The shift they’d endured had been a grueling one. By the time they got home, Garrett wanted nothing more than to collapse onto some manner of cushioned surface and throw something, but Annette had other plans.

“What if I just resent the concept of womanhood so much that I’ve convinced myself I can’t possibly be one?” She asked as soon as the door was closed.

It suggested that she’d spent a considerable amount of the work day dwelling on it, and he felt for his twin– truly, he did– but he did not have the mental energy to keep up with her endless font of rhetorical questions. She said she might not be a woman, and that was enough for him. He’d be there to assist when she finally worked the matter out, but no matter how close they were, there wasn’t much he could contribute to such a personal conundrum.

Fortunately, she wasn’t actually looking for him to answer, and they both knew that– she’d just needed to get it out of her system. For lack of any other way to [assist], Garrett plucked the hat off of her head and hung both by the door, leaving her to her thoughts while he shucked his uniform’s jacket and draped it beneath his cap. Shoes next, followed by palming the pair of pokeballs that station policy dictated they keep on their persons in case of emergency– Eelektross and Klinklang today, who, now that they were home, were eager to stretch whatever they had instead of legs.

There was a heavy thump from several rooms away, indicating that Archeops had just woken from a midday nap in time to realize that his humans were back– all but confirmed by the rapid tap-tap-tap-tap-tap of talons down the hallway. Garret sighed, smiling, and braced himself for the incoming bullet train.

[…]

When he looked back, Annette was exactly where he’d left her– uniform still up to code, if rumpled from the day’s work, Garbodor and her own Klinklang’s pokeballs resting against her hip. The only difference was that Chandelure had settled herself into her arms, and Annette had unthinkingly moved to accommodate, thumb idly tracing affectionate circles against the frosted glass globe.

“Annnnnie,” He called, settling Archeop’s head against his shoulder, “Steam engines are wonderful. But I would prefer if you did not attempt to emulate them. Stop thinking so hard. You’ll overheat.”

Her eyes focused on him, and she offered a minuscule twitch of the lips; it was enough to read– for him, at least– but even so, it was hardly up to her usual standard. On anyone else, it would be a forced smile. On Annette, it was more of a grimace.

[…]

He draped an arm across her shoulder, and, instead of letting it dangle, reached up to muss her hair. Despite herself, she laughed and swatted his hand away.

They had always looked uncannily similar, considering they were fraternal twins, but Annette’s choice to crop her hair short had really driven the point home. If she wanted to– if they both made the effort– they could easily be mistaken for identical twins. Garrett had always found comfort in their [uncanny] resemblance, but now that Annette was questioning herself, it was different. Less [comfort] and more… promise.

If Annie wasn’t his sister, but his sibling– or brother, even– he could act as a shield against unwanted scrutiny. Identical twins shared an assigned gender, and he, Garrett, was not a woman– so obviously Annette couldn’t be, either! He wanted to help, wanted to protect her; not because of how she currently presented, but because she’d always done the same for him.

No matter what he liked to say, his twin was the most important thing in his life […]

…and, privately, something in Garrett really wanted to match with her. Perfectly. Indistinguishably. He’d never push, of course, but for reasons he couldn’t express, it was a [concept] that seemed like it was meant to be.

Regardless of his twin’s [?] with gender, he supposed it wouldn’t be off the table entirely. He didn’t particularly care how people saw him– though, admittedly, he’d never been taken for anything but a man– so, as long as Annette was comfortable with it, there was no reason they couldn’t coordinate.

[…]

“You won’t like it,” She warned, “I made it with honey.”

Garrett ignored her, took a sip, and pulled a face.

“Give it here, you menace.” She [?], [reaches for the tea/mug]

[…]

Once she was settled, he [draped] himself across her lap, head propped up against the arm of the couch. Galvantula wasted no time scuttling over and parking herself on his chest, pinning Garrett down in turn, and Annette twice over. Shortly thereafter, they were also joined by Chandelure, half supported by the backrest, half hovering to crowd in by Annette’s face. She raised a hand and curled it over one of the ghost’s spindly arms, gentler than, but not dissimilar to the subway’s strap handles.

It was a far cry from the way they’d [?] earlier– and Garrett was far more comfortable with this version of events, where his twin wasn’t lost to her thoughts.

