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Chapter Text

Ingo felt remarkably childish, being led hand-in-hand to the pinnacle of Sinnoh's Temple by a teenager who scarcely reached his chest when he stood up straight. The other option was him being hauled the same way by the already torn collar of his coat, though, so he supposed this was better.

He wasn't too prideful to admit it was cowardice which had him dragging his heels up the stairs, fear which demanded Akari grip his hand tighter to keep him from lingering near the entrance. Really, he thought he was quite justified, being afraid. Anyone would have been in his shoes, were they not a world class fool. The idea of staring down the Creator of their world and worlds beyond sort of demanded an amount of apprehension. For one's own self-preservation, if nothing else. 

"Really, I am hesitant to agree that this is all-- all strictly necessary," he stammered, as they reached the dias at the Temple's rear, and as Akari shot him a Glare firm enough to Paralyze him in place before letting go of his hand. "Surely there must be--"

"Another way? Maybe, but it seems like a bit of a waste to put in so much work to find it when this one is so simple." She reached into her pack, which must have been home to a miniaturized Space-Time Distortion of its own with how many things she managed to fit in a relatively small interior, and drew from its inexplicably deep pockets an odd-looking instrument cast in pale periwinkle ceramic. Before raising it to her lips, she glanced back at Ingo with a smile. "Don't worry. It's really quite nice, once you get to know it."

If Ingo had a choice, he wouldn't have wanted to get to know it at all. But he sort of didn't.

The moment he'd admitted to Akari that the fleeting glimpses of memories he'd managed to retain had graduated into something far more substantial not long after the Rift's closure-- from vague impressions of closeness and warmth to figures, faces, names-- the young Survey Corps. recruit had gained a steely glint to her eyes and practically bullied Ingo into agreeing to meet with her patron for answers.

He hadn't known she had a patron here in Hisui, and had assumed she was referring to the professor who had vouched for her acceptance in the first place. More fool him when she'd asked him to meet her at the entrance to Cloudcap Pass. 

Akari had been alone when he arrived, poking at that odd device she seemed so attached to (the one which rang familiar bells in Ingo's head), and glanced up at him with that same determined look she'd worn when this all had started. The device was tucked away into her pack, and she stepped up to meet him with a hand outstretched.

"Are you ready?"

"...Ready for what?"

She had smiled, all sharp edges, and pointed up. And up.

Ingo tilted back to follow her signal, all the way to the spear-like pillars of the Temple of Sinnoh.

"What."

"I told you," Akari said, with all the bitterness of the Highlands' winds, "we're getting answers."

And Ingo had replied, aghast; "From whom?"

Akari's knife-like smile told him he really should have led with that question.

"I don't know how you got here," Akari began as she directed him through Cloudcap Pass, which-- while certainly less treacherous-- harkened back to their first meeting in an oddly ironic way, "but I know someone who might. It brought me here. If anyone can put you back where you belong, or at least tell you how to do it yourself, it can."

"Akari."

"Arceus," she answered the question he hadn't deemed to repeat. "Sinnoh," she clarified, when he just stared at her blankly.

"What," he repeated.

"The Diamond and Pearl Clans were wrong," she said. Then added; "Twice."

"Explain."

She did so. In fact, perhaps picking up on his rapidly fraying nerves, she did so promptly. "The Clans each used to think their Almighty Sinnoh created Hisui, right? But they could never agree on what Sinnoh was. A Deity of Time, or of Space. When the confrontation happened here at the Temple, where we closed the rift, it was revealed that Sinnoh wasn't one-- but two. Pokémon. Dialga and Palkia, Time and Space respectively, and the Clans realized they had been wrong the whole time about the nature of their deity."

They reached the end of the pass, and Akari paused before stepping out into the cold.

"...They were still wrong," Akari continued. "Sinnoh-- that is-- the creator of the region and the entire world, was one Pokémon. Once upon a time, people knew that. Some people... still do. But, stories get lost, I guess. They change. Somehow the Clans got so wrapped up in their fighting that they forgot their history. And I don't blame them? But."

Akari cleared her throat.

"The true Almighty Sinnoh is a Pokémon named Arceus," she said. "It's the one that first sent me here, with a mission to seek out all Pokémon. I can speak with it through this."

From her pack, she had pulled that strange device, and given the opportunity to stare at it for several long seconds uninterrupted, Ingo abruptly remembered. 

A phone.

"You speak with the Almighty over... a cellular network?"

"Probably not, since I don't think cellphone towers exist yet, but. Essentially."

Ingo felt like he needed to sit down. But Akari had taken his hand and started pulling him forward again, which kind of kick-started his brain into working again. Which then allowed some dots to connect, and--

"Wait," he said, wrenching his hand free of Akari's and holding both up in a "full stop" gesture. "Wait. Just one moment. We are here, as you stated, to meet your patron. Your patron, who is Almighty Sinnoh. And we're just, what-- walking up to say hello? To ask, pardon me, good deity, but might you be willing to take time out of your busy schedule of ruling existence to help this random fellow who is so far beneath your notice it's almost silly to put him in your view?"

"First of all, I was gonna be way less polite, but we can do it that way if you want," Akari frowned, "but second of all, and way more importantly-- do you really think so little of yourself?"

"Well. I suppose-- I may have been a bit dramatic." If you asked him, he had perhaps earned a bit of dramaturgy, but there was a thin line between drama and hysteria. He didn't want to cross that. "But, young lady, you cannot honestly expect me to simply waltz into the eyes of our Almighty as though this is a perfectly ordinary thing that normal people just do."

Akari had stared at him, with brown eyes that glinted almost gold in the low light. "It's a thing I do," she had said. "Am I not a normal person?"

Ingo bit his tongue. A part of him which had still never quite learned how not to speak more than necessary was urged to give her an emphatic no. No, in fact, she was not normal. She'd been transported through time and space directly by the creator of their world, gifted a device which operated aeons beyond the technology of this era, and had single-handedly quelled the fury of not only half Hisui's nobles (and won the favor of the rest), but also two of the region's reigning deities. He wasn't sure what world she'd come from where she thought that was a thing normal people did.

But she was looking at him so strangely, and his palms started feeling clammy the longer she stared, so he answered; "That was not-- what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

"I don't precisely know. But-- the point I am attempting to make is that I am-- This is far, far beyond me, Akari. This is not something I am... rated to handle." He squinted. An odd phrase, even for him, but one that fit the meaning he needed. "I have faced many great anomalies in my time with as much grace as I can manage, but this-- I fear this will be my threshold. My limit."

Akari kept staring at him.

"I don't know if I'm strong enough for this," he clarified, in fewer words. "Or brave enough."

