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There is no evidence that today would be any different when it started. There was an ache within Emmet’s chest, but it isn’t one that can be chased away with painkillers and medication. It’s a painful longing, a hole left behind by his other half. But it isn’t something new, or concerning for that matter; he’s carried this pain the moment he decided to run another round of Doubles rather than their Multi line.
Maybe, if Emmet had been there, he could’ve stopped Ingo before he ran out of the train.
The grainy image captured from the security cameras in the train follows him every time he tries to sleep. He’s haunted by the faint unease that crossed Ingo’s expression, by the way he forces the door open while the train is coming to a stop, going against every safety protocol they know. By the way he rushes out to the station, abandoning everything and everyone.
Ingo would never do that. Period. Emmet has never seen his brother act like that. It was verrrry concerning. Emmet knew, at that moment, something had happened. He has no way of explaining this, other than the sense of wrongness that settles deep within his stomach at the sight of the footage. And no matter how much he tries to argue that he knows his brother and he knows that this is unusual, it won’t get anyone to listen.
He won’t lie down and accept that this is the end. That after seven months, fifteen days, ten hours, twenty-three minutes and seven seconds he should just give up. But he also knows that he cannot abandon the Battle Subway. Everything must be running at their best when Ingo returns. A thing cannot be out of place.
And, because of this, he gets out of bed right on time despite the heavy weight in his chest. It presses against his lungs and sometimes makes it just a little hard to breathe, but it’s getting easier to ignore now. He’s had months to practice after all.
He forgoes breakfast—he doesn’t see the point to eat now when he’s just going to be dragged out for lunch later, he can only skip the meal so many times before someone starts to pick up on it—but feeds his and Ingo’s pokemon before he goes.
While they’re eating, he crouches down to their level and rests his arms on his knees. “Which one of you guys want to be passengers for today’s trip?”
Eelektross pipes up first, followed shortly by Galvantula. Archeops nudges his hand, forcing his head beneath it. Emmet complies and scratches the feathers on the back of his neck. He coos in response.
Three down. Emmet scans the rest of the gathered pokemon, his smile softening to something stiffer when he looks at Ingo’s pokemon. They exchanged pokemon often enough for them to listen and respond well to both of them, but they are still Ingo’s pokemon. More often than not, Ingo’s pokemon will stay in their pokeballs.
Emmet leans forward. “Chandelure?”
The pokemon in question shifts, but doesn’t quite look at him. She was hit the hardest when Ingo vanished (not left because left implies Ingo wanted to leave), barely leaving her pokeball. And when she does, he rarely can coax her out of the apartment. But they’ve battled a few times together since then, and she fared well. He hopes he can get her to agree this time.
(It’s far easier to focus on helping his pokemon recover than acknowledge that his whole world is falling apart and he has no way of picking up the pieces.)
Chandelure nods, the moment minute and he would’ve missed it if he wasn’t looking for it. Emmet returns the nod and stands up abruptly. “Now that’s settled, departure is imminent!”
His pokemon quickly finish their meals and he returns them to their pokeballs. There wasn’t really a need for him to go through this process now, no matter what he brings all them with him. They are more than the accepted limit, but he gets around it by agreeing to only using six at most. And being a Subway Boss doesn’t hurt.
He cleans up after their pokemon, picking up bowls and wiping them down before returning them to their spot in the cabinet. If he had his way, he would simply leave them on the counter, they were used so often it was easier to make them more accessible, but Ingo thought otherwise. And Emmet couldn’t let the apartment fall apart while he wasn’t here.
Emmet stops in front of the door, the hallway only lit by the faintest hints of the rising sun. The sound of his breathing is loud in the silence of the apartment. It’s harder to ignore everything when he’s faced with it with the same finality as facing a train head on. Their apartment shouldn’t be this quiet. He shouldn’t be stepping out of it alone.
He opens the door and steps outside before their pokemon can sense something is wrong. The air is chilled with the promise of an early frost. Even through his gloves, he can feel the bite of the metal against his hand when he locks the door behind him.
