Chapter Text
Before he met Cyrus, Emmet wasn't quite sure what a kindred soul looked like. When the door swung open, he knew. The man's eyes looked vacant--tiny reflections of someone whose body was merely going through the motions but whose heart had given up long ago. He didn't look old in the traditional sense. Worry lines ran along his forehead, but thin and sparse. The skin under his eyes bagged up a bit, though no more than Emmet's did after a long night aboard the subway. But his movements had no energy behind them. Nothing to be gained by taking this step other than getting to the next one.
Emmet knew that feeling. He'd been living it every day since Ingo disappeared.
"Yes?" Cyrus said in a deep but toneless voice.
"Sorry to intrude," Emmet said, tipping his hat. The setting sun's rays flickered off its shiny brim. "I...I was told you might know more about this." With a shaking hand, he presented Cyrus with the manila envelope.
Cyrus took it and looked it over but did not open it. "I am under house arrest," he informed Emmet. "The champion and anyone she approves are permitted to come and go from this residence with no need to warn or consult me."
"That sounds difficult," Emmet said. He did not know what else to say. He knew of Cyrus's situation, and he couldn't say he disapproved. The man's slate was a shambles. Attempting to destroy and recreate the entire Sinnoh region, only to be pulled into a dark dimension of nothingless, then pulled back out again and put on trial for his crimes...a lack of privacy while he awaited further sentencing barely scratched the surface of his dues.
"I intended to correct your word choice, not solicit sympathy," Cyrus replied. Then he updid the clasp on the envelope and slowly pulled out the contents. They weren't much; just a single reprinted photo, uncleaned and uncorrected. But the face remained clear and painfully familiar.
"Cynthia said she found this in your personal items," Emmet said, struggling to keep his voice steady.
"I keep meticulous records of my family history, in addition to any relevant historical documents I am able to procure," Cyrus replied, sliding the printout back into the envelope with such smoothness, Emmet barely caught the scrape of paper. "Cynthia knows this."
The silence stretched out as Emmet waited for him to follow up with something. Anything. He didn't want to ask for himself. Too much risk he'd hear an uptick of hope in his voice. His emotions could not afford another roller coaster like that. They were tired. He was tired.
But as Cyrus continued to stand there without a word, Emmet found he had no choice but to push his request directly. "And...the man in the photo...?" he asked.
Cyrus glanced at the envelope as if he could see through it then examined Emmet's face once again. "Appears to look exactly like you. Which is quite the curiosity." He closed his eyes and rubbed his chin. "If I did have some autonomy over visitors here, I might invite you in to discuss this further."
"I see," Emmet said. "Then, in such a hypothetical situation, I would accept."
Cyrus nodded and stepped back, clearing a space for Emmet to cross the threshold. He tipped his hat once again as he did so. "I would also offer my most sincere thanks," he added on.
Cyrus said nothing and closed the door behind them.
#
Earlier that day...
It wasn't that Emmet had never seen the Champion of Sinnoh before. Broadcasts of her battles were almost as popular in Unova as they were in Sinnoh. She had even ridden the Battle Subway a few times as a special event for visitors on her way to visit Caitlin's Villa in Undella town. It was more that Emmet could see no reason why Cynthia would have a conversation with him beyond, "Good morning," "Good evening," and "What time does the train depart?"
Yet there she stood in the boarding area at 10:30am sharp--the lone person on the platform, as every local knew that Emmet took a short coffee break at this time every morning. Occasionally, some out-of-towner piped up that there was no such break when they last visited the Battle Subway. Then someone (usually Emmet) would have to tell them that things worked differently now that the Subway had only one conductor instead of two.
Cynthia did not look like she wanted to board. She stepped forward when Emmet exited the train, holding a large envelope in her hand. "Excuse me, Subway Boss Emmet?" She barely waited for him to nod in affirmation before she continued, "I have something that...might be of interest to you."
There were only three steps from the train down to the platform. Emmet gripped the railing like he was staring down a chasm, with only the thin metal bars holding him back from a deadly fall.
"I-is it about Ingo?" he blurted out with a sidecar of instant regret. He'd spent years thinking everyone who told him "Good morning!" might follow up with news of his brother.
Cynthia frowned. "Is there a place we might sit down?"
