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It started with a morbid curiosity.
Volo heard the name once, in passing, although for a moment he didn't believe it, mentioned only once in a long stream of general discussion about sync pairs, battle facilities, how the island of Pasio had drawn battle facility heads not just from one region but multiple, including Unova (another one of the many new names he'd learned). Frontier Brain, Battle Chatelaine, Subway Boss, Ingo.
(It seemed too small a detail. Too coincidental. Surely the name couldn't be uncommon.)
But he heard it again, this time from a little boy with a head of dark, spiky hair, eagerly claiming he had recently become a champion--no, a "Neo Champion"--what was it he said, exactly? Volo didn't pay him much mind at the time, but he could've sworn he heard "--Ingo and Emmet".
As if managing to travel through a distortion in space and time wasn't confusing enough--there was now an extra layer to this secondary conundrum. Not only was there an "Ingo" on Pasio right now, but he was never seen or mentioned without this second person, "Emmet".
All his questions were answered on a brief trek through the mountains where he saw them, at the mouth of a cave, talking animatedly over a set of railroad tracks and a stationary minecart. Yes, that striped coat was unmistakable, and so were those gleaming silver eyes. Though the other's voice was unfamiliar, Ingo's could not readily be forgotten, especially here, echoing slightly off walls of rock spiking upwards into every direction.
It had taken everything in his power not to burst into laughter on the spot. Not only was this a younger, more alive version of Ingo, but the man in white at his side was his spitting image. Twins. How cruel. How unimaginably cruel, for fate to have torn them apart. (And it was fate, he told himself, not him, too many times to count--after all, he could not have possibly forseen that the disturbance Giratina caused would've rippled in such a way that it hurt this person, specifically--but still he wondered. What had he taken from him? Who had he taken him away from?)
Morbid curiosity drove him as he waited for an opportune moment over the next few days. Casual, subtle, careful. It was when their paths crossed again, by coincidence, that he introduced himself just as amicably as he had to everyone else on the island. And his thirst for knowledge was rewarded, albeit with the same bitter double-sidedness he'd come to expect from just about everything.
"Excadrill? I've never heard of that Pokemon before. Could you tell me more about it?"
And from there, the conversation's path was decided.
Just as he was back in Hisui, Ingo was a kind man. Always excited about something. Always eager to help. Always easy to bask in the glow of. He was glad to talk to Volo from the moment they first met, and endlessly onward from there, about people, things, places, Pokemon, his dear brother, anything. All Volo had to do was listen. It was easy.
He soon came to realize exactly how cruel it was, that someone so fundamentally good became a casualty of his mission--and yet, darkly fitting. If it truly was divine intervention of some kind on Arceus' part, then it made a good choice in deciding a potential mentor for its would-be child hero. Not that it made the situation any less unfair.
"Ahh, so you call the patrons of your Battle Facility 'customers', too? How funny--although you're not really selling things, are you?"
Often, during their long talks, he would wonder, is this Ingo simply from the past, or is he from somewhere else in time and space entirely? How many of him are affected by my actions? How many of him met me? And how many of me crushed his life into dust underfoot? and occasionally Why am I wasting time on him in the first place? Is this some kind of self-inflicted punishment, becoming overtly aware of the innocent people whose lives I've ruined? Or am I just waiting for the moment of terminal velocity, where I finally feel too guilty to continue?
If so, then what is the point?
Such ponderings led him only to dissatisfaction and unease, so each time he let them go and focused on whatever Ingo was saying, smiling and nodding attentively with a perfectly tuned veneer of pleasantness.
(And naturally, every time, Ingo had quite a lot to say, with the same enthusiasm and pride--)
"You see, trains are these massive and complex machines--"
"Single battles are what we call battles with only one Pokemon on each side--"
"Nimbasa City is one of the biggest in Unova, and--"
It was easy. So easy it hurt.