The walk to Gear Station was quick. He keeps his eyes trained forward, ignoring how people’s gazes still follow him. They’re not as sharp or inquiring as they were when Emmet first released the statement, the words he was forced to say still burning in his throat.
Ingo was gone. No, he doesn’t know where he went. No, he doesn’t know why he looked so afraid running out of the train car.
(Emmet still doesn’t know who leaked the footage. At the time he had been furious—how could they disrespect his brother like that?—but now the anger has cooled to something duller and harder to understand.)
Before, people would watch the two of them with awe. Emmet didn’t necessarily like the attention but he can’t say he minded it either. After running the Battle Subway for years, you get used to it.
But now, it never failed to crawl against his skin. He fights the urge to scratch at his arm, the sensation running beneath his skin and along his nerves. If he just looks forward and doesn’t acknowledge it, the feeling dulls.
As always, he arrives early. It’s quiet, with a few passengers striding about with the skeleton crew they employ for the night shift. There’s something to be said about the station at night. It’s quiet in a way he hasn’t decided is unnerving or peaceful.
When he passes by another agent, he gives them a small nod in greeting before continuing on. He’s never been one for words. They’re complicated and it’s difficult for him to translate everything that’s going on in his head into them.
It’s never been a problem because Ingo always said enough to make up for his silence.
Emmet drops into the chair at his desk and eyes the stack of paperwork on his desk. It sits on the left corner where Ingo would always leave it—he would always forget that Emmet isn’t right-handed and it’s more of an inconvenience to place it there—even if it’s been months since Ingo’s put anything there.
But he can’t bring himself to move them.
It’s a slow process working through the stack of paperwork and he doesn’t make it any easier for himself when he checks the clock every few minutes. Usually he would simply be a conductor while waiting for the Battle portion of the Subway to start. He would have it start as early as possible, but he was outvoted by his fellow agents. But he has been ignoring the ever growing stack of paperwork on his desk for at least a week. They might force him to be desk bound for the day if he doesn’t get at least some of it done.
As the sun rises further, the bustle of the station filters in through the open door. He has maybe another thirty minutes before he’s needed with the trains. For the first half of the day, he’ll run the Singles Train, and for the second, the Doubles. It’s all he can do.
For the first week after his return, he tried to run the Multi Train with another agent. It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t describe, a desperate ache mixed with the sickening feeling that he’s replacing Ingo. No matter how painful stopping the Multi Train, it was far less painful than letting it run without Ingo.
He finishes the last few lines on the paperwork in front of him, having made a decent dent in the stack. He twirls the pen in his hand while reading through the final paragraphs. He taps the tip against the page a few times before moving to sign it.
“Happy Birthday.”
Emmet jumps and an angry line of dark black ink cuts across the page. Ice fills his veins, colder than the chill that hangs in the air outside. He snaps up to catch a glimpse of a figure he barely recognizes; a new hire most likely, one that doesn’t know him as well as the others. He swallows hard, barely able to swallow around the lump in his throat.
He looks at the calendar just outside the door to his office, one that he makes a pointed effort to ignore. On today’s date four simple words are written there: Emmet and Ingo’s Birthday. They’re written in Ingo’s looping script, nearly illegible in the exact opposite way that Emmet’s is, months ago because Ingo didn’t see the point of having a calendar if they only penciled things in a week ahead.
Emmet is twenty-two now and….Ingo is not.
Emmet slams his pen against the desk and stands. He leans against it, his arms shaking and his breathing reduced to short, stilted gasps. He can’t go out today. He can’t sit through well-meaning trainers reminding him that he’s here while Ingo isn’t.
There’s a verrrry good chance, one that Emmet hates to consider, one that haunts him when he stares at the mirror too long, that Ingo won’t be here again.
The walls start to press against him and he balls his hands into fists against the table. They’re still shaking. His entire body is trembling. His eyes burn with tears he refuses to shed here.
He needs to leave. He can’t stay here another moment. He’s distinctly aware now how the lights buzz overhead, how the clock on the wall ticks endless, of the sounds normally covered by the ambiance of the station. They grate against him in the opposite way of the stares that follow him.