She stared for a few moments longer. He wondered if maybe he needed to use even fewer words, and briefly contemplated how he might do that, but before he could think of a way to simplify his phrasing, Akari interrupted his thoughts with a deep breath. She placed her hands together in front of her in a way that could only be physical restraint on her part, and leveled him with a gaze so severe he couldn't help but meet it.

"Do you know-- I asked, once. I asked Arceus, I said; my task is done. Can I go home? And it said no. It apologized. It got down on its knees and looked me in the eyes and told me no. After everything I'd done. And you know what else? I accepted it. I took it in stride, because that's what I've always done, because that's the only thing I can do. That's what I've been doing the entire time I've been here. I woke up and remembered nothing but my name and my mission, and I faced it. I was told; work or die, and I faced it. I was rejected by the same people who had offered me a home. Stood toe to toe with angry gods. Betrayed by someone I considered a friend. Told that the home I'd been ripped from without my say was barred to me forever. And every time, I accepted it, because I had to. That is the only option. Do you understand? I accept, or I die, and I can't do that." 

Ingo was practically holding his breath at this point, for fear of making any noise that might be taken as an interruption.

Akari continued, fiercely; "Ingo, I can't go home. Maybe I could have, if I'd had the chance way back before this all began, but I can't anymore. Whatever place I had in the world I came from-- it's gone, now. And my memories are gone with it. I'm not who I used to be. And I can't be that person again. But you . You're remembering things, which means you do have that chance. You can go back. And I'm not going to let you pass it up because you're afraid."

Finally, Ingo exhaled, as Akari took a breath of her own. She wiped her eyes with far too much force before Ingo could even think to ask if she was alright. (Had anyone asked her that? Ever? Or had they assumed they already knew the answer?)

"And what if," Ingo had asked, quiet and grave, because he couldn't help but prepare for the worst (and he couldn't let himself hope for the best), "you're wrong?"

At that, Akari had smiled again, ice and daggers and everything cold and harsh, like the only land she remembered; "I'm the hero. I'm never wrong."

...A dangerous mindset, certainly, but not one Ingo was in any position of any kind to argue against.

Which, finally, was what had brought them here. Akari leading Ingo up to the dias like a frightened youth and playing her odd, prickly flute, the whistling sound of which echoed off Coronet's peaks and faded into silence. 

Then, in the mere blink of an eye, the air before them shifted. No longer empty, it now played host to a set of luminescent stairs, glowing and translucent, which lifted high enough that they vanished behind the cover of the clouds overhead. Ingo blanched. Were they expected to climb all that way? They'd surely run out of oxygen before they reached the top, right?

As if sensing his wariness, Akari glanced back once she'd finished returning her flute to its place in her pack. "Don't worry, it's not actually that high. It's sort of a... place between places, where we're going. The stairs are more for effect I think."

Oh, great. The Almighty, creator of their world and worlds beyond, had a sense of showmanship. Joy.  

Sure enough, they took barely a few steps up the brilliant staircase (with Akari once more holding Ingo's hand to lead him ever onward,) and the air around them began to shift. Change. Not the lightheadedness from a lack of oxygen Ingo would have expected at this altitude, but a sense of Pressure. In the blink of an eye, and a single step, they were somewhere else. Only then did Akari let go of Ingo's hand; perhaps correctly assuming he would be too enthralled to think about running. (Or, more realistically, that he would fear the stability of the staircase which brought them here without its summoner at his side.) 

Though frankly, even if he trusted those gossamer stairs to remain stable, if he made attempts to traverse them alone, he wouldn't have run.

As mentioned, her assumption was correct. He was enraptured.

A place between places, truly. It must be-- no place like this could exist in their reality. Not without seriously upsetting some paradigms. This broad stage spanning their sky would cause problems for the local Flying-type population, if not thoroughly interrupt the weather cycle of whatever given area it floated over.

But what a sight.

Below them, the floor seemed too ephemeral to be solid enough to stand upon; as translucent as the stairs that had brought them here, intersected by a glowing array of lines which formed some pattern too complex for Ingo to see from his height. 

Above them, the sky stretched endlessly, stars scattered across the pitchy night, offset only by the faint borealis-like glow that emanated from the platform under their feet.

Before them, perhaps, most noteworthy of all, stood Arceus. Almighty Sinnoh.

Some part of Ingo, which had taken the Pearl Clan's teachings to heart in an absence of anything else to put there, felt compelled to kneel.

If only his legs weren't frozen in place.

He looked up, and up, and met a gaze so much larger than his own. A gaze behind which waited, barely confined by the physical form damming it, knowledge of all things. That which had happened, and that which would.

And Arceus, the Almighty, creator of this world and worlds beyond, the Original One, the Alpha Pokémon, and countless other monikers, looked down at Ingo and said; Oh. With a voice echoing like a dozen people speaking at once, the words skipping right past his ears and settling in the depths of Ingo's mind, it said; Drat.

Ingo blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

Beside him, Akari stepped back. 

'Tis mine-self who should be begging yours. Arceus knelt, and while it still towered over the two of them at a scale Ingo had scarcely seen before, it was no longer looming quite so menacingly. Not that it really helped to ease Ingo's lingering anxieties about this whole thing, but still. He had to appreciate the effort. Thou art long overdue for clarity which thou sorely requires. My forgetfulness; heed it not. Thy questions; ask of me, and I will answer.

...Was it really that easy?

A glance at Akari revealed her looking at him oddly, which told him this maybe wasn't super normal, and had him slightly reevaluating his earlier assessment of how far beneath the Almighty's notice he was. Or, apparently, was not. 

"I," he began, faltered, and tried again; "I have... questions."

Ingo flushed. Obviously. It had told him to ask, hadn't it?

At least Arceus didn't seem too inclined to call him out on his fumbling speech. Given its obscure nature, he couldn't imagine it spoke to people often, but it wouldn't surprise him if during the instances it did, those parties involved were similarly ineloquent. Quite gracious of it, to allow him a moment to gather his thoughts.

"I am not supposed to be here," he said, firmly.

Yes.

"I was brought here against my will."

Yes.

"I have a place to return to."

Yes.

Far more importantly; "I have people to return to."

Arceus hesitated. It shifted where it knelt, glancing away, vaguely in Akari's direction. Ingo was struck by the image of a colorful winged Pokémon doing something similar-- a guilty look to the side, as though the figure next to him would be more lenient in their judgment (he wouldn't, Ingo was the nice one of the two)-- and had to remind himself that despite all its grandeur and nomenclature, Arceus was still a Pokémon at its core.

Finally, it answered his sort-of-question with a resounding; ...Sort of.

Ingo stared. Arceus lowered its head slightly, shoulders hunching. 

"What," he said, "does that mean?"

With a heavy sigh, Arceus lowered its head further, so its great ruby gaze could meet Ingo's... comparatively meek grey one. Unwilling to back down having gotten this far, Ingo simply steeled himself, gripping the worn fabric of his sleeves in an attempt to keep his hands from shaking.