Volo learned a great deal over the following days, then weeks. In getting to know Ingo he was simultaneously getting to know Emmet, it turned out, as the former would bring up the latter quite frequently, and always with unmistakable fondness. Although they were twins, Ingo was the older one, he said. My baby brother, he'd said. His speech was peppered with ever-so-soft worries--things like Emmet isn't used to this, I hope he does alright, Emmet has trouble with people sometimes, I want to help, but I do not want to be overbearing. Even though he never said it outright, it was clear by the way he spoke that he loved him dearly; and in the way he always included him in conversations, prompting him to speak, telling him everything, simply being there for him. The perfect image of a doting, affectionate brother.
Fate was quite sadistic indeed.
They were introduced, once. Volo's facade was perfect, as usual, but he couldn't help but feel that Emmet knew somehow. He never said anything outright, but the difference in the energy he gave off and his brother's animated support was still noticeable.
After awhile, it began to almost make him angry. The ridiculous conductor that emanated passion and goodwill, never having a bad thing to say about anyone, only ever wanting to support others and function as a milestone on people's journeys to greater heights. Worst of all, though, was his sincerity. Everything he said and did was earnest and candid in a way Volo didn't see all too often. On every account, a true and honest person.
In other words, Ingo was a good man.
Volo hated him more than anything else.
He didn't let it show, of course; not in words or actions. But it remained, boiling under the surface like an ancestral curse, a warped and twisted loathing so complicated that not even Volo himself could properly identify (he decided just "hatred" would do for now). Every day, he contended with the desire to throw away the facade, to shout, or harm, or destroy something he loved, just to see the look on his face. And, every day, he resigned to doing nothing instead. For some reason he felt he couldn't truly follow through with his backwards urge to make Ingo hate him in return (because he should. He really should. It's what he deserves, after all).
How would he react, Volo wondered. He could imagine it--not that it made him any happier. He'd say something like well, just because you were at the root of it doesn't mean it was your fault, and he'd make that stupid face, with those kind eyes, clouded with confusion and betrayal, perhaps, but never vitriol, and Volo would say Don't look at me that way. I can't stand to see your wasted compassion.
Over time, it had become something almost divine in his mind--because it was, wasn't it? The concept of a pure and virtuous martyr caught in the crossfire of something greater. A sacrificial lamb. A heroic and selfless man, made to suffer for other people's sake, and not even having the heart to be bitter about it.
Such thoughts plagued him relentlessly as he stared across Pasio's artificial mountains, Ingo's voice ringing in his ears like church bells.
"Have you ever tried hiking?" Volo asked all of a sudden, thankfully catching his pseudo-companion at the tail end of a sentence rather than interrupting. "In the mountains, rather," he elaborated, inclining his head towards the cliffs. "I know you prefer to travel by wheels, but it would be nice to try something different, wouldn't it?"
Ingo fell silent instantly to let him speak, tilting his head in thought. "I don't think so," he said after a substantial pause. "Emmet doesn't like..." he added in airquotes, "...boring activities. He would rather have something to occupy his mind instead."
Emmet was absent, of course, but Volo didn't see fit to bring it up. He smiled instead, gaze eventually trailing back to the ground before them. "It'd be better than taking a walk through town, at least. Much less people up there."
Ingo made a soft hum of agreement, although the expression on his face changed from bemusement to veiled concern. "...Right."
"Though, I must say--you might be tall enough," he still had to look up just a bit to meet Ingo's eyes. He stopped walking for a moment. "If you could just...sssstand...right there..." He held out one arm to stop the other in his tracks, gently maneuvering him just enough that he cast Volo entirely in his shadow. "Perfect."
Ingo didn't smile, but he had his counterpart to it--a slight squint to the eyes and soft upward curve at the edges of his lips.
"A fellow your height could protect me from anyone," he declared good-naturedly, continuing along the dirt path ahead. Another pause--Ingo always seemed to take a little extra time putting his words together in the proper order, even if it only amounted to a split second.
"Am I allowed to ask who you are avoiding, sir?"
Volo's smile became almost genuine, then. Sir. He said that back in Hisui. Even an acquaintance of a good couple weeks was still subject to his usual formalities. If Volo didn't know better he would've called it cute. "Well, I can't stop you."
"This...person. Or people that you do not want to meet--is it because they've hurt you?" The worry was plainly evident on his face.
"Oh! Heavens, no," Volo laughed lightly.
Another hum. "...Do you have many enemies?"