He strides out of the room, steps purposeful and edging on frantic. Someone tries to stop him, calling out his name with a curl of something he doesn’t have the ability to decipher. He ignores it, shoving through the crowd with his gaze on the ground and his cap pulled over his eyes. He can’t look at anyone right now.
It’s busier now and harder to avoid the crowds. No one followed him out, but it won’t be long before someone tries to find him. He dreads that. Right now, he doesn’t know if he can handle having someone try to help him, let alone explain why he can’t.
The words die in his throat and no matter what he does, he can’t force himself to speak.
The key scraps against the lock as he tries to shove it in. He bites back a curse, his hands shaking badly and his vision blurring. Not now, not here. He’s less than a foot from the safety of their apartment. He just needs to hold on long enough to open the goddamn door.
The key slips into the lock with a click and he throws the door open. He rushes inside and slams it closed. He leans against it, the wood hard against his spine. He locks the door and all the fight leaves him. Exhaustion weighs on his limbs, can he even say he slept if he spent most of the night staring at the ceiling hoping, pleading for Ingo to return.
He slides down the door, dropping to the group and burying his head in his hands. Tears burn against his skin. His Xtransceiver beeps, the constant sound loud and grating. He tears it off his wrist and powers it off. There isn’t anyone that he can speak to right now, that he wants to speak to.
He drops the device and curls into himself, sobbing.
— —
Ingo sits with his back against the cliffside with a few pieces of paper and a pencil in hand. Sneasler is resting a few feet away, watching him with a half-lidded gaze. A few Sneasel run between them, bringing Sneasler any odd thing they find off the ground. Most of the time she just gives them a disinterested huff, but takes the object from them all the same. A steadily growing pile of rocks and berries is beside her. At least one of Ingo’s pencils and a page from his notes rested within it.
He turns to the papers in his lap and rubs at the charcoal covering the page. He doesn’t know why, but he has this need to document these pokemon. It’s not unlike what Laventon is doing with his Pokedex, but he has this distinct feeling that it isn’t the same. He wants to learn more about these pokemon, but not for research or public knowledge. It’s a simple curiosity.
He starts sketching two of the Sneasel climbing down the cliff side, making notes on how they move compared to Sneasler. Their claws are significantly shorter but they still scamper down the slope with ease. If there was a way to investigate their claws without getting poisoned, he would. But young Sneasel like these haven’t learned how to control their poison completely. For Sneasler, this isn’t a problem but he doesn’t have the same immunity.
A Sneasel nudges his arm and a large, sharp line of charcoal cuts across the page. He lifts his arm up and Sneasel climbs into his lap. She shoves the pages to the ground, making herself comfortable in the fabric of his tunic. He rests his hand against her head. “You’re cold, aren’t you?”
She starts the purr as he rubs behind her ears, his notes now abandoned on the ground. Her fur is short and coarse but he enjoys the rhythmic movement of running his fingers through it. After a few minutes, the two Sneasel climbing the mountain join him, settling down on either side of him.
He doubts that he will be moving for some time.
From her spot a few feet away, Sneasler snickers at him, or at least the pokemon equivalent of it. He gives her a flat look and gestures to the Sneasel taking over his lap, ones that he is confident are her offspring. “My Lady, are you shirking your responsibilities onto me?”
She gives him an unimpressed look and doesn’t move. Ingo takes it as agreement and relaxes against the cliffside. One of the Sneasel shifts but he doesn’t leave. Ingo starts petting him absentmindedly.
A cold wind blows over the small clearing. It cuts through his jacket and the Sneasel press closer to him. His notes shift and he slaps his hand over them in an attempt to stop them from going everywhere. A few escape his grasp.
He scrambles forward, the Sneasel yelping as they’re forcibly dumped from his lap. He catches two of them and Sneasler catches the rest before they fly off the edge of the cliff. The last thing he wants to do is spend the rest of the day digging through the mountains trying to find them.
“Thank you.” He takes the papers from Sneasler and straightens them up into a pile. Two of the Sneasel scurried back to Sneasler when he jumped forward but one of them latched himself to his arm.