Thou does, it said, stiltedly, have some. Family, friends. It would be in my power to return thee to them. To then. But. I know who thou asks for. I know the Truth in thy heart; the Truth which thou seeks. And I reply; he is not there.

Ingo's heart sank.

"...What?"

I can return thou to thine intended place in space and time. Thy place here in this world was a matter of distortion-- that is, 'twas not meant to be. And so, thou can return. But, thou would be alone. Arceus looked at him, and despite its unchanging expression, he could see the sadness in its eyes. I repeat, to no greater shame than my own, for it is my own failure which caused it. My inattentiveness, and my distraction. Again, I reply. He is not there. 

He wasn't there?

He wasn't there.

"Where?" Ingo asked, gasping for air where there was none, in this place between places. "When--?"

Not here. But, here. Arceus stood, raising both its front legs, and slammed them down on the glowing platform beneath them. Abruptly, their surroundings shifted; no longer some starlit void, they now stood in a quiet forest, the foliage overhead painted in warm tones. Ingo could see the leaves rustling as a soft breeze stirred, though couldn't feel it himself. You walk the same temporal tracks. But your space does not align. 

"So," Akari interrupted, the first thing she'd really said since the whole conversation had started; "where is he, then? Also, who are we talking about?"

"My brother," Ingo answered, before Arceus could. "Emmet."

It was the first time he'd actually said the name aloud since it had made itself at home in his mind. He'd expected it to be some big fantastical moment, some great revelation, as though simply putting a voice to it would be that final missing piece which would connect the rest of Ingo's fragmented recollection. But it didn't. The word was simply spoken, then petered into silence. It was just a word, after all. 

"...Oh. So he's-- You thought he was--?"

"I assumed he was still where we came from," Ingo said, faintly numb. "I don't recall how I arrived here, but I-- I had assumed I had arrived alone. The Pearl clan had found me alone. I hadn't even considered... that somehow we might have-- have traveled to the same time, but... landed at different stations."

Once he'd remembered the man existed at all, of course. 

A shadow fell over Ingo as Arceus stepped up before him, blocking out the projected sun, and crouched down to look him in the eyes. This time, Ingo was too rattled to be scared of the attention.

Did thou truly think, Arceus asked softly, and given Akari's confused look between the two of them, Ingo realized she couldn't actually hear its words, he would let thee fall alone?

No. Of course he wouldn't. 

Of course.

"So where...? Where is this?"

It is a place I am known; those who reside there call it "Johto." It looked at him wryly. I wonder, whether my renegade progeny thought it funny to displace thou both to there which I am revered. Whether it sought to mock me.

That was. Really not something Ingo was getting anywhere near.

Regardless. Thou will go to Johto. The scene around them shifted through scenery; another forest, this one darker, cast in shadows by thick canopy overhead. A sprawling lake, glittering in the sun. The crumbling remnants of a building, charred and burnt. A ruined desert. Seek the towers; thou will find the path thou must take. Thou will find him. And when thou does, seek Sinjoh. There, thou will find me again. And I will correct the distortion that is your presence here.

Arceus tapped its hooves on the ground, and the shifting view around them dissipated, returning once more to the astral pavilion where they'd stood on their arrival.

Now--

"Wait," Ingo said, then cringed, because he'd just interrupted God, but it didn't seem too perturbed. Only tilted its head curiously, no small amount of intrigue in the motion. "Is he-- Please. I must know; is he alright?"

It tilted its head again, this time in the other direction. Enough long seconds passed that Ingo worried whether it was trying to find a way to word its answer that might ease some bad news, that might be honest without horribly upsetting him at the same time, and he found himself braced as Arceus spoke; Yes. He is well. Though he exists on the fringes, he is not alone. He has Pokémon at his side. Were thou of any other sort, more inclined for company like thy-selves, thou might have reason to hold concern for his isolation. But, thou art not. Thou art known to me.

Once again, its face didn't move, but he could see the smile in its eyes as it knelt before him once more. 

Thy fear is unfounded, it said, gently. He is well.

Ingo breathed out, slowly. Panic washed from his tensed muscles in the same motion. "I understand. Thank you."

Emmet wasn't alone. He may not have been fully immersed in whatever society he'd landed amidst, but then again, neither was Ingo. There was a reason he lived in the Highlands, away from the main hubs of civilization in Hisui, and it wasn't because he liked the weather. People had never really been his forte. If what he remembered of the similarities he shared with Emmet (and their differences as well) were to be relied upon, they were both a little prone to... oddities. Neither had ever felt much of a need to invest themselves in their peers.

Of course, they'd had each other to be invested in. And their Pokémon. Which remained true here, even if they'd been cut off from the ones they'd spent so much time raising.

(Sinnoh, but he hoped their Pokémon were alright. That they'd been safe in their Pokéballs when whichever "distortion" was to be held responsible had ripped Ingo and Emmet away from their time and place. That they hadn't been left aware all this time, alone and uncared for. Helpless in the wake of this power so much greater than them.)

(...Was it impolite to take the name of a deity in vain when you were standing a few feet across from them?)

"Johto, you said? Very well." He straightened up, pinching the brim of his hat so he could tip it, firm and polite. "I thank you for both your hospitality in allowing my intrusion, as well as your prompt and accurate answers to my inquiries! I apologize for disturbing you! I will make my way to the indicated station, and we will meet again!"

Arceus looked at him. I shall anticipate thine arrival. 

It stood, and raised one golden hoof to place it against his chest. For fear of being knocked off his feet, Ingo held very still.

Its eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, in what Ingo was certain was a smile in the only manner its stony expression allowed. 

All aboard, it said. 

It pushed.

Ingo stumbled. Ingo stepped backwards. 

Ingo's shoes scuffed stone beneath them. He blinked, and the arena was gone. The stars were gone. Arceus was gone. Instead he was left surrounded by pillars, like spears which stabbed the heavens, and worn statues too old to discern. Blue sky, interrupted only by wisps of clouds too thin to suggest rain, stretched for miles in every direction. 

Also, Akari wasn't there. To his shame, he'd admit he'd forgotten she even was, despite the fact it had been by her edict alone that he'd reached Arceus in the first place. The discovery of his brother's presence here, in this time (though not this place) had so thoroughly unnerved him, it left him able to think about little else. He had all the confidence in the world she would be alright, though. She was a tenacious thing. (She had to be, or hadn't she said? The only option.) 

Ingo looked out, past Hisui's sprawling landscape, to the sea and the horizon beyond.

Johto, Arceus had directed. 

The name brought faint memories; most notably, a transit line like a Bullet Punch which put the speed of their rails to shame. And then, further back; family. A journey and a destination, preceded by a map.