Even though he’d made the choice not to engage with her question, earlier, Garrett found himself returning to it. He was in no position to say what was or wasn’t, but could Annette’s dilemma stem from [internalized misogyny]? It was certainly a possibility. As children, they’d never read their parents’ behavior for what it was– only aware that they were treated differently for reasons unknown– but, in hindsight, there had definitely been a bias. Having lived with it for that amount of time could have imparted an unspoken lesson, that she would always be less, but that was too sad to consider with any depth. There wasn’t supposed to be a ‘lesser’ between them. They were equals; opposite in some things, but made to [cover] for the other and be [covered] in return, a constant game of give and take.

Besides, Annette was too smart for that. The fact that she was [agonizing] over it, now, proved that much.

“I fail to see why the origin of [?] should dictate your identity.” He said after a moment, “If you are not a woman, you are not a woman. That’s reason enough.”

Annette hummed and laid her unoccupied arm down on the armrest, hand curving lightly atop his head. There was a lingering warmth in her palm from the mug.

“I suppose it’s just easier to approach from this angle; to determine what I’m not, if it’s so difficult to say what I am.”

That really only supported his point, but he wouldn’t harp on it. “Then what aren’t you?”

She paused for a long moment, absently toying with his hair– a sure sign she was nervous. Garrett thought he understood why that might be, but still wished she wouldn’t worry when it was just between the two of them.

“I… don’t think I’m a woman.”

“Okay.” / “Then we’ll cross it off the list.”

Even though she didn’t speak up right away, something in the air shifted– amused, now, rather than [tense]. “We will, will we? Remind me, again, who made you my transcriptionist?”

Garrett reached up, depriving Galvantula of half her long-deserved scritches, and patted his twin’s cheek.

“Oh, Annie. Annie.” As soon as the mock-[chiding] passed his lips, he paused, blinked, and returned his hand to Galvantula’s back, “…is that still alright? Do you want me to call you something else?”

She looked down to him– blinking, herself, as she tried to follow his logic. “I’ll need to give it some more thought.”

Garrett hummed an acknowledgment and, quite suddenly found the rhythm of stroking down Galvantula’s body verrry interesting. His twin’s lips pursed in a true frown.

“Garrett?”

It would have been nice to have that option. He liked the cadence to their names, but his own was… uncomfortable– not in the way Annette’s didn’t match, but because the sounds were bad. It was mostly just the first syllable, [idk] like garish. It wasn’t nice and solid like Garbodor or sleek like gear, it was slimy, and he hated the way it felt in his mouth.

Briefly, he wondered if Annette might be up for trading, if she didn’t want hers anymore, but quickly dispensed with the idea. If his twin took his name instead, he’d have to say it that much more. Maybe he could just steal hers and they could get rid of the dead weight.

“Is something the matter?” Annette asked and, belatedly, he looked back up to her.

“Thinking.” / “It’s contagious. You infected me.”

—

Annette was not a woman, but neither was he sure he was a man. He’d found that he preferred it when people took him as such, liked to be referred to as he or him, loved it whenever someone happened to call the pair of them brothers– but there was something about it that just didn’t ring true.

When he started talking himself in circles again, Garrett had followed through on his threat of making a physical list, immediately crossed ‘woman’ out, and proceeded to etch the darkest, most obnoxious asterisk next to ‘man’.

His brother was the biggest smart ass in Nimbasa City, and Annette would be absolutely lost without him.

[…]

“Something’s bothering you.” He concluded.

Garrett made to deny this accusation, but, ultimately, wilted under the scrutiny. “Sorry. I… may be slightly envious.”

Softly, sympathetic, Annette asked, “Garrett?”

He wasn’t at all expecting the edge of a grimace that followed it. [?] in [sympathy], he found it his turn to say, “I’m sorry. Can you explain what’s wrong? I don’t want to make you any more uncomfortable.”

[…]

Annette made to [call] his brother, but caught himself before he could do so, catching his attention, instead, by laying a palm over the back of his twin’s hand. “You could change it, you realize. You hardly need a reason to do so.”

It earned him a genuine, confused, “Wouldn’t that be inappropriate?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Choosing a new name is an important experience. I do not face the [struggles] you have. It’s not a [privilege?] I can claim.”

“So you’re worried it would be insensitive to people whose birth names [idk].” There was a nod against his shoulder and Annette pulled his arm back to wrap it, instead, around his twin, “There are plenty of other reasons a person might distance themselves from their original name. Marriage and adoption aside […] ; trainers localize their names or adopt new ones all the time. Do you believe Clay was wrong to alter his?”

“Sinnoan names are absurd. To be fair to Clay.”