He shoves the pages under his leg and gently starts to pry the Sneasel. It’s a slow process trying not to rip his coat—for some reason the idea of damaging his coat any further hurts in a way he was never able to describe—or poison himself.
“Warden Ingo?” Irida's voice catches him off guard and he loosens his grip. Whatever progress he made is lost as Sneasel renews his grip on his arm. “Is everything okay?” A guarded edge bleeds into her voice.
“Everything is operational.” Ingo lets Sneasel stay attached to his arm. At this point, he isn’t getting him off. “There was a small detour but nothing concerning.”
Irida steps further into the clearing, still eyeing the Sneasel on his arm warily. “If you say so.”
“Is there a reason for your trip up here?” Ingo readjusts his grip on the Sneasel, supporting him so he doesn’t tear his jacket further. “Not that I dislike your presence, but you look like you have something to ask.”
“Can you come down to the settlement with me?”
“Is there something wrong?” Ingo straightens up, his free hand instinctively reaching for his pokemon. He’s still working on strengthening them—why does he know how to strengthen them like this, in a way no one here has seen—but they should be enough to help.
“No, nothing like that!” Irida holds her hands up and he just now notices how Sneasler straightened up with his words. “There’s something I want to show you. I’ll tell you more on the way.”
Ingo nods and gathers his papers from the ground. He shoves them and his pencils into his pockets with one hand, the Sneasel still firmly attached to the other. Irida watches him, but her gaze sticks to the pokemon. She frowns when he doesn’t make a move to remove it. “Is that Sneasel coming with us?”
“No, although he is not yet convinced of this change in destination.” Ingo looks over to Sneasler. “Lady Sneasler?”
Sneasler walks over to him and grabs the Sneasel by the scruff with her mouth. The Sneasel goes limp and releases Ingo’s coat. Sneasler trots away with the Sneasel still in her mouth, the other two scurrying after her.
Ingo watches her disappear into the cave before turning to Irida. “Are you ready to depart?”
“Yes, we should get back before dark.” Irida glances to the horizon. The sun has not quite yet started to set, but it’s getting close. Long shadows cut across the clearing.
Ingo points forward, the movement ingrained and instinctual. He cannot say why he does this, just that it gives him this overwhelming sense of ease. It’s what he should be doing, even if the meaning of it is lost to him. “All Aboard!”
Irida smiles at his words, no less confused than the first time he said them but more amused than annoyed. It’s another thing that feels right but he has no explanation for and something he won’t stop doing. It feels wrong to stop, as if he’s abandoning some part of himself.
Not like he doesn’t have experience with that, considering he only remembers the past year or so of his life and fleeting threads of before: his name and this deep set ache in his chest.
Ingo and Irida walk side-by-side along the cliffside, the path to Alabaster Icelands wide and worn from years of use. For the first half of the trek, they walk in silence and the general ambiance of the cliffside washes over them. Calls from numerous pokemon filter through and Ingo fights the urge to jolt down what he hears and his theories of what type of pokemon it is. It would only serve to delay them.
After awhile, Ingo’s curiosity gets the better of him. “Lady Irida, if there isn’t a problem, why do you need me at the settlement?”
Irida draws in a breath and exhales slowly. “We wanted to celebrate your birthday. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I thought it was better to let you know.” There is hesitation in her voice and she threads her fingers in front of her.
“But I don’t remember when I was born.” He tries to stop the pain from oozing into his voice. It’s difficult to admit to forgetting something so simple. He knows Irida won’t hold it against him, but that doesn’t make it any easier to say.
“I know that. I thought that the day you came here was appropriate.”
Ingo’s frown deepens. He’s not sure the exact date that he fell here, but it was at least a week ago, if not longer. “But—”
“I know I should’ve given you the choice. But….” She tightens her grip on her hands. “I didn’t want to hurt you by asking you to choose something you should already know.”
“Lady Irida,” Ingo says, voice gentle. She looks up at him, reluctance in her gaze. “I don’t mind. I wouldn’t have come up with a different day.”