Ingo glanced at the sun for a moment, low in the sky. Then turned to the southwest.

He pointed forward.

Echoed by a dozen voices speaking at once (or perhaps just his own, ricocheting off the mountain), he called; "ALL ABOARD!"

Chapter Text

Emmet should probably find somewhere else to be. 

A storm on the wind meant that the wilds south of Goldenrod were about to become a lot more uninhabitable in the near future. He didn't mind the weather. Much. But he'd already almost gotten sick once before and he wasn't keen to repeat it. (Also, it was right by the coast and sometimes the road flooded.)

The good news; Emmet had options. The bad news; he didn't really like any of them.

He wasn't even going to consider Goldenrod. Too busy. Too many people. Plus being there gave him a headache.

Ecruteak. Pros: easily accessible food, water, shelter. Fewer wild Pokemon. No more dirt on his clothes for a little while. Cons: all those things cost money. Fewer wild Pokemon. Everyone would stare at him like he was covered in dirt anyway. He'd have to pass through Goldenrod to get there, assuming he took the direct route.

Ilex. Pros: quiet and secluded. Plenty of wild Pokemon, either to train or train against. He was pretty much already there, so he wouldn't need to go anywhere and risk crossing paths with other people. Cons: needing to forage for food. Wild Pokemon who wanted to kill him. That weird Shrine that laughed at him whenever he got too close. Also dirt. So much dirt. Got into seams. Stained his clothes. And while the forest's thick canopy did a lot to shield it from the bulk of any inclement weather, the ground would still get wet, and dirt would become mud. Which was even worse. 

...Azalea? Hm. Pros: small. Isolated by the forest. Residents were good at minding their own business. Easier to convince people to trade goods or services for food and shelter instead of money outside of the city. The artisan who made Pokeballs lived there and it had been a while since he bothered her about learning how; he was overdue to ask her again. Cons: ...excessive number of Slowpoke? Debatable.

Clear victory.

Emmet nodded to himself. He stood, brushed the dirt (always dirt) off his coat, and fished his map out of his pocket. A quick glance across the jagged lines marking paths-- and really, just a quick glance, he was getting pretty good at navigating this part of the region-- and he was ready to go, once more tucking the parchment away and turning to face the path which would lead him out of the forest and to the quaint little collection of homes (plus one well) nearby. 

"Next stop," he said aloud, to no one, "Azalea Town."

All aboard, the wind seemed to whisper back. 

Better the wind than the Shrine that laughed at him. He was starting to hate the sound of voices.

...Maybe he was spending too much time in the forest. Hating the sound of that specific voice made sense, but voices in general? A bit absurd.

So, Azalea Town.

The route through the forest, at least, was as well-trodden as the rest of the connecting roads between towns. Not quite as tamped down as that between, say, Ecruteak and Goldenrod, but enough that Emmet wasn't required to pick his way through foliage to traverse it. Of course, the path also passed right by that Shrine he hated, but better needing to cover his ears for a few minutes than getting his coat even more torn than it already was. Or worse, having to go through Goldenrod.

He really didn't like the city.

For a lot of reasons.

Emmet was used to the staring. He didn't need to remember where he came from to know there were a lot of odd things about the way he appeared; his clothes, out of style and of some impossible make when held against what everyone else was wearing. His gait, too wide and evenly timed to be regular. And stars forbid if he had reason to speak-- He could school his expressions into what people expected of him, but trying to fit intonation into his voice where he lacked it was a futile effort at best. (Exhausting and mildly headache-inducing at worst.) 

(A lot of things were headache-inducing, actually. They were pretty much a constant fixture of his life these days.)

(Sometimes he wondered if he'd been prone to headaches before. But thinking too hard about it also gave him a headache, so he didn't bother. He wouldn't remember. He never remembered anything important. Nothing, at least, beyond that same crackling electricity that had clung to him since he'd woken up, and I look forward to seeing how well you fight, and the man who looked like him.)

(The city brought headaches, too. Conflicting images stacked over each other in some bizarre duplicitous mirage that left him reeling.)

(What was a Bullet Train?)

Irrelevant. He had reached the Shrine. Which meant releasing Ariados so it could carry his bag, thus leaving both his hands free. The Bug-type knew its duty well, and sedately skittered alongside Emmet as he tugged his hat low against his head and clamped his hands over his ears as forcefully as he could. It left both his palms and his skull aching, but at least it sort of blocked out the worst of the sound while he speed-walked his way to the other side of Ilex Forest.

It didn't block... all of it.

Even muffled, he could still hear it. The Voice. High-pitched, almost akin to a ringing bell, chittering and laughing. At him. Or in his direction. He couldn't tell. It didn't matter. 

His Pokemon couldn't seem to hear it. None of them had ever reacted. Though he hadn't ever walked this path with another human, he had to assume they'd be similarly ignorant to the sound. (Though he didn't know for sure, he was almost afraid to find out one way or the other. The Shrine was supposed to ward off evil spirits according to the people in town. Which had pretty much ruined any chances of him asking if they could hear anything. If they couldn't... What did that mean for Emmet?) 

No. This suffering was for Emmet to endure alone.

(Why did that sentence feel so wrong?)

At least the sound didn't follow him when he left the Shrine at his back, the treeline breaking and giving way to the collection of houses that made up Azalea Town. With a slow exhale, Emmet let his hands fall, taking his satchel from where Ariados offered it and recalling the Pokemon to its ball in the same moment. He'd have left it out, if folks didn't still get kind of nervous seeing a Pokemon like it wandering around. It wasn't as bad out here as places like, say, Ecruteak, where they apparently hadn't gotten over their anxieties about the Beasts from the Tower, but he got enough weird looks without adding a "creepy" Pokemon to the mix. 

The few residents of Azalea still out and about with the oncoming storm spared him only a glance, but at this point his presence was familiar enough that it didn't inspire too much staring. The people here knew him. Even if they might not have liked him very much.

He didn't bother knocking on the door to the artisan's workshop before barging in. The woman immediately cursed and threw a freshly assembled Pokeball at his head. It bounced off the brim of his hat, and he caught it before it hit the floor.

"Oh," the artisan grumbled, from her seated place on a pile of cushions towards the back of the room. "It's you. Give that back."

"No," Emmet said. He clutched it a little tighter. The grooves hadn't been completely sanded down yet-- he could feel them digging into his fingers. "Teach me how to make them. Then I will."

"No," she returned, just as terse. "Get out of my house."

"Please?"

"You can keep the Pokeball for free if it means you leave me alone."

He rifled through his satchel, unearthing the wicker case that had been tossed at him the first time he'd done this (an unfortunately common theme), and holding it out like a peace offering. With little else to do with his time while wandering around looking for strong Pokemon to train against, he'd made a habit of collecting the brightly colored fruits scattered around the wilds. They weren't very good for eating, but they could be used to make Pokeballs. Somehow. Only a handful of people seemed to actually understand it. 