This time it was Volo's turn to go temporarily silent. Enemies--do the general pantheon of gods in my region count, he wondered dryly. Depending on how you looked at it, Arceus itself would be his enemy.
"You could say that."
In the fleeting quiet and equally short meeting of their eyes, Volo felt as if Ingo's gaze pierced right through him. That, like an angel, he was suddenly privy to every single one of Volo's lies and sins in the past few weeks, and for that matter, his entire life. Gears turned behind a reticent face, saying nothing. Silent. Watching. Judging.
"What about you?" Volo asked before the silence could blossom into tension. "I can't imagine you to have any enemies. In fact, it's difficult to imagine you angry at all."
Thankfully, Ingo didn't linger on whatever it was he was thinking about, exhaling an airy laugh. "Really? Well, not that you would be the first person to say so. But I do--" he cut himself off, "--I mean, I think I do. It is...complex."
"Oh?" Volo straightened up a bit, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"I..." Ingo spoke slowly, staring off at an undefined point on the horizon, "I know that I feel things. They are simply...difficult to...put into words. Someone said 'I've never seen you that angry before', once, and I had no idea what they meant. All I remember in retrospect is...feeling confused. And yelling." He didn't elaborate on the circumstances, so Volo decided not to pry, instead just letting him continue, as he was known to do.
"I don't think I like being angry," Ingo said bluntly. "It feels so...invasive. As if there is something hijacking my functions, taking me down a far different road than what I would typically travel. When it clears, I cannot understand how I got there to begin with." He shook his head, still lost in thought. "I speak my mind, but it is different than usual. Worse. Abrasive...rude." Another shake. "Emmet tends to shut down and stop speaking when he's angry. I...sometimes wish I did the same."
"Interesting," Volo mused, nodding slowly. "What about when Team Break sabotaged that side project of yours? Surely you were angry then?"
(A scenario he'd heard about a couple days ago. Apparently the little champion boy helped them with it. Nate, his name was. Both Ingo and Emmet sounded very proud of him, and the tooth-aching sweetness of it made him feel sick.)
"I suppose," Ingo conceded. "I was--frustrated, yes. But less angry and more...hurt. I just can't understand the urge to destroy things simply for existing."
"There's an immoral sort of thrill to it, though, isn't there?" Volo's words flowed much quicker when they weren't filtered through five layers of fake niceties. "Like the urge to trample freshly fallen snow, on a much larger scale. There's power in taking something pure and being the one to deface it, and some people will do anything for that power."
The midday sun filtering through the trees casted a warm glow around Ingo's silvery hair, framing his head like a nimbus. His gaze was still somewhere far away. "How vile," he said, but there wasn't a trace of bitterness in those words to be found; only sorrow. "To make others suffer for your personal hatred."
I could destroy you, Volo thought. I have destroyed you. You just don't know it yet. I ruined the life of an innocent man, and those actions cannot be undone. Your fate is immutable, and it is my fault. Why, then, am I so sure that you wouldn't hate me even if you knew? And why does it upset me so much?
"Well, you know what they say about misery and company," Volo said, giving his shoulder a pat. "What if you were miserable, then? What would you do?"
All the warmth and fondness returned to Ingo's face. "Perhaps I would ask you to keep me company."
It didn't sound like he was lying (it never did), but all Volo could think about was how badly he wanted to demand, why? Why? It was all so useless and painful and unfair, and none of his suffering had any meaning, and how can you still face it with the same sincerity you drown in?
This world is cruel and dangerous and hateful, and the fact that you even exist the way you do is almost an insult. How dare you.
He said nothing, of course. Just stared at the ground instead.
Although he didn't realize it, at least not at the time, the conflict on his face did not go unnoticed. Ingo wasn't as blind to others' emotions as he was to his own. He observed in silence, as if making some kind of decision, then took a small step sideways to bump against Volo's shoulder, one hand gently brushing against his.
"Thank you," he said, words as reverent as prayer, for one who did nothing to deserve them. "For keeping me company, I mean."
And for just a moment, on that brief, fleeting day on Pasio, in an era that didn't even matter, all of Volo's hatred vanished into thin air.