It’s not necessarily true that he doesn’t mind, but he isn’t going to tell her that. He doesn’t know if he can explain why he minds it. The familiar feeling of abandonment hangs in his chest, mixing in with the loneliness that has made its home there. There’s no words for how he misses something he’s long forgotten.
She smiles, softer and less hesitant than before. “I'm glad.” She turns to the sky. “C’mon, I promised that I’d bring you back by sundown.”
They hasten their pace and make it back to the settlement just before sundown. Even with the warning, Ingo wasn’t prepared for the level of festivities. He isn’t a stranger to crowds and people, but none of this helps with the distinct feeling of wrongness settling in his stomach. It isn’t wrong because it’s bad, but rather that it was different.
Why it was different eludes him.
The festives, when boiled down to their bare essentials, are the same. Food is passed around, although nothing he recognizes—it must be reserved for celebrations like these—and music settles over the settlement. But there’s something missing.
Despite all the people around him, he feels utterly alone. There is this distinctive and absolute feeling seeping into his thoughts that he shouldn’t be celebrating this alone. But who else could he be celebrating it with?
Ingo clenches his jaw and stops the emotion from showing in his expression. How could he forget someone that important?
He desperately wishes that he had more than these fragments of his memories.
Irida breaks away from the crowd and stands next to him. She’s watching him, eyes narrowed with concern. “Is this okay? Are you enjoying it?”
Ingo nods. “I am, but crowds are not exactly my strong suit.” Not necessarily a lie but the words still feel like one as he says them.
Irida hums. “It’s rowdier than I thought it would get. But I can’t blame them. It’s the first time we can do something like this since winter started.” She reaches down and pulls a wrapped package out of her bag. “Happy Birthday.”
Something tears through his chest and he swallows back the emotion. He grabs the package and carefully tears off the paper. It reveals a hardbound notebook about the size of his hand and a few new pencils. He flips through the pages, his fingers running along the smooth, pristine surface. “Thank you.”
Irida smiles. “I saw that you liked to take notes. This should be easier to carry around than a bunch of papers.”
“It will be,” Ingo says distractedly, already opening the first page to pencil in everything he saw at the celebration. He mostly takes notes about pokemon, but writing down his experiences help separate what he knows he remembers and what he thinks he remembers.
“I’ll leave you to it.”
“Wait!” Ingo looks up from the notebook, trying to decipher the mess of emotions that had him stop her. She looks back and waits patiently for him to get his words in order. “This may sound like a strange request, but will you partake in a pokemon battle with me?”
He can’t explain it, but this feels like something he should do. It felt right in the way everything else felt wrong. And he grabbed onto the feeling and held it close to his chest.
Something crosses her expression but she presses it behind a smile before he can decipher it. “Sure! When do you want to do it?”
“Now! Or as soon as we can clear the space!” Ingo shoves the notebook and pencils into his pocket, resolving to document this at a later point in time. The excitement of the upcoming battle courses through his veins.
A few people turn, looking at the two of them with various levels of confusion. Irida takes the attention in stride. “Alright everyone! Clear a space! I guess we’re having a pokemon battle.”
A murmur runs through the crowd, but they do as they’re told. Quickly the center of the settlement is cleared away and the two of them stand on opposite ends of their makeshift battlefield. Irida’s Glaceon bounds out from her side and Ingo holds one of his pokeballs in his hand.
It’s not completely right, the sense that he’s forgetting something, something immeasurably important, will not leave him, but nothing in this time land is. Battling is the one thing that he feels like he knows, that he should know.
It’s the only thing here that makes him feel like the person he must’ve been before.
He sends out his Machoke and the battle commences.
— —
Even as it steadily becomes a month after Ingo returned from Hisui, he still finds living in Unova strange. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, although the first time he boarded the train—yes, he’s finally remembered what a train was and the pure elation still hasn’t left him— during rush hour he was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people present.
Usually when he wakes just as the sun rises, the mornings are still. Either the near constant blanket of snow in the Pearl settlement quiets nearly every sound or pokemon are just starting to stir on the cliff sides. But here in the city, there is noise no matter what time of day. Ingo doesn’t mind it, but it still takes him a moment every morning to realize that the sound isn't a cause for alarm.