He probably could have found someone a little more willing to teach him if he looked somewhere like Goldenrod or Ecruteak, but those were both non-options for already established reasons. He wasn't going anywhere near Goldenrod unless his life depended on it, and most of Ecruteak's residents still knew him as the stranger in white who had walked out of the Tower that belonged to the dead. 

The artisan was right here. 

"Please?" he said again, shaking the wicker case slightly. The Apricorns inside rattled together.

With patience born only of them having done this song and dance several times before, the crafter exhaled slowly through her nose, pinching the space between her eyes. 

"Ask me again later," she said, holding her hand out expectantly, "and give me that." 

That was what she always said. Every time he'd asked before, he'd received only a denial followed by an ask me later. The first time he'd at least gotten some vague comment about it being a family business, which, sure, he could understand, but she didn't have any family he'd ever seen. Unless they were just really good at never being here at the same time Emmet was. Which would be surprising, considering the inconsistency of his visits.

With a thin, displeased look, Emmet moved further into the room to set the case in her outstretched palm. She rifled through its contents, pulling out a handful of Apricorns without any obvious rhyme or reason, inspecting them thoroughly before nodding and setting the case at her side. 

"Eight," she said.

"Twelve," he countered. 

Her eyes narrowed. "Eight."

"Twelve," he repeated, unflinching. He pointed at the case. "There's four White ones. Those are harder to find. So, worth more. Twelve is enough for two full teams. I only want the normal kind. Fair?" 

Emmet heard more than saw the artisan's teeth click together. He gave her a bright smile.

"Hmph. Ten. That's my final offer."

It wouldn't allow for two even teams the way twelve would, but he already had four Pokemon. He supposed technically, he should've accepted her initial offer of eight if he wanted to work by that math. But he had to argue. Otherwise she'd start thinking he was a pushover, and he'd never get anywhere with her then. 

"Fine. Ten," he agreed, already making his way over to the wooden box against one wall, flipping the latch and looking over the rows of empty Pokeballs there. Mostly the regular ones he knew so well, red-topped with a polished beige underside, a metal clasp keeping them closed. There were a few fancy ones, too. One with the symbol of the moon carved just above the latch. A darker one that, when he lifted it curiously, sat in his palm with an undeniable heft. He quickly set that one down before the artisan could snap at him, collecting his owed ten Pokeballs and tucking the majority away in his satchel. Two went in his pockets, just in case. 

He turned around, walking over to where she was sitting at the table and steadily sorting the Apricorns he'd brought her by their colors, and held out the barely-finished Pokeball she'd thrown at him when he first arrived.

Silently, she stared at him, before shaking her head and taking it.

"Not much of a negotiator," she grumbled, smoothing her thumb over the Pokeball's rough surface. Then used it to gesture towards one of the workshop's many shelves. "Since you're going to keep bothering me, hand me that case of tools over there. Getting up is less and less appealing these days." 

Ah. Right. Encroaching child. 

Dutifully, Emmet grabbed the indicated case, glancing at its contents only briefly to ensure he had the right one before setting it within arm's reach of the artisan. She leaned forward as much as she could, considering, and flipped the latch. From the mismatched collection of clearly hand-made implements, she retrieved a curved piece of wood with some pale red material on the other side, and began scraping it rhythmically against the unfinished surface of the Pokeball he'd returned.

Emmet watched, enraptured.

The artisan shot him a murderous glare. "Stop looking so interested. You already knew this was part of the process. I'm not going to sit here with you watching me like the world's pastiest Hoothoot, so either pay me money for my work or get out." 

Ugh. Money. 

"What is that?" he asked, indicating the rough side of the tool in her hands.

She glanced at it briefly. Her face was unreadable-- which said something, because he was usually pretty good at noticing the intricacies of a person's micro-expressions. He wasn't sure where exactly he'd picked up that skill, but he couldn't deny it came in handy once in a while. "Krabby shell. Sometimes their claws break off. It's rough, so it works as an abrasive if you can find a piece big enough." 

Pokemon and people working together. A combination.

Perfect.

"Thank you for answering my question."

She just scoffed. 

That was probably the last he'd get out of her today, now that he'd give her more work to do, so it would be best if he left her alone. He made for the door, more gratitude on the tip of his tongue-- this time for her business, more cheeky teasing than a genuine thanks-- but came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the room.

He did not know the artisan's name.

Which was rude. Her work, her artistry, they were her lifeblood. Carried by her family-- through her family-- as long as there had been a notion of capturing Pokemon through tangible means at all, as far as she could speak on this region in particular. This was personal, for her. 

And Emmet did not know her name.

It hadn't struck him the sheer callousness of his ignorance, with social grace hardly being his strength even without adding the weight of decades of lost experience working through conversation, until it did now; suddenly, out of the blue, as he turned to walk away. He spun back around on his heel, lifting a hand to point at the artisan. She seemed unperturbed by his haphazard behavior.

"I am Emmet," he said. "And I have been very impolite. I am sorry. What is your name?"

The artisan snorted. "No."

What.

"Um."

"Are you deaf? No." She crossed her arms, glaring up at him. Her being seated on the floor and also thoroughly encumbered did not make her any less intimidating. "Ask me again later, and we'll see."

Ugh. That was what he got for trying to play nice. "This again. Why? For both?"

"It builds character. And I already gave you an answer for your first question: it stays in the family. When my kid shows up, they'll learn. You are not my kid." Either mocking him or mimicking him, he couldn't tell, she lifted a hand to point between his eyes. "More importantly, you are a stranger to yourself. You have no idea what you want. You seek to learn because you know nothing-- and I am not going to be the one to teach you."

Well, at least that was more of a legitimate answer than he usually got. Even if it did sting a little. He hadn't asked to lose his memory.

...Probably.

Though he supposed that was the trap of having lost it: maybe he did do it on purpose. Maybe he had wanted it. Maybe whatever happened before (or whoever he had been before) was so terrible that he decided he would be better off forgetting. 

Or maybe, his brain had decided it for him. 

He could remember concepts better than things. Facts, disconnected from their source, floating like Jumpluff which he could pluck from the sky if he were lucky enough to catch hold of them. Basic concepts of the way the world worked thankfully hadn't abandoned him along with his history. He understood the seasons, and the stars, and he could even kind of recall some life skills. He knew how to handle Pokemon. He could cook. He could sew-- well enough to repair his own clothes, at least.

(When he'd first caught Spinarak, it had chewed a hole in his coat, and this was familiar.)

He did not know how, but he knew: sometimes, when people saw an event so horrible it would have ruined them, their own minds hid it from them. 

He didn't know how he'd gotten to Johto.