"Sit down?" Emmet's stomach plummeted. No one asked a person to sit for good news. They simply delivered it. He breathed for a moment, falling back into the emotional cocoon that got him through each day of work. "Of course. The station cafe should suit our needs. Please allow me to conduct you there."
#
Within a few minutes, Cynthia and Emmet were both seated at a small round table, tucked again a window in the far corner of the cafe. Emmet liked to come here at this time, because the initial morning rush had faded, but the flood of people who needed a pick-me-up on their lunch break was still at least an hour away. They both ordered the blandest thing on the menu--a cup of the house roast. Emmet did so because it would take the least amount of time to prepare. He suspected Cynthia took her cue from him.
Once they had gotten seated, both of them placed their drinks aside. "I'm not sure if you follow Sinnoh newsfeeds," Cynthia began. "But our police force recently arrested a criminal we thought had disappeared to a completely different dimension." Her words came out stilted and over-planned. She still made no motion to hand him whatever was inside the envelope. Maybe by "have something," she had simply meant news. It was already odd enough that the Champion would share a meal with him, let alone have documents to give him out of the blue.
Emmet realized Cynthia was waiting for confirmation, so he nodded, and she continued, "His underlings made numerous attempts to bring him back and were finally successful. The entire team is either in custody or under strict supervision."
"Okay," Emmet said with a slow, uncertain nod. He'd heard the news in passing but hadn't read much of the details, not thinking it much relevant to his life.
In fact, he still failed to see how it was relevant. And he still really wanted to know why Cynthia had brought the envelope, if not to give it to him.
"This criminal is named Cyrus," Cynthia went on. "The police were taking inventory of his personal possessions when they came across quite a large collection of historical documents." She placed the envelope on the table but did not yet open it. "I was called in to do some preliminary cataloguing, and I ran across this."
She opened the envelope and slid a plastic sheet with a large photo over to Emmet. His hands shook violently as he pulled it closer.
It was a picture of Ingo. But the photograph showed significant age--grainy, sepia-toned, no sign of the fine details any modern photo would have. The edges were worn and uneven, the plastic covering was clearly a recent addition to avoid further damage.
"H-how old is this?" Emmet asked.
Cynthia's folded hands pressed tightly together. "I don't have an exact date, but--"
Emmet slammed his fist onto the table, making the coffee cups quiver. It wasn't like him. He'd always had such poise and precision and self-control. But life had changed. "You know what I mean! Is it...even if it's far-fetched, is it possible he could still be..." The words wouldn't come. At least not aloud.
Cynthia got his meaning and gave a slow shake of her head. "If this were a photo of a newborn, then maybe. But it would be a stretch even then."
Emmet lowered his head. His fist loosened as the energy drained out of him. "Where is Cyrus now?" he asked quietly.
Cynthia frowned. For a moment, he feared she would reach over and take the photo back. She leaned forward but simply interlaced her fingers. "Why do you want to know?"
Emmet assumed the answer was obvious. "I want to speak with him. If he had this picture, then maybe he knows more about it."
"I don't think he's the type of person to freely share information," Cynthia said. "And I will need the historical society's permission to lend out any articles we've acquired." She held her hand out. So she was going to take the photo back after all. Emmet gently stroked the plastic. Even with the photo's roughness and age, he wanted to commit every detail to memory--the way Ingo was trying to grow a beard and clearly failing. The way his frown teetered on the edge of a smile. The way his old-fashioned clothes were clean and well-kept in contrast to his conductor's jacket, which was frayed and worn. Emmet wondered if he ever took it off.
"Please," he said, his voice cracking. "Please don't take the only thing I have of him since he left." He knew it would put Cynthia in a difficult position. And he didn't care. He'd pushed himself again and again to keep the subway running smoothly and keep everyone else happy. This time, he needed someone to push through their discomfort for him.
Debate flickered across Cynthia's face. Her gaze darted between the photograph, the envelope in her hand, and Emmet. "The police are keeping Cyrus at his home for now," she finally said. "I don't think I can explain you bringing this back to him after we removed it, but...I can get you a digital copy to take with you." When Emmet did not pull his hand back, she added, "If I have your assurance that it won't leave your possession, I can pull some strings to let you keep the original when your business with Cyrus is concluded."
It wasn't quite what Emmet wanted to hear, but it would do. "I understand," he said and finally relinquished his hold on the protective plastic covering. "And you have my word it will never touch anyone's hands but mine."