Even with their early schedules at Gear Station—that too excites him every time he thinks about it—Ingo wakes before Emmet. He has a few minutes in the morning after getting ready for the day before Emmet wakes, just enough time to start a pot of coffee and feed their pokemon.
He sits at the counter and pulls out his notebook. The pages are worn and the spine cracked beyond belief. He only had this one notebook out of the many he owns on him when he returned, the rest lost to time. The pages are almost full.
He flips to a blank page and starts to sketch. He draws their pokemon; every morning he’s taken to drawing a different one and jotting down notes around the pictures. If he remembers something, it gets written down too.
Even after all these years, he still doesn’t trust that his memories will stay. He knows far too well that it takes only a single moment for everything to be torn away.
He looks up when Emmet places a mug of coffee on the counter next to his arm, steam curling up towards the ceiling. Ingo sets his pen on the table and grabs the mug. It’s warm in his hands. “Good morning.”
Emmet takes the seat across from Ingo, giving Archeops a pat on his head when he nudges his head. Thin frustration lurks within Emmet’s gaze. “Morning.” He pauses a moment and takes a sip of his coffee. He taps his fingers against the table with his freehand. His smile is stiff. “I guess you don’t remember this. But today’s our birthday.”
“Oh.” Ingo didn’t realize and he never thought to ask. He’s been celebrating his own, false birthday for years and in the midst of trying to remember the life he used to live here, asking when their birthday was fell to the wayside. “I hadn’t realized it was this soon.”
“We write them on the calendar in the station. But—” Something twists in Emmet’s expression. “That doesn’t matter. We’re going out tonight to celebrate it.”
Ingo can’t help but mirror Emmet’s growing enthusiasm. It’s infectious and light. “Are we departing to the station first?”
Emmet nods. “Elesa wants to meet us there. And—” Emmet continues before Ingo can ask. “I have no idea what she’s planning. She won’t tell me.”
“I trust she knows won’t lead us astray. And….” Ingo narrows his eyes, unsure and hesitant. The hardest part with sharing his memories is that they might just be a desperate attempt he made to fill the gaps in his mind rather than truth. “Will we be having a pokemon battle?”
“Yes!” Emmet stands, leaning over the counter with a grin. “You remember that?”
“For the most part!” Ingo stands as well, getting caught up in the excitement. “Not completely, but the feelings were there.” He doesn’t dare admit that the part he forgot was him battling against his brother. Even if Emmet already knows.
“That is verrrry good!” Emmet leans back and downs the rest of his coffee.
They quickly finish getting ready for the day and leave with their pokemon in hand. Ingo fiddles with his sleeves, longer and bulkier than on his damaged coat. It doesn’t feel wrong, but the weight is strange after years with his other coat.
He falls into step with Emmet, cutting through the growing crowd with ease. They receive a few waves and even more looks. It unnerved Ingo at first—there weren't enough people in Hisui to unnerve him, even if he would often catch their gazes on him—but he’s long since grown used to it.
Once at the station, they quickly start on today’s work. Emmet retreats to his office to complete the paperwork he’s missed—read: ignored—for the past week and Ingo goes to the control room.
While walking there, he sees the large calendar on the wall. For the most part, he’s taken to ignoring it. It still feels strange to see the date written so differently and hundreds of years in the future.
Ingo stops and scans the calendar. Just as Emmet said, people’s birthdays are written in between the notes and other reminders. And on today’s date is Emmet’s name. Alone.
He sees what Emmet was trying to say. It doesn’t hurt him, he didn’t even know that his birthday was today until about an hour ago after all, but he feels this need to rectify it. He pulls out a pen and writes his name next to Emmet’s. Their handwriting is completely different, to the point of almost clashing, but they somehow fit together.
He shoves the pen back into his pocket and makes his way to the control room. He looks over the screens and scans the trains’ statuses.
For now, it looks like everything is running smoothly. There is a small delay in the Singles line, but it doesn’t look to be detrimental. Once he boards it, he should be able to correct it. A small smile pulls at his lips. This feels right in a way nothing in Hisui could.
