignoring the question of why he wouldn’t just try to contact home, but it was obvious that Emmet was missing a great deal of context, so he would reserve judgment for the time being.

Lost in his reverie, he accidentally let the screen go dark, and then immediately tapped it to bring the picture back. He gave it another once-over before reluctantly closing it to formulate a reply– that yes, that was his brother, and he would be departing for Goldenrod as soon as he was able.