Annette snorted, but didn’t let it distract him, “That’s not an answer.”

“No. I do not.”

“Then I don’t see any reason you shouldn’t pick something that suits you better. We’ll find something, if not today, then soon enough.” / “Hopefully sooner than later, though, for both our sakes; too many lists of baby names, and we’ll convince the ISP that I’m pregnant.”

His brother made a theatrical gagging noise into his shoulder, but sat up enough to look up at him, plainly seeking reassurance. Annette did his best to smile for him– and, while he wasn’t sure how far he got in the attempt, it seemed to do the trick.

He gave his twin a [] hug before withdrawing his arm and moving to get back to [brainstorming], but didn’t quite make it that far. His hand was seized midair.

Eyes alight, his brother said, “I want to match. It does not matter to me what name you choose. I want to match with you.”

—

Exhausting the internet’s supply of baby names was a feat beyond that of mortal maybe-men, so the most honest way to describe the twins’ situation was that they gave up– not on their [goal], but on online resources and conventional names.

They squabbled, inconsequentially, over themes for some time. Unlike career trainers, they didn’t have a cohesive [theme] to their team, though the running count of rock-ground-steel types was a compelling argument. It just seemed reductive, not to mention [?] to the rest of their Pokemon. Annette had adamantly refused to follow their abundance of bugs to its logical conclusion given the context, much as he loved Galvantula, Crustle and Durant.

At work, they answered to the same names as ever, but it was an absolute travesty once they got home, in the best way possible. For a while, it was entirely unclear what any given name– or word that feasibly could have been a name– shouted across the room could mean. Was the speaker trying it for himself? Suggesting it for his brother? Just thought it sounded nice? Or maybe he’d just remembered [idk, something silly], and it was time to panic. It got so confusing that, for a time, the best way to tell that one of them was addressing the other was to cut the middleman and just call brother.

Truth be told, Annette didn’t particularly mind [answering to] his birth name, but went along with it in solidarity. Framing it as something to be done for the both of them seemed to set his twin’s mind at ease, which he counted as a victory.

Eventually, as they always did, they landed on trains.

[…]

It actually started as a joke. A joke that he’d immediately escalated.

“That settles it then, ‘Ingo’ it is.”

“Yes, yes. It was a verrry dumb suggestion. You do not need to rub it in.”

He clapped a hand to his sternum with a resounding smack, “Are you making fun of my name?”

“That is not a name. That was a mistake.”

[…]

[long after the bit has died and they’ve gone through actual suggestions]

“[…]”/ “…is something the matter?”

“No. No, I think I’ve decided.” His twin blinked, surprised, but lit up soon thereafter. It made him feel a little bit guilty, beneath the [giddiness], and he added, “You’re going to hate it, though.”

It earned him a [reassuring] pat on the hand, “I can adjust.”

“I know you were joking, and at first so was I, but I actually like ‘Ingo’ quite a bit.” At the look on his brother’s face– the [nervous] chewing on the bottom lip– he went on, “I know. In a vacuum it’s incredibly [?]; you were completely right about that, but with context, it has quite a bit of potential. It’s well within our chosen theme, and is one of two [options],  which makes it ideal for finding a fairly direct match. And I like the fact that you came up with it; I like that it [made you happy] for a moment, when this process has been so [frustrating] for you, otherwise.”

Tentatively, almost apologetically, his brother echoed, “Ingo.”

And if saying it for himself had [?], then hearing his twin say it in all sincerity settled the matter.

“That’s it. My name is Ingo.”

[…]

[probably not the same day]

“It won’t bother you? It’s… incredibly close to your old name.”

“If it had upset me, I wouldn’t have suggested it.” / “Personally, I believe there’s a nice symmetry to it. We’ve essentially traded consonants.”

—

They kept their names behind closed doors for quite some time.

Ingo had never minded responding to his previous name, and, while he wasn’t thrilled to deal with his own when he had a perfectly good replacement, Emmet could cope so long as he didn’t have to say it. Some patrons were returning commuters and happened to know the pair from years’ worth of travel, others passed through a handful of times and assumed they were exactly as they presented themselves.

That changed– not with their promotion from Depot Agents to station heads, but with the implementation of the first battle line. With the question laid out before them, they were forced to make a choice: when a challenger reached them, who would they meet?

It was an incredible opportunity to reintroduce themselves, to set the record straight and set the tone for what Gear Station could [represent/provide?]– but were they both ready to [come out essentially] to those outside of their immediate circle?