The door to the control room opens slowly and one of the agents walks in. Ingo gives him a nod in lieu of a greeting and turns back to the screens. The agent joins him. “Conductor Ingo.” The agent pauses, lips pressed together. Ever since Ingo returned, his co-workers have had trouble speaking with him. Most of them, he no longer recognizes, even if he had known them before.
“Is there something you need assistance with?” Ingo gives the agent another glance, his name eluding him. “I am willing to help.”
“No, nothing wrong. It’s just that,” the agent frowns. “I want to apologize.”
“What for?” Ingo doesn’t remember anything the agent could have possibly done that would warrant an apology. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
“Everyone thought you were dead. Or, almost everyone. We didn’t know any better, but I realize that it kinda felt like we were giving up on you.” The agent threads his fingers in front of him. “And that we shouldn’t have.”
“You don’t have to apologize for that. After seven years, it was only reasonable to assume so.” It feels strange talking about his own death. It’s the same way he feels when he logically realizes that he must have a gravestone. “You shouldn’t hold it against yourself for moving on. I don’t.”
The agent nods shakily. “Thank you, Conductor Ingo. I just….” He swallows and stares at the monitors. Ingo doesn’t prod him to continue.
The already ajar door slams open. The agent jumps but Ingo just gives Emmet a look over his shoulder. “Emmet?”
“Ingo!” Emmet strides in, giving the agent that runs past him to make his leave a brief glance.
Ingo turns to face his brother completely. Emmet is bouncing on the balls of his feet and his hands are flapping at his sides. “Do you need me?” Ingo asks.
“Nope.” Emmet walks over to the screens, eyes tracing the tracks. “Well, actually yes. Are you running the Singles line today?”
“For the morning, yes. Isn’t that what we usually do?”
“Yes, but we’re taking the afternoon off. Or, Elesa is forcing us to. So we should run the Multi line instead.” Emmet gives him a large, pleading grin. One that he knows Ingo has a hard time saying no to.
“I don’t mind, but will this detour be approved?”
“It’ll be fine.”
That doesn’t answer Ingo’s question, but he lets it go. As much as he enjoys running the Singles line, the Multi line is his favorite. He missed years of battling with his brother and has to make up for it somehow.
Emmet points at the marker for the Multi Train on the screen. “If we leave now, we’ll be able to catch it.”
Ingo nods and that’s all the approval Emmet needs. He latches onto Ingo’s wrist and runs out of the room, dragging him along. Ingo stumbles at first but quickly regains his bearings. They run through the halls, a clear safety violation but Ingo’s in no mood to stop them.
Emmet’s laughter fills the halls and Ingo can’t help the smile that breaks out across his face. No one tries to stop them, but they receive a good number of odd looks from employees and passengers alike.
They reach the Multi station just as the train is pulling in. Emmet drags Ingo to the back of the train and waves at the conductor on duty. He gives both of them a look of confusion. “Are you guys supposed to be here?”
“Yep,” Emmet says at the same time Ingo says: “We are now.”
It does nothing to help their case, but the conductor must’ve been here before Ingo left because he only sighs and steps out of the train. “It’s your’s.”
Emmet strides on and Ingo gives the conductor a nod as thanks. All he receives is an exasperated look.
They spend most of the trip conducting the train rather than battling. It’s still a rarity for trainers to gain enough victories, even if Ingo feels like there are more than he thought there should be.
He voices this to Emmet, who just shrugs and tells him that the line was closed for a long time. Ingo can gather why easily enough.
The trainers that do face them are strong, but not strong enough to beat them. They send the final trainer off with some parting words before exchanging with another conductor for the afternoon.
As promised, Elesa is waiting there for them. The moment she sees them, she rushes up and wraps them in a tight hug. She pulls away and holds both of their hands in hers. “Happy Birthday, both of you.” She smiles, wide and unrestrained. “Are you guys ready to go?”
“Yep! Everything is ready for departure,” Emmet says.
Ingo gives Elesa a nod when she looks over and matches her smile. She turns on her heel and starts pulling both of them towards the exit. “Then let’s get moving!”
Together, they leave the station.