Though, he did wish he'd been able to make a better first impression than walking out of the Brass Tower (or, what had people started calling it? The Burned Tower? A bit morbid, even this many years after it had happened, but whatever) dressed all in white. He probably would have thought he was a ghost, too. Though he can't say his first instinct would've been to attack.

He tried not to linger. Too many remembered him. 

And the artisan was right. He didn't know what he wanted. That was his fault. His faulty memory could only last so long as an excuse for idling.

She was still staring at him in silence, waiting for him to leave. Which he would-- he knew better than to stay where he wasn't wanted. He would also do so without another word, because saying things was never his strong suit. 

"Have you been to Cherrygrove Village?"

Emmet paused. Rarely did the artisan ask him questions, aside from her stern interrogation when he'd first wandered into her workshop. 

The answer was no. It was a little far for his taste. There wasn't much there besides a smattering of homes, and the well-traveled route involved navigating those creepy ruins filled with Unown. Talk about headache-inducing. He'd been there once, then promptly decided if he ever needed to get to the Sprout Tower he would chance going the long way through Goldenrod.

But if she was asking him something, this was his chance to try and play the sorts of conversational games everyone else but him seemed to be so good at, and instead of answering directly, he asked; "Why?"

"Hm. Saw you there."

Emmet blinked.

"What?"

She'd seen him there? What did that mean? 

"You heard me." The Pokeball she'd been working on was smooth enough that its surface glinted in the low light. As she held it up to examine it, though, she scowled and went back to sanding. "A couple days ago. I was surprised you didn't notice me. Then again, I wasn't there for very long. I don't leave the house much these days, of course."

She didn't seem to notice the way Emmet had gone completely still. 

"It was odd," she continued, easily. She gave him a critical look, and he felt oddly exposed. "I didn't think you owned any other clothes."

"I don't," he said automatically. He could wash these ones, there was enough clean water around for that, and what little money he was able to get his hands on was of better use being spent on food or tools. 

"Hm," she said again. She reached into the case he'd given her, retrieving a plain brown Apricorn from its contents, then reached across the table to pick an orange stone out of a small bowl. Both items were promptly tossed in Emmet's general direction. He caught them. He did not catch the knife she threw at him next-- instead he lurched the side, arms raised to protect his head, as the tool arced over him and clattered on the floor.

Before he could ask her what in the world she thought she was doing, she was already talking again: "You were wearing a black coat."

...

She'd seen him... wearing a black coat?

But his coat was white. 

He always wore white. Except his shirt, because the black stood out better. Just like a white shirt stood out better against--

Emmet stared at the knife on the floor.

"You aren't an idiot, even if you act like one," the artisan said. "Figure it out."

He turned around and picked up the tool. A more thorough examination revealed it wasn't actually as sharp as it had seemed, and the blade was curved at the end. Designed not for stabbing, but carving. Shaping. Crafting. 

Emmet did not work well in metaphors. He did not understand words hidden behind words. Double meanings were lost on him. 

The artisan was plainly spoken; he wasn't sure if she'd picked up on his direct manner when they'd first met, or if she was just like that. This was a double meaning, yes, in the sense that one statement applied to all of his inquiries. But the words were probably about as straightforward as they could get. (Also probably the nicest ones she'd ever spoken to him.)

The stone and Apricorn went in one pocket. The oddly shaped knife went in the other. And Emmet turned to face the artisan, bowing neatly at the waist.

"I am Emmet. Thank you for your help! I appreciate it."

"Don't thank me," she replied. "Figure it out."

An obvious dismissal. Emmet didn't need to be good at reading people for that. Completely unceremonious, which worked in his favor-- he wasn't much for standing on ceremony on a good day, and now he had to deal with the idea that he apparently had an inverted duplicate hanging around. 

(A man who looked like him--)

Frightening. Verrry frightening. The smart move would be to stay as far away as possible and hope the fear didn't follow.

But.

The man who looked like him was in Cherrygrove Village, reportedly. Had been for several days. It was possible he would decide to go somewhere else soon enough. Most people, when they arrived somewhere new, would seek hubs of civilization to learn more about where they were. 

He might go to Goldenrod. More importantly, he might go to Ecruteak.

He looked like Emmet.

This was a very poor combination. The worst. 

Emmet didn't know this man. Even if they reportedly looked the same beyond their modes of dress, Emmet owed him nothing. He had no reason to care for the theoretical well being of a stranger. (Even a stranger he maybe sort-of halfway remembered, with a face like his--)

But damn the part of him that hadn't learned, he couldn't sit by and do nothing when he had the ability to help.

It was possible that wearing different clothing would be enough to endear the stranger to the people of Ecruteak. The solution could be that simple. But they could also see a man who looked like him and believe it was him, take his ignorance of their identities as a greater sign he was carrying some kind of horrible curse, and take greater action than cold glares and fearful whispers. 

And even if Emmet had grown used to being alone, had learned to prioritize himself above all others, he had to do his best to stop that possibility from becoming real. He didn't even have to stop and weigh the pros and cons.

Which meant Cherrygrove.

The good news: the narrow, twisting caves between here and there were scarcely frequented with minimal ways to light them up unless one felt like carrying a torch or had one of the few Pokemon capable of doing so, which gave Emmet ample time to remind himself that this was definitely necessary and no, he could not just walk away and leave the strange man to his theoretical fate. Flaaffy was all too eager to assist when he directed it forward, tail lighting up with a soft Electric glow as they made their way through the tunnels.

The bad news: Emmet was terrified.

He had grown-- not content with, but accustomed to the life he led. It was not perfect. But it was what he had. There were Pokemon, and he was healthy, and everything else could be managed. 

Some part of him knew, without a doubt, that whatever he might find at his destination would change things. Maybe for the better. That would be nice. But maybe for the worse.

A man who looked like him. A man who dressed like him, had clothes like his, which were strange and different from everyone else's.

He had to have something. Even if it all turned out to be wholly mundane, or if the artisan had been exaggerating how much the man looked like him, he could at least maybe tell Emmet where he got his coat. Any clue towards his history was better than the grand total of nothing he had to work from now.

(Unless he was right. Unless something terrible had made Emmet's mind steal his own memory away, and this man who looked like him was a portent of doom that would bring that horrible unknown rushing back. Unless that was why Emmet could faintly recall his existence.)

(Unless the people of Ecruteak were right, and he was a curse or a Ghost or something still more dangerous, and he might make everything worse.)

Or the empty silence of the cave was getting to him.

"I am Emmet," he said to no one, his own voice echoing back at him, filling the space with its familiar cadence. (His familiar tones.) "I like battles. I like Pokemon. And I like winning more than anything else." 

It wasn't exactly right, he knew something was missing, but he would take what he could get. He had so little of who he was. He'd cited this mantra more times than he could count.

