Chapter Text
It’s that time of year again, and Emmet just really isn’t feeling it.
Delibird Day. Once a celebration that featured family, love and the consumption of as much sugar as Emmet’s bloodstream could handle, now was a sad, cold reminder of what was gone.
No more sugar.
Limited family.
A lot of love, thankfully (for his remaining relations had never lacked in that department).
However, there was one problem that trumped them all. A horror so great that quite frankly, Emmet almost envied Ingo (despite the bloke being missing and presumed dead for years). A place that had the saddest excuse for interior decoration Emmet had ever seen. A place that practically radiated ‘oh my goodness man please get a decorator’.
Uncle Drayden’s house.
Four statues. No seating. Hard, marble floors.
Indeed, that house was truly the antithesis of all things festive and holy. It was a place that Emmet dreaded visiting every year, and had tried to avoid at all costs (even if it meant hosting from his college days onwards).
But now, brotherless and busy, Emmet could not avoid the horrors any longer.
Heck, it wasn’t as though there weren't any chairs. If Emmet remembers correctly, there was a smaller apartment-like floor upstairs. It was small, maybe a little cramped- but if Uncle just nixed the Pokémon (sorry lads), it surely could fit a dinner?
But no.
They were instead banished to the four statue room. Dinner would be on the floor (or on laps, if Uncle decides to wall-sit the whole time) and it would be miserable.
The only consolidation is that at least Elesa will be hosting this year’s New Year’s party. That would be fun. It would also have booze.
(Which would be a delight for Emmet personally, as while he wasn’t a drinker, he certainly was a fan of the drunken antics of others. Ingo had been one of his favourite people to watch back in the day, as his twin was well-known for getting into some form of trouble only moments after the first pint. College had been a hoot.)
Something to look forward to, at least.
Emmet sighs, leaning against the walls of his office. Hat in hands, he tries to think of a thousand and one scenarios that might help him avert the incoming trainwreck of a dinner.
Perhaps he could fake his death?
No, that is a bit extreme. Plus, Ingo might have already used that one. Lucky man.
Sudden sickness?
No. Emmet shakes his head. That would be hard to fake. His ‘sick’ voice is rather distinct. Uncle would undoubtedly catch him in the lie, and then he’d have to deal with ‘hurt feelings’. Shudder territory, actually.
Maybe… Maybe he could claim that he has last minute plans?
That could work, but why would Emmet schedule plans when he already has the holidays ‘booked up’, so to say? That would undoubtedly loop back to the ‘hurt feelings’ problem once more, so that’s a no once more.
Ah, Dragons damn it all. Emmet doesn’t have a choice, it seems. He sighs once more, this time with feeling, and glances over to his desk. A framed picture of a young, starry-eyed Ingo stares back.
(The photo had been taken only a few days after the opening of the battle subway. Ingo had insisted on taking some professional shots in his uniform at the time, claiming that it would be nice to have a physical keepsake or two. Memories would fade , Ingo had said as he arranged booking with one of Elesa’s catwalk photographers, but a physical keepsake could last forever . Emmet had laughed at the time, and had decided that his time would be better spent elsewhere, so he left Ingo and Elesa to it.)
Emmet flops back onto the wall, sliding slightly downwards, maintaining eye contact with the photo the whole time. “Oh Ingo,” Emmet announces to the room, “we’re really in it now.”
Ingo’s photograph doesn’t reply.
Many, many miles away, on the other side of the globe, Ingo too was ‘in it now’.
Through the power of sheer will, Alakazam, reduced inhibitions and some terribly sugary pastries, he had finally managed to scale Mount Coronet and reached the Temple of Sinnoh. That was a good thing, probably. Clearly the ice hadn’t managed to spirit his climbing skills away.
However, as Ingo ambled towards the centre of the once-temple-now-rubble, he realised that he didn’t quite have a plan. Or any concepts of a plan. Or any thoughts at all for that matter. In fact, Ingo wasn’t even quite sure what possessed him to even make his way up to the peak, as enough time had passed between his previous antics and his current antics that any ideas he had were gone. Poof!
(Ingo likened the whole situation to a fanfiction, but in the case in which the author had posted two chapters, had a two month long Balatro obsession and had abandoned all other forms of leisure, before realising that there was a whole chapter they forgot to write. Also the author had forgotten the plot to the fanfiction. They hadn’t even reached the gold stake either.
“Such a nonsensical track to follow,” Ingo had muttered to no one in particular, “surely no one would do that ? ”
It was only after a minute had passed did Ingo realise he had no idea what any of those words he just thought meant.)
So now Ingo was here. In the temple. Doing amnesiac Warden things until his brain decides to spit out another idea.
As you do.
Arceus watches the silly little train man with glee, having taken the time to look up from its terribly unoptimised Balatro run to have a look at whatever was going on in Sinnoh. It was a good choice too, as the current choo-choo shenanigans had provided a fair bit of entertainment. Delightful.
But the fun would end soon. Then it would be back to flush builds and the most awful attempts at white stake yellow deck.
Unless ?
Palkia feels a sense of dread.
Despite the fact that Ingo was wearing his most serious thinking face (a frown that was practically indiscernible from his usual facial expression), not a single idea had managed to form. His brain cells were working overtime and yet it was all for naught. Nothing. Nada. None.
It was ridiculous.
With a sigh, Ingo slumps to the ground and releases his Pokémon and waits. Hopefully, someone might take control of their situation and do something. Almost immediately, Gliscor scrambles off towards one of the crumbling pillars, seemingly having spotted something. The little fellow drops into the bat-scorpion-thing equivalent of a crouch and scoops something up. It makes a delighted screech.
Ingo flops over, curious. “What have you got there?”
Gliscor holds up a large piece of debris, looking terribly pleased with itself.
“Very good.”
“Let me get this right: you want me to go to Sinnoh.”
YES.
“Then you want me to go to Mount Coronet.”
YES.
“Then fight that guy- who should be dead by the way- on the mountain.”
YES.
“Then take him back home.”
YES.
“Why?”
PALKIA. MINE DEAR CHILD. I HATH MY REASONS.
“You’re asking me to do this because you think it would be funny.”
AYE. IT WOULD BE SO FUNNY.
“What do I get out of it?”
THOU WOULD RECEIVE A BLESSING LIKE NO OTHER: THINE VERY OWN SICK NEW KICKS.
“That’ll do.”
The kicks are very sick indeed.
After Dragons knows how long of doing absolutely nothing at all, Ingo decides that maybe sitting around and waiting for the Almighty to drop a solution into his lap might not actually be the best thing he could be doing right now.
Yes. Perhaps Ingo needs to have a little bit of initiative. Chart his own route. Carve a path to victory. Maybe even do some great act of will and delight, just to get the blood pumping. This was his car and he’s decided to get going. Something. Something. Trains.
“Right.” Ingo announces to his Pokémon, having finally managed to clamber up to his feet. He swivels, briefly glancing around the temple, and waves his Pokémonover. “Gather around. Please collect your belongings. This is the-”
A flash of pink light interrupts him.
In seconds, his partners freeze. Gliscor nearly drops its beloved, newly obtained piece of rubble.
Ingo pauses, hesitant to turn around.
Did..?
Should he… Should he look back?
Ingo glances towards Alakazam, looking for some kind of reaction.
Alakazam glances back, almost afraid.
Uh oh.
Ingo’s chest fills with dread, he sighs, shakily, and stares heavenward. He accepts his fate. It’s time.
“It’s right behind me, isn’t it?”
“Ya.” Replies Palkia, the literal god of space.
Once Ingo manages to beat the brewing shock down with a very large, imaginary stick, he turns to address the being that he sort of worshipped by association: Palkia.
And promptly has to muffle a laugh, because he forgot that Palkia looked like that.
(What was Arceus thinking, giving that poor dragon a neck like that?)
Palkia looms over him, gaze unreadable.
Ingo coughs, masking another sorta-giggle, and then decides to actually start speaking like a normal human being. “Hello Almighty Palkia,” he starts, only to realise he has no idea what to say, “it is… Good to see you?”
It sounds more like a question, rather than a complement or something. Ingo isn’t getting a good grade in communication at this rate.
Palkia replies with a simple “Hi.”
Okay. Passable start. That emboldens him, just a little.
“I appear to be far from my original station.” Ingo stares off into the sunset, dramatically. “I was taken from my home many years ago. I was not a willing passenger on that train, either.”
He falls silent for a moment, contemplative. Then the speech starts once more. “It has been many years since then. I have been gone for so very long. I have been delayed and rerouted time and time again.”
(Palkia nods along, mentally pressing the ‘A’ button as much as feasibly possible.
Can this guy just spit it out already?
But no, he won’t. It seems that this train guy needs his monologue time for enrichment. If only there was a convenient break in the dialogue so it wouldn’t have to be subjected to a horrifically long speech.)
“...And that is why I have a request for you, Almighty one. Would you kindly be able to return me to my home, in a land far from here? This blessed space might have once been dear to me, but the ice and flow of time has taken that too from me.”
Palkia has no idea how long it’s been (pretty good thing that time isn’t it’s domain), but what it does know is that it has been long enough. No more speeches, please.
“Ya.”
“I-” Ingo blinks, then evaluates that statement. “You… You would take me home?”
“Ya.” Repeats Palkia, for the third time. The little choo-choo dude splutters in shock as it nods along, just to make sure the message was received. “Sure. But like. Could we have a battle first?”
Ingo desperately forces a bit of air back into his lungs. “I- Of course, I would be honoured to face you in battle. In fact, it would- I…” He shudders, seemingly realising the weight of what he was asked. “I would be honoured… But I must ask, why do you wish to battle?”
“Because it would be funny.”
Funny? Ingo frowns, deeply. He raises a hand to mask his expression, mostly in fear of smiting, and thinks. Why would a battle be funny? That makes no sense.
But then again, Ingo would be returned home afterwards- so…
“Very well.” Ingo straightens up, his eternal slouch a thing of a past (at least, for the next two minutes) and nods. “I accept. A battle we shall have.” He points towards the Almighty, and aims his other hand to his left, signalling for his team that a battle will begin. Almost everyone returns to their pokeballs, everyone but Gliscor, who had wandered off to collect more bits of stone during Ingo’s very long, very boring appeal.
Ingo watches as his partner appears from behind a pillar, and upon spotting that motion of his, Gliscor perks up immediately. A battle? Right here? Right now? Localised entirely within the temple?
Perfect.
Gliscor waddles over to the top of the temple, until it stands (or attempts to stand) in front of the Almighty. Unlike Ingo, this one has a plan. Not a good plan, but a plan nonetheless.
It eyes the piece of debris gripped in its claws, then Palkia.
Ingo shakes his head. “No-” Gliscor raises the piece of debris up. “GLISCOR!” He cries, horror striking him as he realises exactly what that damned not-bug is trying to do, and he reaches out desperately in an attempt to shield the being who could actually just smite him.
The piece of debris hits Palkia square in the chest.
Everything is silent.
(Well, it is if you don’t count Ingo’s panic wheezing.)
Palkia slowly shudders, its hulking form sending teeny-tiny tremors through the ground. It looks Gliscor in the eyes, seemingly unsure on what to say.
Gliscor stares back, and readies another bit of stone.
Ingo wheezes, but like in a more dramatic and significant way this time.
“I will consider that a battle, rather than an act of mindless violence.” Palkia eventually says. “Come hither, man of public transport. We’re off to Unova.”