Flaaffy, either picking up on his unease or just wanting to be included, began to chatter along with his words, even after they looped again and again. It was comforting. He didn't understand Flaaffy, necessarily, but it didn't necessarily understand him either. That wasn't important. The cave was dark and quiet, but they could chase away both of those things together. 

They reached their destination soon enough. He wasn't familiar with Cherrygrove Village the way he was with certain other parts of Johto, but better safe than sorry-- once they reached the edge of the woods between the path preceding the ruins and the village proper, he recalled Flaaffy back into its ball.

Of course, he wasn't entirely sure where to start. There wasn't much in Cherrygrove. A few scattered houses. A market stall or two. The few people passing by paid him no mind as he hesitated near the entrance to the town.

The storm had finally arrived, darkening the sky ever so slightly, and a light misting rain beginning to fall. It wasn't yet bad enough that he felt the need to find immediate shelter. To that extent, he shouldn't dawdle.

The only thing to do was go for it, he supposed.

Merchants were usually polite, especially if you bought something before asking questions. He had enough money scrounged together that he could at least attempt to be a customer for the sake of getting information. Even if they ended up having no idea what he was talking about, they might still have something useful for sale. It wouldn't be a waste no matter what.

Of course, all that deliberation became totally pointless the moment he stepped up to one of the stalls, and the person standing across from him blinked and said; "Oh, you're back already? Did you forget something?"

Emmet cocked his head to the side.

"I am Emmet," he said. "We have not met."

"We haven't..?" The merchant squinted at him for a few moments, visibly confused, then glanced down at his outfit. Their eyes widened. "Oh! Right, Emmet. My sincerest apologies." What. "I forgot. He did say you were identical." What. "I'm guessing you're here to meet him?"

"What?"

Their easy smile faded a bit. They looked uncertain, perhaps in the wake of his flat tone and off-putting expression. Oops. There was a reason he didn't talk to people much. "Ah... I mean, you said-- I figured-- With the coat and all, and you look just like--"

"Emmet?"

A voice. Behind him. As if balanced on a coin, Emmet turned. 

There was a man standing there. He was wearing black. A black coat, specifically, worn and frayed but still functional. Stripes along the sides. Silver lining at the hem. 

Emmet looked up (up up up don't look at his face you'll know if you see it don't look) at the hat he was wearing. Equally damaged by time and elements, but there was a badge at the front, bearing a symbol like a Pokeball.

The world seemed to hold its breath. (Or maybe that was Emmet's blood rushing in his head making the world go silent.) And Emmet met the man's eyes.

An odd shade of silver, just like his. Steel gray hair, just like his. Clothes like his but black, a face like his but frowning.

The storm arrived. The rain kicked up.

"Emmet," the man said.

Emmet turned and ran.

Where he was going wasn't the important part-- he had to go. To get away from the man who looked like him, the softness in his tone, that horrible awful sad-stunned look Emmet had just barely caught a glimpse of as he'd made his escape. The pounding rain was no match for the incessant thundering of Emmet's heartbeat in his ears as he clambered through the wilderness, heedless of things like mud and trees and all those other tiny inconveniences that seemed so paltry now.

The man who wasn't him but looked like him. And knew who he was. The way he'd said Emmet's name, it was--

There was just so much--

He sounded like he cared.

And Emmet didn't know who he was.

Who was he? He looked just like Emmet, they were wearing matching clothes, he knew Emmet's name even though Emmet barely knew himself. There had to be a connection. He'd told people about Emmet-- the merchant-- trying to find him? Why?  

Who was he?

Why did he seem so-- important?

Because he had to be. He was. Important. One of the only things that had lasted through whatever had stolen Emmet's history away. He'd caught his gaze for all of five seconds, and that was enough for Emmet to memorize every detail. Every similarity-- the features, the hair, the eyes-- and every difference-- a down-turned frown, unmoving as stone. A voice so full of emotion for all he'd only said the same word twice.

(The same, but different. Like they were--)

But the word had been Emmet's name.

He knew Emmet's name.

And Emmet--

Didn't know his. Felt like he should have known it, felt the aching void where a name should be like a hole in his chest. Like an empty space at his side.

(Like a combination, like--)

Emmet tripped over a branch.

He was, of course, not at all looking where he was going. He'd barely even been aware that he was still moving, lost in his own spiraling thoughts as he was. But the sudden emergency stop of landing in a haphazard pile, barely braced on his arms to keep his head from receiving the brunt of the impact, was enough to bring his panic to a screeching halt.

Where had he--

Someone was laughing. 

Oh, damn it all.

Because of course, in his panic he'd instinctively gone somewhere familiar, and he barely knew this place at all. Familiarity was hard to come by. So of course the only thing his frantic brain could conjure was his usual hiding place of Ilex Forest. Nevermind that being laughed at by a piece of architecture was the absolute last thing he needed right then. 

"Shut up," he said, which did nothing to stop the giggles, ringing like a bell. Again, louder, curled up with his hands over his head to block out the cacophony; "Shut up!!"

"Emmet!"

Oh no.

Beneath the rain, he could hear it. Branches cracking, leaves being brushed aside, and the call of his name. 

"Emmet," the man shouted at a distance, inexorably loud, "please, just-- Just a moment of your time!"

So polite, even now.

Even now?

What did that mean--?!

"Emmet! Are you--" A sharp noise, alarm and fear and there was the familiar sound of fabric sweeping over foliage as the space at Emmet's side was filled. The man crouched down, reaching forward, though stilled his hands before they actually made contact. (It was amazing how that small moment of courtesy could be both a sweeping relief and break Emmet's heart. He hated people touching him-- so why did the man's hesitance leave him feeling hollow inside?) "Are you alright?"

"Don't," Emmet managed, the syllables catching in his throat. Words tended to fail him at the best of times. Which this wasn't. "I-- can't--"

"It's okay." The man spoke softly, a complete juxtaposition from his earlier hollering. His tone was kind. Patient. Somehow, Emmet was deserving of this. Even though the man knew him and Emmet couldn't return the favor. Even though he cared so much and Emmet couldn't even remember his name.

If it was important, he would remember it, right? That was the sentiment people tended to believe?

"You're going to be perfectly fine," he continued, still not touching. Emmet felt cold. His head ached. "I know this must seem very strange. But trust me when I tell you that I... I am not going to harm you. I could never."

That, Emmet knew with certainty. His fear was something far more complicated.

"And I promise you, you can trust me. I'm not-- I have-- I'm-- sorry, but what is that racket?"

What.

Bewilderment overcame the tempest of other feelings all warring for priority, and Emmet took advantage of the lapse in his breakdown to sit up and turn to face the source of it.

He wasn't looking at Emmet. Instead he had turned his gaze aside, and the faint furrow of his brow betrayed what Emmet was certain to be deep-seated displeasure at the situation. His narrowed eyes were directed past Emmet and towards--

Emmet stared. "You can hear that?"

"The-- what, the -- is that laughter? I find it very rude," he went on, volume scaling up until he was practically shouting at what he didn't seem to realize was a hollow structure, "that whoever you are would be finding any amount of entertainment from this! I recognize we are occupying public land at present, and so have no intrinsic right to any degree of privacy, but there is an amount of-- basic decency! That would demand you keep your amusement to yourself, at the very least! There is nothing at all funny about this situation."

"It can't hear you," Emmet said, immediately whipping his head to the side as his speaking up prompted the man to look at him. He wasn't ready to see his face (his own face) again. Not yet. "It's-- a shrine. The Guardian of the Forest. It laughs at me."

"At you?"

"At me," he nodded. "Yup! No one else. I have asked my Pokemon. They don't hear it. I assume no one else does either. It's because I am cursed. Or insane. Or a Ghost. So they say. I'm not sure!"

He was rambling. To a virtual stranger, no less. 

But not a stranger, never a stranger, because he felt as much as he heard the man's whole demeanor soften as he said; "Emmet." It was two syllables, how did he make it sound-- adoring? "You are not cursed, nor are you crazy. And you're certainly not a Ghost."

"Then what?" Emmet did not turn. Did not look. Could not bear to see. He stayed where he was, arms wrapped around himself in some desperate attempt to keep from falling apart. As though perhaps if he held on just a little tighter, he could stop any more pieces of himself from slipping away. "What am I? I am Emmet. I like battles. I like Pokemon. And I like winning more than anything else. That's it. That is all I have. That isn't a person . I am barely a person. I came from a place that belongs to the dead. I do not belong anywhere. I don't know who I am--"

Contact.

Courtesy gave way. The man set his hands on Emmet's shoulders, firm and steady and unyielding. Emmet knew immediately that if he didn't wish it, nothing could make the man take them away. It should have been frightening. He hated to be touched. 

It wasn't. He didn't hate this. Quite the opposite, in fact. This felt--

Right.

"You are Emmet," the man said, so so gentle, like he was afraid something might break, "you are a Subway Boss. You like Double Battles. You like combinations of two Pokemon. And you like winning more than anything else." 

The missing pieces. 

"You," the man continued, "are Emmet. And you are my brother."

Oh.

"Oh," Emmet said. 

He looked.

At silver eyes, almost like his but not quite, a mirrored match to his own. At a face, almost like his but not quite, a frown in place of a smile. At-- a uniform, almost like his but not quite, a reflection in black.

A man, almost like him, but not quite. Like they were--

"Twins. We are-- The same. Always the same. But different." 

The barely there twitch of an expression might as well have been a blinding grin on the man's face. Because his voice betrayed what feelings the rest of him never did, like how Emmet's monotone never quite matched the rest of him.

The same, but different.

"I am Emmet. I--" --won together with--

It was almost--

"I--" --lost together with--

Right at the edge of--

...Falling?

He'd-- fallen. He fell. What had he been doing? Chasing something? Someone? Following them. Because they were meant to go together, they weren't meant to be apart, and it didn't matter what had just happened but Emmet knew no matter what that he couldn't let Ingo fall--

Like sunrise. 

"Ingo," he said. Felt the hands on his shoulders jolt, but it didn't matter, because-- "Ingo?" 

"You-- Emmet, do you--"

He understood, then, how one could make two syllables could sound like veneration. It was easy, when they were the two most important syllables in the world.

"Ingo," he said again, for the sheer joy of saying it. "Ingo, Ingo, Ingo," as if repeated enough times, it might carve itself into his tongue and his bones and his heart and he'd never lose it again. 

"I'm here," Ingo said, all in an exhale, the hands on Emmet's shoulders pulling him close so Ingo could bundle him up in a hug that might have cracked his ribs, for all he cared. Or could even feel it beyond the sheer elation making him dizzy. "I'm here. I've been searching for you, and I-- I swear to you, whatever force parted us before, it will never be repeated." 

"You can't--"

"Promise that? Dear Emmet, of course I can." Emmet looked up, and at his awkward angle, he-- roaring Dragons, he could see a smile on Ingo's face. What in the world had happened while they'd been apart? "I have it on very strong authority that this was an error of great magnitude, and equally strong reassurance that it will not be happening again."

"That is vague," Emmet said. "And slightly ominous."

"Yes, quite." Which wasn't helpful. "All will make sense in time, Emmet. I promise. Would you be so kind as to trust me on this?"

Did he even have to ask? "Okay. I trust you. Ingo," he added, mostly just to revel in saying it again, which prompted a huff that was probably laughter from his brother. (His brother his brother his brother. His brother, Ingo. His. Ingo. Perfect!) 

After way too much time (enough that the rain was starting to peter out) and also not nearly long enough (because Emmet still felt the aching void of the alternative), Ingo moved back. Kindly, Emmet bit down on the pained noise he didn't necessarily intend to make. Judging by the way Ingo's expression thinned, he wasn't thrilled about it, either.

"Later," he said, an answer to a question that hadn't been asked. "We will have-- later. But we have somewhere to be, as it would happen. And someone to meet."

"You're being verrry cryptic!"

"I will explain the scope of the situation as we make our way to our destination. We will have an abundance of time, and this particular itinerary requires... an abundance of context." 

Ingo stood, offering his hand. Without hesitating, Emmet took it. Neither of them let go even once he was steady on his feet, and it felt like the best combination in the world. 

The rain had stopped. Belatedly, Emmet realized-- the laughter had stopped too.

"Well," Ingo said, looking past him. "There is something not seen everyday."

Emmet turned.

The shrine stood where it always had, nothing but wood and wicker, and it was silent. Buildings didn't laugh, after all. What wasn't silent was the little thing sitting on the roof of the structure, kicking tiny feet and giggling into verdant claws. Upon realizing it was being observed, it fluttered up on gossamer wings, gave the two of them a wave, then blinked out of existence in a flash of light.

"...A Pokemon?"

"I would hazard a guess," Ingo agreed. "That, and an emissary."

"An emissary for who?" 

It wasn't an anomaly-- Ingo smiled. He even laughed, soft and low and barely-there but undeniable nonetheless. "You'll find out. Don't worry-- you're getting the easy end of this." 

He and his brother had very different definitions of something being easy.

But still, Ingo's hand was clasped in his. 

So everything was fine.

"Are you ready to go?"

That, however, was the easiest thing in the world. "With you?" What a silly question. Where else? "Of course." 

Ingo moved, and barely a half-second behind, Emmet followed. One hand up, inhale, and with one and two and a thousand different voices that were still the same despite everything--

They called; "ALL ABOARD!!"