Ingo chooses to whimper this time.
Emmet arrives in a timely fashion.
It’s quite the feat for him, considering how much he really didn’t want to attend the dinner at Drayden’s shoddy excuse for a home.
If nothing else, it would be nice to see his cousins again.
In the end, no one gets smited. Instead, they end up on a road trip through space.
Palkia’s back isn’t the most comfortable, though.
“So- does your track routinely operate in this location?”
“I sure hope it does. This is space. My domain.”
Meanwhile, Interpol is in shambles as wormhole after wormhole opens and closes in rapid succession. Palkia’s reign of terror needs to end.
Plating food would usually be one of the best parts of a Delibird Day celebration, but in recent times Emmet knows this moment as the one moment from ‘before the storm’ (if the storm was a sad little room on the first floor). With a sigh, he heaps mashed potatoes and vegetables onto his plate in a very carb-heavy attempt to drown his sorrows, then makes his way downstairs to the sterile marble room.
Iris greets him with a wave and a muffled “Hi!”. She’s perched atop the beanbag that she keeps for this specific occasion, having had the forethought to actually bring seating with her. Her Pokémonare sprawled around her, each one with their own little plate. Emmet nods, wearily, and then glances to the other occupants of this decorator’s nightmare.
There, on the left side of the room, was Uncle Drayden. Instead of getting a chair too, Drayden had decided to wall sit, with one hand precariously gripping onto his plate, while the other one was used to sort of shovel food awkwardly into his mouth. Looks like he’s still stubbornly maintaining that vendetta against furniture of his for some reason. His Haxorus stands beside him in solidarity.
On the right side was Drayton, who had simply given up (must have followed Emmet’s lead) and had flopped onto the floor with his plate. Not a single care in the world. His Pokémon were nowhere to be seen.
Must have skipped out or something, Emmet thinks, as he trudges over to Drayton, and flops down opposite him. Lucky .
Oh well, time for dinner.
( If only Ingo was here… )
Unova is truly a very pretty place, in Ingo’s opinion. The city- Opelucid City, his brain had supplied- was a most magnificent display of architecture and design. Carved, warm stone builds and vibrant green trees stretched out as far as the eye could see. It was fantastic, with those lovely stone buildings that felt like a homage to a long forgotten past.
Beautiful.
“Where will our train terminate?” Ingo grips onto Palkia’s back, anticipating a rumble that could potentially send him careening to the ground. Palkia was loud like that. Ingo didn’t want to risk his safety. “Is it much further from here?”
“No. Not much farther.”
Oh thank goodness, Ingo was getting close. He was nearly home!
And wasn’t that a novelty? Soon, Ingo would be home. He could see his beloved family again, could share a warm meal and hand out gifts to everyone, he could even have a well-deserved pint.
Oh…
Home. How delightful.
Palkia’s flight begins to slow, and Ingo adjusts his grip. The bags attached to his back shudder with him. A large house comes into view, one that feels oddly familiar. Is this it?
With each second, Palkia slows more and more, until the duo hover over the large home. It’s roof is relatively flat, and a small chimney pokes out from the right side of the roof.
“Is this my station?”
“Yes.”
It is! This is home! Oh, yes! Ingo can barely contain himself, and has no choice but to restrain his excited drumming that would usually herald joy. “Thank you, truly.” He eventually manages to force out in between breathless chirps-like murmurs of delight. “But-” Ingo starts again, “-how do I get down?”
A deep tremor rumbles through Palkia, shaking Ingo around like a ragdoll. A laugh.
“That’s the neat part.” Palkia says, with a tone that felt a little too mischievous for Ingo’s liking. “You don’t. You’re going in the funny way.”
“The what-”
Ingo doesn’t have the chance to finish his reply before Palkia shifts and twists in a violent manner, loosening his grip on the legendary dragon’s back. Thus, Ingo tumbles, falling straight into the chimney with his gifts. If only he was wearing red…
Emmet is half-way through his carbohydrate mountain when a sudden series of bangs and bumps interrupt the Delibird Day ‘celebration’.
A final thump, or perhaps a meaty slap, rings out. Then? Soot. Everywhere.
A crack of a plate (Drayden’s probably), a groan from Drayton, and a screech as that poor beanbag of Iris’ gets an instantaneous dye job.
Emmet curses as he brushes the ash from his face and eyes. Thank goodness he blinked just then. He coughs once more, and then turns his gaze to the jolly old man wannabe, readying his most indignant lecture.
“You-!”
But the lecture never comes. How could Emmet start a lecture, when the soot herald is none other than…
“ Ingo ?” Emmet whispers, voice cracking in shock. “Is that you?”
The man is covered head to toe in ash, dust and goodness knows what, looks like hell and definitely hasn’t showered in ages, but Emmet is certain. That’s Ingo. That’s his brother Ingo. Ingo is here .
Then Emmet thinks about it a little more. Why is Ingo here? Why did he come from the chimney? What is happening?
The grotty man shuffles a little bit, before raising his head. Yup. That’s Ingo. “I am he.” Says his brother, who has been missing for years, in the most nonchalant manner possible. “I brought gifts.”
“ What .”
Ingo pays Emmet no mind, turning his attention to the rest of their little family. “Hello all. Nice to see you again. Apologies for ruining dinner,” Ingo sniffs the air, somehow smelling something that wasn’t chimney stuff, and then motions towards one of the ruined meals, “would I be allowed a plate? It has been nearly two centuries since my car’s last proper refuelling.”
(First of all: that’s a lie. Ingo had eaten a terrible excuse for a pizza, along with whatever else those science fellows had shoved in his face, but quite frankly that bizarre assortment of so-called delicacies tasted so vile that Ingo had decided not to count them as ‘food’.
Second of all: Ingo doesn’t know who any of these people are, but clearly they must be his family. So it’s nice to see them, even if Ingo can’t match a single name to any face.)
There’s a pregnant pause, until eventually Drayden breaks the silence. “We didn’t expect any more guests today.”
“Ah.”
Drayden slides out of his wall sit, leaving a suspiciously Drayden-shaped patch of clean wall behind, and moves towards Ingo in one big strifing step. He offers a hand to Ingo. “We do have the final course. It could be split.”
No addressing the Phanpy in the room? Ok, alright sure.
“Wait wait-“ Emmet eventually interrupts. “Ingo- where have you been? Why are you here? Why did you fall out of the chimney?” He throws his hands up. Ash tumbles off him. “You have been missing for years!”
(Iris nods alone, absently, as she bemoans the loss of her third beanbag of the month.
Raising dragons is a fairly expensive profession.)
Ingo waves a hand in a vague, sort of dismissive motion. “Oh you know.” That really isn’t an answer, but it’s easier to use that rather than explain his time travel and subsequent popsicle adventures.
Emmet
“No I do not.”
“You do.” Ingo insists.
“No.” Emmet insists, but in like an even insistier manner. He’s not backing down now. He wants answers. “I do not.”
Emmet’s desire for the truth is not shared however, as his younger cousin finally decides to pipe up and contribute to the conversation. Kind of. Not really. “Can I get dessert now?” Drayton asks, having decided to not acknowledge whatever is currently unfolding in the sad, furnitureless room.
Excadrill perks up at the word, but unfortunately misses out on that extra ‘s’. Desert, the little fellow hears, and proceeds to react accordingly. Excadrill’s time has finally come!
“Excadrill- wait- NO!! ”
Emmet doesn’t get the chance to talk it down before the room explodes into a sandstorm.
Emmet pops his head out from the pile of sand and soot that he had quickly been entombed in. Tearfully, he takes a single look at the disaster around him, and states his true feelings once and for all.
“I hate the